Author: Doug Jacquier
Doug Jacquier writes from the Fleurieu Peninsula in South Australia. His poems and stories have been published in Australia, the US, the UK, Canada, New Zealand and India. He blogs at Six Crooked Highways
Adam’s nights had become increasingly apocalyptic. His nightmares always began with the occasional tympanic drop on his ear drum but the pelting storm of pellet-sized raindrops soon progressed beyond the comfort of a drought breaking on a tin roof. It was more like the cacophony of being duct-taped to the amps at an AC-DC concert, punctuated by thunderclaps of Biblical proportions and the sound effects of a cyclone.
The nightmare water flooding into his brain began to short out his synapses and sizzling spark-fests criss-crossed his lobes in a chain lightning reaction. His eyes rolled in imitation of a ventriloquist’s doll and he wondered why the water didn’t flow into his eye sockets. The ventricles of his heart began to sport stalactites, transported via the ice in his veins, and driven by the Antarctic blizzard invading his gasping mouth.
It was as if all of Greta Thunberg’s apocalyptic predictions were being visited upon him in one fell swoop and that his body was convulsing in its attempts to cope with the chaos of climate change.
He was hot. He was cold. He was sated and he was hungry. He was parched and he was water-logged. He loved God and saw him as a sadist. In short, Adam had become a sleep-deprived wreck of a man.
Until the arrival of Eve in his orchard, picking apples in the bright sunshine, naked but for a serpent draped around her neck. She smiled and said ‘Wanna dance?’