Okay, I've been wanting to try my hand at writing for a while now, seeing as my father is the co-writer of the "Sockpig" Doctor Who radio story, I thought that I'd have a natural advantage. I don't.
Any critique is welcome, if you don't like it, say why you don't, because "ITZ TERRIBL" doesn't help anyone. But if this gets a large amount of negative comments then I'll just delete it, it'll be better for everyone.
Let's see what I wrote shall we?

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Darkness.

That's all there is; darkness.

How did I get here? Why am I here? Where is here? All those questions
flood into my mind. I can't remember anything, not even my name. The
mysteries have almost blinded me from the fact that I'm not even standing.

Slowly, I try to ascend, but the pain is unbearable, I can feel my muscles
aching more than they ever have before, it's like they're tearing apart one
by one. How much agony must I endure?

After what feels like hours, I am finally standing.

But where am I? My eyes adjust to the darkness, I can see I'm in a tunnel
of some sort. One way leads to more darkness, the other to, well, even more
darkness. But, one side has a dot. A grey dot in the distance. It's the
only thing that isn't darkness in here.

I try to step forwards, but I fall. It's like I haven't moved for some
time, not on my feet at least. When my face hits the ground I realise this
is no ordinary path. For one thing, the floor is incredibly cold even though
the air itself is uncomfortably warm.

Brushing off this event, I attempt to rise again. My arms are weak from the
fall though, so it takes longer than last time. Eventually I get up again and
set off to the dot in the distance, limping as pain guides my legs.

As I limp towards the dot I hear something, something very faint. Because
of my current situation I shrug it off as my imagination, believing my
feet on the cold floor to be making the only true sounds. I'm getting used
to walking again, although it feels like I haven't done so for years.

Memories start setting in, not completely, but fragmented. I get small
flashes of a rural village, then a road and finally, a boulder. I also
have a word going around my head, it's a name; Virgil. I guess it's mine.

Minutes pass and the sound becomes audible again, this time I know it's
definitely there. It's like a buzzing. The further I go the louder it gets.
As it gets louder it sounds like humming, like someone is humming a song.
If it is humming, they must not remember the tune very well, there are
many breaks; it's inconsistent.

Soon it reveals it's true nature. It isn't a hum, it isn't a buzz, it's
a cry. It is the cry of a child. As I realise this I scout around, looking
for the source of the sorrow, but to no avail.

I try to convince myself that it's just my mind playing tricks, but I
can't. The dot has become bigger, I can see it's white now, but the crying
sounds like it's coming from the other direction; the way I came.

Should I carry on? Should I go back and comfort the sobbing child? I
haven't even seen this "child", the only proof of it's existence is that
uncontrollable cry. Why is it so familiar?

No, I will continue. If that speck in the distance hides a place, I will
get there. And I will bring back help. But still, why would anyone make a
tunnel this long?

Hours pass. The tunnel seems the same, not getting wider, narrower nor
brighter or darker, but the dot is getting even more bigger. In fact, it
isn't a dot anymore, more like a doorway, so to speak.

I can remember what happened before this now. The memory is patchy, but
it's there. My daughter and I were on a day trip to the wilderness, in an
area notorious for having an abundance of snakes. I lived in that place for
years, I've been bitten by literally hundreds of them, my body has more
snake bites than hairs, so it's safe to say I've built up some sort of resistance
to their venoms.

I remember turning to see her slowly backing off from the rock I was
sitting on, I'm not that scared of animals from those places anymore, but
I'm not a risk taker either. I waited for her to be in a safe range and
then slid off the rock. I didn't see the scorpion.

That crying, that damned crying! It won't bloody stop! It's so loud that
it's more like a wailing, reminiscent of a banshee! It's so horrible, so
full of misery, I'm surprised I haven't broken down and joined in.

But then it stops, and a voice, so soft, so soothing, so familiar, asks if
I need help. I didn't notice I collapsed when the crying stopped. A hand is
outstretched to me, I take it, and the figure pulls me up.

I made it. I actually made it. The doorway, no, gateway is before me.
Strange, it looks like it is made of pearls. I look towards the figure who
aided me. My wonder is replaced with fear.

Father. My father is the figure who helped me. My father was bitten by a
komodo dragon fifteen years ago. My father died fifteen years ago. I was
only fifteen that day, what a bloody big coincidence.

"Welcome my son. Remember me?"

"No. No this can't be real. This is bloody impossible!"

"Careful with that language son, this is a place of peace."

I gaze upon the fields behind him, behind the gate. People, men, women,
children, so many, all are happy, having fun or just enjoying the
beautiful scenery around them. Trees full of leaves, fields filled with
all sorts of flora, white clouds, the ones that don't rain at every
possible moment. And my...

My mother is there.

The emotions set in. The pain when I found out my father was dying. The
sorrow I felt when he left. The anger I felt when I was left all alone.

Then I realise. If he's here, and so am I, then I must be dead. The
crying back in the tunnel, I realise why it was familiar. It is the cry of
my daughter as she sits by my side, pleading me not to go. Just as I did
when my father...

"History does not repeat. It rhymes." My father says, as if reading my
thoughts.

My wife died two years ago. My daughter will be left all alone, like I was
when my father died.

But she has more family; friends who would sacrifice much for her.
She will be in safe hands. Not the hands of the wild like I was.

My mother died, my father died, I ran away from the orphanage. Into the
desert. Into the place that would set in motion a chain of events that
would force me to rejoin them.

"Are you ready my son?" My father asks, as if he's been waiting for
this moment for many a year, I suppose he has.

"Yes. Yes I am. There is only one thing for me back there. And she will be
cared for."

Together we step through the pearl gates.

End

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What did you think? If it offended anyone, sorry, I didn't intend it to, I don't know what happens after death, no-one does. Also, I am aware it is short.
Now I look back, I am a very pessimistic person.
It was inspired by a few things, the divorce of my parents, my grandmother dying before I met her, I just combined those tragedies and ended up with the idea of someones parents dying very early.

Just remember; children losing their parents is not a laughing matter, and unfortunately it happens a lot more frequently than it should.