posted on Dec, 8 2013 @ 01:23 PM
The second has to be in 2 posts. Total words for the first draft is 1706.
2180 Sea of the United States
With the bluest of blue oceans surrounding him, John Thomson looked out the tiny porthole. The submarine was fashioned much like the old airplanes
that used to cruise the skies, with passenger seats, in a row, with a central aisle. The metal encasing most likely was salvaged by one of those
leftover planes from what survived the catastrophe. It was compact, most likely a little puddle jumper in its day, but it had a decent size hold for
the cargo that traveled with him.
He was used to traveling in such crafts as this, since the great flood of 2130, where the earth decided to stand still causing all the oceans to split
into two separate parts, but it still daunted him, how this area used to be small communities and homes of simple country folk. He could still see
some of the old metal silos, as they rusted under the ocean water, and the metal frames of what used to be trailer homes became new coral reefs. He
remembered a time when as a boy, he drove through this part of the country with his parents, on their way to Yosemite State Park. Then he was bored
with the endless farmland and multitudes of cows that speckled the country side. He was decidedly not now. Years of living in this post apoplectic
reality had made him appreciate the beauty of the world around him. It was those harsh years in his youth, of struggling to survive that taught him
to appreciate the beauty that surrounded him and the world that can only be seen now through artists and photographer’s eyes. Of a time lost and
gone, perhaps forever.
He watched out for New Chicago, an underwater city where he was heading the lead exhibition of the last surviving renaissance paintings with its crown
jewel, The Last Supper painted by Leonardo Da Vinci was going to be exhibited in its water proof case. He knew it would be a shell of its former
glory, the old hog town was now turned into a farming colony for those who had survived the flood, but still he was eager to see the majestic jewel of
the Midwest. Home of the Willis tower, Wrigley Field, and The Art Institute of Chicago, John had hoped that some of their famous works, such as Da
Vinci’s Madonna and Child would have survived.
“We are almost upon it, John.” Marissa, John’s wife and assistant said softly. She had been viewing their course from her tablet next to him.
While he was enamored with the underwater scape, she was busy watching their course. She was afraid of water, since she barely survived the tsunami
that hit her town. She and her family were lucky enough to have found a canoe to ride out the wave until they could be rescued, but watching friends
be washed away by the unforgiving water had given her more than a healthy respect for the fluid that surrounded them. She was going to be a nervous
wreck until they could return to their own underground community in what used to be New York City.
John smiled at his wife, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, before returning back to the porthole. The opaque plastic structure was coming into
view, as they arrived. He had seen several of these structures in the last 50 years of his life, and they never ceased to amaze him. While this was
his first time at New Chicago, he had visited New London, New Paris, New Tokyo and New Milan several times.
The loading hatch doors, opened to the small craft, as it glided smoothly into its hanger, hovering above the rails in which it would sit, once the
water was pumped out of the room. Marissa closed her eyes, as the sound of the pumps engaged to drain the water, and listened to the pressure be
restored to what it should be again. She hated the rushing sounds of water and air. It brought back to many painful memories.
John looked over at her, squeezing her hand again. He knew how hard it was for her to accompany him on these trips, but he was so grateful for her
attendance. Years of traveling apart from her, had taken a toll on their relationship, and only now that the children were grown were they able to do
things like this together. He loved her, always had and always will.
Marissa looked up and gave him a weak smile, and John smiled back. Things were going to look up for them.
The pilot came on the overhead system, to tell them it was save to disembark from the craft, and together they gathered their things to enter the
New Chicago was a magnificent place. The city buildings had been restored to their previous glory although now they were surrounded by lush fields of
green crops and groves of fruit trees instead of suburban homes, and the projection screen surrounding them on the interior of the dome, showed a
clear blue sky and a bright sun. It was a balmy 75 degrees with a warm breeze from the south. It was all and all a beautiful day, and it was all
illusion of course, an elaborate illusion, but an illusion none the less. Its purpose was to make its inhabitants forget the fact that they were
truly surrounded by nothing but unforgiving, cold water. It was an amazing place.
Waiting to greet John and Marissa was Amy Sutter, the art director for New Chicago’s Institute of Art. She was a woman in her early 30’s, young
and eager. “Hello, you must be Mr. and Mrs. Thomson. Here, let me get that.” She said in regards to John and Marissa’s bags. She took
Marissa’s carry on case from her. “Don’t worry about the paintings, my people are prepared to make sure they get taken off and handled