Flash Fiction #22 - Cassandra's Story

Her fingers flying she typed her memoir of things that hadn't technically happened yet. They thought she was crazy; she hoped they were right. But just in case they weren't, she wanted a record.

Writing in past tense, for in her mind the horrific chain of events had already unfolded, she wrote of the ice war between Canada and Iceland that would change the shape of the world forever.

"No wonder they think I'm crazy," she mutter to herself, "two of the world's supporting cast causing a global catastrophe? Never going to happen." But in her heart, she feared she wasn't crazy.

She wrote of spies and super-spies, those determined to save the world and those determined to exploit it. She named names. And times. And dates -- where she could remember them. History of war had never interested her, but suddenly she wished she had a head for dates. It could be important some day.

She wrote of the large corporation slowly and quietly buying up large portions of each country, and she wrote of the lone environmentalist trying to stop them. Her daughter. Who had less interest in the environment than her pet cat. And who thought she was crazy.

Lastly she wrote of the one who saw it all happening from a distance, as though watching a horrific play. And how the key players couldn't afford an audience. And she hoped she was crazy.

She heard the unmistakable click of a revolver behind her, and as she instinctively hit send her last thought was "I wish I really was crazy; just this once."