Tear stains leave scars on hollow cheeks,

the girl's pale frame a corpse of skin and bone,

drowning in a too-white dress.

She can hear their whispers

from behind closed doors

"let's go easy on this one."

She sits before the single sheet of paper with glazed eyes.

"Just one poem."

He waits expectantly, halo clutched between long fingers,

ready to snatch the nonsensical ramblings of angels,

sonething sweet about doves in the garden.

But her shaking fingers still as they hover above the cold keys,

the metal seeming to vibrate as she lets a final breath cloud the cold air.

"One last time, old friend," she whispers to the typewriter,

her words ringing through the empty chamber.

And her fingers come down.

Ink spills like blood accross the page, her eyes sparkling with a dark light.

The pounding of keys sounds like a war cry, her heart pounding in time with the rythm, desperate and frantic and free. It is madness and beauty and pain, the story of a life not quite lived, the story of a girl who cut letters from her own soul and stitched them together, praying to nobody in particular that things would change. The story of a lost girl... a loveless girl.

the halo above her shatters,

glass shards raining upon bare arms

drawing ribbons of blood where skin meets bone.

"Why?" He whispers, voice breaking.

"I've never been good with pretty words."

There once was this guy named Ryan.

He never did murder. Or lyin'.

He went to Mass that time,

And he... paid his parking fines,

And I coulda stole that meth but was buy--

OK, fine. Fuck it. The sulphur pit's down the hall to the left?

HELLo

If that does not get me in

I’ll find myself in search of sin

A prying eye my life will find

Was riddled anything but kind

A prayer, A glance, I took perchance

To see if you would shout and dance

For fail I have to meet Gods plans

And whither now inside his hands

I cannot abide the righteous fools

Swimming in their azure pools

They sit and judge and make up rules

And if we fall they bray like mules

But you have set forth no such decree

To be a human does the deed

To see you sit among crimson blue and bones

A fire lit to chill our souls

My hope for now is that I’ve failed all marks

For to try would surely make fly larks

And herald to the Lord above

To let this poor old sinner sit in love

I do not want that wanton grace

The kind that leaves without a trace

I’d rather sit in your embrace

The devils own beguiled race

(In which only I know which one is the lie)

My eyes are blue

I like to read

I have three dogs

(I have two dogs)

My favorite movie is Pride and Prejudice

I have never been in love

You are my favorite person

We have been friends for years

I wish you happiness

I wait anxiously for your call

I hate the way I look in the mirror

I miss you

You always make me happy

I write about you all the time

I listen to every word you say to me

Your words make me feel good

I think about you daily

You are beautiful

I will be yours forever

The sky is blue

I still love you

The third one is always the lie

I look to my left and he’s there, on the other side of the street, keeping pace with me as I walk. Even from here I can see the glassy look in his eyes and the way he moves his neck left and right in small jerks, birdlike and very aware. These are the telltale signs, or so the leaflets dropped over our town said, but this is my first encounter with an infected person since the quarantine was lifted.

They call it 20. I still don’t know if that’s because it is a mutation of Covid-19 or because it started last year, in 2020. The first cases were in November, just three weeks after the famous vaccine was released. I still remember the long lines at the clinic. The shot was mandatory, but hardly anyone kicked up any fuss about that. Certainly not me. I held my wife’s hand as we waited in the cold autumn air, willing the line to move faster. They took our pictures and social security numbers, then gave us a shot and a receipt, papers proving we complied.

I pick up my pace. I can’t see the man well enough to be certain. But maybe that is the normalcy bias in my brain speaking up to protect me, to tell me everything is fine and there is nothing more to be afraid of. I shut the thought out as I move even faster, now just short of running. He keeps up. I know I’m in trouble.

There has been so much fear. First the COVID-19 swept the country. We thought we were out of the woods in July, when President Pence announced the end of the curfew. Churches held mass memorial services for everyone who died. The news interviewed people as they went outside for the first time in months. There was a national day of mourning and the state funeral. But then it was just... summer. Open beaches, bon fires, parties. Sure, people washed their hands a little more, and most kept a little extra toilet paper at home, but other than that it almost felt normal.

Then September came in cold and wet and the first cases of COVID-19 started showing up again. Fear was a living thing, the claustrophobic memories of the long quarantine resurfaced quickly. In short order we were back in quarantine, back under a curfew, back to being afraid.

At the corner I turn right, skirting around a car that is half buried in a storefront window. The driver must have lived because the car is empty. Behind me the man crosses the street and moves in my direction. I need a plan.

The first cases of 20 were on the news in early November, but no one recognized it for what it was. A CDC doctor sent out a video on social media, but it disappeared pretty quickly. So did the doctor. There were rumors. A lot of people thought it was a bad reaction to the vaccine, some sort of nuerological infection. More leaks came out of the CDC, the COVID-19 was mutating, resisting the vaccine, and feasting on nuerons of infected people.

That’s when the internet went down for good.

I turn another corner, out of his view, and begin to run. If the rumors are true about their strength, I have no alternative but to hide. I’m fit enough, but not much of a fighter, and who can really defend themselves against something that can’t feel pain?

The riots started that night, when the internet cut out. From my house alone I could see seven pillars of dark smoke rising to the sky: buildings burning. The last TV channel went down around 10:00pm, and the next day there was no electricity.

At first people helped each other out. Neighbors were checking on each other, sharing food and water while keeping the recommended 6 feet apart. But that didn’t last long. A crowd of men, maybe 12 or so, started going door to door in our neighborhood. They had a truck, a heavy one owned by the county, and they were collecting everyone’s food “for fair distribution”. Every one of them was armed, most with at least two guns, a few wore tactical vests.

I’m winded, but I must keep running. I glance behind me as I turn between two houses. He’s there. Running. His knees lift and fall so uniformally he looks almost robotic. His head no longer twitches from side to side, instead his vision is intensly focused on me, like a carnivore making its death run. I am prey. I jump a fence, and try to ignore the stitch in my side as I force myself to move faster.

It was twelve days after the power went out, nine days since the thugs with guns took everyone’s food, when the leaflets fell. There had been more fires, and large pieces of ash had been falling intermitently so that I did not recognize the papers when they first rained down. The plane that had dropped them looked like a military job, something big and camouflaged and loud. The papers did not look like anything an official government or professional organization would create. They were simple, black and white, a letter with bullet points. There was no signture line, I still have no idea who released them. They explained about 20, how the virus had mutated, how the people who contracted it could not be cured, how they would turn violent, how they would only live for a short time as they refused to eat or drink, and how they, with unnatural strength and ferocity, were only interested in harming humans around them.

I jump another fence and run through a backyard to an alley. I want to try a door, maybe I could be safe if I could get inside and out of sight, but I know that to risk trying a door will mean death if it is locked. And I cannot imagine an unlocked door in these strange times. He’s behind me, closing in. I see his face better now. His eyes are bloodshot and strangely wet. His chin is also wet, as if he drools. A vein is throbbing in his forehead.

I cannot run anymore, and to fight is suicide. I have one shot, I must try a door and hope it is unlocked and substantial enough to hold back this animal-man. I scan the houses ahead of me, looking for my best option. There, a brick house with a heavy-looking front door. I cannot see any lights in the windows but there are two cars in the driveway. If the people are home, maybe they will open the door; if they left on foot, like so many others, maybe they didn’t bother to lock the door. It is my last chance to live. I am breathing so hard, my throat feels torn from the cool air. I cross the yard, reach out my hand and close it on the metal knob.

Saturday, May 2

May Day. No more trips to the store, or anywhere. The entire country is now effectively under house arrest. I was able to load up on dried foods, spices, and plenty of garlic. Looking forward to making some new dishes. Thank God for the Internet. It’s a lifeline.

Wednesday, May 20

It’s hard to get exercise without walking. I miss the fresh air and the park. We got word that my sister and her family were sent to a quarantine camp. No news yet, but we remain hopeful. Next door, the Crowders were lounging on the deck Herb built last year, enjoying the fine spring weather. Becky was wearing a bikini and Molly made a joke about me putting my eyes back into my skull, laughing and swatting my fanny. It was good to see the old smiling Molly again.

Tuesday, May 26

Further restrictions have been announced. The days of unlimited internet are over. It’s been too slow to stream anything for some days now, so perhaps it’s better to have it gone altogether. Plenty of books. The food is holding out nicely, and the National Guard has started twice-weekly deliveries of ration boxes.

Wednesday, June 10

There was a notice on today’s ration box that we’ll now be getting one a week instead of two. The contents have changed, too. We were getting brand name canned goods like Chef Boy-Ar-Dee and Progresso, but now it’s white government cans and military MREs. The quality is poor, but I guess I shouldn’t complain. Our tax dollars at work.

Monday, June 15

Molly has been awfully quiet. I have to coax her into eating, even when I use the best remainders of our pantry such as the jar of pesto she bought in Naples or the organic bone broth from Whole Foods. She spends long hours staring out the window, hands in her lap. We hardly talk at lately, my pale attempts at conversation lapsing into stolid silence.

Sunday, June 21

Molly says she hasn’t seen the Crowders on their deck in a long time. We had a few days of rain last week, so I just figured they were staying indoors. The sun came back out Tuesday and I guess I forgot about them. I wish we had some way of reaching out. It’s impossible to keep track of people since the cellphones went down, even our next-door neighbors. We dare not go outside with the Guard watching. They’ve been announcing zero tolerance through the loudspeakers. I’ve even heard gunshots, though far away.

Monday, June 22

I woke this morning to the sound of Molly sobbing downstairs. She told me she’d gotten up before dawn and gone next door, using the key Becky gave her when we watched their cat last Christmas. She said the Crowders lying on their kitchen floor. Apparently they’d been dead for several days. I risked the Guard and walked over to their house to hang out the red flag they gave us for emergencies, crossing the yard with my hands in the air like a newly freed hostage. Even though my mission was grim, it was so nice to be outside again.

Thursday, June 25

The guard finally came for the Crowders this morning. Molly stayed in our bedroom. She’s inconsolable. After the bodies were removed, a hazmat team came and boarded all the windows and doors. I saw a vapor escaping from the roof vents, so I guess they fogged it. The stories about that are true.

Sunday, June 28th

Molly is hot to the touch. She smiled and told me she feels like a loaf of fresh-baked bread. Her breath rattles like a boy running a stick along a picket fence.

Saturday, July 4th

The quietest Fourth I can remember. Molly seems better. Coughing less, and she took a little soup for supper. I went out on the front porch and lit a sparkler in celebration, but a National Guard Humvee drove by and slowed down when they saw me, so I quickly put it out and went back inside.

Thursday, July 11

We used to love walking the dogs together. Now Molly just sits in her rocker, pale blue eyes staring out at nothing. Her fever has returned and her cough is worse.

Monday, July 20

I heard a surveillance drone hovering over the house last night. I once heard they had infra-red cameras that can see through walls, but I’m pretty sure that’s just paranoia. I know for a fact that they are equipped with super-sensitive microphones, so I hope they haven’t heard Molly coughing. It’s so loud now I can even hear her when I’m in the basement. All day long I kept peeking through the curtains to peer up the empty street, jumping at every noise real or imagined.

Tuesday, July 21

The Guard came to the house. Molly was upstairs, coughing and coughing. I told her to keep quiet, cover her face with a pillow, but she was only semi-conscious and didn’t understand. It didn’t matter anyway. I went downstairs and met them at the door, thinking I would try to bluff them. They weren’t fooled and forced their way past me, their boots thundering up the stairs. I stood in the bedroom doorway while two of them held her down and swabbed her nose and throat. She struggled wildly, then went so still I wondered if they had killed her. I moved to stop them, but one of the guards pushed me against the wall with his baton. I stared into my own face reflected in the silver of his mask and wondered if they intentionally designed the respirators to look evil. After they left I sat and held Molly’s hand. She was sobbing and coughing but eventually fell asleep. I sat a long time thinking. The incident had reminded me of something. Finally, I remembered. When I was sixteen I spent a summer on a Montana ranch. One frigid morning, the rancher told me they were going to geld the male calves to make them into steers. The terrified animals were herded into a corral where a bunch of local boys stood waiting. One would throw a rope around a calf and throw it, then another two jumped on it to pin it down. The rancher came over, squatted down and expertly slit its crotch with a curved blade. He yanked out the stringy testicles and dropped them steaming into a bucket, then cauterized the wound with the electric prod dangling from his belt. Throughout the ordeal, the animals invariably were stunned to silence.

Saturday, September 26

The first of the leaves falling. It’s more than a month since they took Molly away. The guard has been by twice a week to draw my blood and make sure I’m not infected. I must be in the clear since they haven’t been back in at least ten days. I found my journal under a pile of old clothes and read back through the entries. I was almost done by the time I realized I was weeping. I know now that my wife is dead. Somehow I am still alive. Why?

Sunday, September 27

I’ve always thought of a journal as a series of letters to a future version of myself. By continuing to write entries, I therefore assert my belief that such an individual will exist, that I will survive all this. That it will mean something. Right now, I don’t know if any of that is true. The day outside looks the same as any other, save for the lack of people and cars. There are more birds and the occasional feral cat passing by my window. But there are also the armored Humvees that deliver the weekly ration boxes, men in camouflage suits with the wicked mirrored respirators and weapons at the ready. Once or twice I’ve heard the distant exchange of gunfire. I am alone in every way, and I don’t know if I want to live in such a world as this. I lack the conviction for either suicide or survival. It is a true dilemma.

Tuesday, October 6

This morning I saw myself in the mirror while changing clothes, so thin I resembled one of those photos of Holocaust survivors. It shamed me. Those people endured. I can too. I have decided to keep living, so I resume writing to my future self. Tell me, how does this turn out?

Wednesday, October 7

The power went off this morning. I wondered if it was permanent until an N.G.Humvee drove by. They don’t leave notes anymore, instead playing recorded messages through loudspeakers mounted on the roof. Usually it’s something about how the infection is almost over, how the president has done this or that. Today I was informed that to conserve resources we will now be allotted two hours of electricity per day. Our time is from ten AM to noon. Nothing about the other utilities.

Friday, October 8

Spent the day cleaning. I waited until 10 to vacuum, then spent the full two hours of power trying to fix the damned belt. I’ll try again tomorrow.

Sunday, October 10

Gave up on the vacuum and swept instead. Interesting thing. We’ve not had a dog since I gave Jounce away back in February, but there’s still an amazing amount of dog hair. everywhere, great balls of the stuff. I didn’t think of the dog at all while I swept it up, detached as if I was cleaning the house of a stranger. I also found Molly’s favorite Tiffany earring which she lost two years ago after a New Year’s party. Like the dog hair, it elicited no nostalgia in me at all, no feelings of any kind. I put the earring and the sweepings in a garbage bag and set it on the pile out back. I guess my heart is now officially sealed over.

Wednesday, October 15

The cleaning project is over. I wound up taking everything upstairs except the books and couch. It made quite a pile, filling the bedrooms and hall completely. No need to go up there ever again. I have blankets enough to stay warm, and a dresser full of durable clothes. I’m so glad I put in a gas water heater because hot showers are my one enduring luxury, though I imagine my consumption will eventually be noticed by the utility companies.

Sunday, October 18

A big storm blew through last night, the wind shrieking across the rooftops and ripping the bright autumn leaves from the trees. I woke to bare branches and streets covered with debris. One of the plywood sheets on the Crowder’s came off, leaving the black window behind. It looks like the house is winking at me. I was never a churchgoer, so Sundays aren’t special to me. I wonder how religious people are coping with this. Maybe they believe God is everywhere. I can’t see how they can now.

Monday, October 26

Kendra’s birthday. I came close to getting out her senior picture this morning, but decided against it. Best let sleeping dogs lie. When she was killed that horrible summer so long ago I never expected that I would look at the accident as a blessing. It is only because she and Molly are both gone that I can resign myself to this, whatever this is.

Wednesday, November 4

Frost came early this year. The Guard has been late with their ration boxes again. I’m sure sick of beans.

Wednesday, November 11

I’m not sure why I keep this journal up. When all this started I had ideas of how it would be, but none of it seems to matter. Every day is the same, so why even bother? But today I thought I’d write an entry because it’s Armistice Day. I’ve always called it that since I read Kurt Vonnegut as a kid. He thought it was more sacred than Veterans’ Day because when he was young most people believed that World War One really had ended all wars. I wish I could tell old Kurt that now finally managed to really do that, but not the way he hoped.

Thursday, December 17

Bulldozers have been through the neighborhood knocking down all the Red Flag houses and putting the wreckage into dump trucks and carting it away. The crews aren’t National Guard, but civilian workers in bright green suits with full respirators attached to their hard hats. It looks like my house is one of three left on the block. Interesting that they’re leaving the trees, as though someday they’ll build again.

Sunday, December 20

It’s been so long since I heard anything other than the loudspeaker announcements. I keep thinking I’ll drag out the record player, but I just don’t have the energy. I don’t even talk to myself.

Friday, December 25th

My grandmother told me that when she was little they draped all the mirrors in the house in black fabric whenever somebody died. I’d planned on doing that with the holidays, shrouding them and walking past without looking, but was astonished when I opened the front door to find not the usual Guard ration box but a Dean & Deluca holiday basket containing a tin of smoked turkey, several boxes of crackers, chocolate, hard candy, cans of Danish Cheese, and even a canned Virginia Ham. Best of all was an unopened fifth of Johnny Walker Red. I never was much of a drinker, but I went right away to get a glass from the kitchen and poured myself a generous knock and took it right down, feeling the delicious warmth spread through me like the fountain of youth. I had some crackers and cheese and a bit of the ham. It’s salted and should last a few days. The kitchen is almost as cold as a refrigerator anyway. I have no idea who left this treasure for me, but God bless you.

Friday, January 1

I should mention that there were no elections last year. That should be obvious to the reader, assuming history is still being written. From my window I can see the enormous billboard of his face superimposed against an American flag that towers over what’s left of this neighborhood. The loudspeakers now broadcast in the president’s voice.

Monday, January 18

Fever these past two weeks. It broke last night. My chest feels like a horse is standing on it, but I can somewhat breathe now.

Tuesday, January 19

Perhaps I am going live after all.

What a fool is a man who inquires,

"Where can I find happiness?"

As his child slumbers in his arms,

Yet we are all dense, hypocrites,

For who among us ages untainted?

Blame entertains two parties minimum,

We often hold the antidote; truth

Yet most let it spoil, sit unused,

Unwilling to waiver infectious appetite,

Truth sets free only those who seek,

Habitual creatures scurry deeper,

Quaffing toxins, fantasies ruminated,

Knowledge scours blinding hot,

Searing throes, but begetting sage wights,

Muscle accrued moiling limits,

Pressure induces reform,

Holding back increases tension,

Though forsaken, verity will ascent victor.

I told 'em life is pain, and I've got the cure.

Life is pain and I've got the cure.

It's nine millimeters wide,

Make's a racket that's hard to ignore.

They say it ain't so bad, you'd best be sure.

It ain't so bad, you'd best be sure.

I said the devil's got few friends,

Might as well give him one more.

Then they'll out me in the cold hard ground.

Then they'll put me in the cold hard ground.

And maybe things will get better,

But I won't know if I'm not around.

Years of aspirations I'll have killed.

Years of aspirations I'll have killed.

And all in the flash

Of a nine-millimeter pain pill.

Don’t breathe.

Don’t touch.

Don’t move too much.

Sit still,

don’t mind,

halting mankind.

Don’t look.

Don’t talk.

Be careful where you walk.

Don’t you know?

Can’t you see?

Don’t fucking contaminate me.

Keep your distance.

Shut it down.

Close the god damn town.

Be proactive,

not reactive,

the mother fucking air is radioactive.