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Nuclear Winter

Nuclear winter after the blast, not such a deterrent after its use. It was not as heroic as one might think, or as attractive as a woman, young and firm, her legs spread by a pristine lake, waiting for her partner to come. No, to the man who pushed the button it was petty and shallow at best, while the rest died fast, slow, or at least wanted too.

But Ed lived. A new forager of wilderness, he took to the scorched woods, hoping to poach upon the breathing animals he'd bring to rest. He had no ammo, nor no gun, but he'd found a hatchet lying on the ground, in a lonely basement, left lying amongst the radioactive dust. Most animals and vegetation had died, but Ed knew if he was persistent, he would come upon a stretch of earth consistent in its abundance, virginal, its legs closed, for it'd be untouched by the phallic bombs from war. Such a place was not a myth, it must exist, else it's the all-over, and Ed had been left behind as a witness to see, the death and destruction humans loved to wreak. And reek still with a weapon in his hand, when Ed came upon a doe and struck her down. A former teacher of letters, Ed found it poetic, when he sliced her open for her meat. "The earth cannot be dead," Ed whispered, blood dripping down his chin, "for there are things left to rape and harm, and all so I can eat still."

Story by:

P. Keith Boran

pkboran@olemiss.edu

8 February 2013