Dear Mom….



Dear mom,

It’s day 89 of the apocalypse. I think i’m going insane. I haven’t talked to another human in about 3 days. I’ve been hiding at night, and at this point I have a routine to sleep through the night. I met a friend last week called Sandy. She’s about 9, I think. We met in the burnt down Fair Oaks Mall. She was trying to find a vending machine to break into to get water or food, but people beat us to it. We walked around the mall together until dark. I fell asleep under a broken table in JCPenny’s. Remember when we used to go shopping there? I bought you those ruby earrings two summers ago before we left for Paris? Anyways, we became really good friends, but when the sun came up the next morning she was done. I think she’s alive. I’ve been looking for her ever since.

It’s been days since I’ve seen anyone because the zombies are getting worse at night in Fairfax. I think more humans are dying off each night, and I’m terrified that I’m next.

Mom, do you miss me? How is heaven? I hope it’s everything we dreamed it would be. I hope you’re dancing to Elvis with grandpa and grandma, and I hope you are in peace. Most importantly, if you’re looking down on me right now, I want you to know how much I miss you. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I died and came up to be with you and grandpa and grandma.

I haven’t seen dad. The last time I saw him it was night and we had to escape an attack. I know he’s alive and he’s okay, but it’s clear he hasn’t been looking for me so I have given up looking for him. I still have the old pocket knife he gave me. I carry it everywhere. Every week I go back to the house and see if people are hiding there. It’s burnt down and still empty.

I wish I was in heaven with you, and I wish things would get better and the sun would ever set.

Yours truly,



Writing Assignment: Write An Alternate Ending

Alternate ending: There will come soft rains by Roy Bradbury

*my alternate ending is bolded*


There will come soft rains

by  Ray Bradbury (born 1920)

In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o’clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o’clock! as if it were afraid nobody would. The morning house lay empty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its sounds into the emptiness. Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine!
In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly browned toast, eight eggs sunnyside up, sixteen slices of bacon, two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk.
“Today is August 4, 2026,” said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling., “in the city of Allendale, California.” It repeated the date three times for memory’s sake. “Today is Mr. Featherstone’s birthday. Today is the anniversary of Tilita’s marriage. Insurance is payable, as are the water, gas, and light bills.”
Somewhere in the walls, relays clicked, memory tapes glided under electric eyes.Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o’clock, off to school, off to work, run, run, eight-one! But no doors slammed, no carpets took the soft tread of rubber heels. It was raining outside. The weather box on the fron door sang quietly: “Rain, rain, go away; rubbers, raincoats for today…” And the rain tapped on the empty house, echoing.
Outside, the garage chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car. After a long wait the door swung down again.
At eight-thirty the eggs were shriveled and the toast was like stone. An aluminum wedge scraped them down a metal throat which digested and flushed them away to the distant sea. The dirty dishes were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry.Nine-fifteen, sang the clock, time to clean. Out of warrens in the wall, tiny robot mice darted. The rooms were acrawl with the small cleaning animals, all rubber and metal. They thudded against chairs, whirling their mustached runners, kneading the rug nap, sucking gently at hidden dust. Then, like mysterious invaders, they popped into their burrows. Their pink electric eye faded. The house was clean.
Ten o’clock. The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was the one house left standing. At night the ruined city gave of a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles.
Ten-fifteen. The garden sprinklers whirled up in golden founts, filling the soft morning air with scatterings of brightness. The water pelted windowpanes, running down the charred west side where the house had been burned evenly free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house was black, save for five places. Here the silhouette in paint of a man mowing a lawn. Here, as in a photograph, a woman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over, their images burned on wood in one titantic instant, a small boy, hands flung into the air; higher up, the image of thrown ball, and opposite him a girl, hand raised to catch a ball which never came down. The five spots of paint- the man, the woman, the children, the ball – remained. The rest was a thin charcoaled layer. The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden with falling light.Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace. How carefully it had inquired, ‘Who goes there? What’s the password?” and, getting no answer from the only foxes and whining cats, it had shut up its windows and drawn shades in an old-maidenly preoccupation with self-protection which bordered on a mechanical paranoia.
It quivered at each sound, the house did. If a sparrow brushed a window, the shade snapped up. The bird, startled, flew off! No, not even a bird must touch the house!
The house was an altar with ten thousand attendants, big, small, servicing, attending, in choirs. But the gods had gone away, and the ritual of the religion continued senselessly, uselessly.Twelve noon.
A dog whined, shivering, on the front porch.
The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The dog, once large and fleshy, but now gone to bone and covered with sores, moved in and through the house, tracking mud. Behind it whirred angry mice, angry at having to pick up mud, angry at inconvenience.
For not a leaf fragment blew under the door but what the wall panels flipped open and the copper scrap rats flashed swiftly out. The offending dust, hair, or paper, seized in miniature steel jaws, was raced back to the burrows. There, down tubes which fed into the cellar, it was dropped like evil Baal in a dark corner.The dog ran upstairs, hysterically yelping to each door, at last realizing, as the house realized, that only silence was here. It sniffed the air and scratched the kitchen door. Behind the door, the stove was making pancakes which filled the house with a rich odor and the scent of maple syrup. The dog frothed at the mouth, lying at the door, sniffing, its eyes turned to fire. It ran wildly in circles, biting at its tail, spun in a frenzy, and died. It lay in the parlor for an hour
Two ‘clock, sang a voice.
Delicately sensing decay at last, the regiments of mice hummed out as softly as blown gray leaves in an electrical wind.
The dog was gone.
In the cellar, the incinerator glowed suddenly and a whirl of sparks leaped up the chimney.
Two thirty-five.
Bridge tables sprouted from patio walls. Playing cards fluttered onto pads in a shower of pips. Martinis manifested on an oaken bench with egg salad sandwiches. Music played.
But the tables were silent and the cards untouched.
At four o’clock the tables folded like great butterflies back through the paneled walls.Four-thirty.
The nursery walls glowed.
Animals took shape: yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink antelopes, lilac panthers cavorting in crystal substance. The walls were glass. They looked out upon color and fantasy. Hidden films clocked though the well-oiled sprockets, and the walls lived. The nursery floor was woven to resemble a crisp cereal meadow. Over this ran aluminum roaches and iron crickets, and in the hot still air butterflies of delicate red tissue wavered among the sharp aroma of animal spoors! There was the sound like a great matted yellow hive of bees within a dark bellows, the lazy bumble of a purring lion. And there was the patter of okapi feet and the murmur of a fresh jungle rain, like other hoofs falling upon the summer-starched grass. Now the walls dissolved into distances of parched weed, mile on mile, and warm endless sky. The animals drew away into thorn brakes and water holes.It was the children’s hour.

Five o’clock. The bath filled with clear hot water.
Six, seven, eight o’clock. The dinner dishes manipulated like magic tricks, and in the study a click. In the metal stand opposite the hearth where a fire now blazed up warmly, a cigar popped out, half an inch of soft gray ash on it, smoking, waiting.

Nine o’clock. The beds warmed their hidden circuits, for nights were cool here.
Nine-five.  A voice spoke from the study ceiling: “Mrs. McClellan, which poem would you like this evening?”
The house was silent.
The voice said at last, “Since you express no preference, I shall select a poem at random.” Quiet music rose to back the voice. “Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favorite…

“There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone.”

The fire burned on the stone hearth and the cigar fell away into a mound of quiet ash on its tray. The empty chairs faced each other between the silent walls, and the music played.

At ten o’clock the house began to die.
The wind blew. A falling tree bough crashed through the kitchen window. Cleaning solvent, bottled, shattered over the stove. The room was ablaze in an instant! “Fire!” screamed a voice. The house lights flashed, water pumps shot water from the ceilings. But the solvent spread on the linoleum, licking, eating, under the kitchen door, while the voices took it up in chorus: “Fire, fire, fire!”
The house tried to save itself. Doors sprang tightly shut, but the windows were broken by the heat and the wind blew and sucked upon the fire.
The house gave ground as the fire in ten billion angry sparks moved with flaming ease from room to room and then up the stairs. While scurrying water rats squeaked from the walls, pistoled their water, and ran for more. And the wall sprays let down showers of mechanical rain.

But too late. Somewhere, sighing, a pump shrugged to a stop. The quenching rain ceased. The reserve water supply which filled the baths and washed the dishes for many quiet days was gone.
The fire crackled up the stairs. It fed upon Picassos and Matisses in the upper halls, like delicacies, baking off the oily flesh, tenderly crisping the canvases into black shavings.
Now the fire lay in beds, stood in windows, changed the colors of drapes!
And then, reinforcements.
From attic trapdoors, blind robot faces peered down with faucet mouths gushing green chemical.
The fire backed off, as even an elephant must at the sight of a dead snake. Now there were twenty snakes whipping over the floor, killing the fire with a clear cold venom of green froth.
But the fire was clever. It had sent flames outside the house, up through the attic to the pumps there. An explosion! The attic brain which directed the pumps was shattered into bronzeshrapnel on the beams.
The fire rushed back into every closet and felt of the clothes that hung there.

The house shuddered, oak bone on bone, its bared skeleton cringing from the heat, its wire, its nerves revealed as if a surgeon had torn the skin off to let the red veins and capillaries quiver in the scalded air. Help, help! Fire! Run, run! Heat snapped mirrors like the first brittle winter ice. And the voices wailed Fire, fire, run, run, like a tragic nursery rhyme, a dozen voices, high, low, like children dying in a forest, alone, alone. And the voices fading as the wires popped their sheathings like hot chestnuts. One, two, three, four, five voices died.

In the nursery the jungle burned. Blue lions roared, purple giraffes bounded off. The panthers ran in circles, changing color, and ten million animals, running before the fire, vanished off toward a distant steaming river…
Ten more voices died. In the last instant under the fire avalanche, other choruses, oblivious, could be heard announcing the time, playing music, cutting the lawn by remote-control mower, or setting an umbrella frantically out and in the slamming and opening front door, a thousand things happening, like a clock shop when each clock strikes the hour insanely before or after the other, a scene of maniac confusion, yet unity; singing, screaming, a few last cleaning mice darting bravely out to carry the horrid ashes away! And one voice, with sublime disregard for the situation, read poetry aloud all in the fiery study, until all the film spools burned, until all the wires withered and the circuits cracked.

The fire burst the house and let it slam flat down, puffing out skirts of spark and smoke.

It was getting hotter and hotter, until my voice of reason inside my head disappeared into the darkness of the sky. The gloom had a shine of metallic wonder that made me want to stare at it forever. On my knees I pray- if there is a god or anyone up there, please, save me from my burning hell. CRASH. Fire running up the walls of my ego and burning the roof in the process. Smoke is everywhere and it’s getting hard to see the light, quite literally. Begging and pleading I say to myself, “today is the day of the dead.”

The manipulation of the fire was creeping through the window until the walls were burning in all the places I love. 

Tears falling down my face, I try to think good thoughts. I close my eyes and prepare for death- thoughts running through my head.

Amongst the crash and fire, I see a drop of water from the sky. Rain is falling above me, and with my eyes closed I catch my breath. The rain manipulates my emotion and among the ruins, the broken, and the flames- I see a light. The rain floods my heart and the smoke appears in the sky clouding over me like a tornado. 

The walls were saved. I am saved.  

Dawn showed faintly in the east. Among the ruins, one wall stood alone. Within the wall, a last voice said, over and over again and again, even as the sun rose to shine upon the heater rubble and steam:
“Today is August 5, 2026, today is August 5, 2026, today is…

Writing Assignments #1: Into the Deep Forest

***backstory: When I was growing up, I did not live in a house that had a backyard. We had a deep dark forest that stretched out for miles until it hit the highway. My friends and I would spend hours when we were little voyaging through this forest, but as the sun went down we would have to run home or we would be lost forever because it got so dark. One day we stumbled upon a broken rope swing dangling from a branch over a creek in the forest of the backyard. It had just stopped raining and the cloud were all foggy and It was sort of hard to see in the backyard forest. I ended up swinging on the rope swing and falling on a rock where I backed out and can’t remember how I got home. This is the story I made up regarding my voyage back home.***dark-forest-5

Running and running through the darkness just to find a bit of light. I see nothing. I hear the howling of my fears inside my head telling me “You’re not going to make it, die.” I stumbled over a tree branch earlier and my knee is bleeding pretty bad, but I’m shaking too hard to stop running. I can’t see and I think i’m going crazy. It would be any second until I get eaten alive by a wondering neighbor turned zombie from the moonlight. How many hours until the sunrises? I don’t know if I can make it in that time. Running around still trying to look for a hiding spot until I see a small wooden bridge that must have been to cross a small creek. I can barely see anything, but feeling the wood makes me feel so much comfort that suddenly I forget how dark it is. Crawling under the small abandoned bridge feeling that the water that was once probably there is just a puddle of dirt and despair.

Deep breaths, in and out, I tell myself frantically. I’m okay i’m okay i’m okay. I felt a large rock behind my left foot, and quickly grab it just incase any zombies want to try me tonight. This rock won’t do much, but it might give me a chance at hitting them and getting to run a few seconds before getting an arm taken off. My knee is still bleeding, and I’m starting to lose feeling of it. I can’t tell when sunrise will be up, but maybe I might actually make it through the night.

All of a sudden I hear leaves crackling. Trying to calm myself down from screaming in terror I dig my nails into the skin of my arm. the noise comes closer….closer…..closer. Grabbing my rock for protection I crawl further into the underneath of the bridge until I hear a soft, “Annie?” I slowly crawl out of the darkness of the bridge and say, “hello?” I’m not Annie, but the sound of another humans voice was enough to comfort me into telling her to come here. “Annie?” She keeps asking while her voice is crackling with fear.

“I’m not Annie, but you an hide with me here until sunrise.”

Her eyesight must be better than mine because she doesn’t have trouble seeing in this dark ass forest like I do. “How can you see so well? I can’t see much,” I explain to this new girl. “My parents would make us do our homework in the dark because we couldn’t pay for electricity before everything happened…I guess I got good at it.”

I ask her who Annie is, and she explains it’s her little sister that got lost after they had an encounter with a zombie and had to run away. “I ran so far I lost track of her. If she’s dead it’s all my fault and I will die knowing I sinned and lost the only good person left in this world.” I try my best to comfort this strange new girl, and tried to calm her down as best I could. At this point we were both shaking..maybe because of the darkenss, but maybe because we were so excited to not be alone anymore.

“Please don’t leave me,” I beg her.

We made a pact to stay together until sunrise, and I told her we could look for Annie once we knew all the zombies were away from the day.

I found out her dad was one of the main men who tried to create poison to stop the apocalypse.

“He tried to find solutions at work with the others. The poison was too strong, and when he tried to cure beginning patience they would die. Shorty after seeing so many people dying from this he started to go crazy and committed suicide. He didn’t even leave a note.”

Her story made me hold my breath and stop shaking….because for the first time in a long time I didn’t feel alone and I held her while she silently cried out her frustration. It’s a hard world we live in now, but knowing I had that girl help me through the darkness of this forest made everything better. I debated whether or not to tell her the truth about what happened to my father, but I was scared if she knew she’d run away and never come back.





…… be continued.