Tag Archives: snow

Please don’t let them purge us

Please, this just can’t be happening. Please just listen.

They took my neighbors four days ago. I don’t know how many others they took already, but they keep coming.

I’m from Furtwood, Alberta. We have at least four hundred people here, but there’s not much else around. If you look on the map, we’re just a few miles North of Pelican Lake and Northeast of the 813. But we’re being purged. I swear to God, we’re being purged. A month ago we were on Google Maps everything, but now we’re just gone. They’ve photoshopped the satellite image. Fucking hell, you can still see the beginning of the roads, but our town is just gone.

There were lights in the sky three weeks ago. Nothing really spectacular, but a lot of people here saw them. It was a formation like an arrow, at least twelve or so, but they were too far to see the shape of the individual ones. They flew by around 9pm and it was dark as hell and it’s freezing here, so there were not many people out, but they were bright and blinking, so some people saw them and told others and at least a hundred people saw them. There was even a discussion on our amateur radio channel, that it might be aliens or military and one of the guys on air said he was sure that he saw one of them going down; that one of the lights broke formation and went down.

We’re all scared. We’re so fucking scared. People don’t dare to admit anymore that they saw them, but before they came I talked to several of my neighbors and they all saw them. My sister called me from the other end of town when they were in the sky, her son had seen them. And now my sister’s family is missing too. Continue reading

On the Wire

I’m not the only one that remembers him.

Lisa too saw him, sitting there.

We were watching TV. I remember it was a Christmas special, two Indiana Jones movies and then something only for the adults. Lisa didn’t like Indy and the Nazis and when the screen turned black she laughed, at first.

Dad looked for a torch to go downstairs into the pitch-black basement. Mom found candles somewhere and put them up on the dinner table, but every time she turned around they went out again. Lisa and I just huddled on the couch and watched the snow outside.

Dad found the torch. He went downstairs, guided by that strangely round light of the torch. A flickering light.

“This thing is broken,” he said, while taking careful steps with every flicker.

When he was downstairs he called up for mom to bring a candle. Continue reading

First Snow

A hand reaches down, grabs a handful and throws it into my open mouth.

Cold. A crunchy, nearly sticky feeling. A taste like iron. Like blood.

The taste of snow is mostly the food residue and slime and bacteria and dead cells on your tongue.

I can still see every moment of that day. Play. Rewind. Slow motion. It’s all there, a movie, locked in my head for the rest of my life.

It snowed today. When I saw the first snowflakes, this morning, sitting in my car, I felt a shiver. Since then the tape keeps playing. Keeps rewinding. Keeps playing. Continue reading