newport on fire
november 3rd, 2000

Something I wrote at the beginning of Art History class today:

Drought
by devon koren

There's something horribly apocalyptic about the sky, something that makes 
me feel as if I've fallen into the middle of DeLillo's airborne toxic 
event. It's four o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun is blood-red - only 
the longest wavelengths of light can reach us, only the end of the 
spectrum with the least amount of energy.

I feel suffocated, although I'm having no trouble breathing. As my wheels 
take this long stretch of 11-E slightly above the limit, my memory scans 
the horizon for the comforting flanks of mountains that become closer and 
taller and wider as I near la ciudad de Johnson, but there is nothing. A 
dim outline beneath thick, gray layers of haze. (This is *not* why they 
are called the Smokey Mountains.)

My daughter has been thirstly, lately. There isn't any water to speak of. 
Leaves shrivel into brittle husks which crumble beneath the slighest 
imprint of a finger. Skin becomes leathery and cracked - hands become 
sandpaper. A simple mistake, the entire world goes up in flames. Some wild 
teenager decides to burn an effigy of Smokey-the-Bear as a Halloween 
prank.

Sirens blare in the backdrop of the night, and I clutch my child against 
me. Who knows how long those fires will burn, how far they will spread? It 
frightens me. I want to seal my home in a fire-proof container, and layer 
my daughter in fire-retardant clothes.

Instead, I plead with the sky gods of old, the ones my grandfather's 
family would send gifts of eggs to, who now settle for lost aircraft and 
baseballs. I ask for water, for rain, for tears from the clouds, for 
something to wash away this dust, and smoke. Something to quench my 
daughter's thirst.