The world is spiraling out of control and one man is caught in the spin, swirling around and down into the eternally violent maelstrom.
His job was outmoded and downsized out of existence. His house destroyed in a bomb blast.
Now his only remaining joy, the love and attentions of the fairer sex, has taken a hard left down a dark terrifying alley dropping him at a dead end. There was always that standing invitation to join the brotherhood of clandestine monks, but he feels far too ravaged by debauchery, wholly experienced of at least six of the seven deadly sins.
If only he hadn't walked out of that flaming tower…
Excerpt:
Cruel steel birds come shrieking through the sky. An explosion comes to breakfast and rocks the Empire state.
The sky comes crashing down.
Humankind thrown into the war and losing fast, wet shorts and shaky legs, gentle weeping. Earth grumbling, wind screeching, howling, whipping up a real twirler, no gliding today. In a zip everything is going everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Screams, Oaths, Promises, Threats, Bone-Dead-Fear.
Day becomes Night, a bone-chilling turnaround. The populace has been transported onto a Hollywood set. Blood-throttled screams fill the air. Glass explodes and scatters from the heights. Smoke fills the shallow breathing lungs and burns the horrified eyes. A shirt floats down and through the smoldering sky, a ghost weaving and dancing; panic overtakes all. Running, running, running for life. All move as in a dream, as if drugged.
People push, shove and trample each other in attempted escape, but there is none possible, not from this enemy within. A grey man dives headfirst from the north tower, crashes to the ground in a smoldering heap. Frantic for air many fall down long flights of stairs to remain where they land. People scuttling scared, primal terror in the eyes, handkerchiefs held tight to faces. The air is thick soot. A man sits on the curb coughing blood.
Bodies fall from a thousand feet up, drop like iron balloons. A vendor pushing his cart crashdance crumples to the ground, heart attack. Dogs scurry underfoot, tripping some, jumping into the arms of others. A woman drops to her knees to help the vendor but it is too late. Cars crash into the nearest obstacles. A bus overturns crushing two rumpled people as they take shelter beside trashcans.
The world is not Kansas anymore.
Air an asphyxiation of smoke and ash and the salt iron taste of blood. Ragged folks appear everywhere. Some the always homeless, some the newly homeless, most the lost and confused.
BOOOM!!! BOOOM!!! AAAAGGGHHH!!!
In the wasteland a child’s doll lay twisted and burnt. Hot grief is palpable. Stern questions shouted to the ghosts of darkness; Why? How? Why?
Shutters click savagely. Always the story, the story, the infinite bowing and worshipping, sacrificing all to the preeminent divine rights of the story. The preeminent power in this modern day hellhole of a universe. Cameramen stand steps away from human suffering. But always the sacred story comes first:
"…and I watched her die right before my eyes, her skin turning an unspeakable shade of green…"
Schmedlap races for cover under a collapsed wall. Under the odd angled lean-to shelter he takes a moment of breath. From where he sits it seems everything has been obliterated, wiped out, and again unwarranted and unwarned. They had said this type of thing could not happen to sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, the old and young alike. And now these mistakes are being calculated in lost lives and severed limbs. Negotiation is not possible with an enemy that does not fear death. The impotent, ivory tower donkeys believe intrusion and diplomacy satisfy all. An illusion they peddle relentlessly while mismanaging our blood wages.
The stakes in this game are too high for such ludicrous assumptions. The death toll rises as desperate reports are broadcast. Dread of the next abomination keeps a poisonous chill in the air.
