Due to the underlying factor that to explain the majority of the plot would be to spoil the richness and complexity of the story that you're about to read, I'm planning on keeping this brief. (Not to mention that this idea only popped into my head multiple minutes ago, but now that it's here, well, it's here. It's present. And I'll be romanticizing the plot such that it appears lovely, which hopefully the story WILL turn out lovely, but yeah. Lovely.)

It's December, if I'm not mistaken, and a lot of people have chosen to do the Instagram challenges and whatnot, so I decided to make my own. :] I'll call it, uh, I actually didn't think that far ahead. Jingle Jive? Winter Writing? That doesn't sound pleasant. Snowwrimo! Snowwrimo. Anybody can participate. 

The only rules are that there must be at least 50 pages, with 2 pages or more written per day, and the event will occur up to Christmas. Or the end of December, I haven't thought that through. It can be ANYTHING you'd like to write about- Poetry, fanfiction, autobiography, you name it, you can write it; preferentially, it should be holiday related, but whatever floats your goat.

But...anyways, there are 3 details about the plot that are crucial, to which I'm going to save them now in order to prevent any confusion.

1. This is occurring in the modern world.

2. All characters are entirely fictitious; the locations used are real.

3. The events in the story are entirely fictitious; the story is going to be classified as Fiction.

It's important to note that this is my original work, to which I'm my own writer and editor; hopefully, after this challenge ends, I can go back and tweak it, but in the 20 minutes that I've been pondering, I believe I have a plot in mind.

Thanks,

Zebrasnooks

My Dearest Diary,

As of this specified moment of time, we are living in an apocalyptic world.

My goodness, is it dystopian.

The typical smooth, crooning voice of the radio has been dulled to a persistent (and rather irritating) static; President Trump issued a nationwide emergency. I've been hiding for what has felt like a century, feasting upon saltine crackers and polluted water bottles: nobody knows. At least, technically, if we're making the assumption that you don't count.

Of course, I beg to differ on such a statement. You've listened to my anecdotes! Why, all of my research has been documented with you! They've said I'm going mad, running away and trying to make a man of myself, and the truth is, how could I not? Hah, humbug! When your bacteria to heal the democratic nominee's pneumonia mutates into the very virus causing the apocalypse, how could I not? How could I not? And that, chipper diary, is my point; how could I not?

After all, you're my only friend! My only friend! Not to mention you're the only fellow who knows of the predicament I've caused in the political system- the predicament that led to the predicament that led to THE predicament, that led to another predicament that led to yet another predicament, resulting in the election. And that caused a predicament leading to the predicament, that caused this predicament to seal our doom. Oh, how my sanity amuses me.

What a predicament.

Best regards, 

E. Finnegan of Harvard University

A fine barrier so 

concealed 

and sly,

Eavesdrops a newborn's 

mordant lullaby

Near half-empty 

cradles spattered in gin

A treacherous howl 

calling Himself

"Sin,"

His footsteps prominent;

addressing His mourn

Each sound with a

whisper

reluctant and torn

But hushed voices wail

how infancy repents

while Sin doubts the yonder 

Mumbling of past gents