Post Omerican Easter

Post Omerican Easter

  By Ilyan Kei Lavanway

  Copyright 2012 Ilyan Kei Lavanway

  This eBook is provided free for your personal enjoyment. This eBook may be freely copied, shared, posted, printed, distributed, and given away to anyone. Please be kind enough to post a book review. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The ideas expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the official position of any organization.

  Look for other books by this author in print and all popular eBook formats.

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  About the Author

  Other books by this author

  Connect with the author

  Preface

  This little book packs a powerful, touching short story and an imperative message for all readers. The idea came to me a week before Easter, 2012.

  While transposing my thoughts into words on pages, I felt as if I were more alive and invigorated than I had felt in many years. I stayed awake for about 36 hours straight, pondering and writing the bulk of this story and message. Going that long without sleep is something I am not generally capable of doing at this stage of my life, so this may be a one-off. Nevertheless, I am grateful to God for quickening me in mind and body, even if only for the day and a half it took me to produce this work.

  I have made a few minor additions to the story, along with considerable formatting edits to prepare the work for eBook publication. The original version can be found under the title Even Conspiracy Enthusiasts Celebrate Easter, posted 2 April 2012 on my weblog at conspiracyparanormal.blogspot.com.

  You may or may not enjoy reading this short story. I certainly enjoyed writing it, and I believe you should read it. You may gain a perspective unlike any you have yet considered.

  In this work, I have applied my imagination to express some of my personal opinions, beliefs, and speculations. The contents of this book are my sole responsibility and do not reflect the official position of any organization.

  Chapter One

  Easter Sunday afternoon, your watch stops. You’ve been wandering all day. Hard to hold a thought, but you try to remember. Remember what? Anything. Family. The way things were. Your hopes and dreams. Things you learned in your youth. Something you knew long ago, from before. Values, convictions, something to hold onto. Something reliable and unchanging.

  Drought besets you. Not only an environmental drought, but a deficit of the soul. A strange emptiness nags at your mind and gnaws at your heart, but eludes definition. You don’t know how to quench it, yet you feel you once knew how.

  The faint rustling of unseasonably dry leaves provides an audible backdrop to the shuffling of your feet as your old, worn out sneakers scrape the dusty, fractured pavement. For a few moments, these sounds and your own heartbeat and breathing are all that break an otherwise silent setting.

  Fall had come in season, but where was spring? No rain for months. There were plenty of storms, but not the kind you knew back when, when things were normal. Storms lately were dry gales of dust and lightning with embedded tornados that you could feel and hear in the distance, but not see. Often, you awoke in the night to the once familiar sound of a passing freight train, only to realize it was a distant posse of massive tornados.

  The earth never quite settled. Today is unusual. The absence of seismic groanings spooks you more than the continuous, low magnitude quaking once had. You are accustomed to the ground rumbling. Today’s serenity is so unfamiliar, it feels eerie to you.

  You cover your nose to quell the stench of stale urine and feces, rotting trash, and decomposing human corpses picked to the bone, and not by animals. You plod wearily around putrid piles of debris, forgotten vehicles, and rusty shopping carts as you transit the remnants of what was once a booming economic center.

  A gentle breeze blows tattered, grimy pieces of paper past your feet. A torn, stained Wal-Mart shopping bag drifts along the fractured sidewalk until it snags on some weeds growing out of cracks in the concrete. Abandoned businesses line both sides of the unkempt thoroughfare, relics of a bygone prosperous era.

  A soiled, crumpled copy of a book titled The Post American World lies in the gutter, its worn, faded font cover flapping open to expose the faint, smudged lines of an autograph. Barack Hussein Obama. Ironically not the book’s author, but certainly one of the principle authors of its fruition.

  Help people? Unite people? How is giving someone free services helping them, if paying for those free services drives the cost of living through the roof? It’s like offering someone charity and then deceitfully siphoning away far more than you are giving.

  Here, I’ll give you a ten-dollar bill and smile and shake you hand while I deftly reach into your back pocket and extract your last twenty-dollar bill before you realize what I’ve done. Yeah. That was economic stimulus after 2008.

  Virtually no one wanted to give of their own substance, so they voted for candidates who made laws that took from those of wealth and gave to those who lacked. The cliché of post-modern Robin Hood manifested as modern day Gadianton robbers. Uncanny, the number of people who knew what a Gadianton robber was, yet still voted for such after decades of clearly annunciated prophetic warnings against doing so. Hypocrites. Apostates. Imbeciles. Traitors. Sellouts. Moronic, insane, subhuman effluvium. Hard to tell what is worse, the corrupt public figures, or the voters who support them. The world is crawling with both.

  Constituents who supported candidates pushing legislative and executive measures claiming to help the poor and the needy were generally the least willing to offer their own substance. They would offer yours instead, and would do so without asking you. These same people, constituents and candidates alike, were quick to take offense at anything and anyone who opposed their views or even so much as expressed humor toward their bogus, deplorable ideologies.

  What good was free health care when daily supplies became so scarce and prices skyrocketed so high you couldn’t buy groceries without a doctor’s prescription for food? Good luck finding a store left in business that would fill your grocery prescription at all. Store managers grew sick and tired of waiting weeks and months for reimbursement through the overburdened insurance system.

  Your government-run healthcare insurance was supposed to pay most of your prescription grocery bill, but you could no longer afford the co-pay on even a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread. And we haven’t even mentioned gasoline prices and bicycle prices. No point, now. Nobody left alive can afford such commodities.

  Months ago, maybe years ago, people packed into doctors’ offices for chronic starvation. Most of them starved in the waiting room or in the line that wrapped around the block, waiting to get into the waiting room. Doctors and nurses dropped dead of exhaustion. How could this happen in America, the land of plenty, the land of opportunity?

  This was not brought about by external enemies. This was the quintessential inside job. The golden boy who promised hope and change had been groomed from his Kenyan roots to be a chief instrument in this diabolical plot. He brought sweeping change with a besom of deceit and made people hope they could afford to feed their kids for a few more days before everyone starved to death. People wondered whether it would be better to starve before the kids did, or let the kids starve before the adults did.

  The popular majority got what they voted for. There was never a recovery after the end of 2008. Four years later, 2012, people wanted a savior even more than they did in 2008. They might as well have reelected Satan.

  Romney versus Lucifer’s fece. An easy choice, clear as day and night.
Minds dulled. Capable hands sat idle, begging, expecting, demanding the entitlements of socialism and communism, the bastard twins of that wretched, lefty whore, modern liberalism that had propositioned and seduced the land of the free and the home of the brave. Nobody had a hand on the flush handle.

  Long before any of us were born, one third of the human family assigned to this earth voted for Satan. In November of 2008, fifty-one percent of American voters made the same asinine move. Disgruntled by the results of their choice, they committed economic suicide in November of 2012, once again defecating where they eat. Insane! Two terms. People really are that stupid.

  The damage is irreparable, just as it was intended to be. The aftermath leaves you with a barter system and nothing to barter but your butt in a remnant of society riddled with flaming fags. You empathize with Lot’s plight.

  Thankfully, you retain the moral fortitude to stand against the rampant nature of these unspeakable perversions inundating the remnants of the human species. That puts you among a scarce and endangered few who choose to keep any semblance of a moral compass.

  There is no more ammunition for your illegal firearm. You are too weak to use a knife or a bow and arrow. Hide and scrounge or be sodomized in the street and eaten alive be anyone stronger than you, and who still has teeth in their gums.

  Several vagrants mutter unintelligibly from the shadows between broken walls of buildings. Shards of glass lie strewn about the sidewalks and pavement, persistent reminders of the earthquakes and lootings of yesteryear. Earthquakes still occur while frequent dust storms and dry lightning storms rage day and night. Lootings ended when there was nothing left to loot. Today is unusually calm, though the sky hangs heavy, laden with thick, palpable, gritty, grayish brown smog, a mix of both natural and man-made pollutants and fallout.

  You can’t recall the last time you saw a stray dog or cat, or for that matter even a rat. You have forgotten how good they taste. It’s been that long. Weeds and roaches are still on the menu, at least for a while. You hope.

  Keeping anything down between ensanguined bouts of explosive diarrhea and fits of stomach hemorrhaging and projectile vomiting poses a bit of a challenge, but somehow, by the grace of God, you are still alive. You mull over whether you should be grateful for life or wish for death. The latter is tempting, but you have a shred of conscience and will to live left in you. Just a shred.