The Kali Diaries

First came the rumbling. It was like the Earth's tummy wanted a meal that was long overdue. Then came the sonic boom. Most eyes looked north or west or east; all turned toward Gary. The thoughts of most people in the area were never if there was an explosion at the factories, but when. Sure, small explosions happened from time to time. Noxious gasses erupted and escaped. Grain feed storage tanks exploded. A few times, a train would derail and chemicals would spill. But "the big one". The "great white buffalo" of explosions, the explosions of legend and myth. That day was today. Down to a woman there were tongue clicks of disapproval, scowls and wrinkled noses due to the smell, and a general malaise as people took note, stored it in memory, and went on with their business ignorant of what really happened in Gary, until it was to late to do anything but die.  Portage Whitney's asthma was playing up, had been all day. She seemed to reel and gasp for air. Her

One never thinks that life will go awry. One wakes up, engages in the morning routine, is cordial to the spouse and children, pops off to work, spends one fourth of their time in mindless drudgery, meanders home in a zombie-like state, is cordial to the spouse and children, partakes in a meal (ritualistic of course), engages in the evening routine, goes to sleep, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat, ad nauseum. That is the entirety of the adult human lifespan.             “Things. Don’t. Go. Awry.” Jane kept repeating this to herself as if it was a mantra. Jane, the dutiful daughter, minding the Diner for her parents. Things don’t go awry. Jane, voted most likely to succeed, her dark and set jaw, always working and reworking math problems for herself and her friends in the high school calculus class. Things. Don’t. Go. Awry. Jane, part-time babysitter, always making time to watch the neighborhood kids; infants her specialty. Things. Don’t. Go. Awry. Jane, tall, statuesque, lean, skin the