always try your

best to be

courageous,

daring to try

even when

failure seems imminent.

get back up if you fall.

hurting

is only natural.

just remember,

kicking yourself does no good.

loving yourself is the key.

maybe you think that

nobody could ever love you.

oh, how little you know.

people you’ve never met

quick to judge, normally,

realize that you are amazing, and

seek to be around you. it’s

true; you draw people in,

unanimously claiming

votes for the

winner of their hearts.

(e)xamine your love now.

you have so many people

zesting to be around you.

you are perfect.

In the mirror, lights ablaze,

She sees seraphic smiles

Looking at her, love's gaze,

and she smiles.

But it's one void of veracious light

Bedimmed by the endless toil

Erased by the endless nights.

These things, her luminescence foils.

Who disremembered her gaze?

What mishappened to her self?

Where distasteful things do go to graze?

When misplaced was she onto a shelf?

In the shadow, darkness falls.

She sees the devil's grin.

Looking at her, love's gaze,

And she smiles.

Seven days. That's all that's left on this planet. We had a good run here. Humans have been here. Done things. Changed things. Made a mark here. Made it a home. Made it a resource. Its unfortunate it needs to end this way, and kind of surprising too. I always thought it'd be another disease like a few centuries ago. That was a nightmare.

Oh, well. I guess it's not a total surprise. I should have seen this coming. All the machines and "innovation." Progress goes two ways and there is always a price. For everything. That is the natural way. No one remembers the natural way anymore. It was accepted as law for centuries. Then humans started dominating the land and all of a sudden, the old ways were dead.

Every action has a reaction. Every life has a death. Everything comes with a price.

Everything needs a balance. Humans forgot that and now they have seven days left to pay.

I may have only gotten the message this morning, but this has been coming since before I can remember. Now it is too late. All the hatred beat out the love. All the greed overtook the kindness. All the dirt and smog choked out the clean air and bright skies.

Seven days til I go to work. Seven days to reclaim the Earth.

#ancient #fantasy #folklore #original #fiction #prose #challenge #magick

Mr. Getton struggled to settle his bum into the not-so-comfortable futon in front of the picture window in Mrs. Agatha’s office.

“I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“It’s okay, Mr. Getton. Just relax. Get comfortable.”

“I’m trying.”

“You can start whenever you’re ready.”

“Start what?”

“Telling me everything.”

“Everything?”

“From the very beginning.”

“Okay. It all started six nights ago. I was running through the forest and trees were burning incessantly all around me.”

“Trees all around you?”

“Yes. Definitely a wildfire.”

“And, what do you think this dream meant, Mr. Getton?”

“I’m not sure, Mrs. Agatha, but I believe that the apocalypse is upon us.”

“Why would you think that, Mr. Getton?”

“Because the next night, I dreamt an oil rig exploded, plunging straight into the sea.”

″...and?”

“The next night, I saw poison in the waters. Litter, lead, rust. People were dying drinking of it.”

“Hmm... All of the things you’ve dreamed of happen all the time. It isn’t like you’ve predicted anything, Mr. Getton. ”

“I know. I know. That’s the reason I believe the end is nigh. These things have already happened, so the world must be coming to an end.”

“They’ve happened over a large span of time, Mr. Getton.”

“I am fully aware...”

“I see... Have you been watching the news lately? Maybe your mind is restlessly troubled with current events that you can neither control or prevent.”

“I AM quite the empath, but I suppose the divine order of these intricately detailed visions means something more.”

“Interesting thought process. Have you had any more dreams since?”

“Yes. I dreamt the skylights were blocked out by clouds of pollution, and the days grew shorter. After that, I dreamt of earthquakes. Oh, terrible earthquakes! People all over the world were enduring endless torment.”

“What kind of torment?”

“All kinds. Horrible torture to the point of desiring a death that never came.”

“Desiring death... attempting suicide?”

“Yes. But to no avail. None of them died until last night when the war was waged. They died by armies of machines.”

“What types of machines?”

“All types. Wretched machines that spat scorching fire and smothering smoke.”

“And you say that was the dream you had last night, Mr. Getton?”

“Correct. That’s how I know the world will end tomorrow. My daughter doesn’t believe me. That’s why she sent me to the likes of you. Quackery, I say.”

″...”

“No offense. I just fail to realize the necessity of consulting a psychiatrist at the final hour. I should be completing my extreme bucket list-- skydiving, snorkeling, binge-watching my favorite sitcom-- not sitting on a futon staring at unidentifiable black blotches.”

“I understand your predicament, Mr. Getton, but, what if I told you the world really wasn’t going to end tomorrow?”

“I’d say you were absurdly naive. Can’t you read the writing on the wall?”

“Maybe I can’t.”

“Then you aren’t very clever. Maybe YOU should be the one sitting here on the futon.”

“I believe that’s all the time we have for today, Mr. Getton.”

“Thank heavens.”

“See you tomorrow, same time?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Agatha, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to make that appointment.”

“And, why is that?”

“Well, you see, tonight I will dream of the thunderstorm.”

“Thunderstorm?”

“Yes. The monstrous thunderstorm. Then, sad to say, the world will finally end.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Positively certain.”

“And, if you’re wrong?”

“I am NOT.”

“I know, Mr. Getton, but just suppose, hypothetically, you were somehow wrong...”

“Fine, Mrs. Agatha. If indeed I am wrong, you shall find me seated on this futon opposite you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Very well then. Good day, Mr. Getton.”

“Good day, Mrs. Agatha. Enjoy it. It’s the last one you’ll have on this planet.”

Mr. Getton arose and stepped out of the office. Mrs. Agatha took a sigh of relief, then glanced out at the overcast slowly creeping above the skyline. Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of distant thunder.

“Why don’t you get a grip? It’s not as if the sky is falling.”

Another one of my mother’s spoiled cream pies hits me in the face off the tip of her tongue because I dared to complain about the Nor’easter upon the horizon. She must be feeling her oatmeal after last night’s zing, “Well why don’t you just say no when you open up the goodie drawer? Get yourself on a diet already. What are you waiting for? Flying pigs?” What did I expect in light of my boo hooing tantrum over my mounting fat folds, right when I was making love to a Twinkie. “You’re right mother, your right,” I concede, as I sneak another Twinkie into my sweatshirt pouch as soon as she looks away towards her crosswords.

And ne’er dare I mention a woe is me to my 75 year old mother about living at home with her as a full time caretaker for the past ten months. It was around the time when I got laid off from my job that her arthritis became unmanageable. She asked for my help and I said, “Sure. Yeah. Oh goodie,” instead of “What else does an unemployed overweight old maid have to do?” Or I could have said, “See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya!” But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not my style. The apple in this house does fall far from the tree.

Truth be told, it isn’t hard to figure out my mother isn’t warm, fuzzy or moist; she has coriaceous like skin from decades of sunbathing and looks more like a thin blond ninja turtle than a mother. Perhaps there is a connected dot between her icy tongue and her disappointment over the vanity god’s vengeance, although I have never heard her complain about her pruning. Turtles afterall are known for their hard shells. (Bad joke?) And who better to target than her first born female spawn? Maybe it bugs the hell out of her that I never liked sunbathing, and look nothing like her and everything like pretty Aunt Grace on my father’s side, minus her size 6 body.

Now that she is old, our roles have reversed, a common family phenomenon, although who expects when they are getting potty trained, the trainer will someday become the trainee? At first she could put her depends on herself, and if I wasn’t the one dumping all the trash, I might not have known, but since her arthritis has progressed, she’s like a tortoise on its back, so now I alone have the express pleasure of peeling the skin off the onion, baby wiping the cracks, and wrapping the cookie several times a day. To unsee what I am seeing, I think about puppies, and if I squint my eyes long enough her package resembles a pug. She may be in pain, and physically unable to do what she used to do, making my supple heart ache, but apparently the gods decided not to have arthritis afflict her tongue and I would have appreciated it if they had consulted with me first.

In spite of her raucous rhetoric directed at me, surprisingly, we are quite close. If a slap can be interpreted as a love pat, mean spirited words can be interpreted as a love chat. Most of the time, especially on the days when my spanks fit, I just laugh at her negative taglines, and in her defense, from time to time she also reminds me to “smell the roses,” so there is that, even though we live in the city in an apartment. Although she does piss me off regularly, with reason, the way I look at the only mother I’ve got is with love; my hand dealt, unfolded. She might be the wrong pizza order discovered after opening up the box at home. Still okay. I’m not averse to anchovies or anything else take-out that comes in a square box, especially when it involves cheese and crust.

“Marsha…..Marsha.” I can hear her calling me, an awful flip side 45 playing on the baby monitor next to my bed. Who names their kid Marsha? When I asked her about why she named me Marsha, she explained I was supposed to be a boy and she was going to name me Marshall. I looked up the meaning of the name Marshall and it basically means horse, so I should be relieved I popped female. Marsha, on the other hand means Roman goddess, which is much better, but with a name like Marsha, I clearly had no defense against the bully that called me swamp thing, especially after he got a peek of my mom when she picked me up at school.

Ugh. What does she want now. I was just in there five seconds ago. Well maybe not five seconds, but it feels like that. Leave me alone Ma. I just want to play Words With Friends and then get some sleep. “Okay mom. Okay. I’ll be right there.” Why did I just bother to say that out loud? Baby monitors are not two-way like walkie talkies. I’m just gonna finish this game….what the hell? Damn. I think my screen froze. And now my phone is going all bonkers on me flashing red white and blue like Barney Fife’s patrol car light, and it is sort of giving me the start of a migraine, but I know I have to power through and pay attention to….

“THIS IS A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT FROM THE UNITED STATES NSA/CSS. A GIANT ASTEROID IS EXPECTED TO MAKE CONTACT WITH OUR PLANET IN APPROXIMATELY SEVEN DAYS. WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU CESSATION OF HUMANITY IS EXPECTED. GODSPEED.”

“Marsha….Marsha!” Really Mom? Really? Is it always about you? Well, on the bright side, I don’t have to feel bad about the WWF 7 letter triple play score I just missed. Or the fact that I’m a fat childless old maid. Even better, this not so little lady will not be changing diapers in seven days. Well. I better go see what she wants and tell her about the bad news.

“Ma, Ma, Ma! You won’t believe it! I just got this crazy message on my phone!”

“Marsha, tsk tsk Marsha, don’t be acting like there is something more important than getting me one of those chocolate puddings I like. What is it now? The end of the world? Stop being so dramatic!”

#FICTION #MYATTEMPTATCOMEDY

The satellite phone crackled to life, ‘Not a drill. I repeat, NOT A DRILL. It is time. Evacuate. The east has started the evacuation already. Get everyone out. You have seven days. Over.’ Bhumi scrambled to the phone, taking deep breaths she looked out the window at the endless clouds, and the rising seas. It really felt like 40 days and 40 nights of rain.

The white girl had warned us all this would happen. That was fifty years ago. It was a white girl telling all of us to stop our factories, replace our fuel, and plant more trees. We are the global south, ravaged by hundreds of years of white colonialism. We did not want to listen to another white rescuer. We were thinking of the hundreds and thousands of mouths that we had to feed, and trying to make our lives as nice as the ones from the land this white girl was from. We did not see any other way.

Six months ago the crises hit. Just when she didn’t think it could get any worse, the Arabian sea breached the sea walls and reclaimed what was rightfully hers. Her beloved city of Bombay had become seven islands again.

Bhumi got up and pulled out her notebook with the list of survivors. She had carefully selected the smartest, bravest and the ones with the most integrity to survive the flooding of the land of Indus.

Picking up her phone, Bhumi called Rana, one of the chosen ones and the leader who would lead the survivors from this great land. ‘Rana, gather everyone. I need to speak to them’ ‘yes, ma’am’ he said.

Bhumi, Rana and the chosen survivors lived on what used to be the highest portion in the south in the great metropolis of Bombay. This was where the white colonisers first built their bunglows and chopped all the coconut palms to make way for balconies and houses. The colonisers had built their houses here so they could see the sun set over the Arabian sea and expanse of jungle in the back. Bhumi and the others stayed here because the rest of the city had gone under.

She had built her base in one of the abandoned bungalows of the Malabar hills. As everyone gathered around, she said, ‘It is time. The end has come closer than we expected. We are scheduled to leave in seven days and meet the remaining survivors. The east has already started the evacuation, so they are scheduled to reach first and initiate the survival protocol.’

Looking at the commanders Rana, Shiv and Laila, she said, ‘I expect all the ships loaded and safety checks completed in the next three days. From then we have three more days to go through the procedures again.’

‘Let us all remember that we are the survivors, and the legacy of this great civilisation. Let’s make our motherland proud. Thank you for being here everyone.’

As Bhumi walked away, Laila followed Bhumi into the makeshift control centre, she said ‘What is happening Bhumi? We were not expecting this event for six more months’.

Holding on to the table Bhumi said, ‘We are a cancer that is choking our planet and our mother is retaliating Laila. New York has fallen. Hong Kong has evacuated. I cannot establish any connection with Singapore. It was Ang from the HK centre who called this morning.’

‘Why all of a sudden though? These were all stable centres no?’ said Laila. ‘yes, they were and I do not understand why this is happening’ said Bhumi. Laila nodded and walked away to start the preparation for the evacuation.

On the third morning, Bhumi gathered Laila, Shiv and Rana. ‘I am staying back. Each leader from each centre is staying back. Please let me finish’, she said as Rana and Shiv interrupted her. ‘I will stay back and keep an eye here. I will update you on the status of our island. And when you hear radio silence from me, you will know that Bombay has fallen’, she finished.

‘Do you understand me?’ she said. ‘Yes ma’am!’, their training helping them look calm. ‘Who will tell this to the others Bhumi?’, asked Laila. Looking straight ahead Bhumi said, ‘No one, they will see me with a light while you leave and understand. It has to be this way!’

‘No it doesn’t!’ said Laila. ‘Let me stay back, or we will flip a coin. They need you Bhumi, we need you. Please.’

‘Dismissed.’ Said Bhumi, turning her back on the three commanders and looking out at the relentless sea.

On the sixth morning, Bhumi woke to the sound of the satellite phone crackling, ‘Bhumi are you there? Ang here.’ Scrambling to pick up, ‘I’m here Ang, any update?’

‘It is starting Bhumi, everything the white girl had predicted is happening. Seas are rising, storms are raging. Get your people out.’ Cried Ang into the phone. ‘They are getting out tonight Ang, any update on your people?’ responded Bhumi.

‘They have reached, and are proceeding as expected. Update me once your contingent leaves’ said Ang. “Will do, Ang. Thanks and take care’ said Bhumi.

As the rows of survivors climbed into the sovient era submarines, Bhumi watched and remembered each of them. Rani, the little adivasi adolescent who had managed to bring the book of her people, with all its recipes and prayers. Ram, the son of a Gujarati who had mastered accounts. Shourie, the youngest poet she had met, Shubham the surgeon, Ghosh the writer, Arya the mathematician. She watched them all climb in with a heavy heart and hoped that they will make it.

Shiv, Laila and Rana came up to meet her before leaving. ‘Here, take this Laila. Give it to your daughter’ said Bhumi, handing Laila the diamond necklace, her mother had given her at her wedding.

‘This is for you Shiv. I know you will nurture them better than I would’ said Bhumi handing him, her bag of seeds that she had collected from all over the world.

Turning to Rana, ‘This bottle of whiskey is for you to drink only in joy and happiness. I had bought this for my father and husband, and I never got to see them. You will not waste this by drinking it in pain. Promise me this’. Nodding Rana, pulled Bhumi and the others into a hug.

As she walked away, Rani spotted that Bhumi was being left behind and held her hand up in tears. Bhumi turned away and walked down to beach waiting for the sea to claim her, and be one with her land.

#globalwarming #endoftheworld

My mother used to call me a dreamer, but I was more accustomed to nightmares. I'd wake in all hours of the night, never fully remembering what I saw, just certain that there was something coming for me. Later in life, this nightmare grew. As I explored the world, I experienced the dream to a greater extreme. No matter where I was on the globe, I saw the same flaming buildings, heard the same screams, and smelled the same charred ash and blood.

Of course, you can't live your life in fear. That's what my mom always told me. She'd sit at the edge of my bed and place my father's gold watch in my hands. Winding the dial idly always soothed me from those dreams. I'd never known my father, but Mom made sure I knew that he was the one who'd pulled me from our blazing home when I was just a baby. The smoke and the burns were what killed him, but he'd left me with one precious memento, this watch.

Mom tried to explain that these dreams stemmed from my trauma. I agreed. It was natural, and it was easier to believe that than feeling like the dreams were something beyond. I'd always tried to have a normal life despite the sweat-drenched sheets. I love to travel, so I became a journalist. I love food, so I became a critic. I have had every opportunity to live out my dreams, and now it seems... my nightmares.

When I awoke from last night's rendition of the apocalypse, something was different. I only vaguely recalled the image, but I was certain it was a little boy who stepped from the flames and pressed something into my hand. It was the pain that woke me. It felt like he'd taken an iron to my skin.

Turning on the hotel lamp, I half glimpsed at my hand, almost expecting to see something. In fact, the words burned into my flesh made me leap. I held my hand to the light and sure enough, seared there was the message, seven days.

I could not cope. What was this warning? Seven days left? Seven days ago? I so wanted to remember what I'd seen in my nightmares over the last week, but nothing came to mind. All I could think about was getting this shit off of my hand!

I ripped open the shower curtain, dislodging a few of the pegs. I stripped my shirt and pants. In my hurry, I forgot to test the waters, and the icy flow poured goose pimples all over me. There I was, naked and shivering, staring at my scarred hand in disbelief, wondering what was expected of me.

I scrubbed at the message to no avail. All that wore away were the edges where my blistered skin curled up. The pain was too severe.

"Why me?" I asked the showerhead. What am I supposed to do with this information? I wasn't crazy enough to think I had a shot at saving the world from devastation, so why choose an ordinary kid to scare his entire life, only to give him the final countdown?

It all started to dawn on me then. That was what this was all about. The hellish dreams, the constant terror, it was in preparation for this day. I'd spent my entire life running from my dreams, hoping that the next country would hide me from this day. Now, in the slowly heating shower of a 2 star hotel, I felt the weight of the world's end raining down upon me.

I couldn't hold on to this fear. I had lived 28 years decidedly dodging those things that go bump in the night. If I could ignore my night-terrors, I could ignore their 3 dimensional extensions. I donned my father's watch and groomed myself for the day. Of course, there were bags under my eyes from a lack of sleep, and my skin was pale, but I was determined to go about the day as usual.

Except, something truly was different as I stepped out onto the New York winter street. I pulled my collar up against the wind and headed to the newest kitchen I was critiquing. Every face I passed seemed to be lost in a daze. Every person on the street, or in their cars looked pale and fatigued, like they'd lost sleep too. Maybe it's just Monday.

It was only when I entered the restaurant and handed my coat to the hostess, that I noticed her hand too. The burn there matched my own. I felt a wave of nausea engulf us both. When I looked up at her, she panicked and bolted out the front door. I had to know if there was anyone else. The chef came to shake my hand, looking like a lost bulldog with is heavy, quivering jowls. I grasped his hand without a word and flipped it to reveal yet again, seven days.

When our eyes met, I could see tears leaking onto his grubby face. All I could think about was saving myself. I let him go and backed out of the kitchen. On the street, people were coming to the same realization as we were. Cars were parked mid-street with their drivers comparing palms. Pedestrians were shedding their gloves in disbelief.

I grabbed a nearby stranger and asked him flat out, "what did you dream about last night?"

Shocked, he stammered, "I- I don't remember. There was... a child and he... he burned me."

So that was it, not a message for myself, but for all mankind. This child was bringing us the end. I felt powerless, except to call my mom, hoping maybe she was unaffected out in the Massachusetts countryside. The phone's hollow ring bore into me. Even my mother's sweet voice seemed distant and afraid.

"Sam? Where are you? Are you safe?"

"Hi Mama, yeah. I'm okay, just a bit shaken up. Tell me..."

"Yes I have the mark too." She read my thoughts.

Tears popped from the corners of my eyes. I sat down on the edge of the sidewalk.

"There's nothing to be sad about, Sam. The angel delivered this message to me, just like she did for you."

"How can you know that? There was so much chaos in the dream. How can you know that it was an angel?"

"God has given us an opportunity to live in harmony for one more week. Just like the beginning, he's going to reverse his creation and take us all back into the kingdom."

Something about her words soothed me, but I could not shake the disquiet. "Now Sam, I think you need to come home. We should be together."

"Yes. I know you're right. But, wait... Mama, what did the angel look like to you?"

"Oh, she was tall and straight. Her wings were twice her height, all white. She used a feather from her own back to write me that beautiful message."

None of this added up. Why had some seen the angel, while others seen the boy? Was this some sort of Judgment Day? I made my way back to my hotel. All the while, the city seemed to sink deeper into chaos. The streets were crammed with cars, people trying to get a million different places at once. Families were wandering in and out of the buildings, all with backpacks and warm clothes on.

I realized that trying to escape to the country was futile, the freeways would be completely clogged. So, back at the hotel, I let myself into the room and sat down on the bed, just watching the world roiling with hopes and prayers.

I was exhausted. I’d been so since I woke up this morning. I saw no reason to rush into the corral, so I flopped back on the double bed and slept. In no time at all I was into a dream, even with my boots still on and my dad’s watch.

On the other side of my eyes, a curious scene began to play out. There was a garden before me with huge, robust trees, massive vegetables, and jaw-dropping flowers. Everywhere I stepped, my feet met soft moss. Birds twittered lazily in the trees. Animals meandered here and there, sampling the flora. The smell was so pure and alive, it was as if I could be sustained by the air itself.

There was a group of six children running in between some apple trees. Each child was beautiful beyond words, with fine features and flowing hair. They were calling out, playing tag. A solitary child sat a ways away from the others. He held something in his hands. I was moving towards him, and he looked up as I drew nearer. When I bent to see what he was hiding, I saw it was a dead dove, its neck twisted back.

“I didn’t want to kill it,” sobbed the boy.

“It’s okay,” I tried to say.

“No,” the child started to shake, “you don’t understand. They think I killed it on purpose.” The child stood up with the little bird hanging from his hands. He looked directly at me. For the first time, I recognized him. A bead of fear ran down my spine. The boy said, “They think I’m evil.”

In that moment, the dove caught fire spontaneously. The white feathers blackened and wilted and revealed the tiny muscles and bone beneath. The boy screamed and let go, dropping the creature. Instantly, the roots and moss around us were alight, as if they’d been doused in gasoline. Soon everything in sight was burning.

Screams from the other children came in all directions. I scanned around saw that some had tried to climb the trees, only to become trapped in the blaze. The others must have tried to outrun the fire, they were already on the ground, consumed in the conflagration. Only the boy and I were unscathed. I looked into his eyes and could see the shock. His skin was pale and his mouth drawn in a grimace.

I asked him, “did you mean for this to happen?"

He shook his head.

I stretched my fingers, trying to find a way to help. Absent mindedly, I reached for my watch and spun the crown. In the same moment, the tallest flames retreated and whatever leaves and bark they’d touched were returned to life. The boy and I exchanged looks of disbelief. I wound even further back and, yes, more of the damage was reversed. The children that had been reduced to ash, were reconstituted and alive once more. They were moving as if in a spell, completely reliant on the hands of my watch. In one fluid motion, the flaming bird lifted back to the boy’s hands, and extinguished itself. Looking at the dial, I saw that I’d only saved us a few minutes.

“How long has the bird been dead?” I asked.

“I can’t remember… an hour?”

I spun back an hour and sure enough, we watched the children playing gaily, until at one point they were congregated around our tree, watching with disapproving eyes. Their shouts came out backwards as I slowly twisted time. Finally, we watched the bird itself fall back to the sky and the rock that hit it thudded back into the child’s right hand.

“Can you… can you keep going?” asked the boy earnestly.

I looked around and saw that all was right again, “I don’t think I should…”

“Please,” he begged. “There is so much I need to take back. Can’t you just try?”

“No,” I frowned, “who knows what other consequences this could have.”

I released the crown and watched as time seemed to pick up where it left off. Except, the boy did not throw that fatal stone. Instead, he held it in his hands like an idol. When he turned to me again he was smiling. He grasped my hand and placed the stone to my palm. I felt something calling me away, and let myself be pulled back to the waking world.

Flat on my back with my legs out, I woke to the familiar feeling of chill and stiffness. None of the garden remained, but neither did the hotel room. I was lying on a slate rock, with forest all around. In all directions, only trees, grasses and rock engulfed me. My heart jumped. There wasn’t even a shred of manmade waste, a hint of humanity no matter where I looked. I ran north without thinking and still saw no one.

Sitting once more on a stone, I tried to come to terms with what had happened. Perhaps I’d affected more than just the dream world. I tried the crown of my watch again, twisting it forward this time. Nothing happened except the natural movement of sun through sky.

On my hand, there no longer was a seven day countdown. Only the memory endured. Nothing I recognized was here anymore either and I was left with the understanding. The true cost of saving the planet was to set it back before the fall.

-Alas, the earth rested and peace was welcomed throughout

-Man, woman and child were no more by sunset

-The animals of the earth could smell the pending sleep of humanity which was to come

-Twigs of trees, like arms, waved in surrender, thirsting for a

new day

-The sun, moon and stars gave notice to all living creatures that relief was in wait of the

horizon

-All waters grew still with murmerings as though a supersonic call, ushering in worldwide peace, had washed upon the atmosphere...waters and atmosphere speak a common language.

-The wind breathed the secret of eternity, “7 days,”audible to all living, save for those erected and recycled of the dust. The dusters, as rarely described, are a bit hard of hearing...fatefully, to their demise.

Crystal Black for blackhandmade

10/1/2019