Tag: Disasters

I Remember

I remember.
The stunned faces of teenagers watching horrific history play out in real time on classroom tvs.

I remember.
Teachers calling relatives in New York and crying for missing loved ones and the inevitable death toll.

I remember.
The face of a president in a room full of children when the news was whispered in his ear.

I remember.
Emergency personnel running into debris storms and collapsing skyscrapers in desperate attempts to evacuate as many as they could.

I remember.
Civilians organizing rescue support while traumatized themselves.

I remember.
The voices of heros in the air who knew they would never make it home.

I remember.
24 hours of no parties, politics, or arguments as a nation reeled in unison.

I remember.
Impossible rescues from smoking, creaking rubble.

I remember.
The soot-streaking tears of rescuers over the dead they could never have saved.

I remember.
For days we watched footage narrated by red-eyed reporters with shaking voices, and we wept and prayed with them.

I remember.
When a handful of the worst humanity could produce wreaked destruction, the rest of humanity loved.

I remember.

Blog Thursday Prompt: The Kettle

“It’s not my fault! The kettle began it!”

“Please, do go on. How exactly did the kettle begin it?”

“Weelll… it just sat there so… so… sitty!”

“I see. It was ‘sitty.’ And the problem with that is what, exactly?”

“Sitting is just so boring! How could it just not do anything?”

“So, you decided to make it do something.”

“Everything needs a little nudge now and then. All I did was fill it up with water.”

“Mm-hmm. And the kettle appreciated that, did it? Got up and danced a jig, I’m sure.”

“No! It just sat there drooling out its spout! Disgusting! I turned the stove on to dry it out.”

“- – -“

“What?! It started grumbling at me, and it just kept getting louder and louder. I told it to calm down but then it started screaming at me and smoke came out of the spout!”

“Imagine that. So you thought…”

“Obviously it needed some private time to adjust its attitude so I covered it with a towel.”

“Naturally it reacted well.”

“I guess it was dryer than I thought. You do always say where there’s smoke there’s fire.”

“I wish I could deny that.”

“Well, obviously I couldn’t let the kettle burn the house down, so I blew on it as hard as I could. Candles have much better attitudes, by the way.”

“I see. And that’s when you finally called me?”

“Yeah! That kettle needs to go to jail for arson! That’ll teach it what happens when it’s boring and stubborn.”

“I have a better idea.”

“What?”

“Stay away from the kettle.”

Cursed City

https://pixabay.com/photos/armageddon-destruction-apocalypse-2546068/

Fifteen years since she had fled the city, a child in a handful of refugees with nothing to feel but pain. Child or not, that last view of the city had been burned into her memory as surely as the real fires had marked her face. She frowned, old scars pulling tight; surely it should look different by now.

The burned out buildings shot twisted iron fingers toward the sky, and the asphalt beneath her feet had melted and cooled into a strange, urban desert floor. The ruins were earily silent, the cracked walls devoid of even the smallest sign of life. She shivered, glancing back at the overgrown countryside, and faltered. The boundary was too clean, too clear.

It had been a mistake to come here; they had warned her, but she had been so sure of herself. Fire leaped suddenly around her, crackling, roaring angrily. The scent of smoke choked her airway, and her coughs joined disembodied screams and shouts that assaulted her from every direction. Despite the flames, her hands numbed with cold, and every cough spewed white mist from her lungs.

Just as suddenly the ruins were empty again beneath the blazing August sun. She turned and fled.

Footprints

https://pixabay.com/photos/fantasy-surreal-god-foot-power-3186483/

The old ones called these valleys the footprints of the gods. Impossibly pressed between rocky conifer peaks, the rich dark soil harbored fertile fields and close-knit villages. The only paths in led through crevices and over streams accessible only by foot, cutting us off from all but the most adventurous outsiders. Few even of those stayed long, usually flashing a lot of coin about until they discovered how little value it held here.

According to the old ones our people sprang from the magic left when the gods themselves walked the earth to view their creation. Though others came after to fill the lowlands, they were lesser, lacking the mark of the trueborn and unattuned to the land. Its bounty fed our spirits and held us within our ancestors’ prints for many long lives of soulless men.

Until the greed of the lowlands could no longer resist the lure of the high valleys. The day the peaks exploded changed everything. When the dust settled on the broken pines, the mark of the gods was gone. One by one, the old ones failed, their spirits choked like our lungs by the fumes of destruction. Our villages in ruins, our graves buried, we few who remain will find what comfort we can in the forests of the outside.

The Bell

https://pixabay.com/photos/italy-alberobello-houses-homes-90595/

For generations the bell had rung morning and night, its peals joining the crashing waves in a symphony of sound. The five peaks of the landside bore the code for its messages. Fair weather, foul, days of worship, and days of mourning. The fifth mark, on the center peak, had long been ignored by the island folk, its meaning lost in the passage of years. The bellringer would learn his day’s duty by noting under which of the other four peaks the mission opened its doors at dawn.

When Ambros arrived to ring the bells as the sun rose in a cloudless sky, he stopped short, staring at the light streaming out of the center door. His eyes went to the symbol above it, incomprehensible to him, and his knees trembled. The crescent gleamed white, much brighter than the other four symbols, and an overwhelming urge to flee flooded him.

The lack of the morning bell would likely send the island into a greater tumult than a new message, however. Ambros gulped and forced himself forward, hoping that the dusty old bellringer’s manual would decipher the symbol. When he stepped through the door, the light went out, and the glowing mark above swelled to blend with the deep red of the sunrise. The bell tolled of its own accord, a single deep hollow tone, and the island sank beneath a calm sea.

Network

Photo by Becky Strike, Oak Alley Plantation, LA

The storm clouds rolled in to compete with the afternoon’s brilliant blue sky. Right on schedule, Lije thought with satisfaction. He settled onto the bench beneath the metal pergola to watch the show.

It was a particularly fine one today. He had put the finishing touches on it himself only this morning, and rather regretted being the only one in the Botanical Walk to see it. He would have enjoyed watching the reactions. No matter; he wouldn’t have long himself if he didn’t want to get wet.

He rose and moved to lean against the brick pillar opposite the bench, patting it affectionately. No one would ever guess the pergolas true purpose; the designers had been brilliant. He let his gaze drift to the metal over his head and froze. Was that rust? It couldn’t be! With a quick glance around just to be sure he was alone, he yanked the bench closer and stepped up for a closer look.

There. Just at the joining. His cheeks flushed with hot anger; someone must be removed from the Maintenance Corps immediately. Neglect like that could jeopardize the entire network; the delicate fibers forming the weather matrix within the pergola could survive no exposure.

A peal of thunder jerked his attention to the sky as the first drops struck his face. His jaw dropped in horror as what should have been lightening pixelated across the sky. Once, twice, as the water plinked against the metal rows, then a section of cloud went blank. The storm roiled distortedly around the electrified tiles revealed behind them, pixels flickering.

Book Review: The Christmas Crocodile

A most unusual present shows up under the tree on Christmas Eve and begins to wreak havoc! Presents get eaten, the feast gets stolen, even the decorations are shredded. No one knows what to do! Even Alice Jayne finally locks that croc in the cellar where he can’t destroy anything else.

But no one should be cold and alone on Christmas Eve! First Alice Jayne, then the rest of the family (including Aunt Figgy whose toes were bitten) joins the crocodile in the cellar with their own little piece of Christmas comfort to share. No one realizes the disastrous truth until morning brings a new surprise.

This book is the perfect holiday book for little kids. The funny, silly, and unexpected plot will have kids giggling uncontrollably, and the colorful illustrations will keep them busy while parents handle all the Christmas secrets. That is, if mom and dad aren’t reading and laughing along with them.

The Gates

https://pixabay.com/photos/lost-places-attic-architecture-4211518/

Sasha loved the Gates. They were older than memory or record, if the old ones could be believed, though they showed no sign of age. Unlike the longhouse built around them, the burnished wood of which had grayed and rotted several times even in her short lifespan.

She ran a hand over the stone, soaking the warmth of it into her cold skin. That warmth was the reason her people had built the longhouse around the Gates; in a frigid landscape, warmth meant survival. The whole village lived in the shelter of the Gates, worshipping the impossible life they maintained.

The stone hummed beneath her fingers and she jerked away, eyes widening. The thrumm became visible vibration and Sasha stumbled backward, breath coming in ragged gasps as the arch of the Gate began to glow. Farther down the longhouse a second Gate followed suit, then a third.

Then the portion of the longhouse in front of her vanished, replaced by a view of shifting sand and barren red mountains. The sky above them terrified her most with hints of purple and orange streaking a dark blue horizon.

A strange figure stepped into view within the arch. Inhuman, insectile, it clicked with what seemed angry urgency and beckoned to something behind him. Sasha fled screaming as an unimaginable army streamed into the longhouse. She never saw the hosts streaming from the other Gates as one by one they activated.

Empty

https://pixabay.com/photos/ruin-monastery-graves-fantasy-3414235/

The blast zone was eerily quiet. Sophie walked slowly over the dead ground, footfalls crunchy in the charcoaled remains of the world she had known. Her heart thudded, as loud as the sobbing breath heaving in and out of her lungs.

Already long shadows fingered the valley, shades of glory made barren. The time between first light and sunrise was pitifully small, but it was her only chance at leaving the Settlement. The Conclave allowed no one into the Barrens. First offenses meant time in the brig; second offenses meant one ration per day for a month and exclusion from assembly for a year. This was her third.

They had thought the plague would be the end of everything. It was the reason the Settlement had formed, deep in the mountains with rules designed to prevent infection and preserve a pocket of humanity. Sophie herself had spent a month in quarantine outside the border after plague took her parents. They had remained on their own land in the shadow of the monastery, cared for the sick and frightened, but with them gone there had been nowhere else to turn.

She wished she had stayed; Hell had arrived within weeks of their deaths, ending the suffering of all outside the Settlement. Leaving her alone. For two years on the Day of Purification she had snuck away to their ruined graves, her tears the only memorial left to give. For two years she had been caught by the Conclave and ostracized. This year they would Purify her in the square, though nothing remained to be cleansed, her soul as empty as the excoriated land.

Mama’s Terrible, Horrible, No-good, Very Bad Day

We all have them. The days that you know you should have just stayed in bed. Instead you dragged yourself out of the comfy covers and made your sleepy, grumpy kids follow suit.

The day that your morning prayer with the kids is an exercise in desperation because in the ten minutes you’ve been awake you’ve already fielded ten fights. The day that not even prayer lifts anyone’s mood. The day that the simplest of breakfasts takes half an hour to prepare because mood.

The day that someone didn’t turn the dryer on bit washed another load so wet laundry sat in both washer and dryer all night. The day that you used every pot and pan in the house to make last night’s dinner but you don’t own a dishwasher so you have to wash them all by hand. The day that you have to remind the kids a hundred times to do the most basic of chores.

The day that it’s ninety by mid-morning and the kids, who begged to go outside, won’t stop running in and out because they’re hot. The day that ocd rules and adhd rages. The day that someone pulls a dozen books at once out of your freshly straightened bookshelf.

The day that you decide to paint your kids’ bedroom because you spent two days making sure it was spotless, only to find that you might as well have saved yourself the two days. The day that you realize you can’t paint a straight line after committing to stripe the room in three different colors. The day that an inexplicable puncture appears in the bottom of your paint can while you are standing on a chair holding it several feet off the ground painting the top of a wall.

The day you finally give up and plop on the couch to watch people on TV have bad days. The day you decide to wait for a new day to clean up after this one. The day you decide to blog about your troubles because really what else was there to talk about? Yep, we all have those days.