The Dreamer of Destruction.

  Minea Jennings: an average woman.. under her circumstances.

 

  When her world sinks into an endless and inescapable winter, she is forced to

see the actual meaning of the word "Apocalypse." This woman is about to

realize that everything is not as it seems, especially if she doesn't

open her eyes.

 

 

                 Grandma Jean shivered with icy dread as her sky-blue eyes stared outside of

the frost-bitten window, which was partially non-existent on the side that was being buried in snow. Our world was one, huge snowglobe, which God wouldn't stop shaking.

 

                She moved slowly, her brittle bones visible through her thin skin, and she sat

down next to me on my bed. She felt my head and said, "You're fever is still very high, child."

 

  I coughed and stared into the black, empty fireplace. I reminisced about Christmas and

holidays past, celebrated with blazing hot fires and spice-filled air.

 

About warmth I would give anything to have back.

 

                My grandma was a small woman, but she was practically the epitome of the

word "Stoic." She marched into the snow every morning to search high and low for

what little food the winter hasn't stripped from our already barren earth. She stood in line

at the shelter each sunday, and she never complained when all the government has to offer

our civilization is canned beans and hard bread. She laid flowers on the frozen children

who had failed to see morning.

 

I hope they've found warmth.

 

                My grandma's fingers combed gently and smoothly through my long blond hair,

and she hummed against the howl of the constant, murderous blizzard outside. My eyes

traced the wrinkles that has time sewn into her porcelain skin. She is all I have left.

 

                Lips blue and thin, she still smiles. Even when we lost my family to the winter that

swallowed our earth whole and spit us out. This world hasn't seen a season other than

winter in almost three years.

 

     I have been sick for a week and a half now, my infected and swollen wound on my leg

still stung from when I hurt it trying to climb the side of a mountain to gather dry firewood.

All of the days seemed like they were blurring together. Our clock was one big ball of ice.

 

                But lets face it: I'm not going to get any better. I knew it, and even though she