Perhaps the greatest blessing of this humble community was its venerable library, which housed books that came from a previous age. No one but the skull-shaped Deadhead could read the books, and he only had the ability because his weak, undecorated form granted him no ability to do anything else. Deadhead was properly known as the scholar of Fluxxus. He spent his days and nights in the library, taking only the effort to move from one wing to the other in the great building, so as to bring structure to his existence. At this time he was spending his days in the Tall Wing, as it was known, reading the tall books that were shelved there. Many of these were difficult going, far removed from the light and simple fare he would lend to Kanga, his brightest pupil.

It was true that in the previous days following the collapse of the Rook he had scanned his most promising tomes for death omens, as well as what might be done to stop them. But in fact a far more promising range of subjects offered themselves to his senses. It was every few hours, day and night alike, that he was struck with a new possibility he must look into. The threat of ended existence for everyone had given him a plethora of hopes that he had never before needed. It was a sweet overwhelming feeling, like the blanket of warmth from an auspiciously observed sunset, or the tempering change of air pressure in the autumn. He yearned to find a way to keep this feeling through the safe, constant times as well.

A bell sang lightly over the doorway. Deadhead knew it was Presto before he was able to turn himself around. Anyone but Presto would have made the bell ring more heavily, but Presto chose to lend corporeality to himself barely long enough to be noticed—that was his elegant way. He floated over to Deadhead and tipped his top hat in greeting.

“Good day,” murmured Deadhead. “The occasion for your visit?”

“I’m here for a briefing,” Presto explained breezily. He didn’t say whether it would be himself receiving the briefing or Deadhead.

“Is there any news?”

“The wind is abating. I would call that good news.”

“It could so be seen. It could also be seen as irrelevant, given that the portion of the prophecy which deals with wind has already manifested.”

“Yes indeed! Al that remains is for us to perish. Well, given that the winds are the cause of the rest of the business, wouldn’t you think that they would be the cause of our downfall? At least, assuming the whole matter is true?”

“I would make that assumption with some confidence, excepting the fact that the prophecy itself specifies a different cause!” thundered the skull-head. This subject was something of a sore nerve between the two, who debated often on such topics but rarely when they held any importance.

“One of us?” queried Presto. “One of us cause our own downfall? Well, that could happen accidentally any number of ways. Cause is a tricky contraption, at best. Suppose Zap fails to find the right way to build a bulwark against the storm, and we all get thrashed to death on that account. Now Zap’s caused us all to die. Or suppose we’re all huddled together shivering and something sets off the old Time-Bomb’s innards. Then we’re toast, whether she had any intent to do it or not. Anything could be blamed on one or another of us, knowing the ways prophecies ‘think’. None of that rules out the winds. None of that makes us our own enemy."

Unfortunately, that's all I wrote!  So, how did the story go from there?

Maybe you should write and ask me! I don't remember all the details of how it played out. But I remember which characters were murdered, what factions formed, what relationships endured, and who the murderer turned out to be. I played out the climax of the story in my mind in my dorm room one night with Tangerine Dream pealing ominously.

But anyway, that's all for now.

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