We love the EARTH
Chutney strode up the catwalk, suspended high above the clouds. He carried a heavy box of stencils and paints for the broadside of the ship. The sky was a dingy motor oil yellow-brown with suspended ash flakes carried on the breeze. The ground could not be seen through the haze and a thick layer of grease was already accumulating on his jacket. He could never have asked for a more beautiful day.
The breeze was just barely audible and he was high enough above the mechanical crews working hard below that they were effectively silent. It was just him, his work, and the wind, it was a sense of peace he was always striving for, peace with his world and peace with himself. His peace was momentarily rocked by one of his harsh coughing fits.
It happened often enough that he knew to (more or less carefully) set down his box to his side so it would not drop off the catwalk (there was a gap between it and the ship by necessity, demise for many a tool) or bend any of the stencils. He hit the metal half a second after the box, striking his jaw as his arms futilely tried to support him. His head rushed and his body shook. He tried to stand back up but only found the strength to lift himself to his knees.
He reached carefully into a cargo pocket and removed a cigarette and lighter. The cigs would be the death of him, they exacerbated his asthma. He took a drag and picked a fleck of ash out of his eye before another coughing fit sent the cig falling through the grill, the spark visible for a few seconds falling before being put out by the thick air.
Chutney very carefully rose to his feet, wiping a few flecks of blood from his lips. His legs were shaking badly and his arms were weak. He carefully lifted a stencil – he was not quite sure which one – out of the box and shambled towards the hull.
He braced the stencil against the side of the ship as well as he could but he was spending more time balancing himself against it. His head was dull and aching, filled with thoughts about if it was a mistake to be on Earth. Maybe he could find a way offworld? But that would raise questions of employment, transit, savings. Would it even be worth it? Truth be told, the Earth was fairly polluted…
Of course, what did that mean? Everything in existence was beautiful in its own way, no matter how sullied. Earth would never be great again if nobody was around to care for it, and if someone wanted to condemn it then that was between them and God. It was a blessing to be alive at all.
Chutney felt numb. Was it his cough or some kind of new supernatural peace?
His knees buckled, dragging his torso down the side of the ship. They folded down into the gap between the hull and the catwalk, wedging him between the two by his boots. Wriggling to get free, he eventually slipped through, plummeting down back into the Earth.
Chutney’s former employer and a clerk soon arrived to survey the catwalk.
“There’s no damage here at least.”
The clerk tapped his clipboard. “Sir, was this an accident or a suicide?”
The foreman shrugged. “He’s dead either way, isn’t he?”
“I have to know what to report the death as.”
“He smoked, didn’t he?”
The clerk nodded.
“Great, mark it as a smoking death and add his name to the class action suit that’s going on.” Premise: Dude is living on a polluted earth with a broken brain that can’t process how bad things really are. Chokes on smog.
Protagonist: Chutney, factory worker and resident of earth. Has a lung problem. Desperate for a sense of satisfaction with his situation. Secretly self destructive.
Conflict: Wants inner peace -> wants peace with his surroundings.
Setting: Ultra-industrialized earth, essentially destroyed, air unbreathable. Drydock. There is a gap between the ship and the catwalk.
Hook: Chutney is stenciling letters on the side of a frigate on a high up catwalk when he suddenly falls to the ground hacking up a lung. He can’t seem to get back up.
Turn: Chutney manages to drag himself to his knees and removes a cigarette. Reflects on how blessed the Earth is and blames the cigs for exasperating his asthma. Starts coughing up blood.
Stake: A delusion is now juxtaposed with the pain of realizing you’re in hell with no easy way out. A delusion always costs you your life in one way or the other, maybe even literally.
Climax: Chutney stumbles to his feet and returns to the frigate. He can’t hold the stencil still as his arms quake. He wonders if it were a mistake to come here, considers going back to the office and asking for a transfer or something while he figures out what to do next. His legs feel weak. He wonders if the Earth is as blessed as he thought, he’s worried he might have been wrong and he’ll have to find some way offworld.
Stake: Literally holding his life on the edge based on whether he chooses to embrace reality or not. He probably has seconds until his knees buckle and he plummets or something like that.
Epiphany: Everything in life is beautiful, therefore, all situations can be considered morally equivalent and thoughts otherwise have to be taken up with reality and not you.
Resolution: Chutney pushes the thoughts out of his mind, Earth is rough but it’s still beautiful in its own way. He notices he suddenly feels numb, he wonders if it’s his health or his life. His knees buckle causing him to fall, wedging himself with his feet between the catwalk and the ship. Wriggling free, he plummets to his death.
Catharsis: He totally ignored Earth draining his life away, so now Earth claims his life permanently.
Epilogue: His boss and a clerk come up to investigate. The clerk asks whether it was a suicide or not, his boss retorts that it doesn’t make any real difference. The clerk asks what he should mark the death as. The boss says a smoking death and to add Chutney’s name to the class action suit.