Writing in the Second Person

Hey guys, I noticed Vlad's story thread and it got me wondering if anyone else here is a creative writer. I am actually going to school for it, and have been experimenting with writing in the second person. Has anyone else implemented this into their writing? Here is an excerpt from a short story I wrote in the second person, and criticism/advice is welcome/appreciated. Thanks, Pip
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The last water you drank was from the tepid cesspool of a toilet bowl, and you cannot even remember the last thing you ate. The unrelenting sun beats down heavily on your entire fatigued body as sweat secretes from every pore you have and drenches you completely. You want so badly to tear off all of the heavy clothing you are forced to wear and finally let your body breathe. If you do not wear enough protection, however, the sun burns the skin within minutes. Within hours, you are left nothing more than a charcoal-skinned corpse. Charred and smoking, the deadly rays of the fluorescently orange sun deteriorate and decay your body faster than any darkness could. As if God wasn’t cruel enough to humanity, you have been raised in this manner. You know that quenching your thirst means clinging onto and embracing a toilet bowl, closing your eyes and clenching your jaws before ingesting the few sips of vile liquid you need to live for another couple of hours. You know that fulfilling your hunger means prowling in the long dead grass outside of some forgotten city, slowly drawing the large knife from your sheath and launching from the brush, landing blade-first into your next meal. You know that the pockets of radiation that still remain on the surface are deadly; you know that radiation is inconsistent, and that it did weird – strange things to people. It changed anything that came into contact with it – it rapidly left its prey twisted and distorted, something different than anything else ever seen before in nature, an abomination.

You knew all of this, and you understood that it was essential to surviving in the world as it was now – in shambles.

You find yourself standing in front of a decomposed building that sits in the middle of nowhere. All around you, the sand gusts down the one vacant street, and the desert seems to call you into its dizzying allure. You refuse however, knowing that you need to push on and obtain something ingestible soon. Your stomach growls up at you as a cornered, feral beast would; when you look this beast in the eyes, it stares right back at you. As it’s low and rabid growl grows longer and louder, the more deadly it becomes. You know that before you can continue exploring for the closest inhabited settlement, you must distract the monster, keep it at bay for as long as possible so you can find some real food. It is enduring a life such as this that makes you wonder if it is worth anything. “Is fighting for survival really this important? What difference will I make to humanity? Is it worth anything, that I kill a man, inheriting his equipment and food? I prolong my fate – death, by bringing death to others. Is this life – my life, of any importance?” You question your existence and the choices you’ve made every moment of every day that you push on.

This is no time for you to ponder this life however, as you find yourself still standing before the porch of the house - the house desiccated by years of gusting desert sands. Being out in the open is being vulnerable to attack, so you duck and sneak to the side of the house. Pulling your trusty friend from the bandolier on your back, you hold the sawn off shotgun in one hand, as you would a pistol. The terrifying weapon shines in the setting sun as you cautiously rise to your feet and peak through a broken out window. No matter what awaits you inside the house, you know that you need to conserve the few buckshot shells you have. The inside of the house is dark, but you see nothing threatening even though your eyesight hasn’t yet adjusted to the change in light. Stealthily crawling through the window into the darkness of the shelter, you begin to walk hesitantly through the house. Every corner of each room is systematically scanned for life, but nothing is found. Kitchen is clear, living room is clear, bedrooms and bathroom are clear. Bits of glass crackle and crunch beneath your boots as you enter what was once a den. Up against the far wall a decayed body rests, sitting on the ground. Just to the right of the corpse, an overturned desk reveals papers and cigarette butts scattered about the floor, along with an age-old telephone and lamp. To the left of the room, bookcases line the wall. With shelves post-mortem and splintering, and most of the books along the floor, you watch a desolate dust-covered book fall from the top shelf and slam into the wooden floor, echoing across the entire house. You quickly raise the heavy sawn off in the direction of the bookcases, tensing up as sweat drizzles down your forehead. Your hand tightens on the electrical-taped grip of the small shotgun and your index finger rests easy on the life-taking trigger.

A blustering wind shoots through the windows of the den, and you cover your face with your forearm as sand blows across the house. As soon as the wind dies down and the sand settles, you make your way over to the bookshelf to be greeted by the smallest survivor of the apocalypse. A small rat runs along the angled shelf, stopping and sniffing the air in your direction before vanishing into a hole in the wall. A barely-visible smile creeps across your face as you determine that the house is void of any threats. Slinging the snub-nosed shotgun across your back and approaching the body on the other side of the small room, you notice that the thin skeletal arms of the man are holding a small leather book. You crouch next to him, and first pick up the pack that was under his right arm. Upon discarding useless items from the backpack – notes, broken monocular, broken compass, a dull knife; you finally find the goods you’ve been searching for – a canteen filled less than halfway with what smells like pure water, and a bar of chocolate.

Having finally found something useful, you remove your pack and take a seat on the floor next to the almost-skeleton. You pry from the hands of the man the small leather book, and as you take a small bite of the chocolate to conserve your rations you open the book and begin to make out the words etched crudely on the paper:

“If you’ve picked up this small leather book, then I already know two things about you: You’re smarter than the common savages that pester these lands…and you were born before the war. My name is – was, rather, Jens Walton, and I am smarter than I look right now! Given the fact that I’ve seen better days, I feel it is rather important for whoever is reading this to know that I can usually outsmart my prey.”

You stop reading and your head cocks slowly towards the stiffened, decaying body. You get lost for what seems like an eternity within the dark black depths of the face’s dried out and empty eye sockets. The first question that comes to your mind is not of whether or not this is the body of the man who wrote so strangely humorous in the booklet you pried from the boned digits of his dead fingers, but rather what happens to the soul of a man once his body can no longer operate. Such existential thoughts have been commonplace in your mind ever since you had awakened under the rubble. You try your best to put these constant inquiries to rest and peer into the contents of the worn journal once more.

 

I think what draws me to writing in the second person is that, if done correctly, it really puts the reader in the shoes of the protagonist - as well as opening up room for the readers interpretation. Writing in the second person and using the present tense also adds a sense of urgency, especially to scenes in which there is intense action. It's an interesting alternative to first or third person story-telling, most definitely.

And Strelok, that's good to hear. Creative writing is a great practice, and I've also had to make a couple of short "novels" for one of my classes. Around fifty pages each, they weren't my best works as I was much younger when I wrote them.

 

You should post some of it, even just a passage. I'd love o read someone else's work, even if it's just a little bit. Thanks for the compliments too guys, I appreciate any and all feedback!

 

Hey guys, I hate to do something that will 'bump' this thread, but it's better than making a new one. Just wanted to let everyone know I'll be working on a Metro-ish Post Apocalyptic Novel, and I'll be uploading it by the chapter as I complete them. The first one is up, so feel free to check it out at chroniclerofthewastes.wordpress.com

Thanks! Pip