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Skies of Fire Preview written by Lindsey Pogue

​AVA​

Chapter 1

​

I run through my mental checklist of to-dos before my second shift, but it’s suddenly forgotten the moment I see Lars through the diner window. He has new tattoos, apparently. They creep up his neck and disappear into the fringe of his greasy black hair, and he wears his holey Hill Country Militia t-shirt like it’s a badge of honor.

​

I don’t know if the plastic cup in my hand is actually dry before I set it aside and pick up the next one. Idly, I wipe it down, too fixated on whether Lars plans to enter the diner with his band of thugs trailing behind him. They’re a ragtag crew of cretins, and having gone to school with most of them, I know they only look terrifying. Lars, on the other hand, has always set my teeth on edge.

​

Leroy, a daily morning patron, clears his throat a few stools down, but I barely notice, too transfixed by the scene out the window. The tension leaves my shoulders as the guys pass the diner, headed for Lars’s old Dodge across the street. Good. It’s too early in the day to deal with their hostility.

​

Smoke billows from Lars’s mouth as he opens the driver’s side door, takes a final drag from his cigarette, and flicks it toward a passing car. His eyes narrow on the diner window, though, and I hold my breath. He sees me. The devilish upturn of his mouth tells me as much, but after a few heartbeats, he looks away.

​

I exhale only to grab the countertop as a familiar floor-shaking rumble fills the diner. The lights start swinging above the tables, rattling as the entire building trembles. But it’s not a tremor this time. It’s a low-flying Osprey, the first flight of many that will pass over us today.

As always, my eyes shift to the crack creeping farther up the wall. It grows bigger with every earthquake and thundering aircraft.

​

“Excuse me?”

​

I glance at a patron in the nearest booth, peering at me over the brim of his glasses.

​

“Can I get the check, please?” There’s a tinge of irritation like this isn’t the first time he’s tried to get my attention, but he says it kindly all the same.

​

“Of course.” Wiping the sweat from my brow, I flash him an apologetic smile and hurry over. “Sorry about that.” He nods as I slip his ticket onto the table and collect his syrup-covered plate and empty juice glass. “Let me know if you need change.” The patron opens his wallet, and I head for the kitchen to discard the dirty dishes.

​

Like most morning shifts at Bev’s, I’m on autopilot. Today, however, I’m foggier than usual. Probably because I barely slept last night, looking after Mavey. And I didn’t sleep a lick the night before that, wondering if Mitch and that temper of his might turn up again outside my house. It was only a matter of time before he went on another bender and trekked all the way to the trailer park to unleash his verbal wrath on me for all the neighbors to hear.

​

I set the dirty plate and glass in the tub inside the kitchen for Felix to add to his dish duty. He doesn’t even notice as he drums his index fingers against the lip of the sink, rocking out to whatever noise blares in his earbuds. “Working hard, per usual,” I mutter. 

​

Pulling my vibrating phone from my back pocket, I pray it’s not hospice calling with an emergency, but I’m only slightly relieved when I see an emergency alert.

 

Use caution on roads due to increased seismic activity. Stay indoors if possible.

 

Yeah, right.

​

It’s only one of a dozen alerts I’ll receive today, and I ignore it like I do every day. Do they really think people have the luxury of staying home and hunkering down for eternity? If I listened to every alert, I’d have been indoors since I was five, never seeing the sun.

​

Exhaling the heaviness I can’t seem to shake these days, I escape the kitchen’s heat. I could remind Bev that there must be labor laws about making us work in what will undoubtedly become sweltering conditions by noon, but I know she doesn’t keep the air off because she’s cheap. All we need is another rolling blackout; the entire diner would have to shut down, and neither of us can afford that. She has three kids to put through school, and I—well, I have Mavey to worry about. Resolved to deal with the heat, like most summer days, I tighten my ponytail higher atop my head to give my neck a breather.

​

The door dings as I step back behind the counter. A woman shuffles inside and peers around the diner. She’s one of a few homeless regulars.

Bev spots her immediately and slips a patron’s ticket onto his table with a thank you before addressing the woman. Her greasy blonde waves are pulled back, accentuating her gaunt face. I remember her, back when her cheeks were fuller and her jeans didn’t hang off her body the way they do now. I know the shameful burn of hunger, how it erodes the pit of your stomach, and I empathize with the woman as much as I applaud her courage coming in here. Especially when half the jobs in Texas have withered away, just like spring has.

​

I continue wiping down the counter from the morning rush. The butter packets are already melting in their dishes. It’s only a matter of time until they resemble Bev’s potato soup, so I stick them in the small refrigerator beneath the counter.

​

“It’s not just the coastal cities that should be concerned, though,” a man says on the television. I glance at Tom, another regular sitting in the middle booth, where he sips his third cup of coffee for the morning. He sets the remote down on the edge of the table, his eyes fixed on the screen.

​

“The increased seismic activity throughout the entire country is a glaring indicator that the time has finally come,” the interviewee continues matter-of-factly. He’s yet another scientist, sitting across from Maryann Climmons. She’s been the biggest name in the news world this side of the Mississippi, at least as long as I’ve been alive, and, well, she looks it. But lately, Maryann has become the face of every investigative report having anything to do with Gerty the asteroid and the surmounting effects she’s had on Earth since her debut.

​

“Which, to be fair,” Maryann counters, tilting her head expectantly, “many would say you’ve been claiming for years. In fact, while we’ve just marked Gertrude’s fifty-year anniversary, we’ve surpassed the nation’s debt ceiling, not by billions but by trillions of dollars because of decades of preparation.”

​

I glance down at my crumb-wiping and the coffee rings on the countertop. “Everything is theory until it happens, Ms. Climmons. The best we can do is prepare for when it does.” When I look up again, the scientist in the tweed suit pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Dr. Adriel Lightfoot, Southwest Environmental Research Specialist, flashes on the screen beneath him. “Scientists used to think something like Gertrude was improbable. They thought an asteroid would need to be much larger than six miles wide to do much damage to a moon over three hundred fifty times its size. They thought that if something did happen, life would cease to exist on Earth, or we’d fall into another ice age. Yet, here we are. The fact of the matter is, everything is an educated guess because that’s all we have.” Dr. Lightfoot pauses for effect. “People are so worried about accumulating debt, but if we aren’t as prepared for what’s coming as we can possibly be, we’re dead. Debt seems a small price to pay, given the alternative. And as morbid as it may be, it won’t matter how in debt we are if extinction is how this ends.”

​

On cue, the lights in the news station flicker, and Dr. Lightfoot points to his glass of rippling water, his tanned features narrowing. “Each tremor—each quake and unnatural surge of water—is a chain reaction. Life on this planet is precarious. There’s a balance, and that balance has been shifting for years. As unpredictable as things are now, it will get far worse. The future is here and it doesn’t care about debt.”

​

Maryann has the decency to look slightly more humbled as Dr. Lightfoot crosses his legs. He looks as if he’s settling in for a story. “You seek more proof?” he continues. “It’s in the numbers—in New York’s scramble for sandbags during last year’s unprecedented monsoon and the parts of Florida buried in snow the past three winters. This week alone, entire communities along the Gulf of Mexico are being relocated. We’ve already had record flooding, so it’s not some radical conspiracy—these things are happening. These things are not hypothetical. So do we continue to squabble over money or do we continue to prepare for the inevitable? Because the one thing all scientists have been able to agree on since Gerty hit is that life on this planet is forever changed, and if people aren’t prepared for it by this point, it’s their own fault.”

​

I roll my eyes. Not because I don’t believe Dr. Lightfoot and the many scientists who have come before him, but because not all of us have the time and money to pour into preparations; not all of us can be preppers when we’re simply trying to survive as it is.

​

“Christ.” Leroy grumbles my shared sentiment from his stool. “Turn that shit off, would you?” He glowers at the television. “Just another Moon Maniac posing as a scientist.” The wrinkles around Leroy’s tired brown eyes deepen, and he rubs his stubbled chin. Unlike him, I don’t remember life before Gerty hit the moon, so the Moonies, preppers, and doomsday scientists are all I’ve ever known.

​

The shift of the moon’s orbit after the impact has been the topic of conversation and most headlines since I could read. Yes, the shift will eventually send humanity back into the caveman days. But the longer it takes, the less imminent it feels. Here we all are, years later, still scrimping to survive. It’s easy for climatologists to tell us to prepare for the end of the world that “will happen one day,” but actually doing it when every day is already a struggle is another matter entirely. It’s all most of us can do to make ends meet and get through the week with a semblance of sanity still intact.

​

I eye Leroy’s folded newspaper on the counter—Sutton County militias at an all-time high—then give him a sidelong look, sure he’s part of one because everyone is. Not only is this Texas, but everything here is falling to shit, more than most states, because of the influx of seismic activity over the years. Tourism is non-existent, and the people who can afford to leave have already fled. Those remaining are too stubborn to leave, no matter the cost, or are waiting for it to get worse before uprooting everything they’ve ever known. I’m neither, just someone stuck in this hellhole.

​

“More scare tactics,” Leroy grumbles. “More hypocritical bullshit.” I don’t typically agree with the grumpy old man about much of anything. He’s constantly muttering and cursing at the world, but I find my attitude is oddly similar this morning, which means the world really is ending.

I pull out my notepad and clear my throat. “Breakfast?”

​

He meets my gaze, something he rarely does because his best friend is Mitch Bennett, and it’s no secret Mitch wants me to crawl back into whatever hovel he thinks I came out of.

​

“You know,” Leroy starts, ignoring the notepad in my hand, “when this shit happened back in ‘73, it took years for the chaos to die down.” He gulps the last of his coffee and runs his bottom teeth over his graying mustache. “People hoarding food and water, abandoning their jobs and disrupting supply and demand—the economy still hasn’t recovered. And don’t get me started on those sons of bitches looting my gun shop. It’s not like we’re in for the zombie apocalypse! All this talk is doing is stirring shit up again. And all of those prep facilities, evacuation centers, and water treatment plants the government is pumping money into—where are they at? Cause they ain’t here.”

​

I don’t know what it’s like in big cities, but here, in Texas, towns are bled dry by the military, and our roads are nearly too pitted to drive on from years of neglect, so again, it’s hard to argue with the old coot. 

​

I rest my hip against the counter. “So, no breakfast today, then?”

​

Leroy is about to respond when the door dings again.

​

Dread fills me the instant I look up. “Fuck,” I rasp as Mitch Bennett steps inside. The ease of the diner siphons away, and my stomach roils.

Mitch rarely comes to the café. So why today, of all days, when I’m already an exhausted mess, is he here? He glances around as I refill Leroy’s coffee mug. I don’t want to be standing here when he sits down.

​

Shoving the coffee on the warmer, I turn back to Leroy. He scratches his jaw, perusing the daily specials written on the wall. “Get me a fried egg sandwich on wheat.” I’m about to turn away as Mitch approaches. “Oh!” Leroy growls. “And bring me some of that Tapatío I know Bev has back there somewhere. None of that Cholula shit.”

​

I busy myself, scribbling Leroy’s order down as I scan the room for Bev, praying she notices Mitch so she can deal with him while I take an extended break. But she’s still in the back, getting food for the homeless woman, completely unaware of our newest patron.

Panic, hot and loathsome, flushes through me as I brace myself.

​

Two nights ago, when I saw Mitch, he was in a drunken rage outside my trailer, cursing my existence and waking Mavey from her medically-induced sleep. And that will continue to be my reality until I can finally get away from this town because the cops won’t do anything other than drive him home when he gets like that. The Bennett family is untouchable—they are a legacy in Sonora. And Mitch isn’t only the patriarch, his reputation as the biggest asshole in the state of Texas precedes him, and those two things combined give him a free pass for just about everything.

​

Turning my back to the counter, I clip Leroy’s order to the carousel. I gather what little politeness I can muster, inhale a deep breath, grip my pen until it’s biting into my hand, and turn around to face Mitch as he pulls out a stool beside Leroy.

​

Mitch’s dark eyes meet mine before he shakes his friend’s hand. He’s in Wranglers and his typical Bennett Family Ranch t-shirt—not a single wrinkle or sweat stain, though I’m sure he’s been up for hours.

​

For a man in his sixties, he’s terrifying—tall with salt-and-pepper hair that pokes out from beneath his hat, broad shoulders, and the same menacing glare his son Knox inherited. But I don’t show my fear, I refuse to—I don’t even blink. Instead, I stare right back at him, pen poised on my ticket pad.

​

Mitch removes his Stetson, setting it on the counter beside him, and his cloying aftershave wafts toward me. His gaze, dark as coal, shifts to me again, hard and unrelenting.

​

Generally, I have no problem throwing shade back at people who disrespect me—who try to intimidate and bully me. But Mitch is different. He has been the exception to every hard and fast rule I’ve adopted over the years in order to look out for myself: give no shits, and never be someone else’s punching bag. But deep down, part of me can’t blame him for hating me. His reason for being angry at the world is valid, and though I know it’s not my fault, I’m tied to his past whether I want to be or not.

​

He taps his blunt finger on the countertop, silently commanding a cup of coffee.

​

Glad he’s refraining from further unpleasantries, I tuck my notepad into my apron and flip a clean mug up from the stack to set on the counter. With surprisingly steady hands, I fill his mug to the brim.

​

“Where’s that boy of yours?” Leroy asks, but I don’t wait to hear what they say next as I set the coffee back on the warmer and push the kitchen door open, disappearing into the back. My hands are clammy, and I can feel sweat thickening on my brow.

​

“I’m taking ten,” I call over my shoulder, though Felix is too busy air drumming, and the cooks probably can’t hear me over the ventilation fans and sizzling griddle.

​

Grabbing my messenger bag from the hook near Bev’s office, I hurry out the back door and into the sunny morning. It’s barely eight a.m., but the dry heat is already suffocating.

​

A gust of hot wind swirls around me, tugging at my ponytail as a plastic bag flies out of the dumpster and plasters itself against my leg. Only half aware, I peel it off, my pulse pounding far too quickly for comfort as my feet begin to tingle.

​

“No—no. Not now,” I groan. Mitch always makes me uncomfortable, but this is different.

​

Hurrying to the rickety picnic bench by an ash tree, I frantically search my bag for my meds. When I hear the pills rattling around, I allow myself a bit of relief. Popping one into my mouth, I pull the water bottle from my bag, take a gulp, and then another, washing the pill down. It’s already too late, I know that, but maybe I won’t be a complete zombie when it’s over, so I can make my afternoon shift at the farm store.

​

As my entire body prickles with unease and sweat breaks over my skin, I fumble to untie my apron, pull it over my head, and ball it up to use as a pillow. Leaning my head down, I wait for the chills to spread and the world to fade to black.

Waves of Fury Preview written by K Webster

KELLEN

Chapter 1
 

It’s the end of the world today.

​

At least that’s what the glossy, smiling daily morning show host says in between giving us healthy Keto-friendly recipes and the latest celebrity gossip, followed by an “important” commercial break about dishwashing detergent.

​

I’ve lived my entire life waiting for the world to end. And each day, I’m still here, nothing catastrophically erasing my existence from my self-made prison.

​

Some men would kill to be in my so-called cell. A tower in the heart of the San Francisco Financial District overlooking the glittery bay that’s dotted with boats of all shapes and sizes. My office is bigger than some people’s homes—a wide corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows offering the best views in the bay area.

​

And yet, it still feels lacking.

​

My entire life is underwhelming and boring despite my perceived success.

​

I’m drawn back to the TV that hangs on one solid wall in my office. The news is back on with reports of seismic activity in the Yellowstone area. Though it’s not uncommon, it’s garnered the attention of national news, which means the moon maniacs or moonies will load up their RVs and head to the source of the action.

​

Pathetic.

​

Unlike the moonies, I sit firmly in the other camp. Skeptics. My earliest memory is of my mother telling me stories of how the big asteroid named Gertrude hit the moon back in the summer of ’73. She’d told me the repercussions of the damages to our gravitational pull would be felt for years to come, ultimately taking out the Earth and all its life with it.

​

I’m forty now. Still waiting on the supposed apocalypse.

​

“…and the White House urges everyone to remain calm. Don’t panic buy toilet paper like you all did in 2020.” The newswoman chuckles and waggles a finger at her cohost. “I’m looking at you, Ted.”

​

I take notice of the “special alert” ribbon running across the bottom of the screen.

 

Austin, TX and Shreveport, LA both experienced moderate earthquakes in the early hours of the morning. No injuries reported. Some damages to roads and buildings. Austin reported 5.3 and Shreveport reported 5.9 magnitudes.

 

Thoughts of Texas bring images of my brother to mind. Little Knox. Well, at twenty-eight, he’s obviously not so little anymore, especially after a decade of working the ranch with Dad.

​

I miss Knox. Miss what we could have had if our father weren’t such a cruel prick whom I couldn’t get away from fast enough.

​

Austin isn’t the only city in Texas to be having their fair share of unusual activity. The entire state has had alarming, abnormal seismic activity. Internet reports have been claiming that dormant volcanoes are coming back to life—stemming from Yellowstone’s super volcano activity—which is something they’ve been continually monitoring. But volcanoes in Texas? Sounds a bit far-fetched and reaching to me. I still haven’t concluded whether or not the reports came from moonies or not.

​

If Knox were in trouble, though, he’d call me.

​

Right?

​

He would. I know he would.

​

“Kellen?” Frannie chirps as she enters my office. “Me, Hope, and Gerry are ordering from that new fish place on Pier 15. You want me to grab you something?”

​

Drawing my attention from my bleak mood, I glance up at her, offering her a stiff smile. “I’m fine. I’ll probably just order my Friday usual.”

She smirks, shaking her head. “Keep eating those meatball subs and you’re going to start looking like me.” Her hand pats her round stomach and she cackles. “If only life were that fair. You’ll probably always be a beefcake.”

​

This earns her an actual smile from me. Frannie is my closest thing to a friend. Sure, I pay her to be there for me, always checking in on me and making sure my life runs smoothly, but I’ve come to care for her. Though she flirts as though it comes as naturally as breathing, she’s happily married to a retired cop. Ron and Frannie have even managed to drag me out to a football game or two since I’ve known them.

​

As soon as she leaves, the warmth she brought in with her evaporates. An uneasy chill skitters down my spine. It’s not unusual for me to be in a gloomy mood, but I’m not one for ever feeling anxious. At least, not anymore. Not since I left Texas a decade ago.

​

My phone beeps in my pocket and I pull it out to read the nationwide weather alert.

​

Monster tornado wrecks Baltimore without warning.

​

I frown at the alert. Seismic activity at Yellowstone, two earthquakes, and a monster tornado on the same day. The twisting in my gut tightens.

The doomsday evangelists and moonies will have a field day with this. One side will be predicting four horsemen with trumpets and the other side will put on their helmets, waiting for rocks and other debris to pelt them from space as they blabber on about how “they’ve been warning us for fifty years.” Both will preach that it’s the end.

​

Death is imminent.

​

Or so they say.

​

A sick tendril of wonder weaves itself in my mind. What does Dad think of all this? I’m sure the great Mitch Bennett would have a helluva lot to say about the matter. He always was a lot more practical when it came to things like this with incredible instincts and actionable advice. It’s a shame that after Mom died, his already heavy hand became unbearable and his hateful words finally sent me over the edge that drove me to California. Without Mom’s interference, there was no way I could have stayed.

​

And you left Little Knox there with that bastard all those years ago…

​

I didn’t want to run—and running is exactly what I did—but with losing Mom, Dad’s always mounting disappointment that’d turned into such crushing cruelty, and the way Knox looked up to me like I had all the answers, it was too much. Knox was turning into a man. Surely he didn’t need me. Not that I would’ve been useful to him anyway while dodging Dad’s wrath.

​

Escape was crucial for my own survival. Unfortunately, my brother was on his own.

​

Needing to move and escape the depressing thoughts swimming around in my head, I stalk over to a wall of windows in my office. There are darkening clouds in the distance, signaling a pending thunderstorm. San Francisco sees its fair share of rain year-round, so it’s not concerning. However, after hearing several strange weather accounts this late morning, the dark clouds are ominous.

​

Get a grip, man.

​

Obsessively watching the news and pacing the office won’t calm my spiraling thoughts. A hefty glass of bourbon could, but it’s not even noon. Unfortunately, the only thing that’s got me through life in the past decade on my own is work.

​

SF Freedom Acquisition has been the buoy that’s kept me from drowning from feelings of failure, of abandoning my brother, disappointing my father in more ways than one, and the tragic and utterly gutting loss of my mother. It’s typically the only time I can find a reprieve inside my head, filling it with reports and clients and companies to buy or sell rather than heavy memories from my past. I’d even thrown in the word “freedom” when choosing a name for my company because it represented the release of my father’s clawing hold on me.

​

I don’t feel so free now.

​

I still feel like the vulnerable young guy all those years ago, waiting for the back of Dad’s hand to strike me across my face like he could smack the gay right out of me. Most days, I think he did because a few closed-door, drunken hookups over the past ten years were the only glimpse of the guy who attempted to come out of a closet in conservative bumfuck of Texas. No relationships or friendships. No parades or rainbows. Just me. Alone. Always fucking alone.

​

Somehow, I manage to bury those thoughts and busy myself with checking emails. I’m a machine as I respond, only looking up when I feel eyes on me.

​

Not Frannie.

​

Kyle.

​

Kyle Upton is my COO. A young, good-looking guy with a ravenous hunger for success. If I didn’t own this company, I might fear for my own job. One day, he’s going to leave SFFA for a bigger fish that pays a whole lot more than what I can offer. He’s brilliant and a little too shrewd for his own good.

​

“Knock-knock, boss man,” he says, wearing a shit-eating grin as he motions for the television. “Can we talk about the Cincinnati office or are you waiting for an asteroid to hit Earth this time and take you out of your misery?”

​

Like I said. Astute. Observant as hell. Sometimes it makes my skin crawl. I can barely deal with my issues without someone else trying to sneak a peek as well.

​

“There is no Cincinnati office,” I say, tone clipped as I mute the TV.

​

With a shrug, he closes the door behind him. He then makes himself at home, settling in the chair across from my desk. “Not yet, Bennett, not yet.”

​

Not ever.

​

Cincinnati may as well be in China for all I care. If I were to open another office, and that’s a huge if, I sure as hell wouldn’t put it in Cincinnati of all places.

​

“What do you need?” I pin him with a no-nonsense stare. “I have a ton of emails to catch up on.”

​

“I was thinking about stealing Frannie. She just knows her shit, unlike Elise.” His brows pinch together. “Also, Elise’s voice grates on my nerves. Come on, man. Do me a solid.”

​

There’s no way in hell I’d ever give Frannie up.

​

Ever.

​

I’d give up the entire company and start over before letting her go off to help someone else. She is one of the very few people who understand me.

​

“Frannie stays. Why don’t you take this problem of yours downstairs to HR if she annoys you so much?”

​

He pretends to pout, making him look much younger than twenty-eight—the same age as my brother. “Because Barb is tired of seeing me. It’s not my fault all my assistants suck.”

​

Kyle, though really good at his job, is often impatient with people, not allowing them any room for error. He’s been through six assistants this year and we’re barely into the summer.

​

“Gerry seems to like Hope. Maybe you could ask her and Elise to swap places for a bit.” I turn my eyes back to my computer, quickly responding to an email I’d been waiting on.

​

“Have you seen Hope? Gerry likes her for a lot more than her skills.”

​

I ignore his crude remark. Hope is young, blond, polished. She also came with a stellar résumé where she’d worked as an executive level assistant at one of our competitors. His insinuation she was hired for her looks rather than her skills is a testament to why he can’t keep an assistant.

​

“As stimulating as this conversation is, Kyle, I don’t have time for this.” I let out a heavy, annoyed sigh. “Get with Frannie to schedule a meeting. I can give you my full attention then.”

​

His face reddens and his jaw clenches. I’ve probably pissed him off, but he’s acting like a brat and I really do not have time for it.

“I’ll figure it out, boss man,” he grumbles, rising to his feet. “Hope you remembered your helmet.”

​

I frown as he stalks out of my office. Helmet? Grabbing the remote, I hit the button to turn the sound back on. Sure enough, they’re interviewing an old-school moonie.

​

“…I’m ancient enough to remember the asteroid of ’73,” the white-haired man says, revealing yellow teeth as he grins. “Gerty scared the BLEEP out of everyone. But not me. It’s going to take a lot more than a motherBLEEPing asteroid to take me out. My ex-wife tried a time or two with a motherBLEEPing pillow over my head when I slept and I’m still here!”

​

“Back to you, Ted,” the young woman says with a tight smile.

​

“He sure was colorful,” Ted huffs out, eyes wide. “Props to our sound techs for saving little listening ears from that language. Children watch our show too, Mr. Moonie.”

​

The cohost laughs at Ted and then they easily breeze into discussing sports. If the world really were going to end today, I would like to think the news would be a lot more serious.

 

I abandon my email once more and swivel around in my desk chair. The storm clouds are no longer visible and I wonder if I imagined them before.

​

It’s possible.

​

I’m restless and my mind is going in too many directions.

​

Like how are Knox and Dad doing these days? Are their lives wrapped up around the ranch, raising livestock to sell for whatever profit they can while desperately trying to forget about the gaping hole Mom left when she died? My chest aches whenever I think about my mother. She was the sunshine in our cloudy world. She was our everything.

​

My thoughts bounce from my family to the state of Texas itself. The financial market in most of that region has bottomed out as people who can afford to migrate out west to safer lands. The seismic activity that increased over the years drove anyone with any sense out. Miraculously, the state I chose to move to has become one of the most profitable because it’s one of the safest, especially San Francisco, despite being a coastal city. It’s as though the rich can afford to keep the angry planet’s grumblings at bay by sheer will and stacks of cash made off the less fortunate.

I’m certainly one of those wealthy men, snatching property out from beneath those who struggle to make ends meet, to turn a profit by then selling it for an incredible profit to celebrities, billionaires, and politicians who can afford to purchase geographical safety.

My heart thumps hard in my chest and I don’t know if it’s the stress of my life weighing down on me or the caffeine. The third coffee I had this morning was probably one too many on an empty stomach. I’m so buzzed from caffeine that I wouldn’t be surprised if I started hearing colors soon too.

​

“Up next,” Ted says, “we have a few adorable animal TikToks to share with you. Ever seen a bunny wear a tutu, Marla? Prepare for cuteness overload after our break.”

​

On that note, I turn off the TV.

​

Maybe the world already ended and I’m in hell.

​

It’s the only explanation for my shitty life.

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