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We were on the front porch when it happened. And how fortunate we were to be living on the edge of a death zone. It was like being shot at and having the bullet drop at your feet because you were out of range. The eruption was massive, and I was born the very next week.
“Luck, you come on in the house now; it’s time to eat.”
Well, I have to go, Momma’s calling.
“Where are you going?” asked a reporter via radio as a huge crowd gathered to watch.
“To search for land where I can be free. Earth is F#@ked.”
“Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Freeeedom!”
Vultures circled; the eagle was dead. Dropping down, they consumed the last bits of freedom from a soulless land. Fear ruled the day. And the people got what they deserved, not what they voted for.
“It’s sure to save the planet.”
“Really?”
“Yes, follow me.”
“Where are we going?”
“Stay close. It’s sure to save the planet.”
“But I can’t see.”
“I can stay close.”
“I’m scared.”
“Don’t worry; I know what I’m doing,” Greta said one last time as they went over the cliff.
A huckster yelled out, “Get your mask now; the number of infections could be ten times higher in the coming months. Get your mask now. I have them in pretty colors.”
“What about the deaths—-what’s that number,” a young man yelled back from the ground.
Infections, my boy, did you not hear me? They are rising.”
“So what, the number dying is similar to the flu. Why didn’t you sell your mask then?”
The huckster grew frustrated because the crowd was starting to walk away.
“Now listen, my friends, this young man is putting you in danger. The infections, remember the infections they are rising.”
The crowd continued on its way, so the huckster, now worried, yelled out as loud as he could one last time, “This just in, a new strain of Covid is infecting people it may be more deadly than the last. Get your mask now before it’s too late. I have them in pretty colors.”
The crowd came running back, and the boy shook his head in disbelief.
“Lisa! Get our bug-out-bags; we have to leave. I’m going to run the livestock into the woods; meet me there.”
It’s been a year and a half since the eruptions, and the volcanic winter that ensued has turned the world gray leaving survivors to fend for themselves.
At the gate, Lisa found her husband shooing the last of their chickens into the woods, hoping the thieves would not get them all. “Let’s go,” she said, “I don’t want to reach Maidie’s after dark.”
And with that, Jeff and Lisa Wilson left everything behind to seek shelter on the other side of the mountain. Would anything be left upon their return?
“Too many to fight.”
“I know, replied Jeff as he watched looters kick in their front door. Five years earlier, he had carried her across the threshold, and it was all he could do to keep from killing the man in his crosshairs.
This piece of microfiction is a character story from my apocalyptic novella Every Yard Is A Grave. Character stories are small glimpses into a character’s life before, during, and after the book.
Roy Snyder had a decision to make; resign and focus on family or remain Sheriff of the highest town this side of the Mississippi. What’s left of it anyway. Beech Mountain’s survivors were few, and he only saw them occasionally.
“There’s nothing left to protect,” he raged, turning over a file cabinet in the process.
His world was dying under the cold red skies of a volcanic winter. The awards hanging on the wall meant nothing to him now; he went home.
This piece of microfiction is a character story from my apocalyptic novella Every Yard Is A Grave. Character stories are small glimpses into a character’s life before, during, and after the book.
I awake, a cold breath filling my lungs. Slipping out of my sleeping bag, I search for the radiant heat of a small ember to stoke the fire. Lilly is still sleeping, and the sun will bring us no warmth on this day.
This piece of microfiction is a character story from my apocalyptic novella Every Yard Is A Grave. Character stories are small glimpses into a character’s life before, during, and after the book.
“Wicked me this, and stave off the pot—give up your friend, and death find you not.”
“Eat me at will; my flesh is with rot—poisonous to witches cold or hot.”
“A winter stew it will be, rot or not—the pot is for rats, and they’ll like you hot.”
“This rhyming must end, for I must go—his name is Matt, and I never liked him anyway.”
With one last breath, the body exhaled, deflating into death, its soul rising or falling with it, depending on a life lived. “A voyage we will all take one day,” said the priest.
Timothy French 