The Originators

CHAPTER 1: IT'S NOT REALLY THE END OF THE WORLD, IS IT? (LAURA)

I.

Rain remembers, pauses, and remembers all over again. When you feel blessed with mutual memories, rain punishes with a casual carelessness, a carelessness perfected by the one who never loved you enough, just so you miss them when they are gone.

In that moment, you wonder if it's the end of the world, or if it's just the end of your world. It's neither.

Standing on the top floor in this house, alone I believe, I look through the massive floor-to-ceiling window into a darkness waiting upon the lake below. The rain continues, yet in the back of my mind I'm unsure if this is a holiday rental or a place we own. My mind starts calculating possibilities and answers in this remembering game. Something stops me from focusing too long trying to connect this floating string of recollections.

My parents, my sister, her boyfriend are muted background shadows talking, laughing; I can't quite figure out the joke.

The concrete floor is cool under my feet; marble stone benches, an angular slate kitchen, candlelight, and music all exist on a staged set. Crystal bulbs hang, swaying slightly, flickering light; their glow begins to tire as a collective dimming starts to build.

I survey the huge lake house community, stretching out before me through the rain. Sun still attempts to blast through a small segment of the sky. Some in this community are taking their first steps towards the nightly retreating. They retire, seeking the solitude of a safe haven, the mole-like certainty beneath a cavern of covers, sleeping, dreaming strange dreams, or the lucky ones who merely sink into a dreamless state. These rituals beckon all. Though many are still outside laughing, having the very best of times.

The rain starts to come down harder, bullet-pelting the lake. Making a bet, I whisper, "60% chance it will stop."

The quarter slice of Sun, still burning, falters and shuts down. The curtain has been pulled by an efficient hand. I've lost my bet. The rain bangs and clangs, continuing in its intensity. Murmurs behind, surround me, wrapping me with their worry.

I can't help myself, I don't turn. I state, "It's going to flood."

Before I can make sure my words are heard, I fast-forward and notice something in the middle of the lake. Bubbling lava begins to squirt out of a spot two miles away in the center of our dark, blue-black lake.

Those lake community members, busy indoors, always secure because they think money and privacy has ensured nothing bad will ever happen run to their windows. Looking out they are surprised; they thought paying community dues for 50 years guaranteed safety. Those already out on their decks and patios point, mouths move quickly. The collective hum strengthens and reinforces my own thumping heartbeat, silencing whatever they are saying.

All of us are staring at a forced pyramid that forms where the water is bulging. It shifts the black, oily, purple lake. The water rises as something must come out, burst, I suppose, like bitter seeds from the bruised purple grape you bite into it, realizing too late it's gone bad.

A huge double metal foot, a round, smooth-T, seesaws to the surface. Everyone starts to scream and shout. The group howl, from all those who thought themselves so safe within this huge concrete, multi-layered housing lake-community, echoes. This has become a mad opera. We hear this through the unintended maze of everyone's open windows, the start of multiple splashes ricochet. All frantically jump into the lake. I can't move, only listen and watch. I'm conscious of my family's whispers, of them calling someone, making plans.

The huge matte silver metal foot redoubles its efforts, moving back and forth, churning the water. Submerged, its metal joints groan, using the water to seek momentum. I see it; a second foot maybe half a mile behind the first. The front and back feet of this alien rocking horse, sway back and forth, weighed down by tarry mud it attempts to discard it with its heaving. Flatfish from the bottom of the lake floundering, flopping off the base, crustaceans leeching the metal; all start to dislodge as the pace of the machine quickens. These buried belongings are brought to the surface; discarded, long forgotten things you don't want to think about. Some things from the bottom should never be acknowledged.