Pressed

This can't take forever. I just don't have the time. One way or another, I'm gonna have to wrap this up.

As I stood there standing over the body that thought kept running through my mind. I knew the others would show up soon and I didn't want to have to explain why I was covered in Jose's blood.

It had all happened so fast, even now looking down into his eyes I could only barely understand. Seconds ago I was standing behind Phillip's desk holding in my hand the very thing that I had come here to find, and then Jose had run into the room. He must have realized what I was holding, because he ran at me. Before I could even scream he was on me.

He grabbed my arm and we struggled. He tried to rip it from my hand. I stomped on his foot and grabbed his head with both my hands. Something strange happens when you find yourself suddenly fighting for your life. Neither of us said a word. For a few seconds we focused every ounce of ourselves on the singular goal of killing the other. There was no discussion. No quarter asked or given. There was only each other, and the struggle we shared.

And then I smashed his head into the corner of the desk until his body quit shaking and I could feel the weight of his death in my hands.

There was blood everywhere. And any minute now three men I could already hear coming up the stairs were about to walk into this room and see what had happened. I wouldn't be able to talk my way out of that.

I didn't think I could kill them all. Not three of them.

So I did the only thing I could think of. The only thing that would keep me alive. I reached down and put the box in Jose's pocket and I ran towards the stairs screaming for help.

Three years. Wasted. And instead of being free I was tied more tightly to Phillip and his organization than ever before.

And I'd lost the box.

They wouldn't be so casual next time. It had taken me three years just to get it in my hands. And now they'd be ten times more careful. Even if they blamed Jose for what happened, the fact that someone, anyone, had tried to steal it would make them cautious.

I would get another chance. Eventually. Perhaps killing Jose would gain Phillip's trust. Perhaps I wouldn't have to wait another three years before I held that box in my hand again. But today, a day that for one moment had held such promise, would not be the day I was made free.

As I rounded the landing and headed down the stairs, screaming all the way, I had one more thought.

With Jose dead, Phillip would need a new lieutenant.

Perhaps I'd hold that box again sooner than I feared.

Anarchist's Lament

The craven are enslaved
Even hiding
In their dreams

While the Tyrants teach the young
To feed
Themselves to the machines

They march to cannons blasting
And the steady
Drums of War

While the few who cry
In conscience
Are not heard above the roar

Impassioned screams and whispers
Find they're
Crushed by the applause

Of the ignorant and many
Who fight blindly
For the cause

Those who try to argue that
This cannot
Be the way

Soon themselves become
The enemy
Of them that rule the day

For the prison's walls
And shackles
Are at angles hard to see

Only looking at them straight on
Shows the truth
In what they be

So they keep the sheep
Distracted
With both flashing lights and sounds

Till they're less moved by
Rationality
Than false baying of fake hounds

Hope is scare when men
Are slaves
And liberty is dying

If Freedom's broken heart
Were bared
In truth, she would be crying

But though the subtle chains
Of the oppressors
Are appalling

Take heart, for with each
Passing day
More scales from eyes are falling

A Choice to Make

He finds himself sitting in an empty room.

He tries for a moment to remember how he came to this place, but it is as though he has, jumped, from one moment to the next. He remembers climbing into the auto, and reaching for the key to start the engine. But his next memory is of sitting here on this cold, hard floor.

It is the coldness of the floor which draws his attention outward for the first time. The walls of the room are nondescript, plain and flat, with no noticeable adornments or additions. The floor is smooth, it appears to be poured concrete. On the wall across from him there is a narrow door, not quite big enough for him to walk through standing straight. It has no handle or lock, no hinges that he can see, but there appears to be a small keyhole along one side.

His clothes are missing, but the items he had in his pockets, a set of four keys, his wallet, thirty seven cents in change, and the ticket he brought with him from home, are all laid out neatly on the floor a few feet in front of him.

He cautiously stretches out his arms and legs. They feel stiff, as though he hasn't used them in sometime, perhaps hours. Moving slowly, he rises and walks over to where his possessions are arrayed on the floor.

He picks up each of the items in turn and holds them in his hand, turning them slowly over and over. Why were these things left here, for him?

“Why?”

He picks up the wallet and opens it. It still holds his diner's card, his driving license, and the twenty three dollars he had with him that morning. The pictures of his sister and her daughter are still tucked away inside the folded up letter she sent him before the accident. He breathes a sigh of relief when he finds them, but quickly folds the letter back up without lingering on the picture itself.

He picks up the change. He expects it to be slightly warm, like change that had just been taken out of his pocket, but instead it is cool to his touch. He holds one of the pennies tightly in his fist for a moment, and feels it gather in some of the warmth of his body. He holds it up to his face and feels the warmth of the penny softly radiate against his cheek. It calms him.

“It's comforting.”

He picks up the ticket he had with him that morning. It was a ticket he had drawn on lottery, he always played the same numbers. 12. 3. 50. They had been, well, if not lucky, perhaps, preternatural. At least he told himself that. Those numbers had become something of a memento to him.

“A reminder.”

He picks up the keys. Four keys. The ignition key for his Morrie. His flat key. The key he used to open the small bakery he worked in. And the key to the footlocker he kept in his closet.

And one more.

“Five keys?”

He holds the alien key gently between his thumb and long finger pointed upwards. He turns it down and around in his hand, puzzling it intently. As a key, it looks no different nor more interesting than any of the other keys on the small loop he carries every day in his pocket. While he ponders this strange comer, he slips his finger through the loop and casually spins the keys into his fist. It is a habit he does unconsciously. He spins the keys and releases them, spins them and releases them, as he looks once more around the room.

His eyes once again settle on the strange door. Too small, with no hinges nor handle. And yet, that small keyhole. The keys spin into his fist once more, and he looks down at his hand. He is holding his flat key on top, but it is the unknown key which draws his attention.

He holds it between his fingers once more and brings it up to his eyes, obscuring his vision of the door.

“Perhaps?”

The cold of the concrete floor is beginning to seep into the souls of his bare feet as he gathers the rest of his belongings in his hands and shifts idly from side to side as he contemplates the door. How long has he really been in here? Who brought him here, and why? Are those answers beyond that door, perhaps only waiting for him to insert the unfamiliar key?

He thinks briefly of the longed for convenience of pants, not for their warmth, but rather their pockets, as he tries to clutch all his belongings in one fist. He keeps hold even of the coins. Perhaps they are not much, but they are one of the few things he has with him now which are knowably his own, and he has no wish to leave them behind.

As he approaches the door he holds the key more firmly in his grasp. He had hoped that closer examination would mean greater understanding, but such eludes him as he examines the finely chopped line which separates the edge of the door from the rest of the wall. Taking a deep breath, he inserts the key into the small slot near his waist.

“What are you waiting for?”

With a sense of finality, he attempts to turn the key to the right, only to find that it has no range in that direction. His anticipation flees him with the frustration of the ruined climax, and grudgingly, he turns the key back to the left. The key rolls smoothly in the cylinder, and he feels rather than hears a click, as something inside the door reacts to the spoliation.

And then nothing happens. He stands still, nude, holding his few possessions in his arms, with one hand outstretched towards the door. The door stands still, silent and sealed, joined to him through the key that is both inside it and inside his hand.

“Well what did you expect?”

He contemplates his next actions carefully, and once more looks around the room, perhaps inviting some inspiration from the barren walls. But none is forthcoming. With a despondent shrug, he pushes on the door with his opposite shoulder.

He almost falls forward as the door slides smoothly away from him in reaction to the pressure he applies. His mind tells him that such a solid door must be terribly heavy, and yet, it seems to glide away with the slightest touch. After only a few inches, the door stops again, but this time he can see a groove built carefully into the wall beside it. Removing the key from the lock, he pushes the door to the left into the cubby which seems shaped for this purpose, and it slides in just as effortlessly, fitting as perfectly there as it did in the wall to begin with.

As he moves through the now open portal, he notices passingly that there are no external pieces of protrusions on the end of the door. Only a small socket with which the door can be pulled from its resting place.

Beyond the door is something else. A place of memory and wild imaginings. He looks back over his shoulder and sees the characterless gray room open behind him. He turns again and here, before him, he finds a sea of shifting colors and senses.

He can smell the greens in the air, taste the vibrant smoothness of the surfaces at his feet. His ears hear pictures and thoughts from his childhood.

Here, he relives a moment when his father gave him a shiny red bicycle for his sixth birthday. Over there he can see himself hiding behind the walls of his grammar school with Thomas and Gordy and the bottle they stole from the headmistress's desk. Behind him he sees his first kiss, and his first spanking, and his first failure.

Somehow he is able to take in all these things at the same time. Somehow he is reliving them all at the same time. He spins in the room, still clutching those things removed from his missing pants pockets, and as he does, he sees once more the yawning portal back to the gray, featureless room where he first found himself.

“I know this place.”

And he does. For this place is himself, far more so than the few meager things he carries in his arms, far more so than all the worldly possessions of his life combined. This place is everything he has been and seen. And more.

He notices something as he relives every moment of his life simultaneously. There is a thread here. Something indecipherable, yet undeniable. Something connects every one of these moments, the memories he cherishes and those he does not. He can not name it, but he knows it's there.

He tries to focus on one memory. Not that one. The memory of this morning. How he arrived at this place.

He seems himself sit down behind the wheel. He seems himself reach for the key. And then he sees himself here. There is no memory in between.

“Something is missing.”

He rewinds the memory. His hand retreats from the key. He climbs out of the Minor. He sees himself roll back the window and remove the thin plastic tube. He sees himself return to the house, and sit down at the table. He seems himself pick up the picture, and the letter. For a long time, the scene doesn't change.

He watches as he sits, holding the picture in one hand and the letter in the other. He could see the picture now if he wanted to, but instead he chooses to focus on himself. He doesn't want to see it.

After an eternity, he sees himself fold the picture up inside the letter, tuck it into his wallet, and put the wallet back inside the pocket of his pants. He stands up and leaves the room.

He can feel it. That thread. The link between forever and today. He plays the scene forward again, and watched as he takes out the letter and picture, looks at them, drops them on the table and walks out to the garage.

He seems himself put the plastic tubing in through the window, and sit down behind the wheel and reach for the key.

“So that's how I got here.”

The thread extends infinitely in one direction. But he can feel it ending in him now. He can feel the loose, frayed end of the thread in his breast.

He holds the penny in his fist again, but this time it fails to warm to his touch. He holds it up to his face and it feels cool against his cheek.

“Can I relive that moment? Can I change it?”

It seems as though he has all the time in the world here. He begins at the beginning, and walks slowly through his life. Sometimes he relives a certain moment or memory again and again before moving forward away from it. Sometimes he slides past moments in one go. But never quickly. He wants to relive even his painful moments. He wants it all to last forever.

In time, perhaps in forever, he reaches that memory of eight months earlier. When he received a call. There had been an accident. A crash. Something no one could have prevented. He had made supper that evening. After he hung up the phone he immediately ran to his room and pulled the crumpled letter from the drawer of his desk. He smoothed it out carefully, straightening every wrinkle, and placed the picture he'd taken of them only days before down in its center.

He wanted to race away from this memory. He wanted a chance to change it. But it was not something he could change. Not from this place. Because the thing he wanted to turn out differently hadn't happened to him. He wondered if they had been given the chance. Had they chosen to leave things as they were?

“Did they choose to leave?”

The remainder of his memories were boring. Characterless. He had moved through each day like a sad doll. He had slept, and eaten, and occasionally bathed, but he had done nothing of consequence. Not until this morning.

This morning he had done something of great consequence. Something powerful. He had made his first real decision in eight months.

“And now you want to change that?”

He pondered that question for a moment. For forever and a day. He could. He knew that. From here, he could change anything. Except the one thing he wanted most to change. That thing was not his to decide.

But this was.

“Did they choose to leave?”

Could he?

She Really Felt

I had set out to tell a different story than the one that ended up on the page.

It was supposed to be something, else. Something special. Maybe it still was when I was finished, but it wasn't what I had intended.

It had begun simply enough, as I suppose most things do, with a chance encounter. I walked into the little coffee shop where she worked and ordered a tall mocha latte. Nothing fancy, but she smiled as she handed me my change, and I noticed the way her smile lit up her eyes.

Some people, when they smile, it doesn't reach their eyes. You can tell. Their lips curl up at the ends, and their cheekbones rise a little, but their eyes stay blank. They aren't really smiling. They aren't really happy. They are just putting on a mask. Maybe it's their job, or maybe they think it will make you go away. In the end, if you're watching, you can tell the difference between that and a real smile.

But she really smiled. She didn't know me, didn't have any reason to think we'd ever meet again, but she smiled at me. Here was a person who really felt emotions. It filled me with a passion. I wanted to see her feel something more.

I didn't go back into the coffee shop after that day. It was important that she not realize that I was trying to elicit some response from her. That would make it too forced, too fake. It would betray the purpose of the whole thing.

But I watched her from the parking lot of the shopping mall across the street. I watched her as she handed coffee to strangers. I watched as she interacted with her coworkers. I didn't use binoculars, that might give me away, so I couldn't see her eyes, but I remembered how they lit up when she smiled at me, and I could imagine them doing so again.

I imagined her sharing nice little anecdotes with the girl who mopped the floor. I imagined her wishing each customer a good afternoon as they walked out with their hot little cups and scones. I imagined her humming along to the fake music they piped in all day through little speakers up near the ceiling.

It was a wonderful experience, watching this pretty little thing love her life. But I wanted to see more. I wanted to see her feel other emotions. I wanted to see how real she really was.

I followed her home one night, just to see where she lived. I was careful to drive by quickly and continue on my way, but I remembered the spot.

I couldn't watch her all the time, I had responsibilities of my own to attend to, but when I had the opportunity I would drive by and see her working through the windows of the little coffee shop. Even when I was at work, or some ridiculous family occasion I would think of her and try to imagine what she was doing.

I started to carry a picture of her around in my wallet. I had taken it one day while she was out shopping with some people I assumed were her friends. She had just picked up a little handbag and was turning to show it to one of the other girls when I snapped the photo. Her hair was whipping around her face and framed it like the glow you'd see in those renaissance paintings of angels or god. Her body was turned away from the camera but you could see the look in her eyes. It was such a passionate moment.

One day when it was raining, I opened up the front of her mailbox. She always checked the mail when she came home from work, so I waited and watched as she reached in and pulled out the soaking wet envelopes. Each one, bills, cards, advertisements, was covered in rain water with ink running across the paper. I took a picture of her face as she shook them out in the lawn before she went inside. It replaced the other picture of her in my wallet.

A few nights later I went to her home and let the air out of one of her tires. It was Wednesday so I knew she'd be leaving for work at 10:45. I waited for hours for her to come outside, and when she did she immediately saw the flat tire. The look on her face was beautiful. This was a real person. Her frustration and surprise made me feel so warm inside, I began to cry. It was all too much. I had to drive away to a parking lot where she wouldn't see me express my emotions.

She eventually made it into work that day and I watched as she related the story to her coworkers. Each time she did so she relived the emotions of finding her flat tire. I took a video recording of her telling one of the customers what had happened. You couldn't hear her of course, I was too far away. But I could tell what she was saying by the way her expressions changed.

I stayed away from her home for a few weeks after that. I didn't want to arouse any suspicion. I found an internet site where she posted little messages for her family. I would check it every night before bed.

It had been more than three months since I first met her when I went by her house again and took her dog. I left the gate open so it would seem like it had run away. I watched her when she found the dog missing. I watched her frantically search the neighborhood. I watched her spend days driving around tacking up signs to every telephone poll with a picture of her dog and a phone number. I even kept one. And over the course of the next few weeks, I watched her slowly resign herself to never seeing her dog again.

I waited until it seemed that she had lost all hope, but not so long that she might forget about the dog, before I returned it to her yard one night. I had kept it safe in my home and even fed it the same dog food she used the entire time. I watched as she woke up the next morning and found it playing in the yard waiting for her. I watched her cry and roll in the grass with the dog in her arms.

I just wanted to see her feel. I didn't want to hurt her, but I wanted to see her hurt. That was why I killed her mother.

It was simple enough. The woman was old and frail. When the police found the accident, they just accepted the obvious explanation. An old woman had lost control of her car on a dark road and hit a tree. They didn't have any reason to suspect foul play, and so they didn't.

The funeral was almost more than I was ready for. She wept over her mothers grave. Quietly, with class, but powerfully. I could see the pain written bold across her face even from where I sat in my rented car nearly a football field away. I could see her shoulders shake as the pastor read the eulogy. I replaced the picture in my wallet with a new one.

I watched her for several years after that. Occasionally making little changes in her life to guide her towards something new. Once I had flowers delivered to her home addressed to someone else so she would think it was an accident. I cherished the look on her face as she picked them up and carried them inside. I made a noise complaint on her from a pay phone one night and watched as the police knocked on her door and woke her up. Another time I left a love letter under her windshield wiper made out to someone she'd never heard of.

Each time I was there, somewhere, to watch her. She became the canvas across which I painted a sea of emotions. And she felt every one of them fully.

In the end, I suppose it shouldn't have come as such a surprise when I ran into her that night.

I had followed her for years. I knew where she ate. I knew where she shopped. I knew where she went to church. But it was a small town. It wasn't that much of a stretch that one night I would find myself getting gas and look over to see her at the pump right next to me.

I wanted to tell her so much. I hadn't been this close to her in over four years, not since she sold me that first coffee. I wanted her to understand what I had done, and why. I wanted it to all be revealed, and I wanted it to never end.

What I didn't want was to see her look over at me across the top of her car with such dispassion. She didn't smile. She didn't nod. She simply saw me, and looked away.

The words died in my throat. My heart was broken beyond repair. I don't even know where I drove to after that, or how long I sat in the car before I got out and walked up to her door.

I opened it with the spare key she kept hidden behind the loose bit of wood along the porch rail. As I walked inside I imagined all the times we'd shared over the years. I wept at the thought of the little picture of her at her mother's funeral I still carried in my wallet. It was worn down from all the times I'd pulled it out and brushed her tears away.

I found her lying in her bedroom. I looked at her sleeping face and tried to imagine all those emotions played across it, but all I could see was the blank look she'd given me at the gas station earlier that night.

I called the police myself. I didn't want to get away. I didn't have anywhere to go now. I could hear them screaming at me to lie down as I walked out onto the porch. It didn't matter. It was all over now.

I couldn't understand how it had come to this. In between my tears I saw a vision of her smile.

Somewhere off in the distance I heard a sound of thunder.

In His Arm

It began with a small sensation on the back of his hand. Not quite like an itch, but kind of. Just a sensation. Like there was something he needed to address. But in his hand.

He ignored it at first. Perhaps he was too busy, or too stressed to take it seriously. He worked with his hands, they always had small nicks or bruises, one more irritating sensation wasn't going to slow him down.

But as day followed day, the sensation in his hand seemed to spread. It didn't intensify, but he began to feel it in his fingertips, and up towards his wrist.

He first really took notice of it while sitting in his home listening to the radio. He turned the program on every weekday evening at seven after dinner and listened to the old time music while he drank his tea. It was soothing. It reminded him of when he was a younger man.

But this day he couldn't seem to relax. On the table next to him sat the tall glass he had poured the chamomile tea into. He leaned back and closed his eyes, but he felt preoccupied.

That was when he realized he was rubbing his hand.

It was his right hand. His good one. Now that he thought about it, he realized that it had been bothering him for days now, he'd just been ignoring it. But after that afternoon, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

The next day, on the way to the grocery, he stared at his hand on the steering wheel as he drove. Now that he was paying attention, the sensation seemed so obvious that he couldn't understand why he couldn't just see the cause. It seemed like something so interruptive should leave some kind of mark. But the hand looked fine, it just didn't feel fine.

And it continued to spread. By dinner that night, he was feeling the sensation all the way up into his forearm. Like a tree growing roots through his bones. It still didn't hurt, but he was beginning to take it seriously. He decided to see the doctor the next morning.

That night he dreamt he was drowning in quicksand. His legs were trapped, and no matter how he pulled they seemed to become increasingly confined. He began to struggle, tossing and turning, and with each motion he was further constricted.

He sat up in bed terrified and realized that he had become entangled in the thin cotton bed linen he had pulled over himself when he went to bed three hours earlier. It had been too warm for a blanket, but during the night his sweat had made the bedsheets stick to his flesh and his tossing and turning had only wrapped them tighter around his torso.

He slowed his breathing and tried to distract himself from the terror of the dream. Slowly he realized that the sensation in his arm had spread up to his shoulder. He looked down at his hand, expecting it to be black now with the cancer that seemed to writhe beneath his skin, but still the pink flesh that was revealed to him seemed healthy.

He tried to lay back down and return to sleep, promising himself a visit to the doctor's in the morning, but it was no use. He couldn't ignore the sensation any longer. It was driving him mad.

He thought briefly about getting the old knife he kept beneath his bed and cutting into his arm, just to see if there was something under the skin. He actually reached under the bed and felt the blade with the fingers of his left hand, but he quickly abandoned the thought. It wouldn't be sharp enough and he didn't think he had the stomach to cut his own arm open laying in his bed.

But he couldn't stand it much longer either, and he began to fear what might happen if the sensation spread much further. What if it spread to his face? His brain? He wasn't a man of science, but this thing had him frightened. He staggered to the closet and dragged on some clothes before heading downstairs to put on his jacket and drive to the hospital.

On the way out the door he could feel the sensation reaching up past his shoulder. It seemed to be extending fingers into his neck towards his head. His panic nearly unmanned him as he fumbled for the key to start the old truck.

The hospital wasn't far, but the sensation began to spread faster as he drove. To his mind, it seemed like whatever was happening to him knew he was getting help, and was flying toward some conclusion in an effort to prevent that. It seemed to crawl up the side of his neck, dragging itself by its fingernails just below the surface of his skin. In his terror he began to drive faster and faster, racing against the agonizing advance of the sensation. He ignored stop signs and speed limits as he pushed the old truck towards the hospital.

But he knew he wasn't going to make it. Somehow, without knowing why, he understood that this was a struggle for his life, and that he didn't have a chance. Perhaps if he'd gone to the doctor when he first felt it in his hand. Perhaps if he'd gone in before bed that night. But now it was too late. The thing in his arm was going to win, there simply wasn't time left.

He thought about the old time music he listened to every weekday at seven. It reminded him of when he was younger. He wished he were younger now. Perhaps a younger man could have fought off this thing. Perhaps a younger man would have acted quicker. Perhaps a younger man would still have years left to live before dying here in the road tonight.

He felt it now, in his face. It was slowly oozing up the side of his jaw, towards his right eye. It didn't seem to be spreading down into his chest or back. It had a destination. It was headed not for his heart, but for his brain. He had no idea why, but he was filled with dread at the thought of what might happen when it got there. What he might become. He couldn't live like that. Whatever it was, he couldn't let it take him over.

The sound of the front left quarter panel striking the metal guard rail along the side of the bridge sounded like someone dragging broken bottles across a chalk board. It buckled at first and tried to push the truck back onto the road, as though the bridge itself couldn't fathom why he might want to leave it. But he kept the wheel turned hard into the rail and it quickly broke away. His front left tire went over the edge of the bridge and out over the empty space below just as the sensation reached into his eye.

He saw such things. Things he had never imagined in his simple life. It showed him what it was, and he understood now. How it had come to be inside him. What it meant to accomplish. It showed him the things that could be achieved. It took seven seconds for his truck to crash against the icy water running in the river below the bridge, and in those seven seconds he saw everything.

The impact drove his body first into the steering wheel, and then immediately past it and through the windshield beyond. Hard against the water below, the windshield was heavily reinforced, and the impact destroyed most of the structure of his head and upper torso instantly. No longer conscious of his experience, he was spared the terror and agony of that incredible impact, and as the truck drove him deeper into the cold dark water, and the parts of his body that continued to function long after being rendered irrelevant shut down from hypothermia and blood loss, the sensation which had begun in his hand faded away. Some parts of his brain were still receiving signals from his spine and efforting to understand them, but that was just the final electrical discharges of a collapsing biochemical system. There was nothing left to interpret those signals. No one left to act upon them.

People would fail to understand what would drive a seemingly sensible, middle aged man to get dressed and drive off a bridge in the middle of the night. They would assume drugs or alcohol, but none would be present. Eventually they would decide he must have simply fallen asleep, or become distracted. Perhaps he just lost control.

He might have, had he not take that last action. Perhaps he even did as that first tire slipped off the road. Certainly by the time he hit the water.

But he had been in control when he pulled the wheel into the guard rail.

It had been a conscious, deliberate act by a man who was admittedly desperate and afraid, but still in control.

The Hemingway Solution

I've already made the necessary preparations.

It was only a few days ago that I decided on this course of action. It was raining that morning, and as I sat writing in my journal it suddenly came to me. I should have recognized the solution sooner of course, it was only a few years ago that Ernest took the same path, but for some reason it has eluded me for some time.

Perhaps it was simple fear, mixed with a hope that did not wish to be burdened by an ever intrusive reality. I had hoped that we could reach some form of reconciliation. I recognize that she no longer wishes to be a part of my life, and certainly I no longer of hers, yet I had hoped we could put aside our vitriol. I had hoped that some of the work I had done recently would be able to generate some amount of income which I could use to stave off the spectre of hunger, and worse, dependance, which has haunted my sleep of late. At the least, I had hoped for some happy news, some good word, to reach my ear. Anything to lift me from this dark depression.

But perhaps this is for the best. She and I will never again find peace, and if the world no longer has any interest in my work, better I suppose that I quit bothering them with it. And so it was with a kind of relieved acceptance that I made the first call and scheduled the cessation of my utilities.

It all took a few days of course. These sorts of things ought not be rushed. And yet, as I took each successive step drawing me ever nearer to this moment, I felt not so much an urge to be done, nor a fear of the doing, but rather a simple contentment. As though these final errands were a burden that could be lifted from off my shoulders, and that in so doing, I had done some small service for those to whom I would soon be doing a small disservice.

Of course there are always so many things to take care of. So many small steps. So many details. But each one seemed to fall into place almost effortlessly, and for the first time in these many months I felt some sense of accomplishment. It was as though in planning for this, and preparing for it, I was able to check off my list of things to do, and in so doing, able to find a renewed purpose to my days.

None of this made me regret or change my decision of course. I had set myself upon a path, and having so committed, could not now step away from it. To do so would pay the lie to the very sense of accomplishment I had been experiencing. It would return me to the bitter, failing, husk I had been collapsing into only days before.

So I scheduled the cessation of my utilities, and ended the phone service. I asked the mail carrier to hold my postage and called the newspaper and canceled my subscription. So many little details in a man's life. So many things you don't think of. The sum of a life I suppose could be taken from its contractual commitments. And in severing each of those commitments I was severing my ties to this world.

I went to the grocer and purchased the drop cloths. I needed enough to hang over the walls and windows, and to drape on the floors. Of course they had to be sturdy enough. I wouldn't be using the Boss & Co like he did, but there was sure to be a mess. The Boss & Co was effective to be sure, but simply not of my interest. I had always been more interested in pistols and revolvers and would of course be selecting one from my collection. Far better I thought to use the tools at hand than to acquire a new firearm simply for a single use. Not the work of a collector that.

I stayed up late last night thinking about what to say. It may be some days before they find the note I intend to leave, and there are sure to be questions. I have made my living with words, and now, at its ending, I was struggling to find the right ones. I didn't want to lay blame. I wished there was some way to assuage the guilt that some would surely feel. It isn't their fault, neither their decisions nor actions which led me here. Not something that was said or some perceived slight. Not even from her. It was my decision, and the one which I felt was right under the circumstances.

Ultimately, I decided to express as succinctly as I could my apologies and motivations.

I don't like to leave messes when I go away, but if I could have cleaned up any of this mess, I wouldn't be going away.

And so now, as I sip one last cup of tea and contemplate the milieu I have waiting when I return to my home, I find myself ready to go. I feel no fear of what is to come, and no sense of loss at what I leave behind.

The problems have mounted, and it is time for me to solve them. I have weighed the alternatives and rested upon the solution. The preparations are complete, and the time has come.

I will sip this last cup, and then return to my home. November in Pennsylvania always was a beautiful time. I can think of no better place to be going, nor any more lovely to leave.

How to Tell a Story

Sometimes circumstances conspire against us.

It really shouldn't catch me by surprise, I suppose. After all, I'm not new to this world. I've lived long enough to understand that a man can only bend the universe to his will so far, before it snaps back out of his grasp. And when that pendulum swings, it always swings too far. It's just the nature of things I suppose. A man ought not to complain when he gets a rough turn, not if he's over the age of ten at least. A man ought to know by then that that's just the way things go.

Still, when it happens, it does seem to catch us by surprise, doesn't it? And we do still complain, don't we? So there I was, sittin in the car on the side of the road, cursin the universe, my luck, and all the damned turns and misfortunes which had brought me to that place. Because it wasn't fair, and I didn't have it coming.

None the less. A man ought not complain. So after doin just that, but only for a moment, and feelin sorry for myself just enough, I got out and started walkin.

We live in a world where many of our decisions are out of our hands. A world where much of what impacts our day to day is beyond our control. We are put upon. And all of the opportunities we are given to affect any substantial change in contradiction to those basic facts is mere illusion. It's just fluoride in the water. It's supposed to be for your own good, but it's really just there to keep you pacified.

So we learn to ignore those things we can't control, at least to whatever degree we can, and focus on the things we can. Oh, I suppose there's a few who never do quite give up on all the things beyond their influence, poor bastards probably go crazy in time. You run into them sometimes. They walk up to you out in public and start talkin about how their dead husband always used to like this grocery or some such nonsense that don't mean a damn thing to you. But the rest of us learn to accept and get on.

So I was gettin on. I left the car right there, rolled it and locked it of course, and started puttin one in front of the other. Only way to get where I needed to be. While I walked, I considered the strange path I'd traveled throughout my day to bring me to this point. Still beatin myself up I guess. Any one of those decisions could've been made different and woulda saved me from bein in the wash so to speak, but there I was none the less. I'd been through worse and hadn't yet figured how to go back and fix it, and I didn't then either.

I'd memorized the address. And I was plannin to park the car somewhere and walk at least part way anyway. I still had the note in my pocket too. That was the most dangerous part. It's one thing to plan on killin a man. It's another to go carryin around incriminatin evidence in your front pants pocket. All I'd need is for some pain in the ass police to decide to stop the man walkin down the side of the road in the middle of the night. Then he'd start callin up his friends and they'd all come circle up, lights a shinin, and then where would I be. Standin there with a note in my front pocket linkin me directly to thirteen other deaths in four states, that's where. Not a pleasant thought that.

But you had to make a splash you see. I'm no damn murderer, and the sort of thing I was doin requires a little risk takin. You had to wake people up. And to do that required a bit of dramatic flair. People don't get up for a little thing like a dead man. Even a dead tax man. You got to give em scandal. So I wrote the notes, and the notes told a story.

The story was important, because it was the one I wanted told. It was a story needed hearin. It was a story of how people could stand up for themselves, how they could be strong, and capable, and smart. How they could fix their own problems and live their own lives. It was a pretty damn good story I thought.

But you can't tell it all at once. You have to let it out slow. A little here. A little there. People get scared when you look em in the eye and tell em that everything they believe is a lie and everyone they trust is a liar. It's too much for some. Can't just drop em there, gotta lead em there. So I'd leave a little note each time. And over time, the story got told.

There was a man, not unlike yourself, lessen I suppose you're a woman, but you get the point. He wasn't a dumb man, but not particularly smart either. Not wise nor foolish. He was just a man. He knew what he was though. Not down on himself nor too high. Give him credit for that.

He had his problems. We all do. And he dealt with them as best he could. He wasn't too good to ask for help when he needed it, but he didn't rely on others either. Just took each day as it came, and did his best with what he had.

One day his neighbors got together and told him they had a better way. They offered a way to ease his burden. They'd form a collective. All he had to do was chip in to a pool of resources, and whenever anyone was down, they could dip into the pool and take care. And when they were up again, they could pay back into the pool.

Now these were all good folk. They had good intentions. But our man was already able to take what came. So he thanked em, and wished em luck, and said he'd be about his business for now. Nothing personal, and if any of them ever needed a hand he was always willin to do what he could, but just the same he'd just keep on as he was.

Like I said, his neighbors were all fine folk, so they just nodded their heads and went on their way. And nobody took any offense. They knew our man was a givin soul, and expected everyone would get on just fine. So he continued on and they started their collective. And no man had any problem with his neighbor.

Every so often, someone would get down, and they'd dip in to the pool. And most of the time, when they were up again, they pay it back. There were hiccups and wrinkles to iron, but for the most part things were fine. And our man was fine too.

But over time, the collective began to struggle. Every once in a while, a man would borrow when he was down, but when he was up the money didn't get paid back, and sometimes people weren't smart enough to use the money to get back up, in which case they just kept borrowin without returnin. Over time, they had themselves a diminishin return on their investment. And as the problems began to grow, the pool wasn't large enough to help everyone involved.

It just wasn't intended to be used by everyone at once. It was supposed to be there for times of need. But people began to rely on it. They figured it'd be there to fall back on. So some people took risks. And if those risks didn't pan, they could just lean on the collective. But the pool wasn't big enough anymore. They needed to make it bigger.

So they asked everyone in the collective to increase their contributions. This would fix the problem you see. If the pool were just bigger, than it would be able to help everyone when times got tough. Of course, if you were down, no one expected you to contribute your full share, but if you were up, well it was only fair. After all, the pool was there for you too, in case you needed it.

But over time, some people never needed it, and some people always seemed like they did. And as the contributions got higher, those who were havin trouble making ends increased in number. It seemed that more and more people were findin the cupboards bare after making their contribution to the pool. So they'd just dip back in and take their contribution back out, but then there wasn't ever enough there when other people really needed it.

Eventually, those what never needed the pool started wonderin why they were contributin so much to something they weren't using. So they started talking about gettin out of the collective. But those what needed it more often said that wasn't fair. After all, they agreed to participate. It was for everyone's good. And besides, it was there for them too, should they ever need it. So everyone stayed.

But over time, it still couldn't be supported. There just weren't enough puttin in to support those takin out. Even as the suggested contribution rose and rose. In fact, each time it went up, it seemed like fewer and fewer could afford to contribute, and more and more were havin to take out. So they needed a new way to fund the collective.

And that's when they came back to our man's home and knocked on his door. Only this time they weren't the same folk as before. Before they'd come with dreams and ideas. Now they had demands and recriminations. There were people in need, couldn't he see that? And he had plenty. In fact, since he hadn't been a part of the collective, he'd made a small fortune providin goods and services to those who were and who had lost the ability to provide for themselves. He had plenty to share, and a lot of that money had come from members of the collective in the first place. By rights, it was theirs.

That was the last note I'd left. The story was gettin told. I had another note in my pocket that night. And as I walked up the side of the road, down the path I'd memorized days ago, I thought about how that story would end. There was still plenty more to the tale. The note in my pocket wasn't the last. If circumstances went my way, I'd still have several more little notes to leave behind. There were plenty of people who needed to hear the story I was tellin.

Because some of those things we can't control aren't as far beyond our influence as we may have been led to believe. That's the real pacifier. Not the illusion of control. It's the mask behind the mask. It's suddenly realizin that your supposed control was an illusion. That's how they keep people from takin back their lives. When they realize that all that stuff they were taught in grade school while they held their hand over their heart and allegianced was a lie, a lot of people just give up. They accept and they get on. Because by the time they're ten, they realize that some things are just out of their hands.

Course, some things ain't everything. So I carried little notes in my front pants pocket to remind people that there were some things they could control. So that people who had given up hope might find hope waiting on their window sill one morning. And sometimes risks had to be taken. But when a man, even if he's not the smartest man, not particularly wise nor foolish, takes those risks on himself, he can do great things.

And when an idea takes root in the heart of a man, why, maybe such a man could change the world.

Depending on how circumstances conspire.

A Nighttime Diversion

Some people are just dicks.

There's nothing you can do about it. You're driving to work one morning, and for no apparent reason, someone decides to make your life worse. There's no justification for it. It doesn't make them happier, or better, or make their lives easier. They're just awful, nasty people. So they cut you off in traffic, drive too slow, and give you dirty looks. These people are what's wrong with the world. They're why the terrorists are winning.

I hate people like this. I saw one of them at the grocery store the other night. I was there to get milk. I like milk. It makes for strong bones. So there I was in the refrigerated section, digging behind the old milk looking for the new milk, they always hide the fresh stuff in the back, when I saw him. He was bothering the girl at the deli counter. They were out of chickens. Ass. Like somehow it's her fault they're out of chickens.

I quit worrying about the milk. I could get milk any time. Here was an asshole, right in front of me. Something had to be done.

As he headed up front to pay for his purchases, sans chicken, I grabbed a few things at random off the canned vegetable aisle and followed him to the checkout counter. I hung back and let someone step in between us, and then got in line. I didn't want him to notice me too near him, but I didn't want him to get away either.

After I payed for my cans of peas and fruit cocktail, I nodded and laughed at the small talk of the guy bagging my groceries. He just wanted to be noticed. I didn't catch his name. I was trying to watch the dick out of the corner of my eye so I could see which way he went when he stepped into the parking lot.

I had parked near the door in a handicapped spot. I always do. I'm never there long, if anybody bothers to call the cops I'll be long gone before they get there. They can't get there quick enough to save you from a robbery, they certainly aren't going to get there fast enough to boot my car. Since I was parked so close to the door, it wasn't hard for me to be in my car and watching him before he was ready to pull out of the parking lot.

I followed him down the expressway, never too close or too far, for miles. We passed a few other grocery stores as we drove down the edge of the city. I started to wonder why he'd drive all the way over to my grocery store just for chicken. Maybe he just likes the kind they sell there. Maybe he's neurotic. I sped up a little to vary the distance between us. The key to following someone in traffic is inconsistency. People are self absorbed. They only think of themselves while driving. If you want to seem natural when following others, you have to seem to be ignoring others.

After a while, he turned down a residential road. This is always the dangerous part. It's easy to give yourself away following someone down a residential road late at night. So instead of turning in after him, I drove past the side road. That way, if he was looking in his rear view, he'd see me drive past. After a few hundred feet, I turned around and drove back to the turn off.

This is where stalking someone is more of an art than a science. His car wasn't visible from where I was, so I had to guess what to do. Do I turn down one of the many side roads in the neighborhood, or keep going straight ahead?

I went ahead and drove straight ahead for a few blocks and then turned down another road. This one would take me out of this neighborhood and onto another main road. Sure enough, there was his car ahead of me, turning into a driveway. Looked like tonight I was going to get lucky.

I pulled into someone else's driveway and shut the engine off. He got out of his car, grabbed his grocery bags, and headed into the house. I waited for about twenty minutes, but he never came back out. You can't hurry these things. Sometimes people forget their purse or their hat in the car and run back out for it. If they don't come out in twenty minutes, they aren't coming out any time soon.

I pulled out of the driveway I was parked in and drove slowly towards his house. I parked in the street a few houses away from his car. I turned the engine back off and opened the trunk of the car. I opened the duffel bag I keep in the bag and pulled out the mask and gloves. I started keeping this bag in the car a while back. You never know when you might need it, it's just good to be prepared.

After a few minutes, the lights in the window flicked off. He must be headed up to bed.

I worked my way around to the back of the house. There was a sliding glass door in the back. Like most people, he hadn't bothered to jam anything behind the door to keep it in place. He hadn't even engaged the lock. I let myself in quietly.

I really hate people who don't treat others with respect. People deserve better than that. They shouldn't be seen as animals. I mean, really.

There ought to be a law.

Strange Holiday

I suppose it shouldn't be that much of a surprise, and I can't help but feel like I should have seen this coming. For a moment, all I can do is look at the three small links that connect the cuff around my wrist to the one around the pipe. Soon, I'll be able to think clearly enough to decide what to do next, but for now I'm just going to sit here and stare at that short bit of chain.

I really can't blame her. After all, she was taking as much of a risk as I was, going home with a stranger. For all she knew, it could just as easily have been her chained up in a hotel bathroom with a head full of pillows and chalk dust. Of course this was probably her plan when she went out tonight, but I learned a long time ago you never know who you're fucking with, and I'm sure she's learned that too.

A few minutes go by before I start to really assess my situation. My head is still cloudy and my tongue feels thick like it's filling my whole mouth, but my eyes work so I start looking around.

My first irrational fear is that she stole my kidneys. Like in the story. But I'm not sitting in a bathtub full of ice, and a quick reach back with my free hand seems to reveal a noticeable lack of surgical scars. Everything seems to be in place. Everything seems fine.

Except of course that I'm naked and chained to a water pipe.

I look around the room and notice a few things. First off, it's decently well lit. There's a central fixture over my head, and it looks like it has several smaller bulbs in it. It's not a dirty bathroom. The floor is clean, and the little soaps are sitting on the edge of the tub and by the sink, still in their little wrappers with the hotel's name printed on them. It occurs to me that hotels probably use such cheap little soaps because people steal them all the time. Bastards. The towels are all folded neatly and sitting on their wire shelf between the toilet and the tub, but my clothes are nowhere to be seen. Which means they must be in the bedroom. At least I hope that's what it means.

I'm not scared. Even if I end up sitting here all night and day tomorrow, the maid will be in eventually for turn down service. The next day or so might not be the most comfortable of my life, but it's not like I'm in any real danger.

I wonder why she just left me here like this. Things seemed to be going well. We got on alright at the bar, and at the second bar after we left the first one. I brought her back to my hotel room thinking the evening was progressing, well, more or less as I'd predicted. I planned on being naked, just not handcuffed and alone.

It must have been the wine. She'd drugged me somehow, that was obvious. One minute we're dancing in the bedroom, drinking the merlot, and then I wake up here, like this. So it must have been the wine.

It doesn't seem fair really. And for a second I allow myself to feel wronged. Cheated. I had plans. Things were going well. I'd really been in need of a nice little holiday, and this weekend was supposed to be just that. And now it was all ruined.

I'm not really upset though. Not for long. After a while, I even laugh about the whole thing. The maid will find me, in a day or two. Until then, I'll just sit here and wait. It's not like I had much for her to steal anyway, not on me. She got a little cash, a few credit cards I can cancel tomorrow, maybe she kept my cell phone. But nothing too serious. I kinda hope she just left the cell phone. It's a new phone.

So I didn't get laid. It's not that big a deal. I'll get laid next time. In a way this is better. I have a story to tell.

After all, if things had gone the way I'd planned, I'd hardly be able to tell anyone about it later. You can't exactly brag about picking up random girls at bars, having sex with them in hotel rooms, and then murdering them and taking their bodies out to the desert in the trunk of your car to bury. But I can tell the guys at work about this. It'll even make them laugh.

And there'll be other holidays and other girls. It's never hard to pick up girls at the bars. And next time I'll be more careful.

Because you never know who you're fucking with.

Light in the Valley

It hasn't happened before or since. Just the one time, and most don't even know about it.

It was a cloudy night, I remember that. We'd been sitting there for some time. Just sitting under that tree. We'd run out of things to discuss, but neither of us wanted to go back. So we just sat there, under the clouds, and we stared over the side of the cliff at the river below.

It was dark. You couldn't really even make out the river. Maybe if it hadn't been so cloudy, maybe there would have been some reflection. Like christmas lights floating in the water. But it was cloudy, so there weren't any christmas lights, just a dark slightly darker than the darkness that surrounded it. The kind of definition you get when you look over the edge of a cliff on a cloudy night.

So we were just sitting there. I thought about putting my arm around her, but it didn't really seem right. She wasn't my girlfriend, and it wasn't that cold. I just wanted to reach out and touch her. You can feel so alone, even with a person right next to you, especially in the dark when no one is talking. But it really wasn't my place to go putting my arm around her, so I didn't. I never thought about whether or not she would have wanted me to.

That's when it happened. At first, it seemed like there was a light, off in the distance, past the end of the river where the water bubbled up out of the rocks. I just thought it was a little lightning in the cloud and ignored it, but it didn't flicker. Instead it glowed steadily, and it got brighter.

The clouds began to part around it, and still it got brighter. Thoughts that maybe it was a plane or a helicopter were gone almost before they were formed, certainly before they were spoken. It was just too bright, and too big now to be anything like that.

Still, we didn't say anything. I wanted to ask her if she saw it. She had to be seeing it. She couldn't not see it. But she didn't say anything. Then again, neither did I, so maybe she was wondering the same about me. Neither of us said anything, and the light grew brighter and brighter.

Soon it was filling the sky, but it didn't seem focused on us. Sure, it was getting closer, but that almost seemed to have more to do with it getting larger than anything else. I wasn't afraid, I wasn't even really curious. It was so strange, and so vast, all I could really do was sit and stare. Soon there wasn't any room in my mind left for fear or wonder. In the face of something so unlike anything I knew, so much more vast than anything I could comprehend, there wasn't room for anything at all. Just sitting and staring and not talking.

It was like what they always tell you in school when they talk about blue whales, how one whale is so much larger than a human. You can't really understand it. The idea of any animal being so vast is more than you can really truly grasp. So they tell you it's like three school buses run on end. They tell you it weighs as much as a hundred cars. They tell you it's bigger than anything else ever was.

But to the kid sitting in his desk, that's all nonsense. You can compare it to whatever you like, he'll never understand the reality of it. He can't. And I couldn't understand what I was seeing that night either.

If you asked me to describe it, I'd use similes. I'd say it was like the sun came down to the earth. I'd say it was like all the light in the world filled the valley beneath the cliff. I'd say it was like being in a lightning storm. I might even say it was like seeing God.

But I can't really tell you what it was, any more than I can tell you what it was like. I might as well say it was like three school buses run on end. It doesn't make any sense to you, any more than it does to the kid in the desk. It's a huge unknowable thing, and when they say you had to be there, this was what they meant.

Then it was gone. It didn't leave any impression behind. There wasn't any damage to the valley. The clouds moved right back in to cover the sky. It didn't even leave an impression on my eyes, like when you stare at a light bulb for too long. It was just there, all unknowable and vast, and then gone.

The entire thing couldn't have lasted more than a few moments. I finally turned to her to ask if she saw it. I knew she would say yes. She had too.

But as I turned to her, I noticed she was looking at something in her hand. A rock she'd picked up earlier in the day. I'd seen her put it in her pocket. It was just a small brown pebble, smooth and flat, just like countless other river rocks by countless other rivers. Suddenly I knew that she hadn't seen it. She'd been staring at that rock. It didn't make sense, surely the light would have caused her to look up, but I just knew that if I asked, she'd tell me she hadn't seen a thing.

So I didn't bother asking. We'd sat there in silence so long anyway, it wasn't worth breaking it now, not when I knew what she'd say anyway. Maybe that's why people stop talking. You know what I mean? Because they know what other people will say. So they just quit.

Anyway, I didn't say anything. I just sat there. After a moment, I turned back to the cliff and looked out over the edge at the river below. There wasn't anything to see there, just the darkness, and after a while we both got up and headed back inside.

Without a word.

On Disobedience

Once we were young. We sat in smoky rooms in small groups and talked about important things. We were going to change the world. We were going to be a part of it. We'd get high, and discuss philosophy, and religion, and science. And we knew things.

We aren't so young anymore, but we still know things. We don't get high, and we don't get to talk as much, but we still know things. We know how to write a letter that can't be understood except by the person it's written to. We know how to blend into a crowd so that we aren't noticed. We know how to hide a knife in the palm of our hand so that they don't see it coming until it's too late. We know how to build a bomb, and how to bury it so it goes off when they drive their tanks over it. We know how to bandage a mortal wound, and how to make one.

We learned fast in the early years. It was either learn fast or not at all. When the first tanks rolled into our cities we thought the government would protect us. Then we heard about the strikes. Tactical. Nuclear. No government left after that.

Some people advised caution. Negotiation. Appeasement. But we weren't having any of it. So we started to fight back. That's when the learning process began.

We learned real quick that you can't just run up to a man and shoot him, because he has nine other men with guns right there with him. They had better weapons, and better armor, and we weren't going to win through force. We learned you can't poison their food and water, because they have equipment that tests for that, and they're inoculated regularly to protect them from most poisons.

The hardest lesson we learned was that you can't convince most people to stand up and fight, no matter the cost. No matter the loss. They just accept it and move on.

We couldn't blame them really. For most people, it was meet the new boss same as the old boss. They went about their business. They made goods. They sold goods. They bought goods. They paid their mortgages and fed their families and clothed their children. And they didn't really give a damn which god they were told to pray to at the end of the day, because god had never been there when they needed him anyway.

So we didn't blame them. Not most of the time. Not most of us. But we did blame the men with the guns, who rolled into our cities in their tanks, and slaughtered our leaders with their bombs. For us, it didn't matter who the new boss was. We didn't ask for him. We didn't want him.

So we learned that some people don't need convincing. They fight because they can't see any other way. And more and more those people came to us, to learn our ways.

We started as a small group. Only about a dozen. Men, and a few women, who couldn't sit by and watch the nation they grew up in salute a foreign flag. It wasn't really patriotism. It wasn't really heroism. We just couldn't stomach it.

I suppose it was a kind of pride really. The kind of hubris they speak about in college courses on Greek tragedy. Whatever it was, it kept us up at night. Studying.

So we learned. And we shared that knowledge. And over time, they began to learn too. They learned to keep their safeties off. They learned to look over their shoulders. They learned to fear.

So now we sit in dark rooms, and we gather in small groups and we discuss philosophy, and religion, and science. But we learned fear too, or at least, caution. So we get quiet whenever we hear a noise outside. And we never meet in the same place twice. And we don't use our real names, just in case someone's listening.

Because they are listening. They're always trying to find out who we are. Where we are. Because they want to put a stop to our behavior, but mostly, they want to make an example. They want people to see that resistance can't succeed. More important, they want to go back to believing they're invincible. They want to go back to when they didn't have to look over their shoulders, or test their food for poison.

And it's our job to make sure that never happens. We know we can't win. That wasn't ever the point. We know we're outnumbered, and outgunned, and outfunded. We know they have more materiel, and more time. Ultimately, they'll win. For every one of them we kill, there's ten thousand more, or a hundred thousand. Every one of us they kill puts us on the brink of extinction.

But we're not dead yet. So we leave posters on bathroom walls telling people how to make simple bombs. And we leave guns in public parks with instructions on how to use them. And we put bombs in their homes and cars and leave graffiti at the site to let people know who's responsible.

And maybe it won't matter. Maybe someday, people won't even remember what happened. Do you remember who lived in Rome before the Romans? Who lived in Egypt before the Egyptians? Who lived in China before the Chinese? Maybe historians do. Maybe they don't. We don't.

But we know one thing. We're in it now. We're living it. And the Bard put it best.

Let the world burn, we aren't young anymore.

Bright Column

It stood in the center of the room, shining dimly in the soft light that washed in through the windows. The sky was clear, and the moon was filling the snow covered field outside with a bright blue glow, but only a shadow of that light managed to reach in, between the drawn curtains, and illuminate the squat structure that jutted towards the ceiling.

At first glance, it would have seemed totally smooth. It wasn't until you looked closer that you realized that it had tiny thin lines covering its entire surface. Those lines almost seemed to form a pattern, but a person could trace one all day with their finger and never have to cross another, nor find the end of that line.

He'd been sitting there for hours, staring at it. Trying to decide what to do next. He only had until morning to make his decision, but despite the seconds quickly falling away, he had to be deliberate. Moving it wasn't an option, and the one time it had activated had ended, poorly, at least so far as he could tell.

So for now he sat, and slowly considered his options. For the hundredth time he briefly entertained walking away. He could get up, open the door, and leave it for someone else to discover in the morning. Whatever happened to them wouldn't be his responsibility. No one had warned him when he'd walked into this room six hours ago. Why should he feel any obligation to do so for someone else.

But of course, he couldn't do that. If he did that, he wouldn't have the answer he needed, and he certainly wouldn't have the resolution he hoped for. Walking away like that would leave him wondering, for the rest of his life, whether he could have saved Elizabeth, and he didn't think he'd live long under that stress. So once more he dismissed the idea and went over the problem again, hoping he could discover some previously unrealized angle. Some key to the puzzle before him.

They had been walking along the path between the foreign language and fine arts buildings when they noticed the door. It was cracked open, with the latch caught on the outside of the door frame. It had been a nice night, and Greg was sure he was going to score, so he leapt at the chance to make their way inside. The dinner had been delicious, the movie entertaining, and he was sure that a little adventure would be all he needed to push Elizabeth over the side.

So he pointed out the open door and talked her into going into the building. Just for a moment, just to see what it was like in the middle of the night, with no one else there. Elizabeth smiled at him and put one hand on his arm and another on his shoulder as she followed him through the door. He could smell her apple blossom perfume as she crowded close to him, and feel her breath on his neck.

They walked down the dark corridor and he tried each of the doors as he went. Each one was locked, but he knew that there were couches in the lounge at the end of the hall, so if he couldn't find a dark corner before then, they could take a break there. Hopefully more than a break.

But that was when he found one door that wasn't locked. He was a little irritated about not getting to those couches, but they would be there, and maybe there would be something better here, so he pushed the door open and they went inside.

Later, he would remember that he'd never been in this room before, but there were a lot of rooms he'd never been in before, so that wouldn't have tipped him off anyway. He would remember that he'd never seen a classroom without desks and computers before, but how could he have known if that was important? He'd remember the way Elizabeth looked as she leaned over the edge of the table, examining the bright column that stood in its center. How could he have known that would be the last image of her he'd have?

She must have touched something. He was sure of that by now, but what he couldn't say. He'd held the door open for her, and she'd walked past him, so she was standing between him and the column when it happened. All he could remember seeing was a bright glow pouring out from around her and suddenly she disappeared.

He had played the scene over in his head for hours as he sat on the floor in the corner of the room. Each time, it was no different than the time before, but something came loose in his memory this time. Just as he saw the light, he'd looked up from her hips and seen her face reflected in the window across the room. He wouldn't have even been able to see it in the darkened window if it hadn't been for that sudden glow. But he did see it. He saw her face, and she had said something. Mouthed something. Three words.

But in his memory he couldn't make it out. Something. Three words. In that final moment, had she realized what was happening? Had she tried to warn him, to tell him something? Or had it simply been some innocuous comment? Something meaningless, with no bearing on the puzzle at all?

She must have touched it. She must have done something to activate it. He had been too terrified to touch it again, but he had stared hard at the side that had been facing her. He had stared at that almost smooth side, following those lines with his eyes.

But when the lines carried his eyes around the edges, and he returned to the side facing the door again, he couldn't find the place where he'd began. It hadn't moved, he was sure of it, but somehow that place where the lines seemed to point in towards each other was gone now, replaced with a series of concentric swirls.

Somehow. The lines were moving. For a while he stood still, staring at it, not blinking. But the lines never moved. Then he thought he heard a noise outside and looked away. When he looked back, the lines had moved again. Now there were parallel lines running the length of the column from top to bottom.

He backed away until he felt the wall behind him. He edged into the corner, and slowly slid to the floor. Since then, he'd sat, working the puzzle over in his head.

If she had touched it, wherever she had touched it had moved. If she had said something as that glow had enveloped her just before she disappeared, whatever she said had been lost in the confusion of the moment. Greg was good at puzzles. He usually liked them. But this time he was afraid some of the pieces had fallen out of the box.

So he sat there looking at it, and he thought about walking away. There weren't any security cameras in the room. No one could prove he had anything to do with her disappearance. He could wait until tomorrow and see if anyone came and ask them for help, but what if there was no help to be had? At best, he'd be in trouble for breaking into the school, at worst, he'd be held responsible for whatever had happened.

Why would someone leave something like this in an unlocked room in an unlocked building in a small, unremarkable college? What kind of monster would leave it where it could be found? He railed at what had happened, once more disgusted at the world for putting him in that place, at that moment. Then disgusted with himself for wasting time feeling sorry for himself instead of working at the puzzle.

He tried to recreate those words in his head. The words he'd seen in the window. Something about the column? A shape she'd seen?

It was a waste of time. It wasn't working. He stood up and approached the table. Daylight was coming, and he couldn't wait. He couldn't leave. He couldn't get help. He couldn't get away. Regardless of how many pieces he had or didn't have to this puzzle, there was one thing he hadn't tried.

As his hand touched the column he saw his face reflected in the window across the room. Suddenly, he knew what she'd said. It didn't have anything to do with the puzzle after all.

His last thought before the light completely enveloped him was how he wished they'd made it to those couches.

A Man of His Senses

He was blind. It had come to him in a flash. From one moment to the next, everything was dark.

He stumbled through the room, tripping over the low table and falling hard to the ground. He didn't remember standing up. It hadn't even occurred to him to scream yet. He was too shocked. Seconds ago he had been sitting there, reading a book, when the whole world had suddenly shined brighter than a thousand suns, and then there was only darkness.

He laid there on the floor for a moment, groaning and clutching his leg where it had slammed into the table. He could feel something warm and slick on his leg. It burned under his hands. He closed his eyes shut as tightly as he could, despite his blindness. The pain in his leg momentarily drove his fear from his mind.

But as his thoughts cleared, and his vision did not, the fear returned. Something had happened. He tried to listen, to hear what was around him. It was then that he realized that there had been a sound of thunder when his sight went. All he could hear was a high ringing in his ears now.

Where was he now, in relation to the objects in the room? He rolled onto his side and felt a hard object stuck up against his back. He reached towards it with one hand and realized it was the entertainment center. He reached out tentatively with his foot. The pain of lengthening the muscles already knotting in his injured leg made him grown out loud again. His foot touched the edge of the table, now knocked at an angle from where it had sat in the middle of the room. He could feel the edges of the rug where they stopped covering the hard wood beneath. He was laying near the center of the room, with his feet towards the door.

He laid there for another minute. His phone had been sitting next to the couch where he had been reading. He rolled over onto his hands and knees and crawled towards the couch. Slowly feeling ahead of him with his hands as he crept across the floor, he felt the blanket hanging off the front of the couch in front of him. He worked his way, hand over hand, to the side of the couch he'd been sitting on. There was the end table. There, the phone.

He held it awkwardly in his hands, staring at it with his blind eyes. He knew what it looked like. He tried to form the image of it in his mind. It's thin black frame. The silver buttons. The blue light that emanated from its display. But no matter his efforts, he couldn't make his eyes see the phone he knew was there.

He could however, dial the numbers necessary. His hearing hadn't returned yet, so he decided to just dial 911. He pressed the numbers in, and hit the call button. He couldn't tell if anyone had answered, so he just cried out for help. He cried out in his darkness. He cried out in his silence.

He cried out in his fear.

He cried out for several minutes, and then dialed again. And again. The thought that in his state, there may be no one on the other end of the phone, and he may not even know it, was becoming a gnawing terror in his stomach.

He began to panic, and in his fear, to weep.

It was hard to determine the passage of time in that place. He never realized how much his perception of time was related to his ability to make sensory comparisons. He might have been laying there, weeping on the floor for minutes, or it could have been an hour, but slowly, some degree of rational thought returned.

If he was permanently blind and deaf, he was in trouble. Hell, even if it was only temporarily he was in trouble, but there was no way of knowing which it was yet. There was no way of knowing what had happened, and he had only the most limited ability to learn what was continuing to happen. Here, now, knowledge was the most important thing.

He tried to slow his breathing and lay still. He tried to get a feel for the room he was in. Other than the table moving when he tripped over it, everything seemed to be where he last remembered it. He couldn't feel any heat, so he didn't think there was a fire. He tried to feel for vibrations in the floor, but there didn't seem to be any. As far as he could tell, he was lying, alone, on his living room floor.

Then what had happened? What could have caused this? He had been reading a book before. He tried to think back, to remember things exactly as they happened. Had he heard the noise first, or seen the light? From which direction had it seemed to come?

It was no use. He thought he'd heard the noise, and then the light had flooded in from the big bay window in the front of the house, but it had all happened so fast, and he hadn't been looking for it. Besides, what good did such knowledge do him now?

No. That line of thought led to surrender. He would not surrender. He would survive. Whatever happened, he would get help, and he would be alright. He just needed to be calm.

He.

He.

Fear gripped him again. He what? What could he do? He'd called for help, but had no way to know if it had done any good. He thought he was safe, but who could tell? Was a fire about to consume his home? Would he be able to escape by the time he knew he was in danger? If it had been a gas line explosion, was it accompanied by a poisonous gas? Was he breathing death already?

He just didn't have the answers. He could move outside, he was sure he could find his way to the door, but would that improve his situation? He couldn't just lay outside on the ground and hope someone noticed. But he didn't have to lay in the floor either.

He moved to the couch and went back to rubbing his injured leg. He could feel the wetness drying and becoming a sticky film.

Blood then. It had to be. So, he was bleeding as well, although it didn't seem like a major wound, just a painful one.

Someone would come. If there was anyone else, if they were in better shape them him, someone would come. He had family who would want to make sure he was alright. Whatever had affected him had to have been a major incident. It had to be known. People had to be doing something. Even if he had to lay here for days, while he missed work, eventually someone would come.

But how long? How long yet? He had no way to know. He wouldn't know until they were right on top of him, and then, he wouldn't have anyway to know who they were. Fear began to eat at him again as he realized that it could be anybody. It could be someone trying to capitalize on unrest following whatever had happened. It could be looters. And he wouldn't know. He was completely defenseless, forced to rely on the aid of whoever came to help.

And that thought almost ruined him. Unless his senses returned, he would have to rely completely on others. Maybe forever. He had been a man of his senses. An eater. A lover. A reader. A musician. An artist. And unless his senses returned, it was all gone. All of it.

His world had disappeared in sound and fury, leaving nothing.

Real Entertainment

It was a dark and stormy night. The valiant knight approached the dark castle where the beautiful princess was being held captive by the evil monster. His polished armor glowed brightly in the bright moonlight, reflecting the brightness of the stars in the sky. As he wielded his magical elven sword he wondered about the words of the wise wizard who sent him on his quest.

At that point, I had to stop. I couldn't bring myself to care what happened to the valiant knight and the beautiful princess enough to finish reading the manuscript. I threw it on top of the pile I'd already dragged myself through. There were times when this job almost became more than it was worth. I knew that there were people who supposedly had worse jobs, janitors, and trash collectors, and kindergarten teachers, but none of them had to tolerate this kind of filth.

It was late and I'd been suffering through knights in shining armor and evil alien overlords all day. This was the kind of junk you had to put up with as an intern at a sci fi magazine, but I was starting to regret my chosen career path. Perhaps I should have stayed in college. It probably wasn't too late for me to go back. I shouldn't have to resort to this kind of work to pay the bills for the rest of my life. I was still young. Youngish.

Regardless, my work day was more or less over at that point, and it was time to head home anyway. I was living on the edge of the city. Not the good edge, where all the new construction was being done. The crappy edge, by the sinkhole, near the industrial park and the zoo. I'd been living there since I dropped out of college and moved out of the dorm. It wasn't so bad, I shared a weird little run down hovel with one of the guys I used to work with at the park and ride. The house was shit, but the rent was cheap, and our nearest neighbor was almost half a mile away. On the way home I stopped by the burger place at the corner so I could flirt with the drive through girl. She gave me extra pickles.

I was just turning onto the gravel poured through our front yard when my roommate came stumbling outside. He was already stoned, but he was awake so that was no surprise. I climbed out of the little two door I was driving and reached out for the joint he held out to me.

“You get enough dwarves and space nazis today?” He asked sleepily as I sucked in the bitter smoke.

“You get enough porn and cheese sandwiches?” I coughed back at him as I handed the joint back. I wasn't a regular smoker, but when your roommate is, you tend to get your taste in, and after the day I'd had, I wasn't gonna say no.

He chuckled and we made our way back into the house. I left the front door hanging open as I stepped past it onto the filthy carpeting. It was early summer, or late spring, and the weather was just the right temperature. We didn't even bother to close the door at night most of the time. It didn't hang right anyway, and the thick spray of raid we applied to the door frame and windows kept the pests out. It even smelled kinda fruity.

We plopped ourselves down on the broken couch that filled most of the tiny living room and stared at the giant tv we'd rented that filled the rest. I was ready to hammer some citrus drink, get high, and watch trash.

“You hear about the Chancellor?” Kevin wasn't what you would call “up” on world events, but apparently he'd watched news at some point today, and felt like sharing.

“Yah. I heard on the way home. What the fuck huh?” It had been all over the radio. The Chancellor had died. Choked on a cookie they said. Chocolate Chip.

“And I've always thought that was the most gentle of cookies.” He actually sounded contemplative. Maybe he meant it.

We fired up the tv and plugged ourselves in. The pain was almost immediate. Ever since we'd gotten the new cables the sensation had become so much more, I don't know, vibrant, then before. Usually when we'd plug in, the pain would be more like a memory of pain, like the day after you burn your finger. It still hurts, but man, yesterday. But with these new cables, it was like knives were twisting in our toenails.

We sat there for hours. Just watching the shopping channel and drinking citrus, passing a joint back and forth. We didn't feel up to rolling after a while, so we just loaded the little stone we kept on the arm of the couch. Sometime around four I fell asleep on the couch. Sometime later Kevin found his own bed.

The next day I woke up with spittle dried in my beard. The sun was well above the horizon and I could smell what was left of Kevin's breakfast through the empty doorway that led to the kitchen. It was my day off, but Kevin had already headed into the industrial park to load pallets for six hours. They claimed to do drug testing at the warehouse he worked in, but that was really just to scare away the losers. He'd worked there for nearly two years now and they hadn't tested him once.

I shook myself and stretched hard enough that I had to sit back down on the couch for a moment. I tried again, and this time I made it all the way to the fridge to see what we had to snack on. I didn't normally go out on my day off if I could help it, but if I needed food there was a chinese place down the street, and the burger place of course. I found the remains of a bag of burgers from some time earlier in the week and took it into my room with me.

I wiped the grease from the burgers off on yesterdays shirt as I plugged in to my computer. The pain was more muted here, I couldn't afford a nice set up like we had in the front room, but it still managed to fill my mind. News about the Order vote to replace the Chancellor was ignored as I logged onto the gaming board. Old boss, new boss, not interested. The game was in progress when I joined, but it never really stopped, so I took my place and began.

The first opponent I faced was crafty. He placed his exes in the center and at the corners, but I'd seen this maneuver before and easily countered him. I continued to play for some time, and added a few other players to my challenge list so I could find them later. The pain filled my mind with clarity.

Eventually I ran out of old burgers and went back to the fridge for a drink. I checked, but we were all out of citrus, and we didn't drink the rust that came out of our kitchen sinks, so I headed into town.

As I drove past the industrial park I saw them cringing in the shadow of one of the great factories. It wasn't that unusual. They were chased away from the polite parts of town, but you could always find them on the fringe of the fringe. In back lots and stinking alleyways. There wasn't anything new or rare about the poor. Honestly, we were only slightly better than they were. At least we could afford a roof that leaked, water you couldn't drink, and doors you couldn't close. But we did have entertainment.

That was what made them so pathetic. It wasn't the dirt on their faces, or the hollowness of their cheeks. It was the empty look in their eyes. Who knows how long it had been since they'd felt pain? Even the cheap grainy pain I got through my computer was more than these poor unfortunates ever got. How could a man feel alive without pain? What would be the point?

I decided while I was out I'd stop by the chinese place anyway so I could get something to eat later. While I sat in the drive through I listened to the radio play. Nothing that mattered. World events. Celebrity gossip. Equally important. I traded my chit for the bag of boxes and headed back to the house.

On the way back, I saw the urchins again. It was unnerving, being confronted with such dejection. Ignoring them was easier, so I did. When I got back home I tossed the food in the fridge for later and decided to plug in to the tv.

I spent almost all my time plugged in to either the tv or the computer when I wasn't at work. It was funny, in a way, that I spent so much time at work editing those god awful stories for people who still read magazines, and so much time at home plugged in. Reading was so boring. Words couldn't hurt you, it just seemed like wasting your time. Real entertainment was supposed to hurt. Anything else was dross.

Simple Husbandry

“This is a happy story.” She argued.

She always sounded like she was arguing. It didn't matter what they were discussing, Heather was always arguing. If they were discussing politics, or religion, or their favorite pastry flavor, Heather saw it as a challenge. A battle to be won. And she usually did, either through force of logic or force of personality.

“It's a happy story, and I won't have you mucking it up with your exposition.” She was like that. You go to her, and ask her a simple favor, and she somehow turns it around and makes you the source of the problem in the first place.

It didn't seem like much. I wanted to write about our honeymoon, just a short paragraph or two to put in the Holiday letter. We'd had such a delightful time, and I wanted to make sure I did the whole thing justice, so after I finished, I asked Heather to look over what I'd written to see if I left anything out.

Of course she had to turn it into some kind of confrontation. It wasn't enough to say, “You forgot about the apple tree,” or, “what about that waitress at the diner?” No, Heather insisted that I was wrong from the get, that I was using the wrong approach by focusing on describing our vacation instead of gushing over our marital bliss.

Of course I was happy about being newlywed, and Heather knew it, that wasn't the point. The point was that it had to be a battle, which meant we had to pick sides, and since I had chosen the side of “expositor” she had chosen the side of “emoter.”

By now I was used to this little game and knew how to play, I wouldn't have married her otherwise, so I made a token defense and then granted her the victory. It was all she really wanted anyway. If I didn't defend at all, it wasn't a real battle, and she'd make sure we had one soon to make up for it. But if I defended to strenuously, she might lose, and Heather hated losing. So I'd fight the good fight, give ground grudgingly, and eventually admit defeat.

Besides, it was a happy story. We'd met in school, fallen madly in love, and being romantic idealists both, showered each other with affection. I'd buy her tokens and she'd leave me surprises. It was all very silly, and we were deeply entrenched. It was a wonderful time in our lives.

Of course, our lives weren't always wonderful, and they wouldn't always be, but with our little give and take games we had joy in the moment. Later I would rewrite the Holiday letter, she would decide it was better the first time, and I would send out the letter I'd wanted in the first place. That was part of the game too.

But for now, I put the letter aside. I had something else we needed to discuss, and the battle we'd have over this would probably overshadow the other.

“We need to talk about the help. They're restless.” She hated discussing our slaves.

It was our compassion which brought about our return to slavery.

We'd inherited them from my father when he'd retired. Dozens of human slaves he'd acquired during the war. For the most part, they were industrious and relatively easy to keep and feed, but they did have a tendency towards, restlessness.

We treated them well of course, my father had raised me to understand the importance of proper care and treatment of our property. Some people never understand the importance of preventative maintenance for their slaves, but I'd learned at a young age that having their feet and teeth checked monthly was important to getting the most out of them. Left alone, they had a tendency to overeat and let their personal hygiene go unattended. But if you controlled their diet and made sure they were cleaned regularly, they were actually quite industrious.

What made them such useful slaves was also what occasioned their restlessness. They were really quite clever little creatures. I was still sometimes surprised by their ingenuity, and I'd had human slaves for years. They had a fair degree of problem solving ability, and were unusually curious.

But occasionally those attributes led to problems. Sometimes we had to deal with sullenness, which you had to address quickly before it spread to others. Sullen workers were unproductive workers. But more importantly, there had been uprisings. Not in any of my holdings of course, I knew how to take care of my slaves, but some other holders didn't understand how to properly husband their stock. Those kinds of problems were always dealt with harshly of course, you certainly can't allow insurrection, but talk of revolt had to be dealt with far differently than revolt itself. Revolt needed to be crushed, talk of revolt needed to be smothered. A fine line to be sure.

So far, I hadn't heard of any talk of revolt amongst the slaves, but their restlessness was beginning to show. Workers pausing throughout their day and staring off into space. Dragging their feet while working. Sulking in corners. I had owned slaves since my thirteenth naming day, and I had developed a sense of their mood.

The best way to address this kind of behavior was to draw aside some of the more respected slaves. There were those amongst the humans who were looked to for guidance. Some were young, some old, it was hard to discern how they determined position, but you could tell who was deferred to, and who was expected to defer.

Heather never liked discussing the slaves. She felt that the keeping of the lands was primarily the husband's responsibility and didn't like to be bothered with it. She was also part of a small movement that felt slavery was immoral. They actually promoted manumission. Of course, Heather was young, and the young are prone to flights of fancy. I understood the true consequences of manumission and would never do that to my slaves. Cast them out into the world without shelter or means? I simply wasn't that cruel.

“You know how I feel. What do you want me to say? Of course they're restless.” She was already gearing up to retread old ground.

“I do know how you feel. But I still have to address it. And I'd like your support.” There wasn't any heat in my voice. We weren't playing the game now, and Heather sighed and then leaned towards me.

“What would you like me to do?”

“Not much. Find reasons to encourage the house. Overlook small slips, reward their behavior.” Some owners would lay a heavy hand on their slaves at a time like this, when the situation called for just the opposite. Contentment would breed cooperation. Agitation only bred resentment.

“Very well husband. I will acquiesce to your demands.” The lilting pitch of mock torment in her voice was sufficient to save her pride. A wise husband knew when to allow his wife her moments of rebellion.

We'd held humans as slaves for four hundred years now. When we arrived on their planet, we immediately recognized their value. Our initial inclination was towards cooperative trade. We were only slightly more advanced than they at the time, and felt that we could learn much from their unique perspective. Yet when we contacted their leaders clandestinely they immediately made offers of bondage. They were willing to offer their own people in thrall in return for the least of our technologies.

We were disgusted. We had left slavery behind millenia ago, and had no interest in repeating the mistakes of our shameful past. We decided to bypass their leaders and go directly to the people, but we were rebuffed.

The people cried out in fear. They ran slavering from our presence. They begged the very leaders willing to enslave them for deliverance. It was then that we realized the true extant of their depravity. Their leaders were not offering to make them slaves, they were offering us people who were slaves already. The people of this earth were little more than chattel. Poorly husbanded chattel.

So we accepted the gracious offers of their leaders. Only we accepted them all. From highest to low. Their leaders attempted to resist, but we overwhelmed them quickly. We may have been only slightly advanced in some areas, but we had non lethal force technology which made violent resistance futile.

It was a kindness. Most were given good labors, and the more highly skilled amongst them were made responsible for great tasks. We found little use for their former leaders, and over the generations they had established a new kind of hierarchy. They were allowed to breed, and maintain some of their own culture. It was slavery yes, but a more honest slavery than the one under which they toiled before.

Yet their curiosity and intellect bred discontent and restlessness from time to time, and keeping such rambunctious creatures could be a challenge. But having accepted our charge, we could hardly turn our back on our responsibilities now.

I would speak with their leaders tomorrow. I would encourage their individuality, stoke their egos. I would remind them of the importance of their role in our lives. They would understand and pass the message on to the others. There would be peace.

It would be a happy story after all.