Status: This is actually more of a side project. The "real thing" is Dark Side of a Full Moon, but I do admit that I'm starting to like this story a tad more. Sorry for being so slow at posting new chapters, but school and field hockey just started again.
Woman of Earth
fear and panic in the air.
"Where did Dadda go?" Joey asks. He stands on a wooden kitchen chair. I know the routine. Mama, look at me! I'm all big like sissy! he would say. And Mama would pick him up and plant a huge wet kiss on his cheek and say, Of course you're as big as sissy! But not today. Today Mama is busy bringing supplies into the basement. Yesterday she boarded up all the windows.
Two days ago Dad and Pappy left to fight. Tomorrow I will be leaving.
I pick up Joey under his arms and gently place him on the floor. He feels too thin. It worries me. I tell him to go in the garage and bring in some more cardboard boxes. He scampers off, eager to do something, eager to please Mama and I. He knows what we're doing is important. He doesn't know why, but he knows. He thinks anything Mama or Dad or I do is important.
Mama lights another candle. The kitchen is pitch black without the sunlight coming through the windows, darkened as it is from the dust kicked up outside. I start slicing peaches and putting the bits in a glass jar. I twist on the lid, but my hands are slippery from peach juice. The jar slips out of my hards and crashes on the floor. I bend over and put the shards of glass in a pile. My hands are shaking.
"What happened?" Mama says.
I can't look her in the eye. "I-it slipped, a-and fell . I'm so sorry, Mama." I realize I'm crying. Peaches are Mama's favorite and this was the only jar of them.
She crouches to my level near the ground and hugs me. She smells like rosemary. "It's ok, baby, it's ok," she whispers into my hair. She kisses the top of my head. "It's only peaches." I laugh and choke on the tears building in my throat.
"Yeah, it's only peaches," I admit, feeling slightly silly. I blame it on nerves at their breaking point.
"Try to clean up the glass, hon. I'll get you a bag." She leaves to find a plastic bag just as Joey is walking in from the garage with a few boxes in his arms. He dumps them on the table. I stand with my load of glass pieces and carefully wrap them excessively in paper towels. I silently pride myself on not slicing my hands open. I put the bundle on the counter.
There is a loud crack and the boarded window bursts inward. Wood splinters fly across the table. I see Joey fall the with a look of confusion on his face. Out of the corner of my eye, Mama enters the kitchen and sees the scene before her, her eyes full of horror. Joey is dead before he hits the floor. The enormous bullet passes straight through his chest and into my abdomen. I taste blood, but I'm not sure who's it is.
The projectile threw me against the wall. My head cracks sickeningly against the drywall and lumps of white plaster fall on me. "Mama," I cry out feebly, but she has eyes only for Joey's crumpled body on the linoleum. Black spots fill my vision before completely taking over.
Stragglers. There used to be more. The fortunate -- or unfortunate -- ones that survived. Like me. I am a straggler. I haven't seen another person in a long time. Which is good. More people mean the Machines have an easier time finding you and eliminating you.
Alone is a good thing, I remind myself. So, so alone.
I wake up to another day of walking and remembering ghosts. Mirages of people I once knew float above the ocean of rust and and smoke, fire and metal. Sometimes I like to chat with them. Other times I just walk right past them. I usually at least have the manners to say hello.
Two days ago Dad and Pappy left to fight. Tomorrow I will be leaving.
I pick up Joey under his arms and gently place him on the floor. He feels too thin. It worries me. I tell him to go in the garage and bring in some more cardboard boxes. He scampers off, eager to do something, eager to please Mama and I. He knows what we're doing is important. He doesn't know why, but he knows. He thinks anything Mama or Dad or I do is important.
Mama lights another candle. The kitchen is pitch black without the sunlight coming through the windows, darkened as it is from the dust kicked up outside. I start slicing peaches and putting the bits in a glass jar. I twist on the lid, but my hands are slippery from peach juice. The jar slips out of my hards and crashes on the floor. I bend over and put the shards of glass in a pile. My hands are shaking.
"What happened?" Mama says.
I can't look her in the eye. "I-it slipped, a-and fell . I'm so sorry, Mama." I realize I'm crying. Peaches are Mama's favorite and this was the only jar of them.
She crouches to my level near the ground and hugs me. She smells like rosemary. "It's ok, baby, it's ok," she whispers into my hair. She kisses the top of my head. "It's only peaches." I laugh and choke on the tears building in my throat.
"Yeah, it's only peaches," I admit, feeling slightly silly. I blame it on nerves at their breaking point.
"Try to clean up the glass, hon. I'll get you a bag." She leaves to find a plastic bag just as Joey is walking in from the garage with a few boxes in his arms. He dumps them on the table. I stand with my load of glass pieces and carefully wrap them excessively in paper towels. I silently pride myself on not slicing my hands open. I put the bundle on the counter.
There is a loud crack and the boarded window bursts inward. Wood splinters fly across the table. I see Joey fall the with a look of confusion on his face. Out of the corner of my eye, Mama enters the kitchen and sees the scene before her, her eyes full of horror. Joey is dead before he hits the floor. The enormous bullet passes straight through his chest and into my abdomen. I taste blood, but I'm not sure who's it is.
The projectile threw me against the wall. My head cracks sickeningly against the drywall and lumps of white plaster fall on me. "Mama," I cry out feebly, but she has eyes only for Joey's crumpled body on the linoleum. Black spots fill my vision before completely taking over.
Stragglers. There used to be more. The fortunate -- or unfortunate -- ones that survived. Like me. I am a straggler. I haven't seen another person in a long time. Which is good. More people mean the Machines have an easier time finding you and eliminating you.
Alone is a good thing, I remind myself. So, so alone.
I wake up to another day of walking and remembering ghosts. Mirages of people I once knew float above the ocean of rust and and smoke, fire and metal. Sometimes I like to chat with them. Other times I just walk right past them. I usually at least have the manners to say hello.