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How to Survive Nuclear Attack
Useful tips for surviving nuclear attack, dirty bombs, or suitcase nukes.

  American Hiroshima
School Shooting
Nuclear Winter
Bird Flu - Avian Influenza
Nuclear Attack
Honeybee Extinction
The Last Days


On my knees praying again.
Whispering wishes with whisky tainted breath.
Are my prayers heard or do they just echo around my vacant soul before fading away?

In the eyes of the church I am not a Godly man but I am trying my best to find God. My shrink set me up a meeting with a priest from the church St Albans, that's the small and shit looking church down by the river. So I went and it wasn't much of a meeting but I got to ask the priest some questions about Maria. The Priest didn't have the answers I was looking for, but did tell me something, he told me God doesn't find us, we find him. That's why I am praying and that's why I'm looking so damn hard even though I know it is not going to make much difference. The priest, God, Maria all know where I am going and it sure as hell isn't Heaven. My hands are too dirty and too bloody and everything they touch turns to dust.

When I do pray, I pray for Maria. I pray for her forgiveness. I need her and I need her to forgive me. She has gone. Where has she gone? I do not know. Everything reminds me of her. Everyone woman I see reminds me of her. I saw a gravestone in the cemetery one rainy Sunday afternoon, it had ivy laying over the grey stone. Green on grey. A beautiful marker and it reminded me of her.

I sit at night and listen to the traffic. I listen to the traffic on roads of rain. Roads of tears. I think of Maria. Those eyes and that bluer then blue glance. Will I ever see that soul crying glance in her eyes again?
That smile. I almost fucking died when I saw that naked playful innocence in her smile. The smile, like her, faded a very long time ago though.

I finish the bottle with my prayer and put it my collection, pull on my coat, pocket my fags, my money, my keys and leave my womb. I think It's about two in the morning or something and it is raining like it's been raining forever, but I need to walk off this drink.

I am walking down the main street now and cars light my way, the head lights giving me glimpses of heavenly light on the wet concrete. Father I have seen the light, I have seen the promised land. Car head lights and wet concrete, amen. I am beginning to sober up and my journey brings me to the twenty four hour Tesco, straight in to the beers, wines and spirits section, Teachers or Jack Bean or maybe even Jack Daniel's. Choices, choices, choices.

Outside I rip off the top and drink, I drink a toast to my Angel Maria who fucked me over royally. The rain trickles down my cheeks just like tears I have never cried.

Some days, most days I just sit, drink and watch all these people, this sea of faces dying right in front of my very tired eyes. I am just like these people in the land of the lost, just another pebble on the sea shore.

Will God forgive us for our sins when it is all said and done. More importantly will our loved ones forgive us. Will Maria forgive me and when my time is up will I see her face in the crowd? Will she smile at me. Will she look at me the same way she used to?

I pray.


Stephen J Golds, "established 1983", was born and raised in London Colney, St. Albans and is now trying to study Creative Writing and Education Studies at the University of Derby. Previous publications include the Laura Hird's Showcase and Dogma Press. He is currently working on a collection of short stories and an anthology of poems which he hopes will get published someday.

His dad says he lives up in cloud cuckoo land smoking up pipe dreams.

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