Entry #5
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 50 – Early Morning
How’s this for karma… I pulled a card before I went to sleep last night.
And guess what card I pulled.
The fucking Tower.
Of course. The universe’s favorite punchline.
A lightning-struck tower, its foundations crumbling, people falling into the flames below. It’s not exactly subtle. Chaos, upheaval, destruction.
And…
There’s nothing quite like waking up to the sound of the ceiling trying to kill you.
One minute, I’m dreaming about pancakes (why is it always pancakes?), and the next, I’m choking on dust while chunks of masonry rain down on my head. The library—my library—decided to shit the bed at 3 a.m., because of course it did.
Atlas barked like his life depended on it. Freya growled at the rubble like she could scare it back into place. And Bastet? Nowhere to be found. She’s probably sitting in some cozy little hidey-hole, judging me for not foreseeing “structural instability” in my apocalypse survival plans.
A jagged hole in the roof gapes at me, moonlight spilling in like it’s mocking me. The debris scattered across the floor includes my carefully organized supplies: cans of food, toppled water bottles, and the shredded bag of powdered milk that now looks like it snowed inside. The books didn’t fare much better. Torn pages flutter like wounded birds, and entire shelves have been knocked over.
“Seriously?” I muttered to the universe. “This is how you repay me for trying to preserve humanity’s stories?”
The universe did not reply.
Here’s what I know though. The Tower doesn’t ask. It just takes. It breaks. And you either burn with it or crawl out through the rubble.
Day 50 – Mid Morning
I’m a fucking idiot.
I’ve been so worried about what could happen to us inside the library, I didn’t even think about what could happen to us from the outside.
Once my shock at the ceiling debacle subsided, I found the source of the trouble. An old tree that must have become uprooted with the storm from the other night. And the ceiling tiles surrounding the giant hole tell me that there’d been a leak long before the collapse. How had I not noticed it before now?
How had I not understood that ignorance could cost us our life?
Yes, Finn, I’m in a damn pissy mood because I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know how to fix a hole in the ceiling and keep us safe.
I don’t know where we’re going to find more food.
I don’t know how to keep us alive anymore.
I might have started to hyperventilate but then I heard your voice clearer than I have since you were alive.
“Ya gotta be… bad. Ya gotta be bold. Ya gotta be wiser…”
You. Would.
I let the tears stream down my face as the Des’ree song we both loved to belt floated in my memory.
“All I know is love will save the day…” I whispered to the air and began to salvage what I could.
Day 50 – Early Afternoon
Packing should be easy by now. I’ve done it enough times.
Essentials first: food, water, first-aid kit, flashlight, knife. The usual survival shit. I know the drill. Take what keeps you alive. Leave everything else.
But then I get to the sentimental stuff, and suddenly, I can’t breathe.
I picked up the tarot deck, running my fingers over the edges. The box is frayed, the cards soft from use. I know it’s not practical. I don’t give a rat’s ass. It’s coming with me.
I’ve folded all the photos I brought from home in perfect geometric shapes. (What? I found an origami book in the self-help section and let’s just say — I appreciate knowing how to make things smaller. #survivalhack.)
Then there’s the little model Ferrari. I gave it to you on… our sixth anniversary? Maybe the eighth? I was so proud that I built it myself and honored our vow in a way.
Aren’t you glad that I didn’t get you a real one, now? What would become of such a fancy ass car in this new world?
Do I need the toy? No.
I shoved it in my bag anyway.
Freya and Atlas sat at attention, watching me, like they knew something was ending. Bastet finally emerged from her hiding spot, leaping onto a fallen bookshelf, tail flicking like nothing just tried to kill us.
The library is too broken to stay in, but I need to take as much as I can.
I grabbed a rolling cart from the reference section, some rope, a whole lot of duct tape. (I told you it was going to come in handy!) It’s an ugly thing, wheels barely turning right, but it’ll do.
I tightened the last knot (yup, learned how to do that, too), then turned back to the library.
The hole in the ceiling gaped above me, a wound in the place I made home. A jagged beam dangled like a loose tooth. Everything I built here, the careful stacks, the categorized supplies, the feeling of safety is gone.
I walked through the wreckage, kicking aside fallen books, looking for… what? Something else salvageable? A reason to stay? A miracle?
But what I found was a locket. Tarnished, dented, buried under a pile of books. It’s not mine, but I couldn’t leave it, either. It reminded me of you, Finn. The kind of thing you’d find and insist had some grand story behind it. “Finders keepers,” you’d say.
I laughed a little. Called you an ass.
God, I miss you.
Then, I began to write notes. For no one. For everyone.
Scraps of myself, left behind and scattered like breadcrumbs.
“Knowledge survives as long as someone cares to keep it alive.”
“This was a sanctuary once. Maybe it will be again.”
“Ariadne Sellers was here.”
The last note I left was for you. I tucked it inside The Prisoner of Azkaban, the book I’ve read a hundred times, the one in the series even you loved.
“I miss you. I love you. I will survive. P.S. I won’t let the muggles get me down.”
I rested my hand on the cover for a second. Just a second.
And then I walked out the door.
Day 50 – Later Afternoon
We needed a break and there’s only a bit of daylight left. Wanted to get this down in case…
Well, you know.
The streets are unrecognizable now, taken over by abandoned cars, debris, litter. The remnants of dead people.
But that’s not even the weirdest part. It’s the silence that screams the loudest.
I’m not the only one who stayed alert. Atlas and Freya flanked me, their heads low, their ears swiveling at every sound. Bastet rode the cart like a queen surveying her kingdom, completely unbothered by the chaos around us.
I tried to break the silence with a joke. “Hey, guys, isn’t this fun? Just two dogs and a cat and their emotionally unstable human, wandering the apocalypse.”
Atlas wagged his tail. Freya gave me side-eye. Bastet yawned.
Tough crowd.
We walked for what felt like hours, the sun baking the world in that too-bright, end-of-the-world kind of way. My feet ached. My back ached. My soul ached.
And then I heard it.
A scream.
It was human. Or at least, it sounded human.
High-pitched. Desperate. Raw.
My blood turned to ice as I scanned the street, looking for the source. The scream came again, closer this time, and I saw it—a figure stumbling toward us.
Atlas growled low in his throat, his hackles rising. Freya stepped closer to me, her body tense and coiled like a spring.
Even Bas growled and hissed, her claws sinking into the blanket on the cart.
The figure stumbled closer. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman—just a blur of movement, dirt, and desperation. My heart pounded in my chest, every survival instinct screaming at me to run.
So we did.
I’m sure it wasn’t a pretty sight—me, the dogs, the cart, all of us bolting down the uneven, broken street like a scene from some post-apocalyptic slapstick comedy.
I bet you laughed watching it.
Day 50 – Evening
I made it. I don’t know where the hell I am, but I made it.
The minivan was the first thing I saw that didn’t feel like a death trap. It’s old—dusty, dented, a relic from when people still worried about PTA meetings and soccer practice. But all the doors are intact, the windows are a little cracked, but still whole, and the back seats are still in place.
That’s all I need.
I dragged my cart inside, shoved supplies around to make room, and wedged myself into the second row. Atlas sprawled across the floor, Freya curled up beside me, and Bastet—because she is an actual menace—claimed the driver’s seat like she planned to take us on a midnight joyride.
I didn’t even try to argue with her. If she wants to be the designated driver of the apocalypse, who am I to stop her?
I set a candle on the dashboard, the tiny flame flickering against the cracked windshield. It’s the last candle I have—which means I should conserve it.
But I need this moment. I need the light.
Freya whined and pawed at something under the front seat. At first, I thought she was just making herself a nest. Then I heard the rattle.
I reached down and pulled out a bottle of water. Sealed. Unopened.
Holy shit.
I felt a real, actual prayer bubbling up in my throat. I don’t even know who I was thanking besides Freya—the universe? A long-gone soccer mom? You? But I twisted the cap off and took one perfect sip, cool and crisp and untouched by time. I took a few more sips, scratching behind Freya’s ears.
“Good girl, Freya,” I murmured.
Did you know that cupholders actually make decent water bowls? Once I showed the animals what to do, they got the picture. Even Bas didn’t object.
Encouraged, I searched the rest of the van. Glovebox: empty. Center console: a crushed granola bar (bonus ration) and a single, sad-looking AA battery. Floor: enough old receipts to wallpaper a house.
Then, tucked between the seats, I found a Polaroid.
A couple, arms wrapped around each other, grinning at the camera.
The woman holds up two fingers in a peace sign. The man leans in like he’s about to kiss her cheek. They look… happy. Like people who never once imagined the world could just stop.
A note is scrawled on the bottom:
“Love you always, even through the end of the world.”
I stare at it until my vision blurs. Then I fold it, tuck it in my pocket, and pretend it doesn’t exist.
Freya shifts in her sleep, pressing closer. Atlas lets out a long sigh. Bastet stretches, her tail flicking lazily against the steering wheel.
I’m safe.
I have food.
I have shelter.
We’re surviving.
Updated Ration Log:
1 bottle of water (newly acquired—thank you, Freya)
1 can of refried beans (forever a classic)
2 cans of peaches (I don’t know how much longer I can hold out)
1 can of spam (the apocalypse MVP)
2 cans of creamed corn (still a last-resort food)
4 stale granola bars (you’d think they’d improve with age—they don’t)
1 tin of sardines (was going to give to dogs, but then remembered how it would smell. Pass.)
1 tin of instant coffee (still worth its weight in gold)
1 Milky Way (won’t eat unless it’s my last meal)
1 wool blanket (ugly, warm, irreplaceable)
1 crushed granola bar (car surprise—might as well add it to the stash)
