Copyright 2011 Steven Ballard
She never thought she'd forget the things she used to wish she could forget so often that she would regret not remembering them.
(part 1: winter)
"Tell me the story of the end of the world again. Please, Daddy?" she unfutilely pleaded.
"Okay, okay. So, where to begin...”
The world was virgin and new, hot from the still burning fires of its birth in the swirling rot of dead stars, tumultuous with the ires of not yet squelched rock and stone, a dark dizzy delirium serum readied for the possibilities of aeons of improbabilities. The skies were a stifling mix of smoke and ash, harsher than the harshest alcoholic womb; and forever it continued and went on until the seeds and inklings of life arose simultaneously serendipitously, of so many different types in so many different places attuned to so many different conditions.