The Tumult in The Ash

Henrietta lay prostrate on the floor of the cramped bunker, her eyes blinking a desperate, incoherent plea in Morse code. The heat was suffocating, and the ground was littered with scattered debris that had arrived in chunks of varying size once the second detonation had blown out the windows. Shards of glass stuck to Henrietta's skin like confetti squares; made their homes amongst flecks of dirt, and dried rivulets of an indistinguishable source.

It had been hours since the last shock wave left her swimming in her own head, sounds muffled as if she were thousands of feet below the Atlantic. Even the faint, dwindling light of the oil lamp nestled in the corner burnt her eyes as if she had opened them for the first time. Her bones shook to their very foundation, gently, and only enough as to leave her feeling numb.

She slowly moved her eyes in the direction of a blown out window. It was getting dark. She wondered if it was an illusion caused by the ash. She was hungry.

                     * * *

Henrietta found the strength to sit up, though it took a few moments until she could manage any semblance of stability. She began dusting herself of debris. A chill crept in from the shattered windows and met her flesh. She assumed that it was nighttime -- early morning perhaps. The absence of singing birds made it difficult to know.

She garnered her strength, and made it onto her feet. She wavered in position for a moment then ventured taking a step with her right foot. It was a small step, met with uncertainty, but it proved capable. Inch-by-inch, teetering as she went, she began to ascend what remained of the stairs.

                      * * *

A gentle breeze ran through the city streets, pushing the curtain of smoke as it traveled west. Henrietta could see the remnants of East 52nd street, though she could recognize none of it. Buildings big and small had been reduced to modest, uniform piles of smoldering brick and mortar. Paint had been stripped from the advertisements that once crowded the skyline, wood frames blistered and popped, revealing the sunken crevices beneath them.

The silence was oppressive, and in hearing nothing her mind manifested a choir of a locusts. They sang continuously, and miles away. She couldn't decide if their song alluded to life, or warned of death. She felt best not to trace its origin. Instead, she followed the fleeing vapor as it went deeper into the city.

                      * * *

As the smoke pushed forwards, Henrietta stayed on its tail. She would stop every so often to look upon empty cars, burst hydrants, and all other manner of things affected by the chaos. She had become numb to it, distanced herself through not conscious intent, and found it all very strange. Even still, it was unmoving. It felt very... alien.

With one last breath the wind cast away the last trace of the chalky veil, revealing the front of the Public Library, which, itself, stood as only two incomplete walls. No doubt it had taken a great deal of punishment in the initial wave of attacks. She had only come to recognize it by the miraculously untouched statue that stood before the entryway.

It was a gaudy piece of metalwork -- an example of an all-too-common freeform expression that lined almost every street in Big City America. It was meant to resemble a dozen pages being flipped, suspended in time, but Henrietta always thought it looked as though giant French fries were spilling onto the concrete from above.

The public remained very much split on the effectiveness of the piece, back when there had been a "public" of which to speak. She couldn't help but find herself attracted to it in that instance, however; it, too, was very alien. She sat at its base, and ran her fingers across its mildly tarnished surface.

The calm of the cicada choir faded, yielding to more explosions in the distance. They made their way closer, growing louder and more guttural. Henrietta grabbed hold of a metallic rim, seeking comfort in the one-sided embrace.

As she sat there, arms extended and crossed, her face pressed against the monolith, contempt grew in her heart. She would not be buried in the family plot, or in any plot for that matter. She would not earn her doctorate in Inter-species Linguistics, and therefore never get a grant in order to communicate with Dolphins. She would never find Atlantis, nor would she see the bottom of the ocean; never be lauded as a hero or a pioneer. She would never hear the pitter-patter of her children as they ran through the living room she'd always imagined having, lined with wood paneling and brass trimmings.

No. No, should some intelligent life ever descend unto the Earth, they would find her remains -- crumpled, clinging desperately to that fucking statue. Then they would find her shelter, and wonder to themselves what possessed her into leaving. She wouldn't even be able to explain herself to them. Even in that moment, alive as she was, she couldn't find the words.

     Even still, should some super race descend from the Heavens to find her remains, at least she hadn’t joined the rest of the fools seeking shelter inside of churches, mosques, or synagogues. Surely that would win her a small modicum of good will.

Maxwell and The Piecemeal Rooster

Maxwell sat with his back against the eastern wall of his living room. In his lap sat pieces of metal and other piecemeal trinkets, scattered and varied, and he attempted to arrange them in a meaningful way. He told himself he was working on something important, but really he was just tinkering. All he did these days was tinker. It kept him pre-occupied, and though his creations amounted to nothing more than monuments to his wasted time, he assured himself they bore more importance than that.

He never quite believed it, but he could hardly fault himself for trying.

Maxwell spoke when no one was around, as it was hard to feel ignored or forgotten that way. He could always hear his voice – his words that, too, bore little consequence in the grand scheme of things. Admittedly, Maxwell held only the most vague of interests in what he had to say. He'd already heard it all before, and knew every word as if it had sprung from his own mind only moments prior.

It wasn't until late into the evening that Maxwell completed his most recent work. It stood four inches from the ground, and held an awkward gaze with two differently colored buttons for eyes. It looked, as near as he could figure it, like a rooster. Only instead of feathers, it was covered in a plumage of silver paperclips. You had to squint in order to see the scotch-tape that held them all together, but even then Maxwell could not have cared less. It wasn't for showing off, any way.

Maxwell sat the rooster on a nearby hutch then backed away and stared at it with great scrutiny, almost expectantly. There, on the hutch, the sculpture sat still as could be. It looked into Maxwell's weary eyes, which themselves were brown and sad. They looked as if they desperately searched for the faintest sign of meaning in everything they saw.

Maxwell slowly melted back onto the floor, his gaze never breaking away from the rooster. He fell asleep in that position.

The next day, Maxwell woke to see the rooster staring down at him. It cocked its head curiously, and blinked several times. Maxwell, for lack of a better idea, mimicked the rooster's behavior. This, of course, caused the small aluminum bird to step in his direction. And so it did, to the very edge of the hutch, looking down at the ground as if to wager with it self whether or not to attempt jumping to the Berber carpet below. The rooster decided against it, and looked up lovingly at Maxwell with its mostly empty eyes.

Maxwell rose to his feet and took the rooster in his hands, coddling it as a mother would her baby. He sat back down in the corner, holding the rooster in his lap. It began to coo, and eventually the cooing formed words.

It told Maxwell everything he wanted to hear; every word of encouragement he felt could make his life seem worthwhile. It told him he was loved, missed and adored. It told him that all of his tinkering was adding up to something monumental. It told him that he was acting rightly, and that he always had, and that people were really drawn to that. Then, finally, it ended the pep talk by embracing his left thumb and index finger.

As the rooster cooed, Maxwell slowly forced his palms together, crushing and bending the little bird until it cooed no longer. He tossed the warped wire carcass across the room, where it landed atop a pile of other broken creations. He knew it was lying to him, and telling him only what he wanted to hear. It was, after all, a mechanical creation capable of performing only what it was designed to. Its words were empty, and they were words Maxwell had never even attempted to say to himself.

If he couldn't even muster the faith to think them himself, what good were the words coming from a rooster made of paperclips, buttons, and tape?