Day 6-7

Still Day 6… Today was April 1st. April Fool’s Day. What a supreme joke. Are the gods laughing?

Day 7 --6 am


As I was falling asleep last night, I realized it was the 1st of April. And following on that thought as sleep overtook me was that March had come in like a lion with a blizzard. It was supposed to depart as a lamb. Bombs, the ending of the world as we knew it aside, I suppose it did. March left us, not with another bang, but with something of a whimper, as the lambs amble docile off to slaughter.

So we have two new members. In telling their stories, and, since I have been given the role of journalist in our little band of merry men, our ragtag tribe of survivors, our new nuclear clan, I have decided that today I will hand off this notebook to my fellow members, asking them to share as much or as little of their ‘story’ as they are comfortable with, and with the understanding that they write, not that they be judged, shriven or raised up by past accomplishment, but so they have an accounting of their ‘before,’ so there is a written history, as we go onward into our tomorrow.

I am eager to see what is written: in each of us there is that tally mark, that bar by which we judge ourselves. I would ask they examine what has been lost and that which we may find. I would hope they tell of achievements and past glories as well as that thing they hold, still, most dear. What and who we were will have a bearing on what and who we become. In a sense the slate has been wiped, if not clean, then such that more or a different ‘I’ can be created. What will our futures hold? What is to become of us and what shall we become?


Lilac’s Story

I am Mrs. Frederick Thornton. I am Lilac Thornton. I lost my husband and now I am alone for the first time that I can really remember as he and I were together for all of our lives, having met while we were still being carried in our mother’s arms during the Great Depression. I am alone in this tiny room full of people.

I am grieving. I miss him. He is, was, my greater half, my joy, my companion, my feeder of birds, my star at the top of the tree every year. He was a good man. But he would never have survived this end to all we held dear. Aside from his not having his medicine, he would not have survived and I can say this with all my love. He didn’t like change, ever. He was a private man and this new world will not be a private one. I do not think he would have wanted to write anything in this journal.

So, now I am Lilac. An old woman. I have few skills to rebuild a world, and little strength with which to do it. Would that Freddy and I had died peacefully before this happened.
I remember Pearl Harbor and we thought nothing, absolutely nothing could be more terrible. I remember Freddy leaving for that war and coming home to me a changed man, a damaged man who screamed in his sleep for years, crying for someone to stop the noise and the pain and who would curl in my arms such as a child. I remember the day Kennedy was shot and thinking that the world was becoming a place I didn’t know.
I remember 9-11 and thinking that Pearl Harbor was nothing. I lost both my sons that day.

Maybe I am a bitter old woman, useful only in that I help Martha put together what we call meals now. I do not so much help as get in the way, I suspect, but I cannot sit and do nothing. I have been called wise, due to the fact that I have lived a great number of years. My wisdom will not be of much use now. We will need a new wisdom to survive.

~~~~~~~~

I’m Trevor. I’m 9; I only have 9 years worth of story. Lilac is wrong. We need her. She is the only grandmother I have now. I think everyone needs a grandmother.

It is hard to think that everything is gone. No more computers. My online friends. I wonder if the end of the world is like it is in my RPG games. Will there be mutants from the radiation? Will we all have guns? Mom used to worry about me. She used to get mad if I was late coming home from school. Now it is vacation, I guess. For a long time.
I bet mom will have a lot of other stuff to worry about now. There is a library upstairs. I’ve never seen a library in a house before, but it is cool and there are tons of books up there.

This is like writing an email.


I got to help with the Geiger counter. That was way cool. Mom is really smart. Dad is too. I guess I am lucky. I still have both my mom and dad. They aren’t even divorced or anything. I got good grades in school and my best friend is Jimmy Fields. He’s already 10. We do everything toget I don’t want to write anymore.

~~~~~
I am Martha Prescott. We will never sell this house now and move to our condo in Florida, if there even is a Florida. I didn’t want to spend another winter here. Now this ‘castle’ as everyone calls it may become my tomb. I don’t like this. I want to go to Florida. I want to go to the hairdresser. I want a decent cup of tea. I am not strong, like Lilac is, like the others are. I wonder when Marshal Fields will be open again?
~~~~~~

Duncan McAllister here… Well, this is a fine muck we’ve gotten ourselves into. Little pockets of humanity scattered about like trash tossed out a window. None of the creature comforts we cocoon ourselves with are left to comfort the remaining few. It is sheer luck I am here in the castle. I should have been in Boston. I was so angry that my trip had been delayed. I was so frustrated with American…ah well, all that is behind us now. I have Danny, thank god. We are supposed to be able to write what we think in here. Something of a naïve idea on the part of Samantha, Sammy, Sam, our resident journalist, the chronicler of the new age we find ourselves rudely thrust into. She means well and I think she believes it, but I somehow think the others would take advantage of any information good or bad. I am, I would suppose, the resident cynic. I am here because I need to be here for now, but I will be equally glad when it is time for me to move on. I cannot see myself as a long term part of this clump of humanity. For the most part they are a decent bunch of folk, but well, probably just as well not to tip my hand. I have never been that good of a poker player.

I grew up in the highlands of Scotland, a stones throw from Stonehaven on the eastern shore. At least that is what my bio says. I am single by choice, a wanderer by inclination and a collector of memories, stories, lies and desires. Most writers are so that isn’t anything new or different. I expect our Sammy is too. She, dare I write this or will it be taken out of context? Is perhaps the most intriguing person here. The problem in creating characters as a way of life can often become one of reality…Somewhat paradoxical, I’ll admit. But too often I am disappointed in the characters that I meet, the living, breathing, bleeding ones which should, by my estimation, be far more real, have more depth and be more alive. But, alas, that is often not the case. I would never write this scenario and include folk such as these…or would I?

What will I miss? MY computer, coffee, smokes, (expecting we will soon run out and the idea of 3 of us confined here all going through force-fed quitting at the same time is daunting to say the least!), picking wild blackberries, convenience of travel which brings up the wonder if I will ever get home again? Enough

~~~~~

I am Elaine Bridges. I am the Senator from Vermont who was getting ready to run for my second term. My life is scheduled to the second 24/7. This is the most free time I have had in 5 years. A virtual prisoner of this war and I am freer than I have been in a very long time. I am also a part time mother. My children spend more time with sitters or their father than they do with me. They were all in northern NJ for Easter. They were so close to NYC that I only pray they went fast and that they were all together. In this I failed them as I have failed every other aspect of being a mother. If I can be nothing else, if I must be nothing else, I will be honest. No more game playing, saying the politically correct drivel. I was a terrible wife and a terrible mother. May they all forgive me. Sam keeps talking about this ‘new reality’ and perhaps, in this new reality I will be what I am without the preconceived notions of parental influence driving me up against a brick wall of all I am not, nor ever wanted to be. I do not think I can really say that I will miss very much about the old world and that I think I have much to add to this new one.

~~~~~
Cyndy White. Wife of Brad, mother (!) to Trevor and a student of science. I collect (as Brad would say) degrees and that, the being the perennial student, is what I expect I will miss the most. I have a string of letters behind my name and up until a few days ago, I was inordinately proud of them. Now I am more proud that Trev and I got the Geiger counter to work. I am so very lucky to have them both here, with me, alive and still a family. I think the 3 of us will make it. On our own, or as part of this or, perhaps, another group, I am sure of it. We have what we need to build this brave new world.
~~~~~

Bradley A. White, M.D Neuro-cardiologist. I can tell you about any and all of the nerves involved with the successful beating of the human heart. I am happiest when in surgery or involved in my research on parasypathomametic nerve impulses as they relate to stress induced transblocking and abnormal tachycardia. Funny how highbrow, pretentious and pointless it sounds now. But I lived and breathed it. Cyndy is involved with sympathetic nerve impulses as well. How pathetic. Sympathetic impulses, the nerves which keep a heart beating are more to my wife and me than our marriage. We mean well, but, maybe now things can change. I am stirring up a hornet’s nest here. But it is my hope, my dream for what ever future we may have is to take this second chance to be the family we have the potential to be. Perhaps I can be that country doctor I used to dream about before it got lost in academia, pecking orders and jaguars. Oh for the 76 Pinto that did not have an electronic ignition. I expect vintage cars will be worth more now and for a different reason than they ever were. Perspectives. April Fool’s Day. The joke was on us!

~~~~

I’m Brittany. I do have a last name but I rarely have used it. Well, to sign my credit card. But 90% of the time, I’ve been BrittanyLanie’sassistant. (All one word, all one breath) and not Brittany Miller. I haven’t taken a memo in a week. Sammy said I was a walking-talking palm pilot. How unkind. How true. I must forgive that. I actually do have a brain as well as a personality. Lanie’s been kinder of late. She’s been nicer, less antagonistic. Pleasant actually. Nice. My boyfriend. Was in DC. He’ll never get to write that great American expose now, if he’s even still alive, which I doubt. I cried so much my first night here. But now, looking back, I am not sure what or why I was crying about. I didn’t love him. He was a very nice habit. A very expensive habit, but nice to have around and have on my arm. I had a problem then. A very large million dollar problem. I have in my possession one totally worthless piece of paper that a week ago was worth 76 million dollars, give or take a million or so for taxes. Maybe that’s what I was crying about.

~~~~~~


John Prescott. I am very sorry, Samantha, but I don’t want to play this game. We have issues to deal with and your little journal is the least important thing in the scheme of things at the moment.

~~~~~
I am Danny, a golden retriever. In human years, I am a little older than 5 years old. I am well trained and can shake my paw, roll over, sit, lie down and what ever else might be on your list of tricks. I am house broken. I don’t understand why everyone is acting so scared. The scent of fear in here is nauseating. I want to go Out and run. I need to roll in the grass and smell something, anything other than these humans. Of the new ones in the litter, I like Sam the best. She knows right where to scratch my ear and seems to know what I am thinking. She shares her food. She’s a bit of alright as humans go. She doesn’t smell afraid. (hope no one minds this addition but Danny IS part of us!)



8:30pm

Busy day. Just got my journal back and now I can get caught up on everything else. No I can’t either. Time to eat. Menu tonight: The last of the boiled roast, beans (Oh joy), pear slices, and pool-aid. Yes, Kool-aid made with not enough sugar and pool water.

Thus ends Day 7...our first week.

Day 7-8  (18+) In which history is mulled over, crocuses bloom and the walls thicken. #954151 by fyn