Blessed be our Mary

Blessed be our Mary.

I was very saddened by the lost of our Mary, disheartened; she was a destined to be a saint of our struggle.  She had come to us as a mere child; borne during the early years of the war knowing nothing else but the whine of the bullet and the thump of the mortar.

 

I was fighting with the seventh group South Jihad; our warriors had some limited experience but none with more than a month on the front and none with a know victory.  It was early May and we all felt as though the war was beginning to turn our way, having a selected few victories was a heady experience for untrained troops.  We’d over run the airport and were closing in on the States Military Academy.  Twenty casualties were high for a group of only seventy soldiers but we kept our fear to ourselves and prayed that we might fight on for months to come.  The opposing soldiers of the State Government had much better weapons and air assents that stopped our attacks before they even began, much short of goals wished accomplish.  Our leaders pushed us on, but you can’t move forward when every time one looks up to shoot; a sniper cuts them down in their place.  The States tanks were just a nuisance; we snuck up on them with RPG’s and blew them up one by one.  We rallied and shouted praise to God every time we blew up one of the Russian tanks.  The snipers were the worst, we’d move forward without challenge and then man after man would die at the hands of the snipers.  Progress was at a snail’s pace if you wanted to live.

Mary came to us February 1st 2013 as a small crying defenseless bloodied child; her mother had been the victim of one of the snipers, shot through the chest but still holding her child to her bosom.  Two of our Soldiers risked it all to grab the child from her dead mother.  Mary was covered with dust, bleeding from numerous nicks and cuts she sustained from the bombardment.  Our Medic Joseph fixed her up and wrapped her wounds.  Joseph tried in vain to keep Mary in her bunk but she would have none of it.  She was up running end to end of the medical unit talking to each and every one of our wounded comrades.    Mary’s blood still seeping filling the bandages that were wrapped on her small frame.  Over the next few days she was known though out the brigade as the sister of the wounded.  She would move from bunk to bunk giving comfort and a prayer of hope.  Dying soldiers soon began to ask for Mary’s blessings; she made her rounds twice a day and spoke to every soldier giving comfort and her blessings.

Our make shift hospital was overrun by the State on May 28^th they killed every wounded soldier in his bunk.  Mary cried for hours as we ran east away from the crushing offensive.  Mary being carried upon a running soldiers shoulder cried and pleaded that we return and save her friends from the coming death.

We tried to console her explaining that we could not save those she loved without being killed ourselves.  She cried and cried believing she could somehow save them.  She cried of lost souls unknown for each and every one of them. 

Mary soon stopped talking her anguish at losing so many close friends over whelmed her.  We all worried that she was lost to the war, her spirit being crushed by the constant killing and gravely wounded soldiers.  We tried to persuade her to talk; talking about those lost and those that had been saved by her prayers.  Mary remained silent only nodding her understanding of our efforts.

June brought much fighting in our district.  The number of killed and wounded mounted as the month came to an end.  We all spent much time worrying of our Mary.  Patrols would leave asking the blessing of Mary.  She would just look at the ground and shed a tear at her feet.  She would not wave an arm or glance at the soldiers leaving for the front.  Tears were her only sign that she recognized that another group of fighters were leaving to engage hostile forces.

At the start of summer July of 2013 news came that America was entering the war and giving weapons and supplies to the revolution.  This brought much celebration to our troops but only seemed to intensify the weeping and heart ache of Mary.  Her strength was vanishing by the day.  Sorrow was killing her slowly day by day as we watched. 

On July 4^th 2013 at squad of American Special Forces arrived in our compound.  A female soldier of the American’s embraced our Mary and after many minutes of embrace Mary showed a small but clear smile.  Our troops in attendance shouted “God is Great” “Bless Mary the caretaker of wounded”  “God is Great” A great celebration took place.

The war ended shortly after the new years.  Mary accepted an invitation to leave with the American’s her new home being in the state of Texas.  She has been accepted into a college of Texas and will study medicine and political science.

It is said she will return to our Country in the future.  She still mourns the dead and pray’s the gods the salvation of the living. 

May Mary’s blessing be upon you.

God is great, god is great, god is great……. blessed be those that wept upon our blessed Mary.

From the Ramblings

t

Icky Abe Part 2

Icky Abe Part 2 

The birth of the man named “Torcher”.

Icky Abe had just delivered his new born, a flickering of flame, so weak, so very tiny.  He blew gently, oh so gently; just a soft puff, enough to give life but not enough to cause his baby any undue stress.  His infant flame being just born, so new and in need a soft touch to grow to became stronger, growing slowly minute by minute.

Icky knew that the air held very little moisture; quite dry for this time of year.  He placed just a few dry tenders at his babies feet; not too much, not too little.  The flame was catching and with just the slightest of help it would grow into an inferno in minutes.   Maybe it would become a configuration; this being Ickys’ ultimate dream, the height of his accomplishments a ragging inferno the likes the West had never seen.   Icky had two fatal fires to his record; one being his mother Ruth Ann and later Isaac the youngest of the Newman family.  Icky had found his talent useful in removing those that had done him wrong in a flamboyant flaming way.

Icky Abe born Abram Willis Durk suffered being a rejected child; beaten by his mother, bullied by class mates, he was always a sickly skinny child.  Icky labored to scrounge the garbage cans of the small city of Bishop Creek, Washington by order of his mother Ruth Ann for scraps to feed himself and his disabled mother.  Icky discovered as a young boy being forced to be the constant companion of the town’s garbage dump the instrument of fire.  He found he was able to take a small smoky fire, regardless of its weakness or conditions and turn it into a full blown inferno in just a matter of minutes.  Wet, packed tightly, caked with mud, no wind, it didn’t matter to Icky, and he was able to nurture a spark to an inferno in the most difficult conditions.  He was a natural arsonist.   

     

Bishop Creek was just a few hours from the bustling Sea Port of Seattle.  Being a small town having just seven students in classes ranging from first grade to the eighth grade; it didn’t take long for a student to witness Abram going through the town’s trash and coined his hated name of Icky Abe.  Icky Abe burnt down the student’s house for pay back, a grand pay back of which he watched along with the people of Bishop Creek.  Being without a fire house, Bishop Creek residents watched the Newman house burn to the ground.  It was the only choice the people had.  It was very clear to anyone watching the inferno who had set the fire as Icky Abe danced, pranced and ejaculated in his pants at the excitement of the flames.  He went completely hysterical at seeing Isaac the youngest of the Newman family exit the house engulfed in flames.

Icky knowing that he’d never be allowed to live in Bishop Creek burnt down the towns Postal Office and the last standing building of his childhood on his way out of town.  With the light of the burning Bishop Creek Post Office as a back light Icky headed south, a quick wave of one middle finger riding high, Icky distanced himself from the choking smoke of his youth and declared his name to be “Torcher” a man’s name from here forward. 

Torcher’ walked miles upon miles, at a few times he was able to catch rides with tradesmen making their way south to the Port cities of Portland and Astoria.   Never minding the cold rains of fall or winter snows Torcher was able to nurse fires to life and was very much appreciated by the tradesmen that he travel with.  Being put to work with his new found friends he had plenty to eat and lost the sickly snotty child he was and filled out to be a healthy young man of sixteen.  

Working in Portland he mopped floors and cleaned up the back rooms of the working girls.  Torcher found that he had little want of flesh upon flesh; his love being that which made sparks fly and smoke fill the air.

Tiring of the thankless work and comings and goings of the girls he called family; he left Portland and headed further south.  The next big city he wanted to see was San Francisco.  He had heard much about the city from the working girls.  Most traveled the coast from Los Angeles to Seattle working in brothels along the way, then turning around and working their way back south along the coastal highways.  He had an idea that would not leave his head concerning the location of the city of San Francisco.  The tails he heard of the morning and evening winds sparked a thought in his mind that just wouldn’t rest.  A plan was forming that only he knew no one else would hear his plans.

Torcher arrived in San Francisco late in March of 1906.  Wandering the streets looking for work and a place to stay he couldn’t help but notice things that most people would dismiss as the norm.  That being the uncanny natural breeze that worked its way morning and night from the south to the north like clockwork every day without misses.  It started each day with a faint movement of air and then worked it’s self into a gusty blowing being only taking pause in mid day and then returning after a rest to blow even harder in the early evening.

 He tasted the air wet, heavy with salt from the ocean, but he found that the salt dried the wooden planks he walked on to near bone dry.  Checking the buildings sidings from the boardwalk next to the bay to the top of the high hills, he found that most buildings were tender dry boxes waiting for one with a plan and a match.

The first of April came and went with Torcher unable to find work or housing.  He began to think that the city rejected him as the people of Bishop Creek had rejected him years before.  Anger and frustration took its toll on him as he hadn’t the time to devote to his true love in this city of unwelcome.

The plan came together one morning as he made his way down from the highest hill in San Francisco heading to the bay front to again ask of work another day.  The wind was at his back and growing stronger as he made his way down twisting streets.  He imagined a small start just a flicker of flame just might work its way from the heights to the bay, maybe beyond if placed in just the right spot if he could just find that spot.  Forgetting anything to do with work or a place to stay out of the soaking fog and rain, Torcher turned on his heel and headed back the way he’d come.  Working east and then west slowly he worked the wind. After hours of work he finally discovering the vortex of the prevailing wind the exact spot to which it came and worked its wings every morning and evening.  Happy with his discovery he returned to his shanty dwelling and made lunch.  His plan now in place he ate and waited, resting knowing the next morning would be one of work and a hasty retreat.  Visions of Armageddon filled his dreams.

The morning woke with thick fog and a tremor in the air.   Torcher walked in cloaked shadows to his place of delivery, a birth of fire, cleansing the lands of buildings people and clutter.  Looking around seeing not a soul, he placed his small bundle of dried moss and twigs under the siding of a long forgotten Hotel on the upper edge of the heights above the city of San Francisco.  It started with just a whiff of a breeze, gently, barley able to feel on the cheek of one’s face.  Torcher lit the spark of fire as the ocean breeze breathed its first breath of morning.  Spark became flame, flame became full live fire.  Toucher watched as his off spring jumped to life.  The siding of the dilapidated hotel sprang into snapping tender.  Fire rose quickly up the sides of the building and along the side walls.  Jumping from the roof to the next building it gave birth to a new spark of life.  Torcher ran along the streets watching as his child grew and grew.  Spreading quickly from one building to another the fire exploded under the morning breeze.  Torcher had to run at full speed just to keep up with the speed of its growth.  Sparks flew in the increasing wind.  At Seventy Second Street the fire had a large gap to jump to continue its rapid advance towards the bay.  With little to no delay the fire cast embers to the adjacent building catching the drapes of one apartment and instantly bellowing into an inferno. Torcher watched as the fire jumped from one block to the next, this was becoming his greatest feat.

Racing along Fourth Street with his eyes watching high as his fire raced along the roof tops, Torcher tripped on a curb and fell face first on the cobble stones.  As he wrenched himself up on one elbow the ground began to shake.  Harder and harder as the minutes passed the shaking grew stronger.

 

Lying on his back he bounced along the cobble stones keeping eye on his growing fire as it jumped from roof top to roof top.  Shards of glass rained down from the failing buildings, stones came loose and fell also.  One large facade of a beautiful building broke loose under the shaking ground and impaled Torcher through his chest.  With his last breath he watched as his fire jumped to the next block and raced along.

San Francisco was completely destroyed in the fire and earth quake that April day.  History knows not that the San Francisco fire was set by a boy from a small town in Washington State, an abused boy wanting to even the score of his childhood.

From the Ramblings

t

Mr. Ned

Mr. Ned

I was born on June 8^th 1962 in Broadhurst, Nevada.  I came from what I guess could be called a normal family.  I had a Mother, Father and an older Brother.  We had a dog and two cats.  Mom use to have a bird; that was before I was born and old Ned the cat took care of getting rid of the bird.  Mom talked about the bird like it was a sister of ours.  So pretty this, so smart that. Anytime Ned did anything to draw attention to him, Mom would jump into telling the story of her precious bird getting killed.  Dad would try to side track her a couple times and then he’d just roll his eyes and leave the room.  My brother and I were prisoners to the story and had no means of escape.  I’ve heard the story thousands of times and it was abundantly clear to me that she loved that bird much more than me.   I use to lie in bed at night and dream about killing that fucking bird.  I’d move oh so slowly, creeping without a sound, closer and closer until I could get my hands around the little fucker’s neck.  But he was already gone so I did the next best thing and wrung Ol’ Ned's neck.  I ran all the way home one day knowing that Mom wouldn’t be home and Dad at work.  He was an old cat but he put up one hell of a fight when he realized that I wasn’t just petting him and my fingers closed the fur bags air off.  I’d been scratched enough times that I knew good and well to approach this job from behind.  Slowly stroking his fur and then crossing my thumbs behind his neck I wrapped my fingers around and squeezed for all I was worth.  I shook him like I’d seen Mom so many times shake out the front door rug.

 I learned a very good life’s lesson with that old cat; you never want to leave your workings just laying around after all the fun is over.

When Mom found that cat all hell broke loose.  I think Dad was happy to have the damn thing gone but he wouldn’t say anything if his ass was on fire.  Mom ran the house hold and arguing about it was a waste of time.  Since I was found to be the perpetrator of the crime I got stuck with burying the damn cat.  I picked a spot in the flower beds where I was sure Mom would be digging this next spring planting the darling bulbs she was so fond of.  Deep enough that the dog wouldn’t dig him up but shallow enough for a little surprise this next planting season.  Mr. Ned went into his hole almost as it was meant to be.

Fall went to winter and spring is well on its way.  I watched the seasons pass slowly waiting for the hint of blossoms on the trees.  The heavy rain changed to showers and the ground slowly began to dry.  I knew it was almost time.  One Saturday morning I watched from my upstairs window as the garden tools came out of the shed, finally planting time had arrived.

 

The screams coming from the side yard were a blessing to my ears.  Vengeance be mine, payback time has arrived.  The screams and cries lasted only a very short time?  This wasn’t half of what I was expecting.   Straining to hear I decided to go have a look and see why my victory songs were cut so short.  Leaving the house from the back door I walked with purpose around the corner and laying on the grass next to the secret spot was my mother.  Even standing where I was I could clearly see half of good Ol’ Mr. Ned laying half way out of his hole.  Mother’s spade was still sticking out of his decayed side after she wrenched him from the shallow grave.  I could feel the pressure building as I stood there looking at the wrecked cat and Mother out cold on the lawn.  It started as a giggle and soon turned into a full grand maul laughing fit.  Falling on the grass and rolling into a ball in fits of uncontrolled glee I nearly peed my pants.  Gasping for air I crawled the few feet to her side and rolled her over.  Sticking straight from her mid ribs was the weed puller; the one with the little “V” at the end, sharp as hell and she was quite dead.

I used her gardening tools and buried Ned a good distance deeper than he had been, covered him up leaving a small area still dung as if ready for the bulbs laying nearby.

The Police said it was a tragic accident and it was; kind of.

Finishing High School and starting College I’ve decided on Medicine for my life’s work, particularly the field of forensic pathology, I’m a natural.

From the Ramblings

t

It started with a whisper

It started with a whisper.

I remember it like it was yesterday.  It started with just a whisper.

We were on patrol, just south of the main line of defense of the Western Alliance.  I got pulled into this war young.  My parents didn’t have to lie and write that I was of age.  Their dead, killed early on during an air raid.  Mom sent me to fetch an order from the local grocer.  I heard the explosion.  Somehow I knew my life just changed; I felt my parents souls leave.  I hope they went to heaven.  I have no family now; we had moved from a place my Mom called “A place of living Hell” to this place when I was just born.  The Northern Alliance is all I now know.  It is both my Mother and Father.

 

I was second man behind our bands leader, John Johns.  No one believes that is his real name, but that is the name we know him by.  He is a good leader and we’ve lost few fighters under his leadership.  He is a heavy bearded man, dark black hair seems to come out of any opening in clothing, pours from rips, it seems to have a mind of its own and wishes to escape it’s bonds.   His voice is soft and deep.  I’d like to remember my Father’s voice being the same, but I can’t seem to remember.  It is a sin to forget the face of one’s Father; I’m very blessed to possess a picture of my Mother and Father.  It was given me when I was taken to join John Johns’ unit.  Given to me by John Johns’ himself.  He told me to keep it close to my heart and I have every minute since.

 

I heard a slight whine, more like an arrant bee fly past my ear, just a whisper.  The world turned red, fighters were falling all around me.  The crack of rifles shots came after; after I and five others had hit the dust.  Blood poured from horrendous wounds turning the dust to red mud.   The skies filled with screams, bullets and choking dust.  I lay where I fell, watching those around me gush life giving blood into the greedy dirt.  Our medics were checking each quickly for any signs of life.  I felt hands on my body, cloth ripping allowing openings to my wounds.  “This one’s gone” I heard; but I’m not gone, I’m still here.  I can hear what’s going on, what’s being said.  The sounds of the battle loud in my ears.  I see comrades pulled up and carried away to be saved or prayed over until death.  John Johns is in my face, he looks closely into my eyes.  He must see something “God is great” and then he’s gone. 

I lay face half buried in dust for hours; the pain at first horrible but now less.  My fingers and toes once numb now can move just a little.  I’m getting stronger and stronger.  The battle is far over and I can just make out explosions in the far distance.  The time has come for me to try and set up; oh the pain is much but lessening quickly.  I stand; I must return to my Unit; slowly at first then with as much speed as I can muster.  I run like the wind, my Unit have need of me greatly.  John Johns counts on me.  The battle is raging in the near distance and I ask fighter after fighter if he knows of my Unit.  Finally I catch sight of John Johns waving our men on into the fight.  I race up to greet him.  John Johns jumps back, face twisted in fear “No no you’re wounds were great”  “You had no life” He swings at me and runs into the hail of bullet screaming, but not the screams of battle cries.

I’ve now joined my seventh Unit.  I’ve been martyred the sixth time and I will continue until our God calls me to heaven.  God is great!

From the Ramblings

Icky Abe Part 1 of 2

Icky Abe was born July 16^th, 1889 as Abram Willis Durk.  At the fine age of eight his name became Icky Abe given him unceremoniously by the seven students of Grace Harbor School.

The Durk family consisted of Ruth Ann his mother and Buck a dirty and under fed Collie that scratched constantly from the many fleas he entertained.  Abram’s father Jeremiah died shortly after performing the act that brought Abram to this world; Abram the baby came to too this world exactly nine months later.  A weak heart is what the Medical Examiner said, he made a better part time well digger than a Medical Examiner but he’d won the position fair and square in the election two years prior and it never entered his head to think any different.  Ruth Ann knew better.  Rape is rape; no matter if they had spoken a few times and even held hands once.  Ruth Ann was a seamstress with protégé skills as Jeremiah found out.  She deftly stabbed a rather large needle into the back of Jeremiah’s neck just below his skull  a mere second after he finished his business raping her.  

Ruth Ann cleaned up herself, and dragged Jeremiah  into the parlor.  She set the table and made tea as if she and he had just finished a nice friendly visit.  No one suspected a thing and she even went to the funeral.  Faking a tear at just the right moment during the proceedings.

The Durk family grew by one in July as Ruth Ann came to full term.  People of Bishop Creek, Washington; a small, very small community some distance from the bulging sea port of Seattle, talked behind handkerchiefs’ and curtained windows as Ruth Ann would walk by.  Not one word was dared spoken to Ruth Ann about her mysterious pregnancy and giving birth to a baby boy.  No one wanted to confront the woman that many said was crazier than a pet raccoon and twice as mean.  Ruth Ann had a very well deserved reputation as a woman you didn’t want to cross.  This had been shown on more than one occasion and a couple local gents with less than pure thoughts about Ruth Ann found out what she was capable of, they were lucky to live to tell about it and they both very well knew it.  Word passes quickly in a town with only sixty three souls living within its boundaries.  Don’t mess with Ruth Ann Durk.

Abram started off as a normal boy, happy, giggly and all around good natured.  Around the age of five hard times came upon the Durk family as Ruth Ann’s arthritis ended her only means of an income.  Abram was sent out three times a day to search through the towns trash cans for anything that could be eaten or of value.  Ruth Ann went from a demanding scolding mother to right out abusive soon after the meager family savings ran out.  On nights that Abram returned home empty handed neighbors could hear the beatings from a hundred yards away. Abrams screams bounced off windows and barn walls, entering homes that knew nothing of insulation.  The crack of the belt came at regular intervals, crack scream, crack scream, crack crack crack.

The town’s people were very aware of the Durk family’s plight, Mr. Nix the owner of Nix’s Mercantile, the only grocery store in town give the boy a gift of bread and sliced ham to take home.  It was like a lighting strike to the ass of Ruth Ann and she made it abundantly clear at the top of her lungs and with a few store items broken that handouts were not welcome or tolerated.  Abram always a skinny boy lost more weight, always sickly with snot running down his pinched face.  His classmates withdrew from Abram, distancing themselves from the sickly boy.  Soon one of the older kids caught Abram going through the school’s garbage and the name Icky Abe was then and there forever his name.

On July 16^th, 1903 at 4:00am in the early morning of his fourteenth Birthday; Icky Abe became a free young man.  It was the best Birthday gift he could ever remembered receiving.  Bishop Creek didn’t have a fire department and those that came to watch the Durk home burn watched until only ashes blew in the wind.  Icky watched along with them, not a tear was shed.  The once beautiful home built by his Grandfather now lay in ruins.  Icky Abe now had a little secret he called his own just like his now burned to death Mother once had.

There were no monies for a funeral, so the burnt down house became the final resting place for Ruth Ann and the smoldering memories of Icky Abe’s childhood.  There were a few, very few words of condolences to Icky and no one thought more than a split second before dismissing any thought of putting the teenager up in their homes.  Icky Abe was left on his own, liberated by fire and free in this world.  Mr. Nix the store owner the only one to ask Icky if he had any plans, asked if he possessed any usable skills.  Icky Abe‘s only answer was no.  Mr. Nix’s questions and concerns about the boy’s well being were silenced and he dismissed them from his thoughts a second later.

With the house being a burnt hole in the ground, the only standing building left on the property was the dilapidated little barn.  Icky had two years earlier burnt down the tool shed; and the garden shed went up in flames that same fall.  He had discovered he had a talent, a talent to burn even the most stubborn of things.  Icky Abe could look at a brush pile, building or just about anything and see the exact spot where a few well placed tenders would work their magic.  He’d check the wind, knew the dryness of the air just by a quick sniff a taste of the breeze.  He knew the perfect way to take a fire from just a baby flickering flame to a roaring inferno in just minutes.  He was a natural arsonist; like a duck takes to water, Icky was to fire.

He’d been torching trash cans around town since he first became their constant companion by order of Ruth Ann many years ago.  He then played with bigger and better things; that being the Johnson’s barn when he was six.  Next the Black Smiths building became his biggest accomplishment to date at seven.  Never missing an opportunity to practice his growing skills, he burnt the outhouse at the rear of the school to punish his class mates for their ill treatment of him.  Jacob the boy that coined Abram’s nick name; house was the first to burn to the ground.  Like a true arsonist Icky loved his work; you could tell immediately if one cared to look at the front of his bulging pants. His first house fire over whelmed him as the house turned into an inferno.  Icky danced, pranced and yelled in his excitement at the flames and billowing smoke.  He went crazy when Isaac the youngest of the Newman family was the last from the burning house, engulfed in flame.

It was clear to the people of Bishop Creek who was starting the fires and with the town’s population reduced by  two; the arson deaths of Ruth Ann and Isaac it was time for Icky Abe to move on to greener pastures.  Icky burnt the family barn and then the towns Postal Office for good measures as he left town at midnight; just minutes before the Sheriff from Seattle arrived to take him into custody.

Icky Abe changed his name to “Torcher” a man’s name that night as a reward for his skills at evening up the score in town before having to make a fast dash for his newly found freedom.  Icky was a kids name, made up by a kid; a kid without a house now.   So “Torcher” it will forever be.

The Bunker

The Bunker

My name is Vince Westin Wolf and I built this bunker with my own hands.  

I’m leaving my bunker my safe house tomorrow morning; four years, seven months and twenty three days from the day I sealed the hatches.  I’m writing this note so whoever finds it will know I survived when all others may have perished.  My supplies have run out, water has been recycled hundreds of times and of no use now.  I must leave and take my chances on the surface or die here.  I pray there is a livable world above my head.

I started construction shortly after it was obvious that we were heading for the third world war.  War was already raging in the Middle East and Country after Country we’re falling to the new order.  They called it the “brotherhood” a funny name for people that care only to kill everyone that isn’t of their sect. 

It took me two years and eight months to finish it; just before Israel went down under the hooves of the hordes.  Israel held on to the very end before launching everything they had.  Ex-President Jimmy Carter made a slip to a reporter in the eighties and said that Israel had 100 nuclear weapons.  They let go quite a few more than that by the reports coming out of what’s left of the Middle East.  

It was clear to everyone that we were gearing up to defend the last survivors of freedom and that would bring us into the horror of full out war and more than likely nuclear war in the Western Hemisphere.  Our troops from outposts all over the world had been called home to defend America from the encroaching mobs from South America.  They swept in mass destroying city after city from the South tip of Argentina, North to within two hundred miles of our Southern border.  It was a tsunami of bodies, left over’s of armies from all over the South American as Countries dissolved and the masses headed north.  President Ryan ordered around the clock bombing to slow the advance while the States along the border built barriers and fortifications as fast as could be built.  Mexico was squeezed into just a swath two hundred miles deep and the width of our Southern borders.  The Mexican Army was being over whelmed and total collapse was reported to be within just a few days. 

Canada was weakening from constant attacks by armed Russian Solders escaping the fall out in the Far East.  The new North Sea land bridge caused by global warming making it no more than a difficult walk to reach Canadian shores from Russia.  Our President sent thousands of additional troops to help stem the tide from the Russians.

I went to the bunker shortly after it was filled to capacity with food and water.  When the Southern border broke and threw us into a full out retreat to the center of America, I slammed the lid. I had it figured I could make four years; I’ve made it most of five years.  I’m ready for the new world up there or the end.  I’ve survived boredom, starvation rations for well over the last year.  Tomorrow morning is the new beginning or death for me.

Wish me luck today’s the day.  I’ve finish my meager breakfast, my bug out bag is ready with emergency food to last a month if I can keep on short rations.  I’ve unlocked and opened the two air tight doors and I’m almost ready to crack the top hatch.  One more check of my bags, weapons and my Radiation/Bio suit.  If you see a guy running around in a baggy camo suit it’s me; three layers of very thin lead and the outside Bio containment plastic in camo.  Hahahaha looks stylish…… 

Everything’s good, so this is good bye.  If you’re reading this congratulations of surviving, anything you can find to use; have at it, it’s yours to take.  

Good bye, see you on the other side…………..

V.W.

I’m back………………….  I opened the top hatch and its night outside, pitch black.  That makes it a no go. I’m not going out after nearly five years and rip my Bio suit on a black berry bush.  So it’s going to be a long night before the sun comes up.  My calculations were that it should have been morning.  Something must have gone wrong with my clocks.  Another few hours aren’t going to make much difference and I have to be as safe as I can be, so I’m with you for a few more lines writing on the paper tonight.  

I nearly panicked when I opened the hatch just a couple inches and realized it was dark outside and had to slam the lid and go back into the bunker.  I didn’t shut the air tight doors behind me when I went up to the surface; I didn’t think I’d be coming back.  The bunker was exposed to the outside air for a few seconds and I don’t want to use any more time than is necessary on the air scrubbers in the Bio suit.  

Trying to write with this suit on is not easy, the face mask is fogging up; I’m going to pull it off and get a few more things down on paper that I thought of and then get ready for tomorrow.

Air smells funny; (cough) kind of metallic, (cough)

From the Ramblings
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Your Cries

Your Cries

I hear your cries at night; they no longer pierce my heart. They dissever me not, my soul is no longer yours, you’ve lost what was. 

Pursue me not, I’m no longer for you, our souls walk different paths.  I float on hope of what maybe……….. Floating, a future of freedom from the pain. 

Free, free at last.

From the Ramblings.
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