Notes on the Grippe

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Ninety

Last night, as we were getting ready for supper, a tremendous storm erupted. The sky was filled with dark, foreboding clouds and flashes of lightning that rippled across the darkness. One could not help but ponder what the storm portended. The thunder was distant, which made me think the worst would pass us. Instead, a deluge arrived, a torrential downpour that lasted for over an hour. The streets were filled with water that had nowhere to go.

Only after the storm had passed did word reach us that the worst had indeed missed us. Hail the size of tennis balls and grapefruits had fallen elsewhere. Windows were shattered and siding ripped off of houses. Roads were inundated with lakes that formed out of nowhere, sweeping cars away. Their drivers left them in the middle of the road, after being rescued, and they are still there this morning, abandoned, as though an army had beaten a hasty retreat against a violent onslaught.

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