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

 
   
 
  American Hiroshima
Tsunami
Earthquake
Tornado
Hurricane
School Shooting
Volcano
Asteroid
Nuclear Winter
Bird Flu - Avian Influenza
Nuclear Attack
Honeybee Extinction
Wildfire
The Last Days



by





The Ripper

I lost the left side of me in a game of cards. Lucky Iím ambidextrous. Cut me straight down the middle, accidentally puncturing my right lung on the way through.

The right part of me wheezes when I say the words "breast" or "lasagne". The left part leaves London, and later the country. I write myself postcards, although I hate to travel.

Daddy and Mummy bump into me on holiday and call me up to tell me. They compliment how fluently I speak Greek. Iíve perfected the words "breast" and "lasagne" without wheezing.

Mummy says she didnít know I was still seeing John. Iím not. He said he couldnít take any more of me.

"Iím gonna rip her flippiní heart out," I scream, gasping for breath. "Donít do that darling," Daddy says, "It could be fatal."

Dinner

Youíve bitten me down into squares, totally soluble in liquid. It is like this that you say Iím ready to digest.

I want to reach for your hand across the table, but fight clichť and grab a napkin.

Each piece of me makes comparisons to magnolia but you say no, the walls are eggshell, and me, I may as well be treading on it.

Your white tie, black shirt undermined me the moment I sat down.

The waiter hands me a shovel, suggests I take my foot out before I eat, and all that comes to mind is a bunch of quotes I taught myself before the school bell rang for twenty to four.

I resist all filmic urges. I donít ask you to kiss me across the table. I pay no one to sing. The last remains of the dodo lay scattered across my plate and bachelor number 2 walked out the door.

You leave me instead of a tip at the table. I offer to wash up, but only ever get hosed down.

Everyman

When I was 14 I perfected the art of masculinity from a chair.

We wore black trousers then, when we were 14. We copied the boys, though ours were tight fit, boot cut and crotch hugging.

I perfected the masculine pose at the back of the classroom during lunch hour. I squared up to my average joe, jack-of-all-trades, for no reason other than that I could.

When I was 14 I zipped my flies to the top and took my seat opposite Joe, Jack, John, James. I sat looking my fellow man directly in the eye. No big face-off, just my tie dangling between my own spread legs.







ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amy Mackelden lives on the Isle of Wight, UK, and studies English Literature at Cardiff University in Wales, UK. She is fanatic about Angela Carter, Counting Crows, and Wim Wenders' "The Million Dollar Hotel", despite the dreadful reviews it received!




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