Dangerously Close (A Collection of Fictional Short Stories)

| This Journal Belongs to Yana |

January 1, 2026

My life just has to get better this year. I guess, I should state my name first, but if you got a hold of this journal, you probably seen my name written on the first page. Either way, it's Yana. Yana Ashmeer. It's six years since the Corona Virus pandemic and five years since the world crumbled. It fell pretty fast, like a trail of dominos. One thing after the other. Especially, when every country decided China needed to pay for what they had done. (Which I can't see how anyone could be blamed for a virus outbreak.)

But people are cruel, and I've witnessed it firsthand. Sitting at home in front of our flat screen television, eyes plastered on the News – any News – and hearing how so many people had died from the virus. And then the bombing on China by the Russians, it shook all of Europe and disturbed the calm seas. It waved back with tsunamis and hurricanes that sent everyone along any shoreline or island to inland.

My dad prompted us one night to pack our emergency bags – something we've been putting on for years now. Frantic to the bones, my mom researched emergency outlets and places said to be safe havens in case of a nuclear attack. We never got to leave. We never got the chance to leave. Who'd ever know a virus could skip-hop-and-jump into a war?

Well, enough of that. I want this journal to be filled with new things. Hopeful things. Things to keep me uplifted and to look forward to a better future. And the only way to do this is to take a day at a time and survive. To tell you the truth, no science fiction book or story could clearly tell you how to survive in a world of chaos. That stuff is nothing but fantasy bull. When you've actually walked pass shriveled up bodies sleeping unburied along the streets like the clutter of plastic bottles, torn grocery bags, scraps of paper and who knows what else you'd find choking gutters and decorating forests, you'd puke every step you take.

And I have puked a lot. Nearly joined the dead from dehydration. I've tried joining the Peacemakers who take the initiative to bury the dead, but that did not sit well with my stomach. I quit two hours in and never went back. You can spot a body up a head and already you would puke as dark memories resurfaced and the odor that had engraved itself at the back of your nostrils would overwhelm lesser smells.

God rest their souls.

At least they no longer have the burden to fear or to doubt hope.

So, let's change the subject. I should start over. I should've begun this journaling on a happy note. But happiness doesn't last forever. Nothing truly lasts forever. I did feel a spark of joy while I was scavenging through some rundown shops along Charles Street or what was once Charles Street. I came across this journal, lying under coats of ash and dust and almost got caught by the Anarchy Cops.

Who are they you ask?

Nothing but a bunch of men high on testosterone who think they have the right to own any street and any store in the vicinity. They pester anyone who is alone out of childish play and rarely get reprimanded for what they do. Women and children try our best to stay clear of them unless it's necessary.

This journal is pretty. The only pretty thing I've seen in months. The last pretty thing I saw was this poster – still intact – of a unicorn. My little girl spirit hidden deep away sprouted to life and I had to have it. I had to fight for it. Used my punching skills on this crazed woman with missing teeth and took it for myself.

I felt bad afterwards.

My mom would've scorned me for doing something so stupid and mean. So, I snuck back into her camp and returned it.

That was the last time I saw that pretty poster. Glistening in pinks and purples and blues and the unicorn illustration made me think of candy. Candy... Oh God I would love to have some about now.