Year of writing 13

1/13/12

We wait. The roads have cracked and sprouted green and still we wait. The buildings cough and sigh through broken hinges and still we wait. Some say he will come on a winged beast, large enough to block out the whiteyellow glare of the sun. Some say he will tunnel through the earth and burst through our bunker walls. Some say it is a she, a woman with lights in her fingers, with fire in her hair. They all agree that one day the iron and steel doors above us will be lifted, the chemical fog will dissipate, and we will stumble into the world once more.


We'll call this start #257 for a young adult apocalyptic fiction novel. I don't know what it is about the end of the world that fascinates me so. Actually, I think it's more what is left afterward that is so intriguing. I also wonder if in places like Afghanistan or Iraq, after a war, this isn't a reality for people who survive. That is in itself a story, albeit one which I am far from qualified to write.