THE DAY AFTER….

26 Nov

 

The clown competition had been hotly contested...

So….

                Tensions between North and South Korea have heated up once again. An exchange of artillery shells has reignited conflict, fanning the flames of the already  volatile eastern powder keg. Safe behind my computer I watch from the barricades, helmet on head, as Koreans thousands of miles away blast the hell out of barely inhabited islands and carve gaping shell holes in oceans with American bought munitions. The cries for restraint are muted by the sounds of rattling sabres, the screamed nationalistic rhetoric polarized by firebrand headlines. The world is once again on the brink of war. I shake my head, close my computer and head for bed hopeful that tomorrow will bring a better day, optimistic that during the night calmer voices will prevail.

                With a head full of half-forgotten dreams, the taste of residual turkey in my mouth I make my way down the stairs after spending a peaceful night. Looking around the kitchen I can’t believe my eyes. Clearly during my sleeping hours the war has escalated. Rather than appealing for calm the diplomats have failed and war has ensued. The rocket attacks and sea borne artillery have taken their toll and the aggrieved parties have exacted their revenge. Clearly one of the cruise missiles meant to destroy down- town Pyongyang had deviated from its course and landed in my own back yard.

Thes size of Mr.Jones Thanksgiving vegetables was breathtaking.

The kitchen is a waste land of dented tins, ripped aluminum foil and soiled ceramic. The remains of one of last night’s victims lays quite dead on what used to be the counter top, bones jutting from its desiccated carcass, the last of its seared flesh clinging to its bones. An apple pie which has clearly seen a direct hit lies abandoned with a perfect triangular wedge cut out of it where one of the missiles fins sliced through it as it crashed into the house. Strange that amongst the empty bottles, the half-filled bleeding wine glasses, that this apple-edifice should stand out; an unintentional artistic statement in an otherwise smoking post-apocalyptic world. One of the faucets drips steadily. A plate which once held a celebration dinner oozes its gruesome abandoned load onto the tiled floor. The eastern war is so far away and yet so very close to home.

The shortage of body bags called for some quick thinking

Like Dunkirk beaches the detritus of a retreating army covers every flat service, evidence of hard fought conflict strewn across every table. Uneaten biscuits float in the sink bobbing up and down like drowned soldiers. Heroes who barely made it off the landing craft, their sacrifice remembered only in kitchen refuse.

On the couch lay two of last night’s victims. Both are wrapped in body bags their arms outstretched, their legs twisted in the hideous rictus of perpetual rest. One of the corpses appears to still be fighting for life as evidenced by the nasal cacophony rumbling from beneath the blanket. I should be thankful for small mercies I suppose that at least one of them made it through the Thanksgiving massacre

The TV is still on, however now a screen of static greets me instead of the light hearted comedy show we had watched the night before. The EMP from the blast has no doubt fried the electronics and left me bereft of all corporate-sponsored contact. But what to do? How does one recover from such utter devastation? I can almost hear the drone of retreating bombers, their bomb-bays void after releasing their deadly load, flying home to the fatherland. I stand in the metaphorical dust between the beams and broken stones of my own personal Coventry Cathedral and ring my hands  in pathetic apathy.

As per usual the instructions for the turkey-fryer had been in Chinese.

 

 I think about spray-painting a message for help in giant yellow letters on the roof of my house in the hope that the rescue helicopters will find me, however decide against this as the home-owners association will probably frown on this and send me more unsolicited hate mail. Unable to assuage my survivors guilt I reach for the kettle, shake the contents and find there is still one last cupful of potable water inside. I put it on the stove and brew myself a soul restoring cup of tea. Life must go on. I should be thankful that I made it through the night. Now there’s just Christmas to contend with!

Mr Sanchez couldn't understand why the HOA rejected his plans for a second garage.

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