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<span><span class="bbCodeSpoiler-button-title">OOC (Please Read!)</span></span>
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<div class="bbCodeBlock-content">I want to do a bit of an Exquisite Cadaver with a Post-Apocalyptic setting I created. There is only one rule to this thread,  if something you do makes someone uncomfortable or they object to it for a valid reason, you are to re-adjust your footing. Besides from that, we can take this in any direction anyone desires, and anyone is allowed to take part in this little adventure. The setting is Planet Earth, a year after an event called The Flowering caused plants to overgrow the entire planet. Here's my opening post, use it as the Exquisite Cadaver to create your responses, and anyone is welcome to join.</div>
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</div><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/>Thursday. Day 366.<br/><br/>Ulysses marked down the days in his journal. He used to write in it the first few months after The Flowering, but he eventually lost all inspiration to do so. His routine was the exact same every day, writing it down just solidified the minutiae of it all.<br/><br/>Every day he went outside, armed with Sulfuric Acid, a pair of Industrial Grade Pruning Shears and a Splitting Maul, he fought back The Wilds that seemed intent on consuming his home. Then he went into his green-house to check the plants, and reap, cultivate, or fertilize--whatever they needed.<br/><br/>Then he went into his lab to check on his samples: The Flowering had created hundreds of new species of plant-life. The Yellow Poppy-like pods decomposed into sulfuric acid if placed in Salt-Water, The ichor inside of the roots of some of the smaller trees could be fermented into a strong liquor, If the purple lichens were finely shredded, placed in a saline solution and injected as a Suspension--<br/><br/>--Well, he'd rather not think about that, not again.<br/><br/>Today his schedule went on as planned. Nothing had changed. It was around noon when he finally stepped back inside of his office, and took a glass case off of the wall, and looked at the paper within.<br/><br/>"Certificate of Specialty In Toxicology<br/><br/>Ulysses Meyer, M.D."<br/><br/>No use for a Doctor anymore, there was no-one to help. It had been 366 days and he hadn't seen a single soul. There had to be people left--some nights he heard gunshots--or was that just the sounds of The Wild, or his brain playing tricks on him?<br/><br/>He put the glass case back on the wall and sat down at his desk. He knew that he still had a will to find other people, a hope that they were out there: Because every day he sat down and pressed a button on a microphone hooked up to a radio and a receiver.<br/><br/>"This is Ulysses Meyer. Does anyone read me?"<br/><br/>Sometimes he would hear from the Receiver voices, or music, or sirens. A part of him hoped that this was a sign that life was still out there, but deep down he knew that it was probably just the receiver picking up old snippets of radio transmissions from before The Flowering.<br/><br/>Still, Ulysses sat at his desk, talking into the Microphone, hoping today, something would finally change.