Shadows of the Past (short story--feedback please!)

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Hey everyone,
I wrote this short story for my creative writing class, and writing is not something I do too often, so I need help. Basically, I need to revise and improve the story, so all comments (especially critical ones--this needs to get better!) would be wonderful. Thanks!!!

Shadows of the Past

I was floating in a dark world, a sheltered cocoon, with only the vaguest conception of self. Sounds were muffled, transitory things--deep male tones, rumbling towards me like some distant thunder, and a softer, higher female voice that came through to me like a soft rain tapping on a windowpane. I only know what these sounds are now of course, and can put them in an understandable context--then, they simply existed for me. They were their own entities, beings every bit real as myself, a slight disturbance in my timeless existance. Yet they were all, until--sounds of distress, the woman's voice was thundering, no longer quiet but a torrential downpour, shattering into a million separate pieces, and something had my leg, I was kicking and struggling but couldn't escape, I was being pulled away, away and out into a blinding fluorescent inferno, and a masked face loomed overhead, dark eyes peering at me intently from beneath heavy brows, as massive hands clamped around my legs and slapped me until a wail pierced the air, and I realized with astonishment that it was my own voice, used for the very first time--

That was my first memory.

Scoff if you will. I know, it sounds like a fantasy, an impossiblity. No one remembers their own birth. No one can. But I do. My memory is unlike anything else, as I am unlike anyone the world has known before. There do exist some pale imitations of myself, those who have a photographic memory, who remember words or images and can reproduce them, but without comprehension. That is nothing. Nothing! My memory is like a living, moving being, a third person walking around and seeing once again what has already passed and cannot be undone. I can go back to any situation in my life, turn it over, watch it again, look at what occured in any amount of detail I want. I can learn from the past, draw new conclusions from old conversations I once had based on what I now know. I have the potential to do almost anything. Suffice it to say, when I will it, the past lives again.

Last week, everything changed. I was coming home late, my legs burning, sweat dripping down into my eyes and plastering my shirt to my back, when the skies burst. My two hours of biking had exhausted me, and my only thought was to get home, but the rain came out of nowhere, whipping in sheets across my face. I turned onto the street, didn’t see the lights coming-I only heard the sound of rubber squealing on the rain-slicked pavement, felt my body become airborne, and smashed into the ground with bone-jarring force, my head rebounding off the pavement with a sickening crack. My last conscious impression was of the rain pouring into my staring eyes, turning the traffic light above me into a shimmering green apparition, and hearing voices shouting from far away…

Three days later I was declared fit to go home. I had suffered a severe concussion, but it was nothing time wouldn’t heal. I sat in my favorite armchair, the one I refused to get rid of despite the fact that its shag-orange carpeting clashed hideously with the elegant mahogany grandfather clock and brick mantle that climbed the side of my wall. I turned on the TV, my head still throbbing, and stared blankly at the Discovery channel. Egypt? I’d been to-

Flicker.
I was standing in a wasteland, cloth wrapped tightly over my head, the sun raging far above, seeking to melt the sand, me, the entire world, into a liquid puddle of churning fire. My guide stood just ahead of me and off to my right, cheerily imparting upon me the history of the Great Pyramids, which stood out boldly above the shimmering horizon, testaments to a people and an age now crumbling into-

I was still watching the travel channel, and the host was now elaborating on the dangers of the thousands upon thousands of crocodiles that made the Nile their home. The Nile, Egypt-I had been there two years ago, on assignment for a top-secret branch of the CIA. I was the most skilled analyst that they had ever had, diverting crises worldwide, researching the latest computer technologies, and drawing connections that others could not. The government had not failed to recognize my potential…

I shook my head violently, and then winced at the pain that rolled through my head, a giant with a mallet pounding on the inside of my skull…what had just happened? That memory was two years old, and although I could move through my past at will, I was always aware of the fact that it was my past, knew that it was unchangeable and immutable, although I could still see it in perfect detail-but this time, it was if it had been my present. For a few moments, I had been in Egypt once more, living it as if for the very first time, as if my future had never occurred.

I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning I stifled a yawn as I pulled into the driveway. The security guard carefully checked my identification, M-16 assault rifle slung casually over his shoulder. He turned his back to the bitter November wind and drew his coat tighter with his free hand. Finally he handed the ID card back to me through the window of my Lexus, his breath steaming as he spoke.

“Welcome back, sir.” He waved to the other guard, who raised the gate and let his gun barrel swing back to his shoulder with the ease of long familiarity. He needn’t have worried, as I had no intention of trying to slam through the still closed gate while dodging hostile fire from an expert sniper under ordinary conditions, let alone when my head had just recently had the gauze wrappings removed.

I parked and walked into the nondescript brownstone building, faceless amongst dozens of its peers. I was met by another guard, who checked my identification once more and passed me through. I walked deep into the building, my leather shoes gliding softly over the white linoleum floor. I finally reached a closed steel door, where two Marines stood rigidly at attention. “Hand please, sir” one asked, and as I reached out he took my hand and placed it on the softly glowing blue keypad.

“Fingerprint match” announced an echoing mechanical voice, and the doors slid open. I entered unaccompanied into the small chamber beyond, where my retina was quickly scanned, and the final pair of doors in front of me slid open. I walked into my office at CIA headquarters, where I had access some of the United States’ most well-kept secrets. I ran my hand gently along the side of one of the supercomputers that was humming quietly off to the side, and began to look over the most recent intelligence reports of the day, and then stifled a groan as a particlarly sharp pain lanced through my head. I would have to see the doctor again after I got off work today. Ignored the pain, I shuffled through the reports. It appeared that Russia-

Flicker.
I walked through the snow covered streets, my head buried beneath a gigantic fur cap, flaps pulled down over my ears. The wind whipped hard about me, seeking to pierce my meager armor of cloth and fur. I stepped up my pace, leaving a trail of slush and powder behind me, and ducked into the library with relief. Moscow was wonderful to study in, but the weather--

No...no! I wasn't in Moscow, I was in Langley, Virginia, and I was reading an intelligence report. What was happening? I was in the present, the here and now, not in Russia seven years ago. My eyes fell onto the report once more, and alighted upon the words "nuclear program"--

Flicker.
My mother spoke in a hushed tone, unaware that I was listening. "It's scary, Aaron, that's all I'm saying. The Russians have their missles pointed at us, we have ours pointed at them--if just one of us launches, just one, it could lead to destruction on a scale we've never seen before! It--" She looked down and saw me.
"What's wrong, Mom? Why are you so scared?" I asked, terrified of anything that could so frighten my parents.
"It's nothing, Ethan" she replied, shaking her head gently. "You're only ten...leave the worrying to your father and I. Time for you to go--

To bed. Time for me to go to bed. Then what was I doing in khakis and a tie, seated in front of a computer screen? What had my mother been talking about? The cold war--

Flicker.
The technician's hands danced over the keyboard, and sweat broke out on his face. "We've got to make sure our weapons are operational, as much as it scares me to do this" he said, his sure, pudgy fingers the only part of him that did not radiate unease. "The warheads will only be armed for a few minutes, then we'll deactivate--

Ahhhhh! My head was in agony, spikes of pain shooting through my whole body. The Russians, the cold war, danger, my mother afraid, their nuclear program...

Flicker.
My teacher dimmed the lights, his face unwontedly solemn. "Watch children. You need to watch what can happen, that you may never forget the consequences." We saw the world's first atomic bomb being dropped on Hiroshima, that terrible mushroom cloud growing quickly in a soil fertilized with hundreds of thousands of lives--

Flicker.
The technician's hands danced over the keyboard, and sweat broke out on his face. Time slowed for me, and I saw once again every character he pressed, everything he entered, watched as he disarmed safeguard after safeguard--

The Russians...the Russians! They had to be stopped! They couldn't be allowed to wreak such destruction here! My hands glided over my own keyboard, using the supercomputer to remotely access other systems, typing in a code seen in the past--no, in the present--no--

Flicker.
My mother spoke in a hushed tone--

I was vaguely aware of voices outside, the reverberating crash of weapons hitting the foot-thick steel doors, of shouting "....stop him, goddammit.....he's activating it...he's activating the warhead..." The Russians, the Russians were the problem, my parents were afraid, now I just had to strike first, and fast, but where was--

Flicker.
I walked through the snow covered streets--

Moscow, I was in Moscow! I had to launch the warhead to Moscow, to where I was, to send it right into the heart of the Russian empire. I called up the GPS coordinates for this room, for my coordinates, entered them into the screen--

Flickerflickerflickerflicker-- I pressed the button--the pounding increased, both in my head and on the door, and the shouting --"...control says it's launching...it's coming towards us....oh my god....dear god..."

Everything exploded in a burst of heat and light.

**************************************************

"....on the very day the Russians publicly announced their first steps towards disassembling every aspect of their nuclear program, there has been a terrible tragedy in the United States."

The newscaster paused, trying to gather his composure. "A nuclear warhead launched from one of our own silos touched down in Langley, Virginia. An estimated seven million people lost their lives today, killed in what the government calls 'a horrendous accident'."

The newscaster set his notes aside, surreptitiously wiped his eyes, and then looked up fiercely at the camera. "I think I speak for all Americans today, when I question why we continue to stockpile our nuclear arsenal. We have seen before, and now, all too tragically, we see once again what terrors are held in store for us when nuclear war becomes a reality. Despite our Ivy League educations, the discoveries we have made, and the amazing capabilities of our nation as I whole, all I can do is wonder...have we learned nothing from the past?"

 

wow this is good, you have a real talent, i like how you kept jumping between memorys and the real story, gave a good tense atmosphere to the story

 

Wow. That was inspired.

 

Ashen...imaginative and beautifully written. Congrats.

In order to obtain the "Tom Clancy Award of Excellence" however, you should research the protocol for US missile launch ops, and make your fiction in some way join with reality to make it all the more chilling.

You show a good hand. Keep it up.

 

Hey, thanks to everyone who's posted a reply. Hacken Slash, I'll admit I don't know a thing about the protocol for launching a nuclear missle, but I will look into that and try to make the story a little more realistic. Anyway, I enjoy the positive feedback but if there is any criticism--where to expand the story, change the tone, reword a certain paragraph, somthing like that, I would love for you to tell me so I can make this better (I have to turn in a revised version of this as part of my final portfolio for my class). Thanks!