It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel
that it’s time to post somore entries into the First Annual Peggy Dobb’s Write-of-Passage contest. If you are new to the site, you can get a little background and enter our contest by checking this out:
Last entries will be accepted on Thanksgiving. However, as you read Monica Brinkman’s entry, you might swear it’s too late.
Monica has been a fan and supporter of A Word with You Press from the beginning, and in addition to having exceptional taste in her choice of literary websites, she is also the hostess of It Matters Radio. Do check her out and ask her to friend you on Facebook. You just might end up on the air which is like being in cyberspace but with benefits. Here is her latest missive to moi.
by Monica Brinkman
The man moved the thick dense emerald green drapes to one side and peered out the rain-covered window. He could hear howling wind as each new drop of water crashed against the unforgiving glass pane. The view before him caused great anxiety and heartfelt grief. For the first time in his life, he had no answers. As his eyes scanned the street below, a knot formed in his throat and his eyes moistened. He stepped back, allowing the drape to fall back into place and wiped the wetness from his eyes. His body lurched forward from the force of the bullets littering his chest. The once loved President, lay in a pile on the cold tiled floor, eyes open wide and gasped his last breath.
Jennifer pulled the blanket tighter around the body of her three-month-old daughter in an attempt to shield her from the steady rounds of gunshot coming from every direction. They were enduring and consistent, rather like bursts of firecrackers hitting their mark as bodies fell helpless to the ground. Confused, disoriented she ran into the nearest shop only to be faced with greater threat as she watched several people being stabbed and chopped with shiny daggers so sharp they glistened in the stores incandescent light. Turning back to the street, she felt a sharp pain across the back of her neck and fell to her knees. Jennifer could see the blood dripping down her body, soaking into the pink and blue flowered sleeveless dress, turning it crimson. She instinctively knelt and covered her daughter with her body, unaware the child had taken her last breath long ago when a stray bullet struck her head. Mother and baby became just another fallen victim to the madness that controlled the earth.
Bobby Jones thought back to only two days prior when life was normal, a time before people became consumed with hate so powerful it took over their minds and their senses. He wondered how it had all begun. There were no hints of the devastation to come. Not really, unless you considered the occasional brief media story on radical/hate groups which popped up every so often. How was anyone to know the danger they presented would grow to this level? He just couldn’t wrap his mind around this newfound existence of surrealism. It amazed and baffled him that they had grown in such large number. From what he could figure, a faction of the far right had merged with the Survivalists, Skinheads and other Anti-Semitic organizations, slowly infiltrating the government, the corporations, the military and attracting a large amount of people who were disillusioned with their country’s policies. It was unfathomable they would ever take over the world, yet this is exactly what they were doing.
He didn’t know how much longer he would be able to survive. He had a stockpile of water and canned goods that might last a few months, except food and water were useless if they found his hiding spot. Just yesterday, he’d seen a bunch of these heathens pull the Walters family out of their underground shelter and riddle them with automatic gunfire. He waited until they had dispersed and ran like hell to the shelter he had built deep within the woods; a place he expected would now become home. Getting down on one knee, he raised his arms, placed his hands together and prayed.
Mike and Larry watched and waited for they knew timing must be precise. There was already too much bloodshed of innocent people and they didn’t want to add to the casualties. It was ‘us against them’ and nobody was going to change this present threat of danger unless people stopped their fear and used their intelligence. Unbeknownst to these killers, a huge part of the population was bonding. They quickly and out of necessity formed their own radical group, aptly referred to as The New Hope. When the powerful became the enemy, a manta was born which The New Hope repeated in time of stress. “I swear, it’s not too late” took the place of prayer and was used to identify their comrades.
As Larry felt the last bit of life ebb from his capture, he realized they could and would win this battle. He nodded at Mike who now held a young rebel female and watched as he pierced her heart and slit her throat. This act, which once would have brought him outrage and shock, now gave him pleasure and anticipation that they would succeed. He envisioned a better world where greed was intolerable and replaced with love, peace and harmony. A smile filled his face as he wiped fresh blood from the knife’s blade against his jeans and headed forward to overcome the next unsuspecting rebel.
Monica M. Brinkman, 2014