Day of the Blizzard

It was probably just a fluke. Perhaps an accidental click of a mouse. I don't remember exactly how I got there. What I do remember is that at first I thought it was just a joke, a mistake, maybe fake news. It could be an old satellite image, I thought. Something from some long-forgotten hell centuries ago.
I checked the page source. It was real. And it was happening right now.
An ominous blob of — of what? Rain? Smog? Locusts? — was creeping up the Atlantic coast. I could only wish it was something so benign. But deep in my heart, I knew it wasn't. The colour code for rain is blue. Smog is yellow. Locusts are brown. This was white. And white can only mean one thing: snow.
A death cloud of snow. And it was headed our way.
I might be the only one who knows our collective fate right now, I thought.  Here in my little den in the east end of St. John's, I imagined other residents blithely chatting to workmates or shuffling around WalMart, oblivious to the impending doom. No time to tell loved ones how they feel. No time to finalize wills. No warning. Like the woman baking bread as the hot ashes of Vesuvius buried her alive.
The alert must be sounded. I called Ryan Snoddon. He's handsome. People will listen to him.
"We're on it, sonny," he said. "Already have a Facebook post up. You go on back to your Minecraft and leave the big stuff to us."
So patronizing. Who does he think he is? I had to go right to the top.
"The premier is busy right now," said a woman's voice when I got through.
"You don't understand," I said. "This is a crisis."
"I think you're exaggerating. sir," she replied. "There is no crisis here."
Fine, I thought. You don't care about your own constituents. Let everyone fend for themselves.
I backed the Hummer out of the garage and headed for supplies. I was almost too late. Word was out. The streets were gridlocked. Children were screaming. Dogs were barking. Mothers ran frantically along sidewalks clutching infants in arms. Metrobus was running late. It was chaos.
At the shops, snack food was running low. Long lines stretched out the doors and down the streets, like the bread lines of Soviet Russia. Even if you made it inside, you'd be lucky to find a bag of stale corn twists. The people were starving.
I managed to grab a few supplies — bulk foods, fuel and some extra rounds of ammo — as I fended off fellow shoppers with my telescopic windshield scraper. In the streets, drivers and pedestrians were running amok. Vigilantes were swatting looters with shovels. Drug dealers had switched to peddling storm chips. Metrobus had taken Route 3 off the road. The end was nigh.
I made it back to the compound. And here I am, barricaded in, chewing on corn twists as I type what may be my last testament to humanity before the No. 2 turbine at Holyrood explodes, plunging us into darkness.
I wonder if it was all worth it. Why didn't I move south when I had the chance? A few typhoons and tornadoes. A scattered tsunami. That I could handle. Now I may pay dearly for my folly.
I hope I live to bear witness to this cataclysm. If I don't, please let them know I did everything I could to help my fellow travelers until it was simply too late.
Are the buses still running?


  1. I enjoyed this. Nice to see you at it again!

  2. Never would have thought of a telescopic windshield scraper as a weapon during the apocalypse...excellent choice!

  3. So happy you decided to continue the writing.
    So funny, as only you could write it.
    Don't stop now

  4. Still chuckling! Keep them coming.

  5. Do you have cake?

  6. Yeah, whatever happened to just putting up with it - whatever it was - a flimsy flake or real storm and everything in between.

  7. As a former CBC TV Labrador "on air personality", I once told bemused viewers during an autumn evening news cast/weather forecast that the next days' forecast called for "shurries or flowers".
    There's a reason it was 26 years before I revisited Labrador!
    You keep writing it, I'll keep reading it.

  8. Thanks Peter! We needed you! :-)

  9. Methinks Peter is a fan of the late Hunter S Thompson. Keep up the gonzo writing, Peter. Very entertaining.

  10. Good start! Enjoyed your Telegram contribution for years. Happy retirement, I highly reccommend it. Keep blogging!!!


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