Babylon's Waters

[Lily of the Night]

This is a school project.

Basically, we have to write from the perspective of the dead man found in the story By the Waters of Babylon. Lemme know what you think of it.

[Lily of the Night]

June 6, 19—

Today all of the men of the council were bid to keep records of current proceedings, even the personal events; as a sort of journal, if you will. I am sure it will be an interesting experience. I assume, then, I must begin with the basics. My name is Robert Mac. I am one of the men on the city council of the infamous New York City. As of now, our most pressing issue is a possible attack from Russia. The government of our precious country warned us not but three days ago. George Manning has been working on tightening security. George is head of the council; he’s a good man, that George. He’ll assure no Russian troops land in New York’s harbor, or whatever else the Russians plan to pull on us. In the meantime I had better head out. This tighter security plan is worrying my plans in the stock market (though I place no blame on George, who is only trying to protect our city), so I will soon be off to withdraw from several different companies.

[Lily of the Night]

June 7, 19—

Although the council did not meet today (the council usually meets once a week during ominous times) I had a chance to meet with several of the men, including Hans Curn (a friend of mine from the council) and George Manning. We all went out to lunch at a cozy little diner, whose name I have already forgotten. Perhaps I will ask Hans its name tomorrow. Our lunch discussions ranged from shooting council ideas back and forth to local sports and even over into some personal matters. Hans and his wife are doing well as ever, and Mrs. Curn’s pregnancy is going well. John Walsh, another councilman, is planning a trip down to Florida in the near future; before the end of summer, at least. George, it would seem, is the only one who is completely caught up in his work. I do so admire that man. He’s been working tirelessly to double security in the harbor and making sure that the New York Police Department is aware. George is also concerned with this uncanny idea of keeping journals. Although he, himself, is keeping one the thought does not appeal to him. The order came to him from some higher up, one I do not know the name or title of, but I must say I agree with George. If it had not been an order coming in, then surely this journal would now be in the trash. Or even better still on the shelf in the store.

[Lily of the Night]

June 12, 19—

I was instructed to keep this journal well up to date. Sadly, I have not been doing so well with these instructions. There really has been nothing new to report. Tomorrow is the next council meeting, which I am quite looking forward to. It may be my job, but it entertains me, and I must say I am rather proud to say that I am on of the reasons for New York’s prosperity in one way or another. I feel, however, that I really should make up for lack of entries. So perhaps I shall spell out some of my past within these pages. Because it is an order, let that be understood. I grew up in Morristown, New Jersey. As a young lad I had far off dreams of being a police man or a baseball player, depending on my mood that day, of course. I dare say I was quite energetic, but that’s a good thing in a child. As I grew up, I went to college, a feat which I am equally proud of going, passing, and then paying off my debts for. I met Libby Delia when I moved to New York; she took care of my house cleaning. Quick witted and sharp, but she was oh so very charming. Without going into much detail, we went out for a time, before eventually deciding to get married. Around that time I gained my position in the wonderful New York City Council. After our first year together, Libby had our first child, Jeremy Luther Mac. He was a pride and joy in my life. Time wore on, and I held my place in the council. Yet for some reason, Libby was becoming uneasy. Eventually, we had a fight; some little silly thing over the council. She told me to quit and leave, I told her I’d stay there until they bid me leave. She pressed; I could have my ‘precious council’ or her. I told her I would stay with the council. The next day she left, trailing little Jeremy, barely one year old, behind her. Every once in a while I get a letter from her, assuring me that Jeremy has been doing fine. But other than her annual news on Jeremy, I know nothing else of them. Her letters come with no return address and I have no contact with my past parents-in-law. That period of my life with them, though wonderfully enjoyable, taught me not get caught up with personal affairs. My job is my life, and my job is the lives of millions of other people.

[Lily of the Night]

June 13, 19—

There isn’t much that I can say I understand. At least, nothing from the council meeting we had today. George Manning, the highest in the council; George Manning, who works so hard for this council; George Manning, whose life is the council, just like mine is the council; George came late. He barely made it to the halfway mark. How he had convinced the people at the front desk that he needed to get into the council room is beyond any of us that sat there as he entered. He came in, looking harried and harassed, and it was at that moment when I realized exactly how much of his life outside of the actual meetings George devotes to this council. I could never be anything like him. He took his seat, and I felt everyone in the room draw breath at the same time. Whether the breathe was relieved that he was finally seated after running around so much or precursor to what would come next, I do not truthfully know. Just as I do not know George’s exact doings outside of this council, I do not know which type of air it was that we sat there in that moment after he sat down, yet before he began. Those are the first of many mysteries the meeting opened to me. Our meeting began again, restating what business of the council each member had spied the past week. Round the table, each person said his share. Then came turn for George to speak. He looked us each in the eye—all twelve of us that sat before him at the mahogany table—then stood up. This feat was not unusual for George. Yet as he stood up, every eye on him, he set down his papers, coughed, and I suddenly felt that whatever was coming was something that we, as a council, were not prepared for. Once more, I do not know how, exactly, this feeling came to me. Perhaps it was in the cough. Or maybe it was the fact that George felt that his papers could not help him in telling us the oncoming news; that could be it. Either way, or any other, for that matter, it seems my little feeling had been right. “Men,” George said, his voice resounding off the walls, “word has come from the White House. Every large city of six million or more should prepare for possible onslaught of the Russians.” Even as gravely as he put it, I caught a couple members glancing about to each other, thinking to themselves and asking others What is this? We already knew all of this. What on Earth has got this George Manning so worked up? I steadied my glance on George. Perhaps he wasn’t quite done yet. He wasn’t. “I believe the matter of utmost concern is that the word ‘bomb’ was used. Russia’s plans are still unknown, but if they plan on possibly bombing the USA, we must be ready and understand we are one of the first targets.” One might see how this subject instantly became a touchy one. I am not quite sure what all was discussed after that. It was irresponsible of me to forget, and how I managed to not pay attention is quite beyond me. I truly wish I had, so then I could write the words down on this paper. Maybe, perhaps, this journal could prove useful, although just how I still do not know. It would seem that more and more I do not understand a single thing running through my life.

[Lily of the Night]

June 16, 19—

Today a short council meeting was called. George explained that word of Russia’s advancement is frightening. Although Washington will not give us direct information, the fact that they do not deny the information outright scares more than just me as far as the council is involved. Tomorrow I plan on visiting George’s house and—just a moment. The phone rang just now. I answered to hear no other than George Manning on the other end. It would seem another emergency meeting is being planned for tomorrow. I asked George on the phone if I could visit him afterward, and he said that he could meet with me for ten or so minutes. I suppose I should head for bed now, but I will bring this journal with me tomorrow, so as not to forget what all is said.

[Lily of the Night]

June 17, 19—

Currently I sit at our City Council table. The meeting has not yet been called to order, but I believe I will write down all that is exchanged. Perhaps I should list all of the councilmen.
George Manning
Robert Mac
Hans Curn
John Walsh
Bart Precint
Nicholas Barbo
Vince Regen
Ralf Dissal
Alex Smith
Matthew Vel
Lorent Ingle
Paul Mattok
Harry O’Neil
As I wrote down our names, every once has now assembled in the room. We will now start our meeting. George starts by asking who wishes to speak. We are all silent. Ralf raises his hand, at last. He asks if any knew developments have been made on the Russian research. Ah, that’s right. The Russian research is a plan to find out what the Russian plan might be. George replies there has not been any knew findings. Yet his eyes, I do not believe him. This is a very scary thought. Why would George lie to us? Or is he even lying? I have just raised my hand. I asked the council why nothing can be found. Vince Regen scoffs and Hans Curn just gave me an odd glance. Bart Precint replies with how stupid my question was. Bart is someone who I never really liked. He spends too much of his time assuring that each of his children are at their various sporting events and not enough time with the council. But is it really something so horrible? Sure enough, George has noticed that the question was directed at him specifically. I had hoped he would. He says nothing, but his eyes meaningfully tell me that our talk afterwards will be an important one. Nicholas Barbo asks after the banks. George shoots this topic down. This is a short meeting with the purpose of discussing the possible oncoming attack. No one else has anything to say. I believe this ends the meeting, so I will stop recording. Later, I will record what George has to say.

[Lily of the Night]

June 18, 19—

Surely there is no hope. Surely there is no hope left for the world, or for the United States, or for our precious New York City. If there was any before, there is none now. And George; oh, don’t let me get started on George. That man, he has lost it. His life was this council. But the council now falls apart. He said he would attempt a meeting tomorrow, but I know somewhere in the furthest reaches of my head that the council will not meet. And who knows, maybe it will never meet again. But my life is also that council. I left my wife and my beloved child for this council that runs my life, and now it has gone, just like them. Perhaps I should explain what has been happening over the past twenty-four hours. After the council meeting yesterday, I took a short walk with George. How foolishly I stood there with him, wondering what news he could tell me. At first he was unwilling to tell me, but slowly the crack formed and out came the horrible truth. Russia has developed an atomic bomb. They have highly possible plans of setting them off on the United States. Why, right now, holds no meaning to me. I could easily figure out. It is probably some economic battle or other with us. As he told me this—letting it all come falling out like a dam breaking—George came spiraling down. I realized that the past few days had been a nightmare for him, one that had left him near insanity. And now I sit here and wonder how ever we can all survive. If George Manning is scared, then there is no hope. I cannot believe that man; I do not know anything except that there is no hope left. I thought George was a man to admire: now I am not so sure.

[Lily of the Night]

June 19, 19—

This morning the horrible news came. Los Angeles was bombed. The world is in a tumult of chaos. The streets of New York are packed, and here I sit in my apartment, in the midst of it all, watching the little ants run and flee. They will not escape. I have wondered what will become of me. Now I know the truth. I cannot escape. This place, this council, this city; they are my life. That is a decision I made many years ago, a choice only verified by Libby’s departure. A thought has just hit me: is Libby now worrying for my sake? I wish I could say I was a great man, and wish for her not to worry on my behalf, I who so willingly let her leave so I could go on with my council. But I must not be a great man. So I hope and yearn for her to worry, for Jeremy to worry. I must have caused Libby so much torment, but still I wish she would worry, even a little, on my behalf. I want someone to, at least. Perhaps my legacy will live on in these pages. I now realize this journal was a good thing. George Manning was wrong when he called it a bad idea. Maybe this journal will survive, a time capsule preserving the mistakes of the past. Yes, I believe it will. Then someone can find this journal; then someone can take pity on me and worry about me. That way Libby will not have to worry. Silly of me, to place hope in such a futile plan, but I cannot shake the feeling that it is the truth. When all else seems hopeless, when everything falls apart, the world comes to an end and my life in the council dies, I find hope in one of the most unstable theories. But I can’t deny this truth. So I sit in my apartment, I look out the window. The radio was on until I just turned it off. The White House has issued that all residents of New York City evacuate. They say a bomb is headed this way. All those poor people won’t make it out. Neither will I, but this is the only way I can rest in ease. They can not take away this hope that has developed in these pages. So ends my journal. I’ll leave it on the small table next to my chair. I will wait for my end to come. Let the world rethink itself before it rejuvenates and grows again.