Editing Setting:CATastrophe/Writefaggotry (section)

==Home, by AnonVIII==

Once, my apartment would have been fifty stories above the ground, and miles from the sea. As I swiped my keycard into the reader and let the driftwood door slide open, I could smell the ocean and hear its waves crash a few metres away. It was a three room affair, my home. To my left as I entered the door was a bathroom, with a working toilet, sink and archaic-looking gravity shower. To my right was my bedroom, which held a large plush bed covering in blankets, a cabinet for my old armour with drawers below for my trusted weapons of war, a battered wooden writing desk, a chest of drawers salvaged from a sunken English stately home and a dented metal trunk full of knick-knacks and mementos. 

The rest of the apartment was the living area. A large map table served as a general flat surface for anything and everything, while its charts and old topographical survey maps shared drawer space with scouting reports, photographs of unknown objects and crude treasure maps. There was no sofa, the one that had been in here at the time of the impact had long since rotted away. The only chair in the apartment, with the exception of a metal stool tucked under the table, was a well-worn armchair sat against the left wall. Facing it on the right was a pair of tottering bookshelves, filled with the work of writers most had forgotten about centuries ago. Stephen King, Walter M.Miller Jr, Ray Bradbury, Dmitry Glukhovsky, J.R.R Tolkien, Charles Dickens, Thomas Paine, all there with more besides. Some of my favourites sat in a pile by my chair, too often read to put back. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, a Ciaphas Cain anthology, The Drawing of the Three, World War Z, V For Vendetta, Rum Punch, Catch-22. All of them with creased covers and yellowed pages. 

No kitchen made its home in mine, for the simple reason that I couldn't cook for toffee. A coffee pot and brewer stood on the table, but that was the extent of food preparation appliances. Besides, I preferred to eat out anyway. Likewise, a lot of things you might have expected in a home just weren't there. No carpet, for one, unless you counted an old burgundy throw rug over a particularity splintery part of the floorboards. I had opted for a decent workbench beside the bookshelves instead of a television, since I preferred to keep my equipment in good order rather that fill up space with old entertainment equipment. However, beside my chair was an object that made be a bit of a hypocrite. A rather large fish tank stood there, populated by fish I'd caught from the sea, plants I had plucked from the ocean bottom and decorated with the flotsam I had found on salvage jobs. It was a mishmash, but I was proud of it, even if some of the objects were a little strange. By that, I mean that the model Easter Island head made sense, but the .45 shell casing was not something you usually saw in a fish tank. 

I slid open the curtains and patio doors at the end of the room to reveal what was once a glass and steel balcony providing views of a sprawling urban metropolis. Now, it was my deck. The glass floor was a bit scratched and cloudy, but I could still see the shoals of fish swimming underneath. The railing had long since lost its glass, but, now it had a series of fishing lines running down into the deep. The only two objects on there were a parasol and an old deck chair, both of which I promptly put to use under the brilliant blue cloudless sky.  This was paradise.