~When the Wind Blows~ Final Fiction For the Apocalypse

The Terrible Sun

2010-12-22T20:11:00.000-05:00

And now, something for the winter months, something to remind me of just how awful summer can be, especially one that never ends.

Through the window of this awful room shines the red sun. Day and night, with long unbearable hours of pink and orange light, it shines. In the summer, when clouds should come and winds of thunderstorms should blow and scream and cry, and the dark tops of unspeakable trees whip and thrash, I wait by the window and watch the sun.
Motionless it is fixed now to one spot, nailed in place by the unthinking mind of man and science gone mad.

Glowering down from the heavens its relentless glare wears on while the earth around the remains of this old building I have found dries, and dies.
I sometimes wake in these last days from grasped hours of fitful sleep and think the night has come. But vision returns to burning eyes and I cry that I am once again wrong.
The sky shimmers and rolls weirdly in the distance behind red hills and the tall pale barren plateau. Dark shafts of light drunk and dead trees prick the hollows and seem to shiver under the damnable frozen light.

Would that I could find some cool dark cavern and rest a while inside against the wet darkness. A deep cave stirred deep beneath the screaming ground blind to the light, the light the light.

Long have I sat here, gazing out to the fallen city, the land littered with the glinting remains of man. Metal shapes, shards of glass winking the occasional human remains. I watch the light flow like motion against the flat surfaces, pressing at my once familiar, but now strangely silenced world.

I have slept, when I awaken I am again struggling against blindness, my eyes pasted shut and thick with dust and film. Against the back of eyelids rides a memory of a different world, one clothed in verdant greens and blues and the pearl white of clouds, and the little towns, speckle the hills and valleys and shine and collect in the soft shades and shadows of trees.
No more.
I often watched the approach of tall clouds, brooding dark and mysterious in their gray heights, and listened to the thrum and pulse of distant thunder washing over me, and sometimes I would go out and let the cold breath of winds shriek past and through me and cool me and chill me to shivering.
Now, I can only sleep and dream and waking, pry my sore eyes open to see again the sun that will not set, and will not sleep until all of man, and the remains of man, and the thoughts of man are burned and rubbed out of and off of the earth.

As the time passes, I have come to wonder that I might be the only one, the last one left, and that the sun is seeking me and pursuing me and killing me day by day. Which has no meaning now, there is no night, only day.

I had traveled for a long time, seeking the area of earth where the sun did not shine constantly and strangely down. I traveled and saw the dieing world and have come here, to these lonely remains to wait and watch.
I do not know how long I have been here, or how long now I have sat here defying the dry lingering ravages of the squat autumn colored sun. I had heard, before the end began, that because of a mistake, a mindless oversight, a result of hubris unchained, that the days and nights would now last for years. The earth’s turning, slowed to a painful crawl.
On our side, the sun planted firmly overhead and warred against us with hellish intensity, and baked and dried and burned every last moist molecule of life. I almost envied the ones frozen in the inky black darkness at the other side of the world. Years hence, when the bright desert of our side succumbs to the dark, there will be nothing left, and in the span of the new earth year, nature will accomplish what man could not do alone. Extinction.
I dream again, in fits of unnatural agony, of a tiny yellow house with green shutters and a brook bubbling near by, it’s gardens overflowing with soft fragrance. I dream of space and the black vault of night, blinking overhead filled with an enormous moon and coy little stars. I dream of love and family, and the voices of neighbors beyond the picket fence. And I dream of the evil and blighted moment when day became our fiery unrelenting god.

I will wait, wait here in this dusty rubble and see to the end of it all. I am sure of it now, I am the last one, the only human alive to watch and keep count and dream the old dreams and cry for us all, and pray that somewhere there is some benign being to come and spin this nightmare away.
there is no one left but the strange hard sun dominating the sky and I, insanely watching with tired dimming eyes, crying the shriek of despair and leaving nothing but a shadow..

Strange Shapes to Come

2010-12-08T17:11:00.001-05:00

One night, driving home late I saw something. Something unusual.
It was dark, summer I was driving the long rural road home and saw something come out of the sky and slip into the road in front of me.
It was a black shape like a square, and it slid down and into the road .
It was in the beams of the headlights, just a couple seconds.
I stopped the truck and sat there. Looking.
Like a razor, it had slipped into the road and disappeared.

How could this happen?
This geometry, this invasion.
I've wondered ever since. Wondered if what I'd seen was some form of invasion.

This was years ago now.
It was during the time that the comet had hung nightly in the sky for days and days.
Remember?
That comet that had been in the sky and the group in California had committed suicide thinking that it was time to leave.
Time to go to the hidden mother-ship?

This happened back before 911 and the Iraq war, and the crash of the economy and the rising unemployment, back before the strange weather and the tsunami and the earthquake and the hurricanes and the coming flu pandemic.
This was before all the trouble started and the great disconnect occurred.
This happened before the bailouts and the elections and the destruction of the Constitution and lose of civil liberties.
This was a sign of the beginning of the end.

A Man, the Color of Fire

2010-12-07T17:22:00.001-05:00

In a dream I saw a man
the color of fire.

He walked bare and shining
across soft red hills.

He talked to God.

He moved his bright hands across his eyes
in a gesture of despair, a shimmer of dimensions
haloed where his hand moved
and lit his forehead as he walked.

Little dead birds littered the dusty ground,
the remains of birds
fallen from the dry thin air,
Preserved in dust
their feathers traced bright lonely halos.

They whispered goodbye to God.

In a dream I saw a man,
he was tall and burned like fire.

~The Journal~

2008-09-11T09:33:00.017-04:00

This is the thing that runs through my mind.
This is the thing that haunts and torments me.

What if?

They always start out that way, these thoughts, these torments.

What if the government declares martial law?
What if everything breaks down, and falls apart,
the economy, communication, travel curtailed, what if?
What if I can't get to my daughters and grandson or they to me?
What if something happens to them and not to us here?
Would I want to continue?
No.

Just now, a honey bee has come by and landed on my hand.
A humming bird flitted by and the sun is shining down. The creek is rattling by in it's throaty way, and the light is sparkling upon the waters. But, "what if" has come to visit.
"What if," cries out to be answered.

Years ago, it came like a thief in the night, as a dream, a dream of walking through smoking rubble and looking up to see the remains of the facade of a building, curving thin and spiderweb like.
And I thought, "What is this? This can't stand. It will fall down surely."
There was a feeling of horror associated with the dream, a cold fear as though death had slid over us all and threatened to drown us all in a sea of terror.

Later that same morning, the Twin Towers were hit.

It marked the beginning of the end of life as we had known it, from that moment forward, the self determination of everyone began to slip ever farther away and the controls over us that had been prepped for years clicked into place like tumblers in a lock.
And that was it. That was how it all began.
That's how the "What ifs" came into power, and using that simple question, they managed to begin the molding of the American people into something different, something strange and mutated, confused and dangerous.
They began to make us terrified.

Now, many people have begun to question themselves into oblivion. Many of us make preparations for events as yet only vaguely defined. Like battling an army of ghosts we strike out with nothing more than boxes of freeze dried foods and stored seeds and books on how to survive the end of the world.
Nothing is real anymore and not much has substance but the constant monitoring of the news and endless looking for signs of the time when the moment can be called and named. Named "Time to Leave" "Bugout Time" "Time to Hide" or "Time to Fight".

There has come a time now when no one seems to be able to muster any sympathy for, or understanding of, one another.
It's all our own fault we shout! Americans are stupid cows! We get what we have coming!
I hear this a lot. It's usually said by the fortunate few that had caught onto this situation early in the game.
By chance.
If not for chance and the ability to search the news and articles on the internet, I would not have known about Peak Oil, or the coming housing collapse, or disease outbreaks around the world, or now, the movements towards nuclear war with Russia, or China or some as of yet unnamed angry little country.
I wouldn't have found out about any of it. Would it have been my fault?
No.

So I'm left to wonder sometimes, what will happen when the truth of the situation can no longer be kept secret from the people?
What will happen when a pandemic of man-made disease sweeps through the population?
What will happen as oil and gas become more and more expensive and the majority of citizens are simply priced out of the market?
What will happen when we all get hungry and thirsty and there is no way we can feed ourselves because we have all spent too many generations away from the land?

I imagine that the government, (that has become nothing more than a front for corporate America,) will put into use all those new crowd control devices they have invented. Like Active Denial, or sound and microwave devices designed to confuse and disable and burn.
I imagine that's what will happen.
People can be away taken now, at any time without charges, and kept as long as desired.
I imagine they will be taken, those voices among us that are sounding the alarm, and kept away from the pliant population.
But in the end, it will all come crashing down, just like the great buildings in New York. Just like that, it cannot stand.
Even the government controls will eventually disintegrate and blow away and we'll have to start all over again. If we want to.
It is also possible that by that point we may not be able to rebuild, depending on how the climate settles.

My hope is that there will be pockets of humanity left to continue and build a better world.
That is my hope. I won't be around to see it. Neither will you most likely, but maybe your child or grandchild will be there and carry you with them in the things you can teach them now, now while you have the time.

What if, you could start over? What would you change? What would you do differently?
That's a good "what if " to contemplate, it's a start.

~Entry One~

When the morning comes, we will leave this awful place and strike out across the shifting mounds of red dust. Walking in the cool of the day, seeking shelter before the heat comes, we'll carry little... we have little to carry.
Our dreams remain haunted. We are fearful of the agonizing heat of the day, but terrified of the night. The night brings the singing sounds of the wind upon the hills and as it moves through the dry dead trees, a mourning dirge. It is a sound of condemnation.
What compels us to go on, why don't we lay down like pencils in a box, stiff and straight and unmoving and depart? Why do we keep plodding along, looking, remembering, mourning?
I don't know.

I dreamed last night to the dismal sound of the trees wailing on the hill. I dreamed of a stream of clear blue water streaking across the sky, the sound of it's rushing tumult, like the voice of God. In it, I saw the creatures of the deep. the great whales, and fishes of all kinds. There were turtles, dolphins and all manner of small and large living things. As the river rushed across the sky and out of my sight, I cried with joy. They had escaped, I thought in that hazy way of dreams, so thankful that something, had escaped, and I was overjoyed. I opened my eyes against the darkness and wept.

In the bottom of my cloth bag, among the packets and odds and ends, is this book and a few pens and pencils. They are my greatest treasures, I use them to record the final days and the pitiful world and the passing of us all. It is one of those blank journals so popular before and it is my hope that it will survive to be found some day and perhaps help bring some measure of understanding to what caused this mindless march into mass suicide.
To conserve this priceless little blank book, I write only a few words a day, in small letters. I'll tell you about this harsh sudden world. I'll tell you about it in short portions, for you will fill in the blanks when you find this book, you will know what is not said.

~Entry Two~

Sometimes, when we come upon some bit of the past sticking out of the red dust, a can, or piece of magazine, the edge of a car door still shining in the light, buried in a dune of powdery earth, I remember things. I remember ice cold drinks and laughing for no reason, I remember riding in a car, the window down, warm summer wind whipping through my hair, and I recall the flashing procession of green along the side of the road, and in the distance, the sudden delight of summer storm clouds thick with rain and riddled with lightning, and I remember the smell of summer rain...

It's like recalling the tender face of a lost child, a husband, the face of someone gone and not returning.
Pain stabs the heart and you at last turn away.
You try to not remember, you put up shields and walls and post reason and cold logic as guards against it.
But at night, your guardians dissolve and the memories haunt your sleep like accusing demons.

We came today, upon a small house nestled into the side of a great mound of blown dust and sand, only it's door and tiny front porch, that being swaybacked under the load, remained visible. There had been other houses here, and when I looked closely I could see where only vague shapes in the dust gave an indication that anything had ever been here besides the endless encroaching red powder. The tops of the trees that had lined the buried road, protruded several yards above the dirt and ticked and clacked together like the bones of dead birds. A shadow passed overhead and we could see the reddish clouds pass over the face of the sun and the wind began to rise and sing.

I, being ahead of the others, my thin quiet companions, walked up to the remains of the porch. On one of the posts hung a hand painted wooden sign. "Welcome, it said, The Myers, and there were painted frogs sitting on lily pads, James, Sarah, Mathew, Jerry." The paint was fading and the sign pecked at the post as the wind lifted and dropped it, as though knocking.

I crossed to the door and held the knob for a moment, then, turned it and easily swung open the door.

~Entry Three~

I waited a moment, the air rushed into the dark interior of the house and out came a stale dry but familiar smell. The light spilled upon the dirty floor and into the small front room barely enough to illuminate the space. I looked back at my companions. They had gathered together at the far side of the porch. I could barely see them as the wind was blowing harder now and it seemed like a strange fog was moving through the dunes. It was an approaching dust storm.

Just inside the door, I fumbled in my bag for the stump of a candle I had and lit it with a match. The room rushed forward in the pale light, breath caught in my throat, my head felt hot, I tripped and stumbled back onto the porch. The now strong winds blew the candle out, my companions stared at me swathed in the darkening terra cotta light.
I don't know what happened to me, there was nothing frightening inside, only a simple room, modestly furnished with a tiny fireplace in one side and homemade rugs in bright colors on the wooden floor. It was more like a museum, this simple little home. There were pictures of the sea on the wall and little ceramic cats dotting the mantle over the fireplace.
Outside, the storm was building and no matter my initial reaction, we were going to have to find shelter soon and this was the only available place.
Dry lightning suddenly struck behind the hills and the flash outlined the others, all waiting on me to move on. I turned back and went inside and stood at the door waiting for my quiet followers to come inside.
I closed the door.

This time when I lit the candle, I looked cautiously around the room. There was a low couch with bright yellow pillows and an equally bright colored throw across the back of the couch. There were dead lamps on the tables at the ends, and a low wooden table in front. There were also several candles sitting on the coffee table that I quickly lit.
The light fluttered bravely in the room, from time to time, small puffs of dust drifted down and we could hear the now screaming winds and crash of lightning. The beams of the house creaked under the shifting load. I sat down wearily on the couch. I couldn't remember anything so soft. Sleep came without warning.