|| All the Words I Cannot Say ||— Part 1: The End is Near

A serialized dystopian story of a girl sharing her thoughts at the end of the world.

I have two published books and the third in the works, but this is my first serialized fiction. I wrote the intro to this in October 2023, with no connection to modern events.

This became an experiment in a different writing style than my fantasy books, written like diary entries in first person. As such, it’s a lot more reflective in nature.

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Image: tsukiko-kiyomidzu1 at Pixabay

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Some say this is the end of the world.

I thought that’d be the best way to start this, by warning you that it’s probably the end. It feels like the end. Though I’m sure people throughout history have felt the same. The invading Mongols probably felt like the end if you were a small village being pillaged. The fall of Rome probably felt like the end for the Romans. This is definitely the end of something. Maybe we’ll find out together what that means.

I’ll try to keep my handwriting neat (I hope). Somehow, this notebook is becoming one of my most treasured belongings. I know that sounds lame, but it’s one of the few belongings I have. I don’t expect anyone to read this, but if by chance someone finds it, feel free to share. There is no warning or curse to keep out of my personal space (I used to say that on the first page of my diary when I was younger: Keep out! Do not read!)

I’m not even sure I’ll do a good job explaining things. Maybe you’ve already learned this in history class at some distant time I can’t fathom (I hope so). Maybe we’re all doomed, and none of this matters. Nothing lasts forever. I know one way or another this has to end. Empires rise and fall. I think it would help to have some way to count down; something to tell me there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. For now, I’m waiting. For what, I can’t say, but I’ll know it as surely as you know when a clock strikes midnight.

I think, even if it’s just for me, that’s enough. (I lie. In my mind I’m picturing you reading this. Your hair and face are always shifting, but I’m thinking of you as much as you have to be thinking of me as you read this.) To be honest, I’m not even entirely sure where to start.

As I said in the beginning, some say this is the end of the world. Those are the Doomsdayers. The transients disagree. They say we’re just passing through another dark time in history. I don’t know who’s right. All I know is the ache in my stomach. Today is the third day since I’ve eaten. I don’t normally go so long between meals, but I never know when the next meal will arrive; I should have rationed my food better.

Three days ago, I found a real can of peaches. I was so excited I cut myself opening the can. I half opened it with my knife before I tried to pry it up with my finger. My tetanus shot is still up to date (I think). Though I don’t know how many years it’ll last. I run my thumb over the cut; it’s still sore—a lesson learned the hard way.

I saved the can, rusted as it was. Treasured it like I’ve stuck my hand in an old jacket only to pull out money I’d forgotten from the previous season (back when you could actually feel physical money in your hand). The can still made for half-decent bartering.

I took it to Job. I don’t know if that’s his real name, but that’s what he tells people. Job. No last name, and no one asks. He has some kind of deal with the guards. He brings them stuff at least. He even has a tentative truce with most of the Ungovernables.

When I brought him the can, he asked about my knife as well. I made the mistake of leaving the handle visible. I won’t part with my knife, though, and I told him as much. He pressed once more, but when I was adamant, he let it drop and traded for the can. Metal is hard to come by. Every bit of it is needed for infrastructure and car parts. I knew its worth and wouldn’t leave with anything less than a fair trade.

My feet are warmer for it in my new socks that are only slightly too large. They’re not really new, only new to me, but they don’t have any holes, and they’re not even threadbare at the heel. They’re black crew socks, men's socks I think, but who can tell, and who cares?

I wiggle my toes down in my sneakers, feeling my new socks but mostly to keep the blood flowing. Today is much the same as every day: survive. Rule number one is finding shelter. Early on, I used to think abandoned buildings with (most) of their windows intact would make the best places to shelter, especially against the cold of winter. I’ve since learned otherwise—nearly at the cost of my life (another lesson learned the hard way).

Now anyone who knows anything keeps away from those places. That’s where the Ungovernables live. I’m already forgetting you might be unfamiliar with the term, but that’s the polite term for them. Some people call them crackheads, but they’re not. People think they’re on drugs. Maybe they were at some point, but who would have drugs these days? And what would you be able to trade for them if you found a dealer?

A picture fills my mind then, cartoonish, a caricature of a drug dealer. A man in a black hat and a long trench coat that he opens to reveal too many pockets. He’s wearing sunglasses even though he stands in the gloaming, on a street corner, of course. I know no one would actually stand in the open, dressed so conspicuously for such an illicit occupation, but it’s the image that springs to mind. It’s gone just as quickly.

I lie huddled on the floor on my side, my knees tucked up to my chest beneath my blanket. I’ll be stiff when I get up, but I can’t help it. It’s cold. Still, it’s not as bad as it could be. My shelter for the last two months now has been the same: an abandoned gas station. A single X remains on the face of the building, the last surviving piece of the sign that once marketed the gas station to potential customers.

One half of the roof caved in before I ever found the place, which is what drew my attention. Ungovernables passed this place up long ago and left to fight amongst themselves over vacant strip malls and ravaged apartment buildings. The roof over the backroom is intact. This is where I sleep, huddled in my coat, half tucked under the desk in case more of the roof suddenly caves in during the night. At least the door still locks.

The front store is bare now, shelves ripped out, leaving streaks on the floor to indicate where they once stood, but I can remember a time when they overflowed with bags and packages of food. That seems like a lifetime ago. My dad used to send me into gas stations like this one with five dollars in hand. He’d tell me to pick out anything I wanted (under my limit of five dollars). I always picked a Caramello and a Coke. Now five dollars won’t even buy you a candy bar, let alone a loaf of bread.

Sometimes I wish my dad was still here. But then I feel guilty, and I’m glad he doesn’t have to see how far the world has fallen. Sometimes I’m so cold, and hungry, and lonely that I don’t know what to wish for, and wishing feels too hard. Hope too dangerous.

There’s only surviving, and nothing more.

Next chapter

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Janine Eaby is the author of Beyond the Water’s Edge—a fantasy book series influenced by her faith, love of nature, and desire for adventure. Ideal for fans of portal fantasies to other worlds, like The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.