Writing Warm Up

This was my warm up today! Short, sweet, and a little bit of a horror element :) 

This is another prompt from tumblr that I decided to fill (and might focus on a little more when I have less work to do!).

The prompt is:  Humans create a low power psychic field that grows in effect based off humanities collective belief. In the old times humans created gods by praying to them, but with the advent and popularity of science fiction that has changed. Write about what humans have created to replace gods. 

You can find it on the prompt blog here:  https://writing-prompt-s.tumblr.com/post/175139788320/humans-create-a-low-power-psychic-field-that-grows#notes

Enjoy!

-----------------------------------

It’s the slow roll of fog that comes up over San Francisco one early morning that’s the catalyst. There are lights in it, blue pinpricks of power that bob over the water, over the shore, over the low buildings.

“Everything is fine,” the scientists say on TV. “This is a shield. It’s protecting us.”

“It’s devouring us,” the news anchor snarls.

The scientists exchange looks. “Well,” they say, “that’s kind of the point.”

The fog climbs through shuttered windows and arches over vintage steeples. It slides along the ground as people march to work, to coffee, to school. The blue lights weave through alleys, dip into cars, soar above them in incomprehensible patterns.

The air quality eases, the oppressive smog never rises in the heat of the afternoon, the winds never grow too strong any more.

“It’s the fog,” people say. “The wind can’t blow what it can’t see.”

The power outages start sometime in the second month. Every Tuesday, Thursday and Wednesday they roll through the city, plunging it into darkness. There are no stars anymore, not under the fog, and the blue lights look eerily alive as they zip across the sky.

“I miss the sun,” a child whispers.

Their parent shushes them, rocks them on their lap as they watch the sky. “We’ll get a sun lamp.”

Their child’s lungs have never been better. No more waking nightmares of painful wheezing, choking, coughing. 

------------------------------------------

It’s costly, these blackouts. The city calls for an initiative to shut off their grid willing during the times the blackout comes. Better for there to be no electric than to pay for the streetlamps, warehouses and wharf that remain unlit.

It’s a mistake.

The first Tuesday it happens, it’s not clear what’s wrong. Yes, it’s cold outside, but this is San Francisco. It gets cold.

“Not like this,” the people whisper and hide in their homes.

The next day, there seem to be more people coughing. Little throat clearing and shivers that run over skin and bone. Eyes turn to the sky, waiting for the fog to part, to burn away for just a moment under the midday sun.

It doesn’t.

--------------------------------------------

On Thursday, the initiative continues. It’s cold, an ice burning cold that rakes across noses and cheeks. The harbor freezes, locking boats to their mooring, cracking through hulls and tearing at sails.

The winds howl through the night, wails and recriminations that nobody can block out.

“I’m scared,” the child croaks. Their chest heaves, rattling, and their eyes fill with tears. “It hurts.”

The parent gives them their inhaler, fear and fury warring under their skin. “It’s okay, darling,” they say. “I’ll fix it.”

They find bodies in cars the next day, people whose cause of death reads “from the elements.”

“They didn’t freeze to death,” the coroner will whisper to her wife later that night. Her face will be drawn, pale, and haunted. Her hands will shake around a snifter. “They didn’t freeze to death.”

-------------------------------------------------------

On Friday, the people rush their public offices. They’ll accept a tax, they’ll accept an electric ration, they’ll accept anything if they just turn the electricity back on.

“Use gas,” one official says. “It doesn’t take gas.”

“Oh sure,” a citizen replies, “like San Francisco gets a ton of that.”

“It’s not about having light,” another says, “it’s about giving it something to eat.”

“It doesn’t need to--”

“We’re wrapping up for the day,” the mayor says in tense, unhappy tones. It’s an election year. “We’ll pick this back up on Monday.”

“We need it Sunday,” the parent says, pushing their way to the front of the crowd. “We need--”

There aren’t enough believers. Not yet.

-----------------------------------------------------

On Sunday, it’s been almost a week with no sun. Just roiling masses of fog and lights that move lethargically. The parent and their child listen to thunder crash and know the sky won’t open to allow the rain.

Not like this.

“Come outside with me,” the parent says, holding out their hand for their child. In the other, they have a plastic bag filled with what they need. “Let me teach you how to pray.”

There are people in the streets, watching the blue lights above. They move more aggressively now, fast jerks and stops, and they swoop down close to the roof lines. When they skim the tiles, a ringing sound fills the air.

The city is filled with ringing tonight.

The parent walks into the middle of the street and beckons their child to stand back. They lay out what’s clearly a car battery, jumper cables, and a metal cylinder, about two feet tall, with copper running up its sides and a smooth, chrome, flattened circle on top.

The neighbors sway closer. “What are you doing? What are you doing?”

The parent ignores them and drops to one knee to look their child in the eye. “I need you to repeat after me, okay? As best you can.”

The child, tired from a long day of battling their own lungs, nods.

“You have kept our skies clean for weeks,” the parent calls to the sky. Their child echoes them and they both watch the blue lights carefully. “We thank you for it.”

They’ve set up the cables from battery to tower. All except one. Now they touch it to the battery, positive node to positive node.

Electricity arcs from the chrome and into the air, dissipating right in front of their faces. The nearest blue light stills and seems to be watching them.

The parent hands the cable to their child. “Only touch the red part, sweetheart. Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” the child tells the light and uses both hands to complete the circuit.

The blue light zips forward and this is the closest it’s ever come to a human (that they’ve seen). It drinks the electric arc barely inches from the metal surface and, when it flies away, it’s steadier than anyone’s seen it in weeks.

“You protect us,” the parent says. “Thank you.” 

Another blue light is there to catch the next bolt, another to catch the bolt the child makes.

The parent pauses. Licks their lips. “We’re...we’re sorry that we did not see how we are hurting you. We never meant to hurt you. Please, accept this offering and know it is the first of many more to come.”

Their child tugs on their sleeve. Whispers, “I don’t know if I can remember all that.”

Their parent presses a kiss to their temple. “With any luck, you won’t have to.”

There’s an audience of the lights now. Tense on rooftops, watching. How can they feel them watching now?

The parent pushes their child behind them and clips the cable to the car battery.

They do not take it off.

Electricity and lightning explode from the tesla coil, spraying into the air. The lights fall forward, shoot forward, and circle it, faster and faster and faster.

Then it ends. The battery is drained and the tesla coil--rudimentary as it is--is done.

The lights glide away and, the parent can’t tell, but there might be more of them on their roof line than anyone else’s.

--------------

The child sleeps calmly until noon while their parent cries in the other room. It’s relief that makes them weak, now. Not fear.

They hope it’s always relief.

Something warm hits their foot and it takes a while for them to blink the tears away to see what it is. They stare at the light in incomprehension for a long, long moment.

“The sun,” they whisper. Their hands shake. This is too many blessings in one day. “The sun!”

They race to the roof and look up. The fog is still there, and the lights, but through it, they can see the sun.

Their building is the only one that’s been gifted though. A ray of light shining directly on them.