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Ashes of the 8th Fire J.E. Herald-Zamora Another EMP wave must have went off last night, I think as I lie dazed and shivering, but now waking from the stillness. Very little else would explain the quiet outside and lack of heat within.  My phone lies dark and silent, so I wouldn’t know the time if not for the trusty analog clock happily chirping 7am. My long, annoyed sigh holds in the morning light, a glowing vapour trail from a dragon made of synthetic fleece and ancient quilts.  I turn over, still out of habit, to a long unoccupied pillow.  Brain entangled in dreamy tendrils, unable to control my right hand, now drifting along the