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Not all that rustles is wind
Begin your story as follows: "I lay in the grass, the sun shining on my face, listening to the leaves rustle in the wind. When a shadow crossed my face, I opened my eyes expecting to see clouds."
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flashgordon

if and when our world will end

I lay in the grass, the sun shining on my face. When a shadow crossed my face, I opened my eyes expecting to see clouds. But no, just another fleet of B2 Spirit Stealths rising up from from the horizon and moving east in absolute silence.

Tranquil hushed giant stingrays swimming effortlessly in formation through the clear atmosphere above casting brief welcome cooling shadows reminiscent of the eclipse of the sun that passed this same way incompletely brief but significant dimming the sun cooling the temperature just a bit last summer. Such events I'm told panicked primitive populations here into preemptive suicides bloody sacrifices getting a jump on the will of the gods.

It gets hot here in summer. Not many places around to find relief. The drive into town with the AC fan turned up high tunes playing not worth the time trouble expense. Dollar Stores dialed down too low making me shiver when passing the frozen food case. Not many trees around here. Little breeze. The flat landscape dominated by fields of growing crops. Scientists say the oppressing humidity come from the growing grain giving off their breath making me world sticky. They say too that cow farts will eventually kill us all.

For now I'll settle for the momentary passing respite provided by the tranquil floating fleet now disappearing on the eastern horizon. I lay back in the grass, the sun shining on my face considering if and when our world will end.