[Fiction] Dear Posse No. 1: The Speaking Shadows

I’m working on a serial fiction project. Each segment will be published here and on Patreon. It is available in full to Patreon supporters:

Dear Posse,

Posting this anonymously because I’m an idiot. I’m serious. I’m a grown-ass adult, I heard all the warnings, and I stared at the eclipse anyway. What’s worse: I even had those free handout protective cardboard glasses from Warby Parker at the mall.

I couldn’t help myself. I had to look.

Now the eclipse won’t end.

I think that’s my fault. I’m so sorry. I’m so stupid. I’ve doomed us all.

What’s the worst that could happen, I thought? I figured maybe I’d hurt my eyes a little. And I did. The spiking headache hasn’t stopped. Dark spots keep drifting through my vision. But there’s more I didn’t expect. The tree shadows won’t shut up. The moon laughs at me. The sun just keeps shrieking.

I think it’s the end of the world. Which sucks, because the day started off great. That nice lady ahead of me at Bean Traders bought my chai latte because the guy ahead of her bought her black coffee and then I covered the cost of a muffin and hot tea for the Duke nurse behind me.

I don’t think we’ll see many more muffins and lattes. And it’s all my fault.

She always said I was reckless. Irresponsible. I didn’t listen. Or, when I listened, I didn’t *hear* her. I was too much about me. My job. Not enough about her. Not enough about the kids.

Now I’m alone at the end of the world. It’s all my fault. Every bit of it.

Anyone know a good therapist I could talk to? Preferably one that does in-person during Armageddon. Not sure how much longer we’ll have internet, so Zoom calls and Facetime aren’t necessarily practical.

Also, should I wear my boy’s old hockey gear to the Teeter? If it’s Mad Max time, I feel like maybe I ought to dress the part when I go battling for the last roll of toilet paper.

I don’t own a gun. I’ll take the bowling ball.

Maybe these old-school headphones will block out the laughing moon and the shrieking sun. But the murmuring of the tree shadows – it’s like that’s coming from right inside my brain pan.

Again, I’m sorry, posse. I hope you can forgive me, even if I wouldn’t.