Micah Park Biffle

A Crash that Left him Stranded  log 1) The plane I was on crashed landed upon an island. I am the only survivor and it has been fifteen days. The only lucky thing of this is not all the food burned up in the crash. But I did not go unscathed, much of my body is burned, I am hoping the salt water is enough to sustain the wounds from festering.  But I fear they may be beyond repair. How much longer I have, I cannot say? But the agony of my burns is only increasing as the days go on. Sleep as been horrific, I am in constant nightmares and waking to sweat.  Keeping hydrated is most difficult as I must drink the rain water. I have built a small bowl in the sand just outside my sleeping quarters to catch water. I have sewn leaves together with thread I had found in luggage that dropped from the plan.  I placed them in the sand as to help sustain as much water as possible. I am no seamstress so the water slowly seeps through into the sand. But it has been enou...

 The Day of Valhalla  Winter has scorned our land with bitter winds and even colder grounds. Our crops have withered and soils have been taken by permafrost. We grow hungry in each passing day and our enemy will give us no mercy.   We are surrounded by hills and so we shall see our enemy one day prior to battle. Let the gods be on our side and let war be our passage to Valhalla. We ignite tonight with a ceremony of sacrifice, appease our gods so they may be at our backs in battle.   We only fear that our sacrifice may not be heard, for looking upon our lands it seems that gods have already turned their backs. No winter has ever been so cold, so toxic to our lands. But we lift up this sacrifice with great honor. Spill the blood of this living beast and let our souls be lifted by the gods. May they guide us through battle and if we shall be victorious, allow us an easement of winter's hold.    I take this blade and spill the blood of our sacrifi...

A Silent Killer  It has been sixty-three days and I have seen not a single living soul. The country has become desolate, bodies lay like scattered piles of trash. The rotting stench of flesh smears the air, it's difficult to breathe. I have yet to get used to the smell, or maybe, I am used to it but refuse to let it go. What ever the consequence of the smell may be, the air is not only rotten, but harsh. You must wear something over your face in order to obtain even a fraction of filtered air. If not, your lungs feel as if they are on fire. No one knows the cause of this massacre, not even the origin at which it started. Everything seemed normal, then one day, everything turned to chaos. After twenty-four hours the country was in mass hysteria. People were dropping dead, children were alone on the streets. Many watched as their parents suffered horrific deaths, at the hand of what ever caused this. Children appear to be more resistant to it than adults to whatever this ...

The Dusted Years  The fields went bare, the oceans calm and the air thick with dust. Crops were buried in the depth of earths cough. It appeared as if death had showered its breath upon the once marvelous existence of man. Hunger struck the every belly that walked the lonely paths. Hands that sewed the fields now cry out into the dusted air. Faces ragged of despair and fear, depression sulked the very heart of everything. Men struggled to provide, women lost touch in the nurturing. The world flipped upside. As if the gods were in the mood to shake the earth in the curiosity of experiment. Laughter was little, frowns were in heavy supply and pain was given for free. Children clung to the neck of each breath; as any form of sustenance was only convenient to those in the embrace of bureaucracy. Or those that salvaged their future before it ever arrived. The teething need to survive sprung a leak in the bowels of crime. Many came crawling to its rising stench. Seeing the...