Ruger stood outside the church building the following Thursday morning, a day that had been forecast for a cloudless sky and a gentle breeze from Canada, paving the way for a perfect day on the lake for boaters and fishers alike. Instead the air smelled of rotting lemons and tasted like a curse soured by time. And instead of a blue roof adorning the auditorium, clouds the color of cavity ridden teeth sagged down and cast the humidity of a room without windows. The marquee downtown began to flicker out the beginning of the end of its days. And instead of a sweet wind rustling the leaves, the air hung as still as a corpse, and the only sound was that of the cicadas chanting in every field around town, surrounding civilization with the wild cry. A sickly yellow haze passed over the land. Sweat poured from places people forgot they could even sweat, soaking them in their own stench until no one offered an embrace or arm on the shoulder, or even a handshake, but they kept to themselves to drown deeper into the steam clutching at their throats, until the night may offer a small bit of comfort. It was not turning out to be a golden summer.
– TALES FROM THE LAST GREAT LAKE. Work in progress. Coming soon.