Last In, First Out

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Yellow flakes spiraled down from above to settle on the city like the ash of some great holocaust. The yellowness that filled the air wasn't the pure color of a sunflower but rather a corrupted yellow like rancid butter. Near the ground, the dancing motes's buoyancy caused them to roil in swells, billowing as a thick ochre-colored fog. By morning the entire city was covered in three to four inches of grit and still it fell.

Lights inside the clouds were equally tainted. Indeed, all of us were. Somehow this yellow sickness, like some kind of withering rot, rolled across the hearts, minds, and souls of everyone inside. It coated them, inside and out, corroding our humanity.

After doing the sensible things like shutting the doors and windows, most adults waited for the television to relay instructions on what to do next.

Children were most susceptible. Exhibiting signs of fevered behavior and manic delirium, they laughed and danced with haunted eyes, as if pushed to do so out of fear of something greater.


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