Thursday February 23rd, 2012

The exercise:

The theme for today: after the disaster.

More gorgeous sunshine today. So, of course, they're calling for snow tomorrow.

Mine:

The day after the world ended the sun appeared over the horizon as though nothing had changed. Just business as usual. Get up. Eat. Go to work. Act as though it's all okay.

But everything was most definitely not okay.

The sun illuminated not bumper to bumper traffic but empty, silent streets. Instead of reflecting off the windows of majestic skyscrapers, it was absorbed by ruins, debris, destruction.

Our favorite star shed no tears at this sight. It merely continued on its westward journey, out beyond the city limits. To the burning forests and blackened farmland.

There was no curiosity. No fear. No anger.

Just a certainty that, once enough time had passed, humans would return. Evolve. Conquer.

And that in the end, nothing would change.

6 comments:

Cathryn Leigh said...

@Marc - sometimes that seems soo true.. Ever read A Canticle for Lebowitz?

Technically this could be a continuation of my response to the sabatoge prompt. *snickers* You ned to keep reading Phoenix Rising Eloo. *grin*

After the Disaster

Two men surveyed the broken damn. The Hunting Lake no longer existed. In one fell swoop it had been turned back into a river. And it stank of dead fish and rotting logs. one man coughed.

"We'll have to rebuild it," the miller stated quietly, his eyes turning from the lake to the burnt mill house.

"What's the point of doing so now?" his friend queried, he too turning to the ruins.

"Well we cna't stay with you forever, though I'm gratefull we made the trip."

"Still, war's a foot and we won't likely get half done before we're called to service."

The miller nodded. "Aye." He turned form the building his fist clenching. "Azure will pay for what they've done at last!"

Greg said...

@Cathryn: wow, there's some intense feeling in that little story snippet! I'm with your miller!

@Marc: I think that describing things from the sun's perspective lends a really bleak voice to your piece. And my money's on the cockroaches rather than the humans :-/

After the disaster
"Holy crap," said Dave. "Now we're screwed."
"We won," said Vince, in a slow voice like the one Dave usually reserved for talking to him. "How can we be screwed?"
"Because we won," said Dave, his voice sounding hollow and his eyes wide. "You put all that money on the one-armed man to win at Snap, and he did. There's no way anyone's going to believe we didn't know what was going to happen."
"Right?" Vince was still talking slowly.
"So," said Dave, pointing across the room. "That's Old Mother Hubbard, with her tooled-up boys; that's Big Elise with her tooled up boys, and that's Preacher Paul, who doesn't have any tooled-up boys with him but was betting the congregation plate and believes in righteous smiting. They were all betting elsewhere. This is a complete disaster, Vince. How the hell does a one-armed man win at Snap anyway?"
He looked round – while he'd been pointing, Vince had disappeared. Then he caught sight of him, at the ticket window, collecting their winnings. With everyone in the room watching him.

Iron Bess said...

After The Disaster

Asana looked around the living room at her three children draped across and over furniture watching their favourite show on the TV. How could life be so, normal, so ordinary? Couldn't they see what was going on around them? Didn't they see the crisis?

"Hey," Jack said to her as he walked in the front door giving her a peck on the cheek. "What time is dinner?"

"Are you shittin me?" she said looking and feeling dumbfounded. "What time is dinner you ask, when all this," she waved her arms around, "is going on."

Jack gave her a strange look and glanced around. "All of what?" he asked grabbing an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table before heading into the living room.

"Watch were you step dad the cat broke a vase and there may still be some glass hidden in the carpet." Joey said.

Krystin Scott said...

My husband says this is too depressing and that poems don't talk about death and politics, but your getting it anyhow....

The missile whistled as it sailed through the air,
Some men screamed, while others knelt in prayer.
The impact dealt a most unexpected blow,
And killed both loving friend and hated foe.
Now in unnatural dark the ash falls,
On the empty streets with broken walls.
Those that remain are shot on sight,
Causing some to hide, while others take flight.
Distant buildings are set alight by flame,
Governments wait and wonder who’s to blame.

Grondzilla said...

Bertrand sat with a despondent air that hung over him like a cloud.

His eyes went to the table still covered with food and drinks and the scatter of confetti and streamers that lay across the dividing walls that concealed that not-too-distant cubicles.

The karaoke machine blinked at him forlornly, never having been put to use, and the flat screen TV with the game console arranged neatly in front of it mocked him.

Who would have thought that one little monkey would cause so much mayhem? He'd been convinced that renting the little fellow, assured that it was comfortable with people and used to 'picking up peoples spirits', was going to be the crowning touch of his organizational coupe.

The party had been an unmitigated disaster and although there hadn't been a stampede to the door, the exit had been precipitous.

Bertrand let his eyes sweep once more across the disaster area until they lit on the small figure prone on the top of a filing cabinet. The little simian was idly rolling a champagne bottle around in its lap. It seemed to notice Bertrand's glance and let out a hearty belch.

Bertrand hung his head.

Marc said...

Cathryn - I have not. But now you've got me curious.

I'm with Greg, I quite like this miller.

Greg - looks like Dave and Vince will need to make a hasty escape with the cash :)

Iron Bess - disaster, also in the eye of the beholder :)

Krystin - poems can talk about everything and anything, as far as I'm concerned.

There's a lot of emotion and imagery packed into your poem. Nicely done.

GZ - ah, monkeys. Always entertaining, but never to be trusted.