by Cameron Suey
“The Blues” appears for the first time here. “The Blues” was my attempt at confronting and ruminating on the limits of our adaptability, something not often addressed in apocalyptic literature.”
CAMERON SUEY is a California native living in San Francisco with his wife (who can occasionally be convinced to edit his work, as long as it’s not too gross) and infant daughter. He works as a writer and producer in the games industry, and along with several other talented writers, won the WGA Award for Videogame Writing in 2009 for Star Wars: The Force Unleashed. He can be found on the web at The Josef K Stories, where he writes about writing, horror, and other influences (and maintains a repository of early drafts and finished pieces), and on twitter as @josefkstories where he promises not to bore you with tales of what he had for breakfast. He is currently working on the first draft of a novel about derelict haunted spaceships, music, and madness, as well a half dozen short stories at any given time.
Your reader this week – Gabriel Diani – wrote and starred in the award-winning supernatural comedy feature film THE SELLING and created THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN [Robotic Edition]. He is currently prepping a Kickstarter campaign for his second feature film called DIANI & DEVINE MEET THE APOCALYPSE. You can follow the movie on twitter @DD_Apocalypse or at DIANI & DEVINE MEET THE APOCALYPSE.
“The brick edifices lean over me, red canyons of abandoned history. Despite the lingering warmth of the late valley summer, dried leaves are already piling in the gutters. Without a human hand to clean them I imagine them heaping up, year after year, burying the small town in an endless leaf pile, patiently waiting in vain for a child to leap into them.
Spun off on this chain of images and ideas, I drift away from Alex and lean against the boarded windows of a storefront. The leaves are swirling now with the blues in my mind, the cool colors crackling through the warm autumn refuse. Somewhere in the middle of the conceptual whirlwind, I get sick, the bile rising from the back of my throat bringing an unpleasant fungal taste. I spit as my mouth floods with thin and bitter saliva.
‘Tell me if I can help, man.’
Alex is across the street, leaning against a bike rack, watching me. I try to shake my head, to raise an arm, but I am trapped inside the whirlwind, not sure of its boundaries and borders, not sure if I am enjoying this anymore. Leif and King’s distant, muffled voices blend into the spinning vortex.
‘Nope,’ I manage with great effort. Alex nods and looks away.”