I'm currently writing a short story called "The Adirondack Room"--a surreal, absurdist little tale. The interesting thing about this tale is that it began with a challenge that my critique partner, Michael Canavan, and I gave each other. I wrote about this challenge a number of entries ago. We were to write coming-of-age stories. Mine morphed into something very different, and I believe you have to let stories do this--you have to follow them where they want to go, and often it's in an entirely different direction than what you set out for. Anyhow, this story involves nukes in parts of it, and I wrote one passage I particularly enjoyed writing. Here it is at this point in time:
They’re still testing nukes in Nevada, and no one in the general public knows about it but me. I see them when I close my eyes: the mushroom cloud fiery red and orange, rising up, billowing out; the grey stem, the circle of ash and smoke around it; the shocking formation of a crater in the desert; lizards, birds, insects, and snakes gone—no remains; scrub bushes and tumbleweeds blown into the center of the whirlpool of toxic air; the rush, the wind, the silent radiation moving out at a speed I can’t fathom; the fallout forming quickly, ready to snow down as it rides through the atmosphere—an evil thing, an innocent thing, and finally, truthfully, an indifferent thing.