This is a work in progress. Be warned, Wasteland's a litte bit unconventional in that it is a novel, but it's also a collection of different stories. If you like a little bit of Kafka, a little bit David Lynch and simply love stories I think you'll appreciate this book.
As this is a work in progress I would really appreciate feedback and I thank you in advance.
Book cover by Iurgi Urrutia ©
Wasteland - written by Iurgi Urrutia ©
You can find me in a few different places but mostly...
Part I - The Editor
My hope of living is you,
And I am not there.
Why am I not there? You ask,
Why have I not taken that bus that will take me to you?
Because the world that I have here will not allow me to be there.
Because I torture myself every night thinking of you.
If those in charge of our society — politicians, corporate executives, and owners of press and television — can dominate our ideas, they will be secure in their power. They will not need soldiers patrolling the streets. We will control ourselves.
Filtering through the blinds the sun’s warmth cut through the early morning chill. Lying on the bed with both eyes wide open, Mr I’s eyes were fixed on the blinds observing how the light gradually and gently pushed the murky darkness of the night away.
It had been another unsettling, sleepless night. One more to add the countless many that preceded it. Mr I remembered the days when sleep came easy but now the nights had turned into a racing, blurred collage of images and sounds that kept him ever awake.
Shadows laughing in the dark, trains without a railway crossing a desert, trams finding their way through a foggy city, an empty parking lot filled with the thunder of a thousand cars and the cry of newborn babies struggling to breathe; they filled his nights racing through his mind.
Thankfully, Mrs I always made things better. She knew how to calm his anxiety, how to make him aware of his cluttered mind, allowing him to take a step back and analyse the situation with some perspective. Her ability to pull him away from his thoughts and bring him back to reality kept him going but it was her glowing, gentle smile which gave him the hope that one day these days of sorrow would be a thing of the past.
As he turned to face her Mr I realised that she was gone. The sheets on her side were undone, open, as if she got up and left. He placed his hand where her body should’ve been and caressed her absence. The sheets were cold. “She left long ago” he thought as he listened intently to see if she was in the kitchen or the shower.
Nothing but silence.
Mr I wondered how she could’ve got up and leave without him noticing. Had he actually fallen asleep inadvertently? How could he not have noticed her slipping away? The lack of her warmth? The absence of her breathing?
Mr I caressed her pillow imagining her face and breathed in trying to capture her scent but she was long gone.