The crack in my watch still tells me the time as I squint between the shards hiding in plain sight. I’m wondering what my next meal will be, and how stale it will taste. I found a bottle of bourbon yesterday and have it stashed for that next kick.
I need a new pair of shoes.
There was a dead body a few days ago. It has been a while since I came across one. Usually by now the bones have been picked clean by wolves or vultures but this one was fresh. I probably should have said a prayer, or checked his pockets for his name, or chewing gum, but I just kept walking.
The sun is so bright I can’t open my eyes all the way till night fall.
I hum a Coldplay song. God I hate that song. But I sing it anyway.
I’m wondering what my next meal will be. And if it will pair with my new bottle of whiskey.

It sounded like fireworks. It almost brought back childhood memories of the 4th of July.
America’s independence. A thing to be proud of once. A thing that brought people together. Parades. Hope, family.
It sounded like fireworks. But the only noise left in the wasteland was the occasional gunshot, for food, family. Survival.
It sounded like fireworks. A memory of a world we left behind, for greed, gamemanship, and hatred.
Now the birds chirped, and tall buildings grew moss. Because we couldn’t work together, to continue that dream of independence.  Freedom was never free, but we at least had a day to blow stuff up.

It sounded like fireworks, but the noise was just hiding all the cracks in the world.

Honored to have my poem Without Oxygen lead off this beautiful 5th issue of Anomaly, which is free to read here.

https://www.nomanszine.com

36
The way the heat rose from the road played tricks on Sally’s eyes. She lowered her sunglasses to notice the vapors disappearing.
“Yo, you ready?” called Fred , a lanky man deep into his forties. She looked back to him loading his motorcycle up, recalling the day they met. She had been left by her initial group in an abandoned bar off of route 66. She had come down with a fever there in the middle of winter, and her people were scared, none of them of science or understanding. She remembered her mother crying as she went to sleep and when she woke the next day, the fever gone and beaten and no one there to smile at her anymore.
She survived for a few days gathering things from the bar, opening old cans of juice and olives, until she heard Freds engine roll through town. Without thinking she ran outside, excited for the sight of another living soul.
Fred saw her as he passed and slammed on his brakes, turning the bike as he did. He sat there idling for a long while, his helmet on, considering the young girl. Finally he lifted his helmet, took a direct look at her and waved her over.
They had been together ever since. He never asked her story, never asked for anything. Sally imagined like her, he just was happy for someone to spend the end of the world with. No questions, no demands. No blame for faults, no expectations for being something else.
Just two people, a motorcycle, and the heat of the pavement and miles to journey till the end of the road.

Her father sat slowly sliding one boot off, then the other. His worn hands shook as he sat them aside. He lowered his head for a moment of contemplation. Annabelle lifted her head from the straw bed she had made on the floor earlier that evening.
“Papa. Are you home for the night?”
He looked at her, his hard brown eyes relaxing as he stared at her.
“Yes dear, I’m here. Father Joseph is watching the tree tonight. We can go see it tomorrow if you’d like.”

The thought filled her with excitement. Annabelle stared hard at the ceiling watching the shadows of the dimming fireplace rise and fall on the wooden  beams above her head. Slowly she drifted back to sleep content in the adventure of the next day.

The military marched by, not neccesarrily proud, but in a somewhat straight line. The Commander watched grimly, remembering a time when people were good at their jobs.
In the far territories people protested unaware of most things they were trying to achieve, but with a nagging sense of right versus wrong. The news media was long gone, a corporate monopoly owned by five people and all sending on signals no one even used anymore. The country was desperate grasping at any semblance of its former self as it reached a peak anniversary. And the few other countries left in the shambles decided now would be a good time to reignite thousand year hatreds.

All of this while humanity burned the planet, leaving nothing left but scraps for future generations to fight over. It’s a wonder anyone was left after the fall. And yet here they were, holding onto grudges based on nothing but fear of things they didn’t understand.

Unless you knew the pathway it would be increasingly difficult to find your way home. The trees had grown so tall, the roads covered in darkness and debris. The landmarks of old, fallen , or rusted away. Nothing a marker for the senses, just desolation and windows into the old world.
There was a civilization here once, and there are signs it was grand. Full of art, and life, and purpose. But also of disparity, hatred and greed.
And like all worlds before, it fell in due time, to be consumed again by nature. 

Alone with its thoughts.

“How do we let them live like that?” Joqauin asked as he looked down on the Stone Prison of Madrid.
“They are alive aren’t they?” sneered the inspector. His casual cruelty was not a surprise to Joqauin but it didn’t soften the pain. These people had done nothing wrong, they just happened to be in the country when the world fell. Spain had done a decent job of surviving, their borders shrank and the population moved inwards towards the capital. Food systems had become rationed but the people mostly learned how to survive together. Except the foreigners wouldnt go home. After months of feeding them, the government decided to camp them here. In a long concrete airplane hangar. They had shelter, and running water. More then they would have at home (especially the Americans), but that was about all they were allowed. No jobs, no purpose. Some politicians had advocated for them to be a part of the society, to help rebuild but the xenophobes had triumphed. Now most Spaniards forgot they had been placed here. Easier to turn a blind eye, to let them rot in what in all regards was a life sentence prison.
As long as they had what they needed on the outside who would fight for these people?
Joqauin watched for years as a guard and each day was harder on him. But he was one man, one man who these same people would see as nothing more than their captor. And he had a family at home, a daughter three, who never knew the world before. Perhaps she would always look at her father with love and admiration. But if she ever saw his job, and these humans below, how could she ever respect him again?
Joqauin knew he should do something. 

He knew.

He knew. 

To lie in the fields without a worry,
To lament the bread on the floor as waste,
To sing out of joy, and not hunger.
The world is a place of wonder,
The world is a place of substance,
The world is a place of pain
A challenge for survival
A challenge of substance,
A challenge of language
And choosing the right words.
Because you can undo actions,
But never things spoken.

In the outer reaches of Nebraska, Jack trained with his long bow, pulling back releasing the quiver, over and over again. Sometimes he hit the target, but often he did not hit anything at all. He would need to get better at this in the near future. His father had tried teaching him but Jack was never a very good student. Last winter his father went out the door to the small wooden building they had called home and never returned. For the first couple of nights his mother said he would be back. Slowly her shoulders sunk as the realization set in that he would not. Jack didn’t know what to make of it. Had his father been injured in the winter wilds and froze to death? Or had he just abandoned them? Jack wasn’t sure and didn’t dwell on it for long. He knew now he had to figure out how to stock their reserves before the cold came again. The garden was pretty self sufficient, and his mother had already begun the canning process but they would need meat as well. So far Jack hadn’t been able to catch anything in the traps the family had spread across the woods. He would have to hunt to survive. So he pulled back the arrow once more, let fly. And missed again.