A Serious Story

It's been a while, but I got to writing a (very) short story recently. Here it is:

I was wet. I stood in the rain a while longer and absorbed the changed landscape of my youth. The houses that had changed, the pavement on the road. It hardly felt like home.
I remembered the bridge I stood on. It seemed to be exactly the same. I felt a tear push at my eyelid. I'm not sure why it still affected me so much. I wonder if everyone feels this way when they realize they're already dead. I spent twelve years here, and now every trace of me is gone.
The world has swallowed up my youth, allowing only the present to exist. What I was was gone. What I am: that's all there will ever be.
Below me, a branch of the Potomac River pushed its way through the only section of woods that hasn't changed in nearly thirty years. I pulled myself over the bridge and carefully walked down the slope to the river. To my right, I noticed old graffiti still clinging to the dark and damp underbelly of the bridge. Thinking that Time had allowed such a thing to survive its wrath reminded me somewhat of the irony in the cave paintings of Europe.
Strangely, I also realized that even though these works of art survived, their creators were dead in both body and spirit. We have no idea what those people looked like, or what sort of personality they may have had. All we have is a few paintings that we can't decipher.
Without anyone to remember you, you are completely dead in this world. I think the pagan religions had it right when they decided to worship their ancestors and keep them alive forever.
How long does the average man survive his death? Two generations? I certainly never knew my great grandparents. Sad to admit, but true.
With that thought I turned to examine the wealth of trees behind me.
An artful arrangement of both colors and shapes reaching up until finally ending in a bush of whispering leaves. Somehow, I found solace and comfort in the realization that this scene had remained unchanged.
I suddenly remembered it was raining, and began to notice the spread of the normally lazy creek accelerate. The dull rumble of a distant thunder drifted through the sky above me.
Looking at the trees, in their unchanged form, brought me back to a distant memory in a similar rainy summer setting. I felt my body repossessed with the vigor of youth and watched as a ghost of a childhood friend jumped from rock to rock across the river. In a moment, the ghost of my own young age was with him, and the echoes of our voices reminded me of happiness.
The whisper of the trees roared with excitement as the rain continued falling. The faded shadows of two young boys struggled to push eachother into the river.
I felt a drop of water on my cheek and, despite the rain, I somehow knew it was a tear. The laughter of my memories escalated as the rain got louder. The other boy planted his hands on my chest and sent me toppling backwards into the shallow river.
I suddenly wasn't watching it anymore. I became my former self, taken over by my own memory as I felt the river water rush past my submerged ten year old body. It all felt though familiar, even though it was something I had not thought about in a very long time.
I shut my eyes and let the moment of the past take me over. It was so vivid. I climbed out of the river, Mark's laughter just behind me. I turned around to ready myself for his inevitable attack.
But the attack never came. Instead, we were interuppted by a bright flash of white and a heart shatter clap of thunder. When I opened my eyes, Mark wore an expression of both pain and shock, his distorted face an image that had haunted me for years.

I opened my eyes.
Mark died that day; stuck in the river at my hands as lightening struck.
While I had long since accepted the fact that I couldn't be blamed for this, I knew it was the end for Mark. Time had taken him away from this world, and I could feel its forces pulling at my own memories of him.
The rain slowed down and the trees lowered to a dull whisper again.
It felt like home. I felt comforted in knowing this place would always help me fight the inevitable power of Time. This place remembered us.
I suddenly realized that it isn't about how long the world remembers what you did, just that actually you did it.

Beautiful story murcu, makes me a bit sad, that doesn't happen often when i read a story
i congratulate you for that ^^

That was very emotive Murcu. Really nicely written, and although it seems like a sad tale, I liked how it ended on a positive note.
Very good indeed, you should post some more literature for it was a pleasure to read.

(I felt this topic deserved me to speak in proper english for once )

- Murcu, how is your theory on Mario and the Axis of Evil coming along?

I fail to see the happy ending in that story but its well written all the aame. Did you write this for a school project Murcu or was this made just for this forum?

As long as you have people that care about you, your spirit will live on through them. Children, friends and family can all think back on your life and remember the happiness you brought to their lives. Do something worthwhile and the world will remember you no matter how small or insignificant it may seem to you.

Im thinking of donating 75% of the money made on Gameskank.co.uk to help save the Amazon. Even if no one remembers what you did it doesnt matter as long as in your life you leave the world a better place than when you were brought into it.

Well done Murcu, its the first thing i have read in ages that has made me remember what is important in life and what is not.

I'm glad you all liked it. I have another here that I feel you guys might enjoy as well. Do you want me to post it? If so- new topic or right here?

well, it would be easy to post your stories in different topics, so i vote for different topics, i might want to sticky your best ones if you want, and ill keep it spam free of course lol

That's really good Murcu, I love your use of adjectives.

Thanks everyone, really appreciate the positive feedback.

And, no, I didn't write it for class. I did, however, write it DURING class. hehe

Where do you get ideas for your stories?

Normally I just start writing about philosophy and how I feel about the world, and a plot develops as I go on. If you were to look in my notebooks however, you'd find probably about a thousand pages of failed attempts in which no story appeared.