I am watching you. I’ve looked over this vista for centuries, and you may think me immovable, inert. Today my children hawk wares under plastic tarps; masks and blankets and noise-makers mimicking primal screams. Hear the calls of the jaguar issuing from the jungle? You jump at first, then become inured.
The sun sets behind my pyramid, and when it does my children change. I watch you dawdle, imagining a young man’s heart pulled beating from his chest, blood wearing grooves down the many stairs. You think modern life dull in comparison. You thought the jaguar’s screams were false. But you were wrong.
When the sun sets, you will see.
Today we swam in a cenote, a type of sinkhole related to the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs, found only in the Yucatan. Amy didn’t want to go, afraid of the monsters that might lurk in those inky depths, but we convinced her.
I’m so sorry.
An enormous tentacle reached up and grabbed her before we knew what was happening, then disappeared with a splash and wave that nearly dashed us against the side. We tried to save her, but as deep as we dove, we saw no trace. Divers went in, but found no sign of Amy, the monster, or, weirdly, the bottom of the cenote. It’s a huge discovery for science, or so we say to console ourselves.
Best,
Emily
This postcard is the only proof I have.
I was there on December 21st 2012, and as the Baktun ended, the sky started to tear apart. Stone figures moved ominously. And my friends and I understood that the world was really going to end this time, unless those crazy old gods got what they wanted. And we’d read enough plaques at ancient sites to guess that what they wanted was blood. So we grabbed some stray dogs and ran to the top, and threw them off into the widening rift.
I swear the sky belched, and then things shuddered, and we found ourselves back on the ground. Apocalypse averted.
And you said I’d never accomplish anything.
Love,
your son