The shop’s bell rang as Lilith entered, high on thoughts of exacting justice.
Ancora was accomplished, a bibliopole with access to ancient texts. Her services came with risks, but she’d track down an early edition of “Spells and Curses.”
Abigail’s students gathered along the escarpment edge.
“I can see my home,” one student said pointing.
“Everything below, including your home, was once at the bottom of a great inland sea,” Abigail replied. “This outcropping was one point along a thalassic shoreline, nine times longer than today’s remnant lakes combined.
Doris lay in the dark. Something had jolted her from slumber. Its source, elusive in that waking haze. The pungent smell of booze was strong enough to induce drunkenness. There again, the squeaky hinge she’d asked Artie to oil.
A bolt of electricity radiated outwards to the tip of each tiny hair standing on end. Carter was asleep down there! She prodded Artie but the oaf might as well be dead. She bounded downstairs grabbing the kitchen broom en route.
Pushing through the door she was greeted by Carter half outside, her ass up, legs dangling from the ceiling-level window.
A sky of geese falls
In cacophonous ripples
Still waters shattered
The YouTube video by 50 Duck in a Hot Tub is a replay of a 2 hour long live stream from 2018. I don’t recommend watching the entire video unless you have a lot of time on your hands but the first five minutes fit with my post and is amazing to see wave after wave of these Canada Geese land on the water.
The following is in response to Fandango’s Story Starter #71. The idea came after reading an article that appeared in The Guardian titled ‘These are conditions ripe for political violence’: how close is the US to civil war?‘ It paints a terrifying future for America should it continue down the path it is currently on. More alarming is the fact that a second civil war may be inevitable. The fictional story posted below depicts how such a conflict may start.
Content Warning: The work contains violence and explores extremist political ideology. It is a piece of fiction and does not reflect the views of the author.
Craig sat in the garage looking at the box on the table. A collection of memorabilia from the 2016 presidential campaign. He wasn’t political by nature but belonged to that segment of white America swept up in a populous wave of enthusiasm. Clinging to a promise of the coming storm that would cleanse an America on life support.
He was a slice of middle America. Born and raised in the heart of the rust belt where he had managed to build a respectable blue-collar life. It had not always been like this. He had made some bad choices in his youth. A penchant for drunken violence and prison time for a string of robberies he committed had left his life in tatters. After serving his time he met Sarah. She was his saviour along with his parole officer who put him on to the job opportunity at the engine factory. Together they helped turn his life around.
The auto industry was once the backbone of this country and would help him fashion a life for his family here. Sure, the Koreans, Japanese, and Germans had up their game while the Big 3 wallowed in their own fat and complacency. With sales dropping like a stone and consumers apathetic to lagging quality or seeking more energy efficient foreign models it was clear the halcyon days of the Motor City were over.
The time had come to make his mark. America was faltering and he was part of the solution. Craig had to choose a path, but given his history of making poor decisions, he cast his vote for Donald Trump. Besides he couldn’t let the cold and heartless Clinton become president.
Back in his garage he looked at the box, his MAGA hat covered in dust, the promises to ‘Make America Great Again.’ cut short by an election the establishment stole. Not that his 2020 vote was tampered with, he didn’t even bother to cast one. His layoff from the plant was at 21 months and beginning to look permanent although he didn’t know it. Who had time to vote when it was hard enough to put food on the table? The election may have been stolen, but not from him.
After Trump’s defeat Craig would take a trip to the capitol to protest. His life would drift for the next couple of years while he bounced from job to dead-end job. His wife worked hard to keep the family together, shielding the children from their father as he slipped further and further to the right of centered. Alcoholic haze, conspiracy theories, and other crazy ideas filling his free time. It was time for a new revolution, he would call it America’s reckoning.
As he sat at a window overlooking the park anger swelled inside, incited by a series of algorithms that he had read a paragraph or two about online but that he’d lumped in with the other fake news because he really didn’t understand it. It sounded more like a Russian or Chinese plot than something an American tech company would do.
He watched the motorcade pull up to the gathering on the grassy hill. The President of the United States stepped from the vehicle and into the crosshairs as his finger moved for the trigger…
His rule began with the knowledge that he could never live up to his mother’s reign.
Ricky and Calvin had smashed a Baconator and Spicy Chicken respectively.
“There is something magical that happens when you dunk a salty French fry into a Wendy’s chocolate Frosty,” Calvin said as he dropped the ice cream laden potato onto his tongue.
“Bloody hell! That is disgusting, I’m going to hurl. What’s wrong with you?”
“Come on bro, salty and sweet united, it’s a match made in heaven, dude!”
“More like hell, everyone knows you gotta use vanilla!!!”
There is no harmony
for us on the outside.
Only brief glimpses of that
which lies behind the wall.
It is us on the outside
who are in prison.
The soles of our feet
worn raw from toil.
We are the hungry,
The sick and the dying.
The ones kept in darkness.
behind this skyward barrier
Where endless excess
is left to rot away,
before a single grain
ever slip beyond.
Those who attempt escape
share the same fate.
It may seem merciful,
but they never return.
FREEDOM,
beyond the evergreen door,
is in the fleeting moments
before the bitter taste of
gunpowder fills the acrid air.
Ellie sat shaking in the corner. She’d drawn a facsimile of the tattoo on her hemp fiber apron. All the other baristas could find for her was a Sharpie but no paper. Across the now-empty cafe, she could see the paramedics frantically working to save a man’s life. He was laying in a pool of his own blood. A police officer stepped around the commotion to approach her table.
“May I have a seat?” She asked as she pulled the chair out.
Ellie nodded approval to the officer who was already halfway seated. “Is he going to be okay?” her voice weak and distressed as she spoke.
The officer didn’t respond. Cynthia, Ellie’s manager delivered a pumpkin spice latte, setting it next to the canvas drawing and taking Ellie’s hand in hers. The officer looked annoyed but could see Ellie calm a bit with Cynthia’s presence.
“I know this is difficult but could you tell me what you saw? Include every detail no matter how insignificant it seems. It could be important.”
Ellie started, “I was behind the counter when I heard the roar of the pipes. I looked up to see a man dressed in denim and leather pull up on a Harley. He parked in that first spot over there. When he came to the counter his arms were covered in tattoos but I can only remember the one.”
“Can you describe it?”
Ellie pointed to the canvas apron. “I remember reading it to myself as he ordered a pumpkin spice latte.”
“This is the tattoo?”
“Best I can remember it.”
“Did you take a name for the order?”
“I didn’t take his order Sam did, but his name was Dale. I remember calling it out when I finished making his order. He had ordered it in a ceramic cup and I thanked him for choosing the reusable option. He commented on my foam pumpkin’s evil grin and then in a cute but patronizing way told me I should have been an artist. I noticed a patch on his jacket that said ‘CUTTER’ as I smiled back at him.”
“What did he do after he got his coffee?”
“He took the latte,” she replied as if calling it coffee was an affront to anyone’s better senses, “…and went over to that table.” She gestured towards the far wall. I didn’t pay much attention after that but I assume he sat and had a few sips. It was maybe ten minutes, I made a couple more orders, and then Cynthia asked me to wipe down the tables.” Cynthia and Ellie’s eyes met for a moment and then she continued, “The next thing, I hear a loud commotion behind me. I spun and looked to see a table and chair fly across the store towards me. I jumped out of the way as he grabbed the person sitting on the bench. I remember the man cowering as he wailed on him. He was screaming something at him.”
“What was he saying?”
“I don’t know, I can remember, it’s all muffled in my head. I just remember the horrified look on the other guy’s face.” her lip quivered as a tear rolled down her cheek.
“Did he have any weapons?”
“Not that I saw but with all that blood, maybe? He picked him up, threw him to the ground, and began kicking and stomping on him. Finally, he spits on the man, and then like a switch being turned off he runs his fingers through his long unkempt hair and calmly walked back over to his latte. When he was done he tossed the mug in front of the man laying on the floor. He left the store as it shattered into hundreds of pieces that skidded across the brown tiles and into the heap. The roar of his bike echoed in the background as he rode off.”
“Anything else that stuck out?”
“Yeah,” her voice tailing off as she cocked her head, eyes glazed as though she was staring right through the officer, “I was struck by the juxtaposition between the violence and his order. Pumpkin spice just didn’t seem appropriate.”
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Image was captured in October 2022, Snyder’s Flats Conservation Area, Woolwich, Ontario.
Equipment: Canon EOS 60D, EF-S 18-135mm f/3.5-5.6.8 IS.
Settings: 106mm | 1/160 sec. at ƒ/5.6 | ISO100.
Additional processing via Adobe Lightroom/Photoshop.
Copyright 2022 Greg Glazebrook @ GMG Photography, All Rights Reserved.
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