Deborah Feyedick twirled her pen, waiting for the commercial break to end. Occasionally, the pen's tip would tap her knuckle, and the inky excrement dripped onto the tabletop, dotting the papers which were jabbed to stillness by her elbow. It reminded Deborah of blood. She licked her lips.

It had been a boring day. This morning she was bludgeoned with the reporting of a severe drought. This afternoon she had talked her mouth dry- dryer than California- about that Hurricane Patricia, a weather formation so powerfully at odds with the drought. Don't get her wrong, the hurricane attracted viewers, but if a large amount of North Americans didn't die in the destruction, they would eventually lose interest and fade away. Now, there was only one definite thing that would have people flocking to watch, but she couldn't even dare think of this thing's name, else she start salivating.

Deborah crossed her fingers. Maybe if another of these... things occurred, it'd boost their ratings high enough to allow her to receive a raise. Then she would be able to afford a cleaner to remove the stains on her house carpet. Maybe. They were quite profuse.

She began losing hope. The last commercial was playing before the segment began. Would she really have to cover the conflicts in Russia again? The country was far enough away to not matter!

Thirty seconds remaining. Twenty-five. Twenty- Confetti exploded across the newsroom. A heavenly bell chimed. The director, behind the camera, began jumping up and down shouting, "We have a celebrity! We have another celebrity. Yes!"

"What is it? What is it? Someone tell me!" Deborah refrained from throwing her pen at the director.

"Another shooter. Another shooting. A mass one!"

"How many?" Her chest fluttered. "What's the shooter's name? How many children were lost?"

The director smiled. "Enough to boost ratings!"

"Yes!" Deborah turned to the camera as the final seconds on the teleprompter tocked down. "Hello. I'm Deborah Feyedick, and we have some good ne- Breaking news!"

Deborah Feyedick twirled her pen, waiting for the commercial break to end. Occasionally, the pen's tip would tap her knuckle, and the inky excrement dripped onto the tabletop, dotting the papers which were jabbed to stillness by her elbow. It reminded Deborah of blood. She licked her lips.

It had been a boring day. This morning she was bludgeoned with the reporting of a severe drought. This afternoon she had talked her mouth dry- dryer than California- about that Hurricane Patricia, a weather formation so powerfully at odds with the drought. Don't get her wrong, the hurricane attracted viewers, but if a large amount of North Americans didn't die in the destruction, they would eventually lose interest and fade away. Now, there was only one definite thing that would have people flocking to watch, but she couldn't even dare think of this thing's name, else she start salivating.

Deborah crossed her fingers. Maybe if another of these... things occurred, it'd boost their ratings high enough to allow her to receive a raise. Then she would be able to afford a cleaner to remove the stains on her house carpet. Maybe. They were quite profuse.

She began losing hope. The last commercial was playing before the segment began. Would she really have to cover the conflicts in Russia again? The country was far enough away to not matter!

Thirty seconds remaining. Twenty-five. Twenty- Confetti exploded across the newsroom. A heavenly bell chimed. The director, behind the camera, began jumping up and down shouting, "We have a celebrity! We have another celebrity. Yes!"

"What is it? What is it? Someone tell me!" Deborah refrained from throwing her pen at the director.

"Another shooter. Another shooting. A mass one!"

"How many?" Her chest fluttered. "What's the shooter's name? How many children were lost?"

The director smiled. "Enough to boost ratings!"

"Yes!" Deborah turned to the camera as the final seconds on the teleprompter tocked down. "Hello. I'm Deborah Feyedick, and we have some good ne- Breaking news!"

The abyss is a mole in lush forestry. Oaks sway against pine, weeds whisper to thorns. Dirt is humbled by clumps of mud surrounding a shallow stream, where deer lick at the froth, otters ride the currents, and perch nibble their way downstream. Downstream to the abyss. But that was of no matter, not with the butterflies fluttering blossom to blossom. Not with the squirrels bouncing branch to branch. Not with the maggots so far away. So deep below. It was of no matter. Really. Peacefulness cannot be perturbed. Not here.

Nothing stirred for anything except a breeze. The only shadows were contrived by passerby clouds. There were no battles apart from that of the sprouts, which rose from mulch, twining upwards towards light muffled by branches up higher. Yet there was the abyss. A perch was caught in the perpetual liquid force, slipping through a net of algae, tumbling into darkness. Another whipped downwards, head smashing against a rock, blood a weave in the water that was unraveled by the ripples of flapping otters. One after another fish were swallowed.

An oak groaned. Pebbles fell away from the abyss edge, followed by fluffs of dust. Roots appeared, stiff worms that squirmed warily as they were exposed to air breathed never before. Deer ran away from the collapsing land, but hooves tangled in weeds, antlers entwined with the branches of falling trees.

A shadow stretched across the forest like darkness from a falling sun, like a black-armored army infiltrating a field of immobile pawns. Life was devoured, digested in the churning depths of oblivion, excreted as a smeared reflection of its former glory. A reflection of roses in a puddle of acid. A reflection of death in a precursor of fate.

Sediment tickles my toes. A crab skitters past, plucking through porcelain grains, occasionally lifting a claw at the surf, which slurped away armored brethren. A rusting pick-up idles somewhere behind, beyond the grass-rimmed dunes. Sunshine attempts to penetrate my sunscreen, and finally succeeds. Two pick-ups now idle. Three. An army of fume-belching chariots coalesce into a humming horizon. Seagulls plummet from the sky, wings flapping uselessly. Streamers of sand coil upwards, embracing the falling forms.

I should stand. One of those idling cars is mine. I should remove the key, even if doing so only slightly hinders the furl of smog above. Yet what good would it do? A single engine off, while billions still rattle. The sand was a mattress more comfy than a nest of feathers. There were feathers, though. Snapping away from the dead. They scrapped at my cheeks, blisters bursting, leaking to the ground like tears. There were tears too. Many tears. No amount of liquid could compare to what would soon devour me.

My blisters healed, formed, and burst again. A cycle as continuous as the seasons. Hair grew from the sand that snuggled me, sprouting like plant growth. Dying grass lurched towards me in yearning. Soon that grass was one with the sand dunes, rising with an intensity that would not falter, unlike mankind. My face changes with the surroundings, darkens along with the sea. Since when did tides rise so high? Currents rip the sand off my legs. I try to stand, but now there is nothing to stand for.

Water inches up my waist, tauntingly slow. I struggle against the bonds that hold me before this murky atrocity, but fate cannot be escaped. Trying to look at anything except death, I stare upon the sky. The sun ensnares me with a stare more menacing than even a human would dare. A beacon watching as the byproducts of its existence become nothing again. My eyes lower with shame, and I reunite with fate. For unity would be our savior. Such a shame that it was not attained until now.

My teeth are torn away. The churning blackness nears its pinnacle, an entire globe stretching for my demise. Flecks of ash float atop the murk like maggots in dark blood. How much longer? Every second was an increment of eternity. When would I reach actual eternity? Water slithers past my lips. I suck air through a single nostril, the other clogged with grime. Death is a tickle on the nose that I cannot scratch.

I wear the ocean like a veil. Only two eyes, and a bit of nose, remain of me, poking from the sea. Enough so I could live. Enough so I could witness the senseless destruction that I wrought. No! Struggling, I refuse to let my tardy efforts be in vain. It could not end like this. Life could not end. What god would do this to His people?

No god would. This was not an act of revenge unleashed by a higher being. As I gargle upon water thicker than mud, I realize that drowning was less painful than living. I smile. This was an act of ignorance, wrought by the entire accumulation of humanity.