“Say again?” — excerpt from LOOKOUT
photo from May 11, 2024 — ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge
We are amid a solar maximum—the peak of the sun's natural eleven-year cycle. A strong solar flare can produce ribbons of aurora in the sky, like we’ve been seeing lately. A strong enough solar flare can disrupt electronics. In 1859 the Carrington Event made telegraph machines catch fire. What if a storm like that happened today?
An excerpt from LOOKOUT:
Time feels slippery here—could be dusk, could be midnight. The lights in the sky and the distant smoke confuse the temporal senses. Luminous ribbons of emerald and magenta and purple and red slither across the sky, shimmering across spectrums, dazzling. I'm typing away at my typewriter by lamplight. I've been up here for ages. As long as I can remember.
The aurora intensifies and the radio comes alive with feedback. Colors dance and swirl and spin and the noise gets louder, crackling with crescendo. Someone's trying to get through but their message is scattered. I adjust the knobs to try and tune in, find the signal. Heed the warning. But I can't seem to find it. The crackling noise grows so loud it pops, throwing a spark. The device begins to smoke.
I sit here silent for a while, gazing out at the world ablaze, earth and sky alight with color. After some time there's a flutter outside, some commotion—a giant black raven sets down on the railing, silhouetted by the lights behind it. I look up at it and as it turns to look at me it has three eyes instead of two. Glowing. They seem to track and follow me, leaving trails as it cocks its head. I step out onto the catwalk to greet it, its eyes following me with each careful step. As I approach the raven opens its mouth and speaks, in a tone that sounds eerily robotic—not unlike my radio. It sounds like English but I can't decipher the words. What did you say? I try to lean in. Say again?
But it's already gone. I wake up shivering—I've already forgotten.
