Entry #2
From The Archive: A Fictional Account of Memory and Myth
If you’re new to The Rebel MFA Way, welcome! This is an entry from my on-going serial fiction experiment “The Archive.”
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Day 43 - Morning
The basement was a cocoon, a womb protecting us from the horrors outside. And I didn’t want to leave it this morning.
The animals were restless though, pacing and whining. They needed to go out and I couldn’t put it off any longer. My heart pounded when I unlocked the supply room door and crept up the stairs, a crowbar clutched in sweaty palms.
The morning light filtering through the high windows was almost blinding after the dim candlelight. Everything was still, quiet. No signs of life, or un-life, either, which I was glad about. I wouldn’t put it past this world to suddenly spring zombies on us. I propped open the front doors and the dogs bounded off to do their business while Bastet prowled the perimeter, ever watchful.
I scanned the parking lot, the road, the scraggly trees beyond. Nothing moved. But the silence felt ominous now, a held breath. Where was everyone?
Then I decided I didn’t want to know the answer.
I called the three mongrels back inside and went in search of that damn food drive box.
Day 43 – Mid Morning
God is good. Okay, that’s a lie, because you know I don’t believe in God. Maybe it was you after all. Either way, my luck changed when I ransacked Melinda’s desk area.
I found the box of canned food. It’s a sad, sorry collection. But it’s edible. Black beans, creamed corn, Spam and green beans. It’ll have to do for now.
Melinda also had a stash of candy bars in her desk drawer. I almost cried when I found them. I’m saving the Milky Way for when things get really bad. Not sure what “really bad” means anymore. She also had caramel wafer things. The fancy kind she used to put on her coffee mug like she was royalty. You’d have loved the drama of it all, Finn.
Found more books to add to the collection. Foraging. First aid. Survival skills. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. I also got irrationally angry. Isn’t that funny?
I’m furious that we were forced to take computer and gym classes, but we were never taught how to build a fire or tie a good knot. [Both of which I still don’t know how to do.]
We were taught how to balance a checkbook but never once was it mentioned what we should do in the case of societal collapse. That’s the real reason I think I came here. Because the only way I know how to survive is to learn how.
Anyway, you’ll be glad to know that I did find the Harry Potter books and grabbed them. Also, a little light reading for our days, The Road, Ashfall, Mordacious, and Station Eleven.
I know what you would say… “Are you trying to depress yourself?”
And the answer is… I don’t know. But I know I can’t read any fucking romance. I would rather not read about murders and supernatural things going bump in the night. I need something grittier… more reality-based. I need things that will teach me how to live in this world.
Day 43 – Afternoon
I was in the break room looking for utensils I could use and repurpose when Atlas started growling in the main lobby. You would laugh at me, but the weapon I’ve chosen to keep close at hand is a crowbar. It’s heavy but it feels solid and good in my hand.
When I reached Atlas, he stared out the window but I saw nothing. I stared and stared and maybe that was the wrong thing to do. Maybe I should have hid. I was scared, Finn, but I forced myself to stand there and watch.
Nothing happened.
I went back to scout out the utensils.
Day 43 – Evening
I decided to re-read Parable of the Sower and compile a list of learnings and thoughts as I go. A one-woman book club conversation type of thing. Lauren Oya Olamina has her Earthseed learnings and teachings… but I have that and all the other books I can get my hands on. It would be a shame not to utilize this knowledge. To record it.
I decided to take a cue from Lauren. I decided to name this journal: The Archive: A Fictional Account of Memory and Myth – seems fitting for an archivist, no? And it might seem counterintuitive to name something like a journal a “fictional” account, but as I’ve always told you – memory and myth are truths wrapped in fiction. Even our memories are full of fiction, Finn.
So, with that, here is what I’ve discovered today:
Parable of the Sower:
When did I decide I didn’t believe in God? Lauren mentions diverging from her father’s god, but I don’t know that I ever had one to begin with. I didn’t grow up religious. You, Finn, all but dropped your religion. I guess the truth is that I didn’t really give it much thought other than being disgusted by organized religion until I found my own brand of spirituality. The cards, the crystals, the “woo-woo,” as you called it.
I think I will have to sit with this.
Day 43 – Even later
Bastet is judging me again. I knocked over her stack of books and she hasn’t stopped glaring at me since. Freya doesn’t seem to care—she’s too busy drooling in her sleep—and Atlas just rolled over like he’s the king of the apocalypse. Must be nice.
I pulled the Three of Swords. Again. Pain, heartbreak, grief. Thanks, cards. Super helpful.
It’s one of the more dramatic ones in the deck—a giant red heart pierced by three jagged swords, like someone thought heartbreak wasn’t painful enough and decided to nail it in place. There’s a storm raging in the background, black clouds and lightning bolts and a tree that looks half-dead, just barely clinging to life. It feels a little on the nose, to be honest. Plus, you always hated this card. Said it was overdramatic.
Speaking of overdramatic…
Finn, do you think I’m an idiot for writing this in the middle of an apocalypse? Like the world is on fire—literally and figuratively—and here I am, sitting in the basement of a library, writing to a ghost. Or maybe just to myself. Either way, it feels... ridiculous.
Then again, I’ve always done this. Journaling. Coping. You used to make fun of me for it—said I was trying to write my way out of a bad mood, as if my anxiety was some boss battle in a video game. And maybe I was. God knows it worked half the time. There’s something about putting words on paper that makes the chaos in my head feel a little less… loud.
And if there was ever a time to find a way to cope, this is it, right? The world ended, Finn. Like, fully ended. No government, no laws, no plans. Just a bunch of people scrambling to survive.
I can’t stop thinking about the day it all fell apart. The broadcasts on TV were frantic at first, full of empty reassurances, but you could see the cracks even then. The politicians, the experts—they didn’t have a clue. And then, one by one, they stopped coming. No more news, no more updates. Just silence.
The collapse was faster than we expected. We were told there’d be plans in place, protocols for emergencies, and maybe there were once. But none of that mattered when the power grids failed, when the food shipments stopped. It was like pulling the thread on a sweater—everything unraveled, faster and faster, until there was nothing left. Cities emptied, governments crumbled, and we were all left to fend for ourselves.
I used to think rules and order were just… there. Like gravity or air. Permanent. But now I get it—civilization was this flimsy little house of cards, held together by people pretending it couldn’t fall apart. And now it has.
You’d hate this, by the way. Not the collapse—you always said the system was broken anyway—but the way it’s turned everyone into predators. There’s no justice anymore, no fairness. It’s all survival now. And trust? That’s gone, too. Everyone’s a threat until proven otherwise, and even then, it’s a gamble.
Anyway, if journaling is stupid, so be it. It’s not like there’s anyone around to judge me. And even if there were, they’d probably have more important things to worry about. Like not starving to death.
And hey, maybe someday someone will find this, read it, and think, Wow, what a tragic, sarcastic weirdo she was. That’s the legacy I’m going for, I guess.
P.S. One of the survivalist books mentioned keeping a ration log… probably a good idea.
Ration Log:
• 2 cans of black beans (because clearly the apocalypse calls for taco night).
• 1 can of spam (desperation level: medium).
• 3 cans of creamed corn (the real tragedy).
• 1 can of green beans (at least it’s a vegetable, right?)
• 6 stale protein bars (better than eating dust, I guess).
• 1 Milky Way (sacred).
• 1 Snickers (less sacred, already gone).
•1 bag of veggie chips (because clearly, surviving isn’t miserable enough).