[center] Here's a little writing sample I pulled together last night. Feel free to tell me what you think, or let me know if you'd be interested in possibly making a role-play along the same lines.

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The boy and the dog hadn’t eaten a decent meal in what felt like a year, so when the dog came bellowing around the bend of the dusted hallway with a rusted tin of dried fruit in his maw, the boy was more than elated.

“Good job, girl.” Ruffling his hands through the scraggy white hair of the dog, whom looked back at him with a blissful happiness that the boy wished he could share; he often wondered if the dog understood the world, now. He’d hoped not.

That night, under the flickering light of a hushed fire, the boy and the dog feasted upon the wondrous sensations of apricots, peaches and a yellowish, sour fruit he couldn’t quite name. The dog spent its night with its nose and tongue cleaning the can of any scraps and scrapes that remained, occasionally nudging it towards the boy, who would simply smile and decline. His stomach didn’t growl that night, and neither did the dog.

When morning broke through the cracks and crevices in the concrete structure, the boy packed away his few possessions; a tatted, worn sleeping bag, and an empty rucksack. 

The streets were surprisingly empty that day, so the boy let the dog wander off from his side. It ran through gardens and yards, danced around swing sets and buried its head into every garbage can it could find. The sky was brighter than it had been in a while, and the dismal clouds that usually fogged it departed in lieu of a lightly blue canvas. It was cold, still; the wind brought a coastal breeze with it, and the cries of seagulls scavenging a baron sand echoed over the suburbs. The streets was askew with rusted cars taken by natures grasp, vines and weeds reclaiming the once pristine yards and turning them wild. The dog was in her element, naturally, but the boy looked around with eyes filled with memories and loss. He remembered one house to have been home to his childhood sweetheart, Susan… her last name escaped him. He walked up her porch, recognising her father’s once sparkling prize of a Chevrolet, now tarnished with dirt, creeping rust, and blood, left idly in the driveway. When he reached the jarred rotten door, the dog whimpered at his feet and pulled at the back of his trouser leg. She was right, entering wouldn’t be wise. They returned to the street and carried on.

Streets and suburbs soon turned into country roads, and sound of the sea at their backs soon turning silent. That night they slept under the counter of a desolate gas station, neither of them daring to make a sound as slumped footsteps scraped the pavement outside. Neither of them got much sleep.

By the time morning arrived, the sounds had departed. The boy checked the road whilst the dog waited under the counter, and when he was sure that it was safe, a soft whistle brought the dog to him. They’d found nothing of value within the gas station, other than ripped and bruised teddy bear that the dog insisted on bringing with them. The boy had agreed, and placed it in his bag. Every now and then, the dog would disappeared into the underbrush that marked the farmland roadside, not reappearing for hours at a time. The boy knew that she would not be far, so he did not mind; the dog’s curiosity had brought the spoils of salvation more than once, after all. He’d hoped to find a farmhouse, or the remnants of a barn at the least, but for the miles that the road stretched onwards they were met with nothing but a repetitive cycle of un-kept wheat and corn that would soon be ready for harvest, had there been anyone to man the fields.

The boy and dog soon came to a halt along the road, when a rustling of the brush caught their attention. The dog began to whisper and growl, arching its back and revealing its teeth. The boy lowered his hands, hushing her and nudging her behind him. He fiddled through the pockets of his parka coat until his palm greeted the cold steel of his gun. He wasn’t sure how many bullets he had left. Less than three, definitely. It was a comfort to him, just as the torn teddy bear was to the dog he was sure.

The girl that emerged from the brush couldn’t have been any older than six. Her hair was twisted and torn at the scalp, the pale of her skin peeling and flaking at the bone. Her mouth opened to broken teeth and a blackened tongue, and her eyes were as lifeless as the dead.

The shot echoed for miles, and the boy still heard it when he slept.

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