The Beginning

This is the first part of the novel I'm working on, please, any comments or suggestions are welcome.

The Wild Dogs of Athens

"Outside are the dogs, those who practice magic arts, the sexually immoral, the murderers, the idolaters and everyone who loves and practices falsehood."Rev. 22:15

“… And aren’t we all gods when we sleep?”

It was a fleeting thought, one he couldn’t remember the beginning of. Even as he rolled over to face the sun peeking through the olive trees, the end of the thought disappeared from his memory. Memory. He didn’t have much of one. He didn’t even remember his mother. Perhaps a memory was not a thing he needed; every day was the same. He patrolled the ancient temples that looked so different in his dreams, and ate oranges and olives that fell from the trees. Sometimes a human would leave him part of a sandwich. Deus liked the sandwiches with the fatty meat the most, more than licking the oil of the olives squashed by the mortals as they walked. He spent most of his time watching them. They spilled out onto the slippery stones like ants, speaking languages he couldn’t understand. They walked around the monoliths on two legs and took pictures of his home. Then they walked away, while more took their place. He felt as if he knew the humans somehow, he was familiar with their expressions and gestures. Yes, he knew them, but he couldn’t remember how he knew them, so he watched and waited. He couldn’t remember what he was waiting for.

Deus stretched his muscles and decided to leave the olive grove for a stroll through the ancient stones. He padded past the wooden shack where the bipeds exchanged paper for dough rolled in sugar and the juice of oranges. The people had not arrived yet. It was quiet. He continued down the path of hard concrete and climbed up the steps to the rock where he could command a view of his city. He sat in silence as the sun rose over Athens.

***

He heard her approach before she spoke in her shrill voice. The sun was a quarter of the way through the sky. He did not let his powerful black body betray his awareness. She was called Queenie by the other dogs of the grotto. He called her cow, but only secretly. “Why didn’t you come back to the temple last night?” She howled. She sat beside him on the Mars rock. “You smell like a half-bred bitch.”

Deus sat, stoically. “I slept in the olive grove last night. I missed the grass and the sound of the silvery leaves in the wind.” He cast Queenie a sideways glance.

“Pssht. You went to the city last night and drank from the wells of those… other dogs.” She was right, of course. He was mysteriously one of the only canines who were able to cross through the gate into the bustling city below. He liked to go into the town after dark and drink the wine spilled by the drunken tourists and visit with his female friends who lived on the streets, always keeping an eye out for his lost daughter.

“I am your wife, don’t forget that.” This was one of the things he couldn’t lose consciousness of. He didn’t remember marrying her, but she would never let him relinquish the memory that they were bound for eternity. He gave her a long, quiet look. She was a very beautiful dog. She had big, bewitching cow eyes and strong white teeth. Her fur was milky and shined in the sunlight. The shine wasn’t natural, she was just vain and when it rained, Queenie would roll on the stones that were slick with the juice of olives. Then the other females would comb her fur with their claws. Despite her beauty, she had a repulsive voice, and a terrible temper. Her jealousy of the ladies he played with in the city led her to nag at him constantly, yet he always came back to her.

“I do love you, Queenie. Come, it is time.” Deus said. The two descended together from the rock, up the stairs to the ancient gate and took their places at the crumbling temple. They would spend most of the day there, watching and waiting for something they had forgotten. They would alert the other dogs in their pack to the presence of bad men. They raised their voices to howl when these men bumped into the tourists and emptied their pockets. They let the humans take pictures of them, stroke their fur and feed them bits of lamb and bread with honey. They barked at gypsies. They listened. It was a good life for a dog.

When the trees fell

Throughout the last four days of ice and snow, I found myself thinking back to the ice storm of 2009. It has taken me two years and four days to write this. I'm feeling like this is still incomplete, that I'm missing something. Any help at all with this piece would be appreciated.

The mood changed when the first tree dropped. Three more fell. Then a cacophony of crisp pops, like Chinese fireworks on the Fourth of July. This was no longer a party. Before that moment the large group of friends had been drinking and reveling the unexpected day off and the pings of the ice on the metal roof. The forecasters were never on target, and they had given up listening to them a long time ago. The sound of children playing filled the old wooden house, as adults drank Baileys and Coffee and made collages from old magazines.
“The power is going to go out,” said Dylan, when the trees began their attack.
“Don’t say that. Take it back.”
The light in the room turned brown and a deep hum filled the house.
“Take it back now.”
“I take it back,” He said, apologetically.
The ice continued to fall. The trees continued as well. The sound of chandeliers dropping all around them was ominous.
Then everything went black.
“This is your fault. You shouldn’t have said it.”
Seriousness ensued. The candles were brought out, flashlights located, and blankets piled into the living room to make the five children a warm pallet on the hideaway bed. The music shifted to Radiohead. Sad songs played until the laptop battery died. The refrigerator wasn’t humming. There was no sound beyond the collapse of the trees outside. Everyone went to sleep.

When Suki woke in the morning she could see her breath. All around her were sleeping bodies- on the floor, the bed, in the futon. She ached for her sons but they were downstairs in the pile of dreaming children. The house was brittle, and she carefully went downstairs to make sure the children were warm enough. Her two sons were wrapped up with their arms around each other. Soon enough, the whole house began to wake. There was no coffee, no heat, and an excess of hang over. The decision was made to evacuate. It was a scene from a horror movie, except everything was sparkling outside. You are never supposed to split up when zombies attack. Still, the group went separate ways to find places of refuge that had some sort of heat.
The entire town was a wasteland. There were no batteries. The liquor store was sold out. Only the McDonalds was open. The line that wrapped around the building of cold and hungry people smelled like the Soviet Union. They ate sausage McMuffins and drank black coffee while they charged their cell phones. Each person was isolated in their misery, and yet they all shared a common fate.
They landed at Donna and Jason’s home. Thanks to the wood burning stove and the open invitation, it had become a haven. Twelve people, four dogs and two hermit crabs had found themselves piled into the living room. Blankets brought from home created a giant sleeping pallet for the families to share. The bashful nights were spent snuggling family, the roar of the fire the only sound. The front porch was converted into a kitchen where a constant percolator of coffee was brewing. Ice chests full of salvaged food from silent refrigerators lined the wooden walls. The kitchen became an art studio and poker arena. Children covered paper with markers while adults traded chips of red, white and black. Wine flowed. There was laughter. A sweet six-year-old voice sang “Nowhere Man” and “Help”. Bound together the disaster became beautiful. The sun tumbled out, creating a dazzling display of diamonds outside. The roads began to thaw; only the trees covered in a blanket of ice blocked the paths. Cheers erupted when power trucks went by, heroes from across the nation working on the lines that had left the majority of the city in quiet darkness. People came out of their homes and talked to their neighbors for the first time. They shared food, chainsaws and firewood.
Out of the depths of ice and fallen trees, out of cold and darkness was born warmth never to be seen again. Together, we were dirty. Together, we did not go hungry, or become cold. Together, we survived. We laughed, and sang, and played. Three days later the sound of refrigerators humming and heaters coming to life took everyone home. Life returned to normal. Insurance companies were contacted.
By the time the next ice storm would appear, we would all be prepared with our kerosene heaters and generators. We would have a stash of batteries, candles, flashlights and Ramen. The next time, we would weather it alone. It would never be that warm again.