My father came home from the war and I couldn’t have been happier. It took him a while to get readjusted but after a couple of months I could see the color returning to his face and that same smile that kept me praying for his safe return. I remembered sitting up late at night staring at the picture of him and my mother at their wedding. He was looking fondly at some far off scene while my mother rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed, and her face as young as I ever saw it. My father beamed, his entire face contorted with the effort.
Every time I looked at it I would hope that he was smiling wherever he was. But now that he was home my focus returned to the where I was and not where he was at.
As time passed it became apparent that his smile was a facade. I would catch him sometimes, sitting quietly in his room with his head in his hands. One particular evening he noticed me staring, and offered me one of those smiles for my troubles. It was then that I realized that he was always smiling, no matter where he was. It wasn’t because he was happy or hiding something. It was because he knew that deep down he had to for the sake of others.
At his funeral he had a frown on his face. I don’t think I ever saw him more at peace.
“It is common knowledge that the fight or flight response is a universal attribute, and that although we learn to harness it more respectfully it is still animalistic in nature.”
Joseph put down his book and returned his attention to the class.
“Now, who can tell me why it is scientifically unfeasible for humans to give birth to live young? Anyone?”
No one answered at first, but eventually a young boy named Ben spoke up.
“Because we have yet to evolve such faculties?”
The teacher smiled. “You are close Ben but you are off in the matter of sequence. We no longer have a need to give birth to live young because it has been since been supplemented thus we evolved OUT of the behavior. Now Ben, now tell me why this achievement is so remarkable and why is it so important to our understanding of humanity?”
“Because it separates us from animals?”
“Is that an answer or a question?”
“Answer.”
“Correct.”
“But sir,” said Mary, another student three seats to the left of Ben, “Wouldn’t the fact that it is a natural process make it unnecessary for us to find a way to supplement it?”
“But you forget that just because something is natural doesn’t mean it is necessarily beneficial. Before natural birth was outlawed the actual birthing process took place excessively in the body of females. The process caused significant pain and the process statistically decreased the possible age expectancy by an exponential amount based on the number of births the mother had participated in. By using supplementary techniques the stresses on both mother and child are reduced for obvious reasons and the level of control and management that can be exerted over the entire birthing process is much greater than before thus resulting in better, healthier offspring. SO as you can see, this natural process of childbirth was in the end a detriment to the development of humans, and resulted in unnecessary risks. All parts of the process from the sound of a mothers beating heart to the more fundamental elements of pregnancy are replicated without the consequences of more natural methods.”
“But just because the process may be painful or may be supplemented by another method doesn’t mean the original function is unnecessary.”
“And why is that,” asked Joseph.
Mary opened her mouth to speak but found herself at a loss to explain what she felt. Her skin grew hot as she probed her brain for the answer she hopped she had inside of her. Shaking her head she uttered the only answer she could find.
“I don’t know.”
Joseph smiled. “I appreciate your curiosity, but the conclusions of our ancestors were based on evidence and generations worth of experience.” Looking over the class he spread open his arms. “Truly in the world in which we live we have found reason for celebration for we have conquered that part of ourselves that is so primal, allowing our true humanity to come through. And surely,” he said, addressing Mary alone, “no one would wish to argue with that.”
Mary sunk back in her seat, trying to make herself small as the stale breath of her teacher and the silence of the classroom overwhelmed her. Suddenly the bell rang announcing the movement to the next class. Breathing a sigh of relief, Mary gathered her things and headed to the door.
“Miss Mary,” called Joseph. “May I see you for a moment?”
Mary headed over to his desk as the rest of her classmates left the room on route to their other classes.
“Now tell me Miss Mary, what do you suggest we do with you, hmm? Every time we have a lesson you have something to say about it, some irrational quip that does not further the discussion. But it is not your questioning that concerns me, it’s your obvious lack of understanding of the material. The midterm exam is in a couple weeks and yet you still don’t seem to understand even the most fundamental of concepts. Humans are meant to overcome our animal selves, not co-exist. And nothing that is animal is something that we cannot supplement.
All those processes that once occurred within us and made us animals have been harnessed and yet still you insist on trying to argue that somehow these matters that are so distinctly animal should remain so, and that we so should not separate ourselves from them. If you don’t understand then ask for my help AFTER class and do not waste anymore class time on the subject.”
Mary looked at the ground. “It isn’t that I don’t understand why we live the way we do. I just can’t find a reason why we were set up differently in the first place. If evolution is correct, then why were we designed with so many faulty attributes?”
Joseph let out a sigh. “Mary, evolution is purely a term applicable to animals. We as humans need not evolve. We are successful as we are. Yes we did evolve along a plane just like all other creature, but unlike other creatures we have found a sense of ourselves outside of the category of mammals or any other animal for that matter. We had these set of systems because we were once animals. Now we are far beyond any animal and have an understanding of ourselves that negates our natural processes, rendering them unnecessary.”
“But there are certain things that are found in animals that we cannot supplement, that cannot be…”
“Mary!” Joseph bellowed. “I will not entertain such foolery any longer. If you cannot show improvement in the fallowing weeks I will fail you. Are we clear?”
“Yes sir,” Mary mumbled. Picking up her bag she went to leave.
“And Mary,” said Joseph.
“Yes”
“Don’t get lost in the questions.”
Mary nodded and headed out the door.
“I wouldn’t if I had answers” she muttered.
His lack of concern for her questions upset her deeply. All of her life she had believed in the same things as he, recited the same tenants, and read the same works as everyone else. But lately it had been different. Though there was no literature available to validate her claims there were thoughts stirring within her, thoughts that came in conflict with what she had been told. She could not figure out where they came from or why they were so deeply rooted within her mind.
“But there are certain things that are found in animals that we cannot supplement...” What on earth had possessed her to say that? It was ridiculous. Other than the original trappings of the human form there was no process that could not be supplemented. The beating of the heart, breathing, things such as that are of course irreplaceable. But things such as child birth, the fight or flight response, genetics, these were the grounds for the argument and there was really no real reason to doubt the logic. They had each along with others served their purpose at the time. But they were no longer needed to remain natural or even existent in certain cases.
The fight or flight response could easily be supplemented with proper education about how to react in a given situation, thus limiting the disquieting effects of adrenaline and others stressors. These were things she had been taught from birth and yet still she found her mind at odds with the limitless amounts of education she had received in the fourteen years of her life.
“Mary,” called a familiar voice.
Mary turned around as the sound of footsteps on the sterile tile floors approached.
“You’re a tuff person to catch up with. I have been calling your name all day but every time you just walked past me. What’s wrong? Don’t you like me,” the boy teased.
“I do like you. I have just been a bit out of it today,” She regretted having to lie to him, even if it was a little one. They had been assigned friends for their entire lives after all, but there were things Edward just wouldn’t understand, such as the questions she had asked earlier. And so for the sake of their friendship when there were too many questions like on days like these she would avoid him and would then propose a little white lie to explain her behavior.
“So what’s up? You have any plans after school?”
Mary looked at him with a puzzled look on her face.
Edward noticed. “I’m sorry. That was really impulsive of me. I should have asked you in a less forceful fashion.”
Mary’s cheeks flushed. “I accept your apology.” Smiling she looked away. Inwardly she liked his aggressiveness, though she knew she wasn’t allowed to be. They were told about how aggressiveness in nature leads to conflict and ultimately violence, but there was something intriguing about his behavior that she could not quite comprehend. Somewhere in the back of her mind she hoped that perhaps she would find the answer to all her questions. Ignoring the thumping in her chest she quietly retorted that she indeed had no plans outside from studying for her previous class.
“If you would like, maybe I could visit you and help you.”
Mary smiled. Her heart began to race again. “I accept your offer.”
I saw that once on a cozy for a cup of coffee
When I was down and out
And I needed it most
It's strange how life can sometimes arrange itself
In the most appropriate manner
For the maximum benefit
Almost like the momentum of chance
Was being redirected in your favor
But perhaps there is no chance in it whatsoever
And it is in fact your will
For yourself
Being acknowledged
I have those moments happen a lot to me
And I think for many people life arranges itself
The same way
I know that some people may disagree
But I think the difference between
Knowing life's little miracles
And feeling like your being left out
Is whether or not you have a eye
For those moments
Where for a fleeting minute
All those forces that exists
To make you comfortable
And bring you down
Are suddenly smiling
“Focus,” I tell myself though in truth that is near impossible to do, the rain and the low elevation coming together in a torrent that masks the lines of the road, leaving my efforts rendered only as guesswork and faith.
Beyond lies my destination, a decrepit old home where generations of my family had had their wake’s before their internment in the family plot three blocks down. It was a tragically short drive from the home to the plot, but after a six hour wake, I have found that all respect for the deceased ends as people just want the coffin in the ground and their car heading to the nearest restaurant.
It is only once I get to the funeral that I realize I don’t know the person.
“No matter,” I say to myself. “A hole is a hole after all. What matter is it of anyone’s what goes in it?” They say she was my mother. I look at the body and wonder why we look so different when we die.
I peer out my window coated in ice at the fields of snow that just seemed to appear overnight. The ground is white, with a thin ray of gray where the tires of my car cut through the shallow snow. Other than those tracks the road is unmarred by any mechanical form, the distance from the nearest town and the nearest major road isolating us even on the best of days. Now and then I can observe a single flake, late for its arrival, fall from the sky and join all of its brothers and sisters outside, scattered half hazard on the frozen landscape. The changing of the seasons has turned this place into a dark expression of its normal spring grandeur, the color scheme reduced to mere shades of gray.
I sit with you in my arms, my attention drawn to the beating of your heart against mine. I look down at a fallen leaf that rests idly, just outside the reach of the tree cover that we took shelter under to get out of the rain. It sits alone, the rain forming beads upon its breast, like tiny, clear gems ornamenting the silent and aged crown that was once part of the tree itself. But now it sits by itself, the rain collecting on its form, its fate drawn from the wisdom of ages past as the tree prepares for the winter. Soon it will be joined by many others, its form united with its brothers and sisters as the season moves on.
I look on in apathy, the changing of the seasons not affecting the emotions of my heart, steady and true, full and always giving of love for you. You cuddle closer, the warmth of your body pressed against mine as I watch the rain fall and the world bowing low under the weight of its efforts, the limbs dipping down, protecting us like a mother protecting its child, our forms remaining dry and safe.
You reach up and cup your hand around my neck, your kiss warm and soft upon my lips. Then you return to your former position, wrapping my arms like a scarf around your neck. My eyes smile, then return to the leaf that had formally been the concern of my vision. I reach out my leg and draw it under the tree cover. I tip it and shake until the water leaves the top of its form, then lay it to rest next to me. Like a family we sit together, the mother tree and her children, the blessed and the meek, together at last under the branches of the elm tree as we watch the rain collect upon the water. And as it picks up, the surface becomes solid to my view, and I swear if I so choose to at that moment I could have walked on water.
Tony Barrington never meant to fall in love. Truth be told, most people of the town had simply given up on him ever settling down, believing him to be too old and bitter to ever really make it work. Yet here he found himself, three years later, with a wedding ring on his hand and a shifting bundle resting peacefully in his broad arms. He was fifty years old, but inside he had gotten younger, the weight of the years he had spent alone slipping from his shoulders the day his child was born. He was old, older in fact than most of the people in town, definitely older than all of the new parents, but he had a barreled chest and a strong frame. It would take more than just the passing of time to bring him down.
His eyes came to rest on an old garden on the side of the house, one he hadn’t tended in over twenty years. Setting the bundle down in the grass beneath a nearby tree he allowed his hands to run their way through the course dirt that he had long since gone hard. Pulling a few sparse weeds that sat intermingled in the grass; he turned his attention to the breathing bundle that sat quietly in the foliage. In his mind he began to devise an idea, his demeanor getting brighter and brighter as he formulated his plan. He smiled, and picking up the bundle he headed off towards his truck.
Ten minutes later he returned with a packet of seeds and some soil. Setting the bundle back under the tree, he headed over to the shed where he kept his tools. A few minutes later he emerged carrying a garbage bag and a hoe, along with the various other digging tools he had collected all those years ago. Back then they had seemed to be just mere pleasantries, but now, now he had a mission, and for a man like Tony Barrington they might as well have been the hand of God. Setting his tools down he got down on his hand and knees and began to work.
And he worked. And he worked until sweat formed on his brow and his shirt stuck fast to his skin. He worked until his hands were raw and blistered, and his head felt faint and his throat felt dry from thirst. He worked until that garden he had let go of so many years ago was back to it former state, the soil soft to the skin and the borders defined and strong. Taking out the packet of seed he took them and scattered them in the rich soil.
Heading inside he grabbed the largest watering can he had and filled it up to the brim. Bringing it outside, he walked over to the resting bundle and plucked it up. Stirring momentarily the bundle eventually stopped, resigning itself to the comfort of the arms. With one hand Tony dug a trench, deep enough to be accommodating but not deep enough to be forgotten. Placing the bundle in the ground he covered it over with dirt, carefully patting it down as to not crush it. Taking the watering can he emptied its contents on the bed of soil. Tired and dirty, he headed inside, his labors complete.
Three weeks later the Honeysuckle was in full bloom. Taking its time it wound its way around the grounds, climbing up the side of the house in places. But Tony Barrington was not at home to witness the grandeur of his efforts. Three blocks away he was, knelt down in reverence in front of two tombstones, one new, one old. On the old one read the words Mary Eleanor Barrington, devoted mother and wife. One the grave next to it on the right sat the other, on its face was carved the words Patricia Ann Barrington. Getting to his feet he walked away, the grass in front of the tombstone undisturbed by human hands.
Walking home Tony walked directly to the back of the house and the garden that resided there. Taking off his hat and coat he tended to the individual flowers as the sun set low in the horizon. Under the tree sat an open book, a single entry on the rain washed page.
“…I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood
And I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference”
I stroke his head one last time, its emotionless, blank face seeming to look back at me with contempt. “I know you don’t want to go. But it will be alright now for both of us.” I look back up at the crashing waterfall that feeds into the belly of the black chasm. “He’ll be happy here.” I stand to my feet and study him one last time, then grip him close as I feel the years of abuse all over his body. “I love you,” he says as the tears run down his furry cheeks. “I love you too.” And with that I swing out my arm and watch my old friend hang helplessly in the air before falling into the pit below. “Goodbye Chance.”
The blinds were drawn closed so only a single ray of light fell across the pages of the ancient manuscript. Creeping away from the window glass, the long streak of light crept its way up the thin mans leg, moving up to his thigh, then eventually falling across his lap, illuminating the title at the top of the page. “The Jungle” it said. The light continued to move forward, casting its influence on an old gold wedding band on a pale and emaciated hand, outlined by white shirt cuffs and the tip of the arm of a deep black, well pressed suit jacket before it emptied into the empty chasm of the edge of the chair.
The light reflected off the page, striking incidentally the blackened medical glasses that sat perched on the thin mans thick, long nose. Closing the cover after a moment, the man stood up and walked over to the blinds, letting the book fall limply from the tips of his fingers. Pulling on the chord, he drew up the blinds, revealing the sharp, pale, veined features of his face and neck that seemed carved from ice. Walking over to the door, he turned the handle only to return his gaze to the book with the red cover. Opening the door, he exited into the hall, dust from the blinds collecting on the cover of the old work as he closed the old, heavy oak door.
“Bye,” he called back
Outside the sun and risen, and from its position in the sky it bore down on the city as the cool wind wound its way around the forms of the general populace as they headed off to work, some of which to the factory, a select few to other facilities. Into this stepped the thin man, his black coat and pants clinging to his hollow frame as if they were likely to blow away if they did not. His eyes narrowed behind the lenses as his deep black eyes became accustomed to the sunlight. Stepping off the stoop of his porch, he headed off in the direction of the medical distribution center, people moving out of his way as he progressed forward with his thoughts.
“Immunity; I would have never conceived it to be possible. We worked so hard to prevent such an occurrence, but here we are, nearly fifty years later with cases of resistance to the medicine. It is still much too early to know for sure if these are just isolated incidents, but if they are not then more drastic measures will need to be taken.”
The thin man smiled. “We were so sure this would work indefinitely. It’s like cigarettes. Eventually the body becomes dependent on the chemicals found within the cigarette, and stops producing the chemicals naturally. The resulting detoxification takes a matter of days, a week tops, but the resulting trauma kills virtually 99.9% of the people who go without it. Without the counter medicine the body cannot produce chemical levels high enough to allow a person to fall into REM sleep. Without sleep the body cannot repair the damage caused by the withdrawal. It is virtually full proof. But that .10%, what makes them different. No gender bias or ethnic patterning, nor is there any relationship concerning age or sector in the city. So what is it?”
As the thin man neared the corner he turned left towards a newsstand, just as he did every day. He knew just as all the high officials knew that most of the important news concerning occurrences outside the city was made up, but much of the regional information remained true, and the simple purchase of a paper encouraged an image of honest conformity. Picking up the paper he read the headline, then gave the man his due and headed off. “Forman taken in for questioning; Possible involvement in treasonous activities,” it read. The treasonous activities it had spoken of where his supposed involvement in a conspiracy to cut down quality in the products being produced in the factory. According to the article he admitted to a fellow co worker that he had been using inferior materials so that he wouldn’t be accountable for any drop in productivity due to lack of resources.
The thin man laughed with the high raspy voice that he tried his best to hide in front of company. “They did very well on this one.” He knew that the article was false, but there had been rumors among the population that there had been complaints about quality by the various retailers. And although pinning the rumors on his actions gave rational to his eventual death, the true reason for him losing his paycheck was quite different.
“It’s been six weeks and his mother is still sleeping without the medicine despite an increase in the dosage. Yet her son died after three days. What makes them different?” As he neared the MDC he pulled out a small notepad and began to jot down possible reasons that had yet to be explored while crossing out ones that had been tested without yielding conclusive results. Tucking the notepad away in his breast pocket he climbed the steps to the MDC and in through the open door held by two of the clerks.
“Good morning Dr. Godwin,” one of them said.
“We have already started, can I take your coat,” asked the other.
“No but you would do well to increase the temperature. And get me the files on the mother before fifty years ago. Let’s see if there are any clues to be found there.”
As he headed back to the lab he thought kindly to himself, “This is the day Jacob. This is the day.”
Patrick stopped by a local coffee shop, one of the few remaining industries not yet controlled by the government. Business was bad for such people as few found reason to run the risk of not being able to fall asleep at an appropriate hour. But many people still found reason to play dice with the devil for a little more time, and with how Patrick was sleeping, any relief from his exhaustion was welcome even if it came in the form of a burnt, tasteless roast. He had a half hour till he would be officially deemed as late for the day. That gave him about twelve minutes before he had to set off. All the other patrons had already left for work, leaving him alone to enjoy his coffee. He liked that, and found himself frequenting this place more and more.
Taking a sip from his coffee he looked over at the stack of morning papers. Ignoring the headline he allowed his view to rest upon the picture of a sharp dressed man with evenly combed hair. The headline read “Peter Thompson Announced as New Forman.”
“Of course he is,” thought Patrick. The bitterness in his brew matched his demeanor as he took another sip. Standing up, he walked out the door, his step becoming more refined as the extra strong shot of caffeine began to run through his veins. He wasn’t sure how much of his reaction was psychological and how much of it was physical, but the coffee seemed to be working either way. Heading off in the direction of the foundry he began to quicken his step. With Patrick in charge the criticisms concerning his work habits would only get worse.
Shorty before the transition between white and black snow that marked the distinction in territory between the factory and the no mans land that lay between the city and the foundry Patrick hesitated. He wasn’t sure why, but for some reason the conversion in the snow from a pristine white to an inky black sent shivers down his spine. There was really no reason for insecurity. From an early age all the children were taught the rational explanation for why the snow turned from white to black around the perimeter of the factory grounds. Most of it was merely a light coating of ash that cooled as it left the two giant smokestacks and drifted down to the ground by a heavy wind current coming off the nearby mountains. The rest of it was actual black snow that had been formed when the heavy smoke of the industrial epicenter came in contact with water vapor in the heavily saturated clouds over head.
It was all perfectly rational, all elements of mystery and confusion having been dismissed early on. “No need for foolishness and investigation when the answers are already available,” his teacher had said. But the events that had transpired recently, namely the arrival of his father in his city had brought a deep sickness into his sight, and now these things, these rational objects that had explained to him at an early age now created a childlike terror within him, and an infant’s confusion. Gathering himself he set off again towards the factory.
As he approached he could hear the heavy grinding of gears and the tremendous sound of metal on metal as the piston run machines pounded out their steel sons and daughters, arranging their creations into piles with heavy steel arms for later use. Producing continuously, their products were transported down a conveyer belt continuously towards the next machine in the cycle. With a productive output not even matched by the great war machines of the old world, the entire operation required constant attention, creating two shifts, day and night and consequently two shifts of commerce in the great city, one geared for the workers of the day and one geared for the workers of the night.
As Patrick approached the rusted fence that surrounded the factory he found his attention drawn to a small, inconspicuous space of ground in the snow. There on the side of the road rested the remnants of a snow angel. It had been formed hastily, one arm longer and broader than the other with a halo of white above the head where the imprint had broken through the layers of black snow to reach the bright, clean white that lay underneath. In his eyes Patrick could imagine some tired old woman looking around apprehensively, shaking as she tried to sit down in the snow without falling. He imagined the woman leaning back, then letting out a heavy sigh of relief as cool, wet snow sunk into her shirt, moistening her back and calves. She giggled like a little girl as she moved her arms and legs back and forth as well as her old limbs could stand, laughing out loud as the heat of the sun and the bitterness of the snow formed a dual sensation within her.
It had been a while since she had been there, the thick snow turning to a gray mass of black and white where the heat of her body had melted it. Suddenly coming out of his daze he turned to his watch.
“Damn,” he thought. “I’m late, and on Preachers first day as Forman.” As he rushed through the gates entrance his thoughts raced over what excuse he would give when Preacher decided to lay down the word. Behind him in the middle of the black snow angel sat a small object no bigger than a jelly bean, bone yellow in color.
Something was wrong. As Jacob reviewed his files he couldn’t help but feel a heavy sense of foreboding as his worries lumped themselves in his chest. If this woman had this condition, how many others could there be. According to the files there were only 28 families at that time that had fatal familial insomnia, but that was over fifty years ago. How high was the number now? “An illness characterized by intensive deterioration of sleep quality as well as cognitive and kinesthetic functions.” Jacob sat in his seat, dumbfounded.
“Incredible,” he thought. Of course they could have never predicted a result like this. Who would have guessed that the implementation of the medicine could have caused a repression of an original condition?
Convince the public that they were at risk for contamination. Convince them that the rest of the world would die and only they had the cure. Put the medicine into everything be it food, water, and even the air. It all seemed so simple. By introducing everyone in the population to the drug, they effectively made everyone dependent on them and the medicine they could provide. Keep their bodies in a constant state of insomnia. Reward them with a weeks worth of sleep. But something was wrong.
Control the chemicals that cause REM sleep, that’s all it would take. Then make sure you repress the gene that causes tolerance. “It was all so theoretically simple, so intrinsically genius.” Yet somehow the medicine had changed this woman, had fixed her genetic defect or repressed it by introducing a new sequence of proteins, allowing her body to repress the symptoms so common to her family. By preventing sleep they were able to grant this one woman the ability to do so when her illness would have long ago killed her.
“How many are there now?” There was no way to test it without drawing suspicion. But there was a larger problem. Patrick Desmond. Thinking back he remembered his conversation with Thompson.
“I’m telling you the man can’t sleep. I try to keep him focused on his work but he is so tired he can’t do it well enough. I would just suggest he lose his paycheck but he is my friend. Something about his wife is hurting him but I don’t know what to do about it. I sent his father over to see him, hoping he could find any clue as to why his son was reacting the way he is to his wife’s death, but all he found out was more evidence of his insomnia.”
“What are his symptoms?”
“Memory loss, decreased productivity, irritability; I’m telling you this man can’t go on much longer. He is getting no more than five and a half hours and its getting worse. He takes his medicine, I checked. What’s wrong with him? I just want to…”
“That will be all Preacher…”
Jacob stared down absently at his files, his thin, sickly fingers drawing themselves up and down the bridge of his nose as he lowered his brow in frustration. “Two separate cases, two separate conditions, but they suggest a failure in the system.” How to best handle it, that was all that mattered but at this point he knew he couldn’t just kill them. There was too much to be learned, to much to gain.
“Understand” was the word his father had said at the end of virtually every sentence he spoke.
“Oh I will father,” he thought, “that much I understand.”
Grabbing his coat from the hook on the wall he moved his way around the piles of books and papers, essays and theories that he had littered all around the room. On the walls sat an inconceivably large stock of literature from simple alchemy and economics to advanced studies of anatomy and some of the more radical thoughts the occult. The stained glass window that took up a precedent position on the far wall exploded with kaleidoscopic effect as the light of the setting sun intensified the colors of the well crafted masterwork. At the bottom were the words nostrum crux crucis perfero. “Our cross to bear,” it said. Above it in heavy detail was a picture of a supposed messiah, his body bloodied and raw, with his back bent and weary look in his eyes as he looked up towards to top of the hill where he was to be crucified for speaking the word of the lord. The image held no significance.
Outside the sky was heavy with black clouds. As he exited the large pine doors and descended the steps he could pick up the slightest sent of ash and the burning of wood. In the distance sat the factory, smoke billowing from its south-east corner. The sounds of screams carried over the landscape as the fire continued to grow.
Patrick exited the front of the complex, grasping his right arm which was now scorched and bleeding. Wincing as he removed his shirt, he carefully wrapped the bloodied cloth around his arm. The explosion had been much larger than he had anticipated. He bit his lip as he drew out the various pieces of shrapnel that had become entrenched in his skin. By now he could already feel the faint feeling of weightlessness as blood continued to issue from his wounds.
Approaching from a distance, Jacob watched as the foundry burned. Observing a man coming out the front, he picked up his pace, breaking into a dead run as he watched the form collapse against the snow.
Getting to his knees, Jacob rested Patrick’s head on his coat as he looked at his wounds.
“Why Desmond, why did you do it?”
Patrick looked up at him.
“Don’t you realize what you have done? The factory was the sole provider of the medicine. Even with our reserves we couldn’t possibly have enough to keep everyone alive long enough to repair the foundry and produce more. Maybe it could be managed to keep a select group long enough, but by that point there wouldn’t be any point. Why Patrick,” Jacob shook his head. “WHY!”
Patrick smiled. “You all had it coming.”
“How?”
“You enslaved us all. You convinced us that the world was dying and that you could save us. But you lied. And now we are all hooked on this pill, this pill that took my wife’s life and so many others. All because they didn’t produce enough; at least that’s what I thought. Then I saw the shop Forman being dragged away. He never under produced, so why him? And that got me to wondering about the whole bloody system. How many have been lost for no reason at all. And if that is the way it is than I figure I need to end it all.”
Jacob looked at him, dumbfounded. “Lied to you, you think we lied to you.” Jacob suddenly became quite as he considered what he just heard. Then in a weak, helpless voice he responded. “There really was a plague. All this time we have spent managing the population, creating a fear based system, not to enslave, but to buy us some time so we could figure out a way to solve the dreaded side effect of the medicine. Yes there really was a plague, one that has taken out every last remnant of humanity except this one. The rest of the world is dead now and you just destroyed all that was left of it.”
Patrick tried to speak but felt his voice cut off with pain.
“Sleeplessness is a side effect you see. The antidote worked but came at a terrible price. I’ve spent most of my career trying to find a way to fix it, but now it seems my efforts are too late.”
Patrick struggled to sit up, but felt Jacob hold him down. “Don’t sit up. Your body is going into shock. At this point the lack of sleep and your wounds will just make any effort on my part fruitless. Just stay down and listen.”
Patrick nodded.
“I have a question I need answered. I know that the world doesn’t have very long but before it all ends I want to understand one thing. Why did you feel you should save everyone?”
“I didn’t do this for anyone.”
Jacob stared at him, taken aback by what he was hearing.
“I didn’t do it for the people of the city. I didn’t do it for Martha or out of bitterness. I did it for me, and no one else.” Patrick’s voice became weak and haggard as he struggled to continue. “My father told me once that the reason he joined the army was because he felt that by doing so he could make up for all the time he wasted in his youth on selfish endeavors. Well, there are no armies anymore, but the way I figure it if what I have done is right I should have a damn good chance of getting into heaven. And If I’m wrong then the Devil definitely wouldn’t mind one last blunder by humanity. And if God and the Devil don’t exist, then it doesn’t matter anyhow.”
As he finished speaking his voice began to quiver as his body became limp, his eyes glazed. As the factory burned behind him, the sky above him opened up and began to snow. Standing up, Jacob laid Patrick’s head on his jacket and headed off towards the city. As the snow began to fall, it began to collect on Patrick, its ink blackness melting on his rapidly cooling body as the last timber of the foundry fell to the ground. Falling from the fire was a scorched page torn from an ancient work. On its form was written “Good-bye, by Ralph Waldo Emerson.”
“Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam:
But now, proud world! I'm going home…”
I understand now why my grandfather always took me off to the side to show me those paintings of his or those timeless old operas that I struggled so hard to sit through. It was all he had to give, just as my words and deeds, my efforts and accomplishments are all that I have now. I don't have the energy to show the world my legacy, so I grab the person closest to me and hope they will listen. But now I am getting sicker, and my mood is getting wilder, and the visits are getting fewer. I know now why my grandfather always looked so tired and lonely. Now I understand what he was trying to say. We only have so much time, and we only have so many people to share it with. I am sorry I didn't understand before, but I suppose he knew that would happen just as I know now.
I stand up on shaky legs and open the screen door. I look off at the rolling fields, watching my thoughts leave with the passing car. I head inside and sit down in front of the television. Just as my grandfather did.
The siren sounded from afar, clouding the landscape of audible noise with its harsh wail. Sounds ceased to be of any relevance as the call overwhelmed all, making everything even under the measured rising and falling of its dead tone. The world became quiet as all heads turned in the direction of the call. The din continued, its howl ostensibly willing the sun to remain just below the horizon. After a couple of minutes the siren ceased, winding down like a choking hell cow, eventually ending in a stifled roar. The atmosphere returned to its original composition of more natural components, the birds finding their voices as they began again their morning song. The wind and the sun began to run their influence over the landscape as well as the light and air filtered through the openings between the towering formations that made up the bustling cityscape.
The sights and sounds of the morning were soon interrupted again by the sound of stomping feet as everyone and anyone began to head towards the center of the city. Out of every building, every alley, every car and every crevice there poured forth a near endless stream of people of every shape and manner, all eventually converging in a heaping mass of flesh and sweat in the grand central square shrouded in fear and low lying tree cover. The crowd began to build mass, organizing itself into clumps of family and friends, the parents discussing their plans for the day, the children seemingly in a state of confusion and bewilderment. Arranging themselves automatically after a while, they presented themselves in single configuration sixty persons across in a single stream of community as they began to walk at a steady pace towards the west.
“Hey Desmond.”
“Crap,” Patrick Desmond sulked. The man who called him by his last name was approaching him quickly, shuffling his way through the crowd, traversing through a series of excuse me’s and sorry’s on his way to his irritated comrade. Patrick pretended that he hadn’t seen him in the hope that he would take a hint and leave him alone. It wasn’t that Patrick particularly disliked Peter “Preacher” Thompson. In fact it could be said that he even enjoyed his company on occasion. It was just that Thompson had no sense of timing. He could always be counted on to show up when you least expected it. He also had a knack for starting a conversation at exactly the moment when you have decided you want to be alone the most which was precisely why Patrick felt so put off by his encroaching presence. It could not be said that he was the least bit surprised, however. As one of Preacher’s only and longest running friends he had come to expect certain things from him, one of those things being that the only thing you could expect out of a man like Peter Thompson was unappreciated efforts.
Preacher was in fact a nickname given to him long ago while he was winning medals on his school debate team. He had a knack for speaking out against social and religious intolerance and ended up garnering a reputation as an honest human being. Preacher started off as an insult, people shouting during the middle of his debates such sheltered statements such as “say it again Preacher” and “hallelujah.” Eventually Patrick accepted his title as he so often did, and people stopped finding it fun to criticize him. Though the taunting stopped the name stuck and was even featured on his wedding invitations.
“What’s the word Preacher,” asked Peter, trying to hide the acrimonious words that sat idly directly behind his teeth, waiting for a slip of the tongue to set them loose. The careful balance was something he had learned to maintain since his wife had passed away some time before.
Today was payday. As was true of societies of the past, every Friday guaranteed the promise of another week of food, shelter, and the like. These things however were not obtained through the use of money. Rather, these necessities were distributed equally within the community. Shelter was divided into various districts with a certain portion of space being allotted to a family and their friends. Any quarrel that emerged due to the living arrangements was simply dealt with through a quick relocation of residence. If you had a disagreement with your neighbor that could not be resolved, the government and the rest of the community would work together to find a different place of habitation for you, some where you would feel more comfortable. People of society put community first and any problem that caused problems within the community had to dealt with appropriately in a manner that best ensured the peace and prosperity of all.
“I just talked to Janet. She said she is going to try and get back together with David Henderson.”
“How long have they been separated,” asked Patrick. He didn’t care but the quicker he got through the small talk the quicker Preacher would go away. “Nine months?”
All the food in the community was contained in one of the two holding structures in the outskirts of the area normally attributed to the city. One of them held the paychecks, the other held the food. This was a good arrangement since all people were expected to be married by the age of thirty so while one of the spouses would head over to pick up their pay, the other one of the spouses would head over to the storehouse with the food-stuffs. At the end of the week they would express to the teller the number of people in their residence and their individual ages and weight. Based on that information the food was distributed amongst the people. There was of course the risk of dishonesty, however non-dared to lie as a population census was taken every month and any inconsistencies would be discovered. As was true of all acts against the community the resulting action was the loss of your weekly paycheck.
“Eleven,” Preacher said with a frown. “Where have you been?”
“Working, what else is there?” Patrick said laughing. He was quite serious but something about the statement made him laugh anyway.
It was a long and tiresome walk to the depositories but it was one they all had to make. The consequences were dire for anyone who felt they need not make the trek. This was taught to them from an early age and was conditioned into every fiber of their understanding of the world. Pay was life and life was that paycheck that sat waiting for the good citizens of the populace at the end of their trip. As for those who were NOT good citizens of the state, the result was far more dire. Once again the punishment was the loss of a paycheck.
One missing paycheck was all that was necessary to ensure obedience within the population. In fact it was common practice for the government to take away the paycheck of one of the less productive workers in order to keep people aware of the danger of disobedience or inadequacy, which not only produced good social behavior but advanced productivity as well, continually pushing people farther and farther towards the societies self ascribed motto of excellence “Productivity means progress.”
“Patrick…” said Preacher hesitantly as he slowly gathered his words, his final syllable rolling in a steady droll of question.
“Here comes the sermon” thought Patrick bitterly.
“Its been seven months since Martha died. I know you don’t care much anymore but I’ve noticed you lagging on your work.”
“And?” said Patrick. The resentment was in danger of getting out.
Preacher looked at Patrick sympathetically. “And I am worried about you. You know just as well as anyone what can happen if you don’t work hard enough. If Martha would have only picked up the pace a little…”
“It wasn’t her fault she couldn’t hold up. She was frail as it was and she was sick that week. Anyone can get sick. ”
“Anyone wouldn’t let up on their work to the point of mediocrity. She lost her paycheck for one reason and one reason only. She dropped below the SWO (Standard work output). If she hadn’t done that then maybe she would still be alive.”
“IT WASN’T HER GODDAMN FAULT!”
Silence fell between the two men. Preacher opened his mouth as if to say something, but seemed to decide against it for he closed his mouth shortly there after.
The surrounding mob did its best to ignore the conflict. They were not hiding it well. Peter “Preacher” Thompson looked down at the ground as he shuffled his feet. Patrick Desmond did what he could to keep himself from driving his fist into the new face of his disgust.
“I’m just worried about you. That’s all,” Peter said finally.
Patrick didn’t respond, though he had a fair idea about what he would say if he did.
They were nearing their destination. Just up ahead of them loomed a set of two ominous buildings virtually identical in their construction. Their design was reminiscent of the Old Catholic cathedrals; the exterior’s intricately and meticulously perpetrated in order to instill a feeling of awe and wonderment. At nearly twice the size of the Köln Cathedral in Germany, the buildings individually fulfilled their roles masterfully. However, it was the scene that was played out among the arches and stained glass of the nearly hundred and fifty foot structures that most objectified the amount and effort and consideration that had gone into its development.
Carved into the old, cold marble were various figures clawing their way up towards the top of the structure. At the bottom of the building were the embodiments of the children of the society advancing upwards, trying desperately to grip onto each ledge with their small plump hands. Determination was written on their faces and manner though their form was clumsy and awkward. As they continued their ascent they began to grow older in minute increments, their ungainly movements becoming refined and measured.
When it became especially difficult the strongest of the group offered their hands to the less capable in expressive, elongated motions of elegance. By the time they reached the top, their determined visage was replaced with one of calm confidence. Those adults who had reached the summit kneeled in reverence, their hands and eyes pointing towards the heavens. And there in the middle of these persons sat Jediah Daniel, the founder of the community. Surrounding him was a series of eight pillars supporting a central dome on which sat a bronze barn owl.
All aspects of the buildings were similar except for the titles that were written in electrified neon lights of a dreary blue color above a large set of heavy pine doors. The building on the left was labeled “Medical Distribution Center”; the one on the right was titled “Central Food Depository.” Inscribed on the keystone of the main arch that housed the entrance were the words “in officio proficio iussu deus,” roughly translated as “In service to progress at the command of God.”
As they approached the buildings the party divided itself into two separate lines. The one on the left headed towards the MDC and was composed of the various workers and producers of the community. It was there that they would retrieve their paycheck. The group on the right was composed mainly of woman, but also included a few men. These were the caretakers of the society and it was at the CFD that they would pick up their groceries for the week. Purchasing tickets were handed out according to the person’s prestige, position, and their general health. The diets of the individuals were closely monitored to ensure performance in the workplace and at home, as well as to ensure overall health.
Both buildings were large enough to accommodate all of the individual persons. However, there was a set time limit and although there was more then enough time for people to engage in their particular task there was always a sense of urgency among the populace as the less time they spent here the more time they would have to work on their assigned tasks, and the more likely they would be to receive their paycheck next week. Patrick made sure he was near the front of the line as he needed to visit both the MDC and the CFD before he could get to work.
Entering the interior of the MDC through the twin pine doors, his eyes scanned the space in front of him, looking for an open booth in order to pick up his check. The interior of the building was tastefully decorated in classic art deco, utilizing warm colors such as tans, light birch and white lace curtains to bring a brightness to the interior that was not originally available from sunlight alone. This gave a more comforting feel to the bank like setting, though the feeling was purely an illusion. Noticing an open space, Patrick walked briskly over to the booth before anyone else noticed.
"Next" the teller said, her voice cut short as Patrick approached.
"Well good afternoon Pat," said the teller with the name tag titled Mary Melbroke. "How are you today?"
“ In a hurry, actually."
"Oh are you now. Always in a hurry . That’s what you are."
Patrick looked at her. “What a twit,” he thought to himself, smiling through his irritation. "Yes I am in quite a hurry so if you could just get me my paycheck I would like to leave before the CFD closes."
"Oh, far be it from me to keep you from your appointments. It will be just a moment." Mary turned around and headed into the back room. Patrick stood alone, the various booths filling up quickly.
Patrick turned his head to the left, observing the various transactions of the people around him. As he watched he allowed his eyes to drift upwards towards the large chandelier that dominated the ceiling with its presence. Written along the trim from which the candle like fixtures were attached was its identification code; C8003. Taken from the home of a rich aristocrat after the second great plague, it was moved into the MDC nearly five years ago in order to replace the one that had originally been placed there but had had trouble with the wiring and was thus thrown away.
His hand became bored and began to quickly wrap the hard oak paneling that ran along the lower eighth of the wall. Outside, the sun reflected off the snow, casting a mesmerizing cascade of light upon the side of the building. In the distance the snow was marred black with the soot that cascaded out of the large bellowing smokestacks that were dispersed incoherently within the confines of the industrial compound.
“Here’s your check Pat,” said the woman with a smile.
In her hand sat the medicine tube with a band of plastic wrapped around the cap to ensure that the receiver’s bottle had not been tampered with or the top removed. Patrick received the bottle from her hand. Staring at it quietly, he thought of the dog he used to have back on his grandfathers farm. It was strange for him to be reminded of the dog at that moment. He figured he was either hiding something from himself or the orange color of the bottle reminded him of the color of the dog’s eyes. Those eyes that had long since shut and had in life bore an eerie resemblance to those of his fathers. He himself, had thankfully gotten his mothers eyes and so had never had to deal with sharing the same eyes with his dad or a dog whose favorite pastime was to lick stranger’s toes.
Removing the plastic wrap from the bottle, he tipped it at a hundred and sixty degree angle and allowed the contents to fall into his hand. A single pill dropped out, as he was living by himself and had no children. It was bone yellow in color and similar in shape to jelly bean. It was heavy despite its small size as the effects of the pill had to last the individual a full week, long enough for them to get their next paycheck.
The contents of the pill were a closely guarded secret, one that perhaps was unknown to even the workers themselves as all parts of production of the pill were automated. This unsettling state of ignorance had little effect on the concerns of the people on a day to day basis, as their main concern was only to ensure that they get their next week’s paycheck, all other matters merely being an extension of this dilemma. And the reason for this was quite simple. No one could survive for very long without a pill and any investigation would certainly cause one to forfeit their privileges to medicine.
The only true assurance in the lives of the populace was the pills effect; one week’s worth of sleep. As Patrick turned and left through the heavy doors he caught the beginning of an argument between a patron and one of the tellers.
“What is my problem? What are you blind? I'm missing a pill! Where is the other pill?”
The teller looked at him placidly. “Sir you know just as well as I do that mistakes are not made in distribution. You clearly did not meet your standard. That is the only explanation.”
By now the man had broken down into hysterics, his tears running unevenly down his cheeks as he hick upped as he spoke in a maddened, loud tone. “But I'm the shop foreman. I saw my numbers! THEY WERE ABOVE NORMAL!” The man broke down again.
“I'm sorry sir but there is nothing I can do.”
“Nothing you can do. Is that all you have to say?” The man screamed as he launched himself across the desk towards a teller. Instantly he was descended upon by a group of guards that were positioned throughout the center to maintain order.
“IT'S NOT RIGHT! I MET THE STANDARD! WHY WON'T ANYONE LIS...” His words were cut short as a heavy club descended on the back of his head, rendering him unconscious. Within the passing of four days he would be dead in a small alley three blocks from his home. In the newspaper it was reported that he had been connected with an underground group of individuals who had been found to be plotting subversive and revolutionary action. This group which was referred to as the UFC or Underground Freedom Coalition did not actually exist in real life. In fact there were no underground movements to speak of. This was usually attributed to the unwavering feeling of obedience of the people.
This was however the only thoughts that were allowed to be distributed in the various libraries. The actual reason was much simpler, for all the government needed to do in order to end an uprising was to hide away and cut off the distribution of medicine. No matter what the revolution would be quelled as within a week people would start dying and would lose their taste for rebellion. It was a brilliantly stable system with no need for a military or even a major police force for all problems could easily be managed and the hands of a small bone yellow pill similar in size and shape to a jelly bean.
Patrick approached his home with his various food stuffs cradled in each arm. The line at the distribution center had been much longer than he had anticipated.
“Damn Melbroke nearly cost me my food for the week. English wretch.”
He mumbled these words to no one, mostly speaking his frustrations for his own possible amusement. He could not however find humor in it all so he quickly silenced himself mid sentence as he put down one of his bags that he had been assigned as he searched his pockets for his keys.
Turning the key he entered into a long dimly lit hallway. The wallpaper was a sequential arrangement from the book The Very Hungry Caterpillar. As he walked past the faded, pealing wallpaper he repeated in his head the scene that was laid out in front of him.
“Caterpillar, apple, butterfly… Caterpillar, leaf, butterfly…. Caterpillar…”
The door closed shut behind him, the cylinder attached to the top of the door making a subtle hissing noise as the air forced its way out, allowing the door to close at a reasonable pace. Above the door in faded letters in green were the words “Lemont’s Day Care and Preschool.” The school itself had been closed down long ago when the land had been bought out by the Prospector, a branch of the community designed to determine land requirements. Those areas that were deemed to be unnecessary were reassigned as housing. This particular section was reserved for widows and widowers until they again became bound by marriage to another person. At such time they would be allowed to move back towards the center of the city where most of the comfortable housing was located.
Patrick’s room was on the third story of the building, but the stairs were out of order and the elevator was a terribly slow one so it took him over five minutes before he was able to reach his flat. As he closed the door to his apartment, he could hear a heavy, horse breathing emanating from the center of the darkened room.
“It’s been a long time Patrick,” said the breathing thing in the faded leather chair.
“How have you been dad,” asked Patrick.
“Oh, you know. Been keeping myself busy. A little of this…”
“A little of that,” Patrick interrupted. “How did you get into my apartment?”
Though the lights were still off he could make out the bottom half of his father’s aged face, making out the small details that he had come to know so well. His father broke into a grin, the deep set tanned wrinkles becoming heavy rifts on his face cast low in the moonlight filtering through the window.
“You know just as well as I do that you stopped locking the door after Martha died. You told me it was because after she died there was no longer anything left of value to your name. Isn’t that right?” he asked. He smiled again, his yellowed tobacco stained teeth dominating what was observable in his face.
“That’s right. Which still begs the question as to why you are here?”
His father sighed, his grin quickly regaining its composure as he addressed his son. “I’ve been slightly worried about you. It took you nearly three days to answer my last call. Your mother if she was still alive would have forced me over here over a day ago but I figured since she isn’t around anymore I need not act like I like you as much as she did.” His smile replaced his speech, driving home the words he had yet to speak.
Patrick felt anger welling up inside of him. “I’ve been fine. I don’t need you to be telling me whether or not I’m alright. I can evaluate that on my own.” Patrick looked at the electronic clock. It was eight thirty.
“So then where were you all day?”
Patrick turned his attention away from the clock. “I was working.”
“Were you now? And where are you working these days.”
Patrick opened his mouth to answer, then closed it after his mind failed to register the memory as to where he worked. Patrick looked away, only returning his gaze to his father after he had already given up trying to remember.
“I think you ought to leave now. As you can see I’ve been just fine.” Patrick bit down on the words that would have fallowed; words that would have likely included obscenities and more than a few expressive gestures.
His father frowned, and then getting up from his chair walked past Patrick, his hand only gracing his sons shoulder. Patrick heard the door open and close but did not bother to turn around. As the silence crept in, Patrick could feel himself wandering towards his bedroom. The sleep that proved he had earned his keep came quickly to him, purging his mind of the events of the day as he drifted into darkness. It was 8:45pm.
That night he dreamed about his wife. They met together in the usual place. The pier looked like something out of some ancient Bogart film, a heavy mist settling on the surface of the water as the gray sky threatened rain. As they walked towards one another he noticed she wasn’t smiling like she usually did, the relief of being off work usually flushing her cheeks as she rushed over to the pier. Her normally chipper, exasperated but sweet demeanor replaced with a grimace that showed her age, he cheeks sunken and her eyes dark around the edges, the wrinkles on her brow and jaw sunk deep into her face.
“The Forman pulled me off to the side. He said I aught to know before Friday.”
No further words were needed as they stood there and looked at one another. Then slowly, the state of inaction subsiding, he walked up to her, drawing her in, her sobs muffled in the fabric of his oily shirt as her tears ran through the thin cloth. There was no need to ask what happened. Her illness that had remained untreated for so long had caught up with them. There was no apology necessary, no thoughts passing through their minds about what could have done different.
They had done all that they could for as long as they could, their attempts to keep up with the production necessary to keep the house they had received in order to fit all the children they would in the end never have proving to be too much in the end. Their only fault was believing that somehow they would find time between the double shifts to keep up the regular doctor visits necessary in the treatment of her illness, let alone find time to raise a family.
As he held her tighter, he felt his eyes fill with tears. He squeezed her harder, finding the pressure and the strain on his muscles cutting off their progression. Martha squirmed a little, but other than that did not offer resistance. She knew her husband, knew how he got when he was tormented. So she ignored her shortness of breath as he squeezed harder and harder, his only other possible outlet for his tears being the foundry he had just left. Both of them new that wasn’t an option. Tonight they needed to spend together.
Finally he released, raising her head to his own with his hand. He woke up soon there after, screaming like a child. It was 1:15 the next morning. He did not fall back asleep, finding himself staring absently out the window at the blackened snowy fields that separated the foundry from the hoary snows of the surrounding countryside. At seven fifteen his alarm went off. He reached over and shut it off, his hands shaking heavily as he turned the handle to the bathroom, setting the temperature of the water with a few simple taps on the keypad next to the showerhead.
As he took his shower, lights began to turn on throughout the city, the streets suddenly aglow with luminescence as people all around the city began preparing for their day. In a flat across town Peter “Preacher” Thompson sat poised at the mirror. His thinning hair was well brushed, his face shaven smooth and softened with a hint of baby powder. A intense light cast his face in white as Preacher observed himself with a pair of tweezers, searching for imperfections with a pair of tweezers and a razor. As he plucked hairs and straightened out his hairline he thought back to his conversation with Patrick.
“What a bastard,” he thought. “I go out of my way to make sure he is keeping up and he starts throwing a tantrum. What a pathetic man, all this fuss over a wife.”
Peter smiled to himself as he backed away from the mirror as he ceased to find imperfection in his well manicured visage. Running a file over his nails he took out his well pressed work shirt and pants.
“Prim and proper, unlike that blasted Patrick.” He smiled again, thinking to himself as he exclaimed the words of the town anthem, his operatic voice reverberating off the walls of the street as he headed off to the foundry.
“Give generously to your fellow man, and never let them fall behind. In your hearts and in your mind never forget these thoughts divine…”
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step or so they say. But Yadon had walked much more than that. In fact he was sure that within the last ten years he may well have walked the equivalent of what another person would likely walk in their lifetime. But trivialities such as this neither made him proud nor held any precedence in his current list of concerns. Right now, today there was only one question on his mind and all other thoughts were merely extensions of this one questions. “How do I get past this mountain?”
It would be curious to the average observer if they were to find out that only a couple of months before Yadon had asked a similar question in a vastly different place. “How do I get past this desert” had been the question. And that question like his current question had a similar answer. It was the answer he had developed in response to all his problems. It was short and sweet and simple and always worked out in his favor, at least as far as he was concerned.
“The fastest distance between any two points is a strait line.”
He smiled to himself as he recited the quote that had been burned into his memory all those years ago. It was this singular phrase in fact that had become the basis of most of his decisions for the last thirty seven years. He had only really begun to appreciate it however, in the last ten years after his wife passed away. He knew due to his studies that simply pushing through every obstacle was the least logical course of action and was at best hasty. At its worse, well he really didn’t like to consider what would happen if the worst result came into fruition.
But he had learned early on in life that he a grand sense of luck, and it was based off of this condition that he allowed himself to take such great risks without consideration for the possible outcomes. Luck had served him well, as had his tendency to push his way through any conflict, which often afforded him only one conclusion at moments like these.
“A strait line…”
The mountain seemed to beckon him, its cold hills compressing the cold air into a single point, blasting his form as it laughed at him and his conquests. He was aware of its power, but he was also aware of his abilities, and he knew based on these things that the only thing to do was to plow through the obstacle head on as he so often did. Gathering his pack he got ready to head out in the direction of the heavy white peaks. But as he was about to set out a voice called to him from behind.
“The mountain is a killer. Are you a killer phyi rgyal?”
Yadon turned to face his accuser. “And how did you know I was a foreigner?”
The man was small and impish. His hair was covered by a heavy wool cap with a simple weave of various colors intermingled in the recesses of the blood red fabric. As the man smiled, the small space between his stanch black mustache and his gnarled graying beard opened up to reveal a set of heavy yellow teeth that seemed to large for his mouth. As the man laughed his voice reverberated with a power that echoed the strength of the mountains around them, and his body clad in bulbous animal furs shook and shivered. The man’s brown eyes were swollen and squinted, threatened by the presence of a disproportionate nose that took up much of his face. The man chocked on some part of himself that was not supposed to be out of position, coughing hoarsely as he looked back up at Yadon from a hunched position.
“The same way you knew what I said in Tibetan.” He straightened himself out, his voice returning to its normal tone after another fit of coughing seized him. “I study. And your body language said something altogether distant as only a foreigner and a fool would look upon our mountain with such arrogance.”
Yadon smiled. This man truly was a novelty.
“And who are you to tell me that I am wrong?” he asked inquisitively, still secretly relishing the challenge of the man’s words and the chance to prove him wrong.
The man turned his attention to the mountain. “I have lived in the shadow of this mountain since before I can recall and likely even farther back then that, and I can say that the same sort of man who looks upon our mountain with pompous attitude is the same sort of man who ends up buried with their cause in the snows far below its summit.” The man smiled again, his eyes producing tears in reaction to the cold. As the warm tears ran down his face they became frozen in place as they became intermingled with his heavy beard.
Yadon nodded knowingly. “No doubt this is true, but I am without a cause and am hardily a man.”
The man looked at him with a confused look on face, and then broke into an immense grin, succumbing to another fit of laughter. “Oh…you are hardily a man…ho ho…then…what does that make you my promising phyi rgyal.” The man continued laughing, his body rumbling and rolling with the exertion.
Yadon looked at him, his eyes becoming cold and emotionless, expressing seriousness as calm and solid as the ice of the peaks. “I know well of the dangers of which you speak. Less than three months ago I crossed one of the barren deserts of
The man’s expression became solemn. As they stood there the wind wiped the snow around them, dissipating it into the air, landing it again on some distant patch of ground. Thinking to himself he considered the man standing in front of him. After a couple of moments he smiled again and spoke.
“My name is Hojo Morudo. I have a place only a small ways away that you would be welcome to rest at for the night. All I ask for in return is your name and perhaps a few more words of friendly conversation.” The old Tibetan made sure to emphasize the friendly part as to make sure that he wished not to challenge the stranger’s motives further.
Yadon looked at the man with great curiosity, and then with a sigh he nodded his head and said, “My name is Yadon Augustin.”
“Well,” said the man, “now that we know each others names I suppose now we can start to treat each other like we should. Allow me to help you with your bags.”
Yadon picked up the largest pack, allowing the small man to take the others. He took one more look at the mountain that had become clad in the fierce yellow light of the falling sun. As the sun set the shadow of the mountain began to claim parts of the area below, the temperature decreasing in minute increments as the light began to weaken. Yadon turned away from the scene and then headed off in the direction of his packs and hopefully, later, a hot meal.
It’s been a long time since I set foot in the confines of the old pine wood that once meant so much to me. When I was younger I could remember days gone by when the mold that hung heavy on the pines made me sick, unable to breathe. Now I am older and stronger. I can hardily even recall struggling while around the presence of the pines, let alone truly suffering under the needles of one of the evergreens.
I am too old now to remember the feeling of being young, of being without pain or fear. Now these things seem to be all that I can feel; that and the creeping feeling that there is some end to this. When I was younger these trees seemed to be immortal and everlasting. They stood as giants, creations of unimaginable grandeur and strength. Once I was the same way.
Something catches my eye as I look down at my feet, the light that filters through the trees illuminating a reflective object hidden in the undergrowth. I pick it up and inspect it. The gold doesn't seem to have tarnished at all with time. It’s amazing what is left behind after twenty years. The diamond that sits in the middle of the fixture still shimmers though the dirt has dulled its luminescence. My wife loved this ring. I remember how much she was distraught when she lost it. The loss of a life and the loss of a ring hardly seem to be similar. I let the thought slip from my mind.
I put it in my pocket; feel its weight against my leg. With trembling lips I hold back my tears less the trees be witness to weakness. I want them to believe that I am still that little immortal child scampering through the woods, making myself sick. In a lot of ways, I wish I was too. I start up again, walking carefully, navigating my way through the sticks and the branches.
Suddenly I come into a clearing. My heart sinks as I contemplate what I see. For as far as the eye can see, naked stumps stand where trees of green once stood. Trees immortal and everlasting no longer. Just like me.
In articulated breath you bring me back again
To a place where time passes slowly
And I must again prove my nature to someone
Who sees but believes not
In the power of the written chorus
Of the temperate effort and liquid mind
Seeking truth where there was but one
And wanting not but the admiration
That one cannot find in ones own conscience
Since there is no faith in a personal dogma
Yet I know that there is magic to be witnessed
In the give and take that is the wordplay
Of the written stage
So once again I bid farewell to what I think I know
And embrace the coming of Armageddon
What is it that maters most? It’s such an innocent question, purely subjective in its construction. The answer too is subjective, particularly individualized except in respect to societal influence. But what matters most to you really? Deep down I don’t think many of us know. Correction; deep down I don’t think I really know what matters most. I often will say my craft or my family or relationships, sometimes when I’m in the mood I’ll say god. Most often I’ll say some educated long winded answer that sounds smart and puts people to sleep. But honestly when I think about it I really don’t know. Not yet at least.
It’s a strange question to ask a writer. In one moment he can be absolutely sure. The next he may have no idea. Writers are shifty fellows. We can never make up our minds for Gods sake. I myself spend so much time determining what matters most to my characters and stories that I rarely think about such things. Much of the time I have left over I spend trying to engage in activities that get me out of my head (since in my head is rarely a friendly place to be).
I have found though that it isn’t a question I can answer honestly even if I felt compelled to do so. If I could I would be the one directing my life, not some omnipresent guru with a twisted sense of irony and a sunny disposition. In fact I find those people who have the best idea of what makes their life meaningful are those who tend to get it wrong. Those people on the other hand who throw up their hands in desperation every five seconds tend to get it right. It’s all very confusing.
I suppose what bothers me about my uncertainty is the nagging feeling that if I don’t know that somehow I won’t get it right. I’ll miss something along the way, maybe something I needed to notice. And if I don’t miss out, then will I eventually appreciate it like I should or will it be one of those “look but don’t touch” deals. I hope not. And if I’m wrong I hope that ubiquitous child has a better idea about things then me. Salut.
A long and worn path
Has brought me to you
And where we are now
Many people have gone by
But not of them who would stay
Every time I walked away
And they were left behind
But you fallowed me from the beginning
And even if I could
I could never truly walk away
I think back at all the people
All the ones who once meant something
And I think about how I feel today
I know now why I always walked away
And why I always came back to you
It’s because you are the one
I was meant to walk with
Along this worn and lengthy path
And I realize that when I walked away from them
I was inevitably walking into your arms.
And I know that as we rest
On the edge of this stretch of road together
That there is no real destination for us
There is just the journey
And the support we give to each other
So when we again must get back up
And walk towards unknown places
And a uncertain future
Please know that I’m always next to you
Just as you are next to me
And that you are never really left behind
The smell of baby powder and hot solder hung in the air like some grotesque perfume humiliating the environment with its perverse fragrance. All around the factory the workers busied themselves with their labors, soldering units together in carefully orchestrated patterns upon the cold green plastic inlays. The workers diapers gave off a foul odor that intermingled and overwhelmed with tragic success the stink of the powder that was used to prevent rashes. The workers produced endlessly, their movements similar to the skipping of a corrupt cassette tape. The scene was in many ways comparable to the factories and assembly lines of the past, excluding of course the use of baby powder and diapers.
The diapers, it had been determined, were a costly, but in the end more efficient receptacle for waste as their use cut down on water consumption and excess free time by nearly fifteen percent. This increased productivity by nearly twenty-five percent, a near 200 percent return. Their use had been further supported by the fact that the workers could now focus on their work instead on whether or not they needed to relieve themselves which was often a great distraction as trips to the bathroom were regimented heavily and would not make accommodations.
Factories had to be built to make the diapers, which was of course a great economic undertaking. Despite the cost of production however, it had been decided that it was still indeed a worthy effort if for no other reason then to allow for greater productivity. After all, the time it took to train a child to use the bathroom was significant, and ultimately, it was again decided, the children could learn on their own time how to properly use the facilities. Perhaps a show could be produced demonstrating proper technique. This would of course require a schedule change in the carefully constructed TV programs, but in the end it would be necessary in order to keep down diaper use, though the process of children learning from other children would still supplement much of the learning.
So the children sat in their worn and weathered blue-pine chairs, some in their own excrement, and continued to work upon their tasks as they put together each part by hand while under the watchful and calculating eyes of The Almighty Teddy. The ever grinning, charismatic leader looked down upon its children with the obdurate expression carved on its face, its smile set in stone. The large speaker in its mouth executed orders and words of encouragement while the cameras that served as it eyes searched endlessly for signs of inferior productivity. The cold, motionless face on the wall was the sole observer of their efforts, watching with compulsively optimistic features as the workers went about their tasks.
Suddenly, a cry of pain broke through the sound of endless repetition. One of the workers had dripped solder on his hand, screaming in agony as he clawed at the rivulet of molten adhesive in a desperate attempt to remove it, moaning in anguish as the solder tore at his skin with its internal fire.
“Peter,” the Almighty Teddy thundered.
The child sniffled and turned his attention to the loudspeaker, wincing as the solder crept deeper into his skin. The Almighty Teddy called to him again; only this time the voice was calm and reassuring.
“Go to the bathroom.”
The boy shook his head in agreement, heading towards the single bathroom located on the northwest corner of the compound, clutching his hand in pain.
“Shut the door.”
The boy obeyed, the door expressing a sound similar to a muffled shotgun blast as it was set into place. The sound echoed and reverberated off the emotionless concrete walls, dissipating in time.
A couple of second’s later water could be heard running from the sink. The child hissed as he drew his hand under the cold stream, whistling to himself with a trembling tone the chorus of “When You Wish upon a Star.” The other children continued to work, paying little attention to the sounds escaping from the bathroom. The child uttered a gasp of surprise, his fear rendered as only a hollow squeal. A large thump was heard, similar to that of a sledgehammer entering a watermelon, accompanied soon after by the sound of a falling bundle, like the collapsing of a bag of potatoes. There was a shuffling noise, and then a sharp click as the mirror within closed shut, the water shutting off automatically. The bathroom door opened after a couple of moments, no trace of the boy left within its limits. The light remained on for a matter of seconds, casting its glow on the back of a fragile girl positioned with her back to the door, then shut off. The young girl, whose name was Mary, shuddered violently as a feeling of nausea and disease overwhelmed her. All around her could be heard the staggered sound of movement, the silence between the noise crushing her under its weight.
The treacherous passage of time marched forward as the Almighty Teddy continued to give orders, the workers continuing to follow his commands.
“Daniel. Your productivity is below required standards. I know you can do much better.”
The young boy smiled as he nodded at the face on the wall, its sweetly charming grin encouraging him forward as he doubled his efforts.
The Almighty Teddy looked on at him with approval, his all seeing eyes capturing every step of the young boy’s procedure, transmitting the sequential narrative to a large screen in a room far removed from the confines of the factory. Surrounding the screen was several others just like it, each one transmitting a different story though the plots were too similar to each other to be interesting on their own. The play was called “Children at Work,” and was observed by an audience of one in a small, whicker chair, the cumulative knowledge of all the individual factories trickled down through a single, red wire connected to the observer’s temple.
Slowly, without hurry or concern, the observer leaned forward, pushed a button labeled “3” on the glowing keyboard in front of it, speaking into the large microphone grasped tightly in its hand.
“Attention,” said the Almighty Teddy.
The children stopped working as they all turned to face the expressive facade on the wall.
The loud speaker clicked again as a new young boy entered the room through the single door.
“Everyone welcome Samuel. He is here to take over for Peter.”
“Hello Samuel,” said the children in unison.
The child beamed, warmed by the group’s appreciation of his presence. He scanned the room, moving automatically as he noticed the empty space three rows down; two seats to the left of the frail, young girl. Samuel sat down at the empty station, settling himself in as he turned to look at Mary. Samuel smirked with an obnoxious charm, his eyes widening as Mary smiled back in a simple manner, obviously nervous. Samuel’s grin broadened into a full-fledged smile, his pale brown eyes giving off a pale, yellow glow that was nearly imperceptible under the heavy glare of the overhead lights. Mary whimpered, turning away as she tried to hide her fear that was running down her cheeks. Samuel chuckled to himself as he immediately got to work, hot solder running down his hands.
At seven o’clock, a light ringing of a bell sounded the ending of the workday. The children got up automatically and headed for the door, lining up before they exited.
The community home was a mile and a half walk from the factory, a cold emotionless building of brown that reached twenty stories into the sky. The only real defining feature of the structure was a large satellite dish that sat perilously on the roof, placed there with the sole intent of transmitting the carefully orchestrated programs that had been arranged for the nights viewing. Each level of the community home contained twenty rooms, each room being the residence of four of the children. Each level also had a communal eating area containing a large screen TV as well as a single bathroom to be shared by all the children of that level, but only on the allotted days. The entire place smelled of mildewed onion and peppermint, lacking the homly qualities of the homes of the past. The black storm clouds swirled above, unleashing torrents of rain upon the approaching party of children as they descended upon the building in twos, the wind chasing the rain after them as they entered through the heavy, twin red oak doors into the central foyer illuminated by a single, flickering yellow light. Mary was the last to enter, mumbling to herself under her breath as she fallowed the group up the spinning stairwell, depositing her diaper with the others into the hexagonal hole in the off white tile floor that was positioned next to the base of the stairs.
The flame of the furnace spat at the taste of the diapers, gasping for air as it roared with revulsion, choking and gagging on the refuse as the heat of the boiler dried out the diapers, which were then deposited into the furnace through the use of a conveyor belt. It was a perpetual machine, run by dried out fesses to consume fesses; the but-end of every political joke incarnated into a machine only unlike politicians the furnace provided a service to the residence of the building.
At exactly 8:15 the children gathered together at the large table that faced the TV, their dinner already laid out for them. Seconds later The Almighty Teddy appeared on the big screen to say grace.
“Thank you my children for another days work. Once again you have all lived up to and exceeded all predicted prospects. I am very pleased with all of you. All of you except Peter of course.”
The children laughed.
The voice continued. “Thank you again for your efforts, and may we all live up to the standard set down by Great Father Walt. It was our Great Father Walt who brought us out of the darkness. It was Disney who showed everyone else just how wrong they had been. Now we know that it is children, not adults, who are the most developed, the most capable, and the most efficient.”
The children nodded in agreement.
“Now the adults are gone, sent far from us, to far to do us any harm. We are allowed to prosper as we never were able to while under the tyrannical rule of our parental proletariat oppressors. Finally we are free of the tyranny of the past. Finally we are free from its limitations. So let us all give thanks to the Great Disney, and praise him for all the luxuries we enjoy.”
“Amen,” spoke the children in chorus.
The screen went blank as the channel changed to a new program concerning proper technique while using the bathroom. As the children watched a young boy’s demonstration, a narrator in the background added additional information.
“Remember to only use the bathroom when you are at the Community. Never use the bathroom at work. When you do use the Communities bathrooms make sure to use them no more the once every other day. Using it any more than that would be wasteful, and would certainly not honor the life that Great Father Walt has given us. You don’t want to upset Great Father Walt, do you children?”
“Proper understanding of genetics coupled with our ability to create the proteins that compose DNA in the lab and finally in our factories, have helped ensure the normal genetic variance that occurs in normal, breeding human populations. The simplification of the arrangement of these genes through the use of a central supercomputer has further simplified the method.”
The children nodded in agreement, the thought of upsetting their father through such wastefulness being distressing to comprehend.
“Furthermore, the use of cow’s uterus’s as the womb for the developing human embryos has removed the need for the artificial wombs of the past. The artificial wombs of the past required the incorporation of materials that were necessary for other processes. By using cows instead of artificial wombs, the materials could be used in other endeavors. Yet another point of consideration is the existence of waste products. Even at their peek efficiency, the artificial wombs could only be used ten to fifteen times. The leftover waste of course had to be disposed of. In the case of cows, whenever the cow can no longer give birth, the cow can be merely processed and used as food for the developing children, who need great amounts of protein for proper brain development.”
“Like Peter. Did the Almighty Teddy say he could use the bathroom?”
The children nodded their heads.
“No he didn’t”
The children shook their heads.
“Let us not be wasteful like Peter. Let us not be like adults. Adults waste water. We do not waste water. So remember to use the bathroom only where and when we are allowed.”
“What is to be done with sector three?”
The children smiled.
“We’ll test them.”
The program switched to an old black and white cartoon. It was titled “Steamboat Willie.” The children laughed and cheered as they watched the main character, a mouse name Mickey, piloting the steamboat down the river.
Quietly the children began to eat, keeping the noise down as to not disturb the murmur of the TV.
“These hamburgers are great,” exclaimed one of the children. The child smiled as the oily juices ran down their chin, dripping between their legs onto the white and black leather chairs.
The children awoke to the soft ringing of bells that were hung in each individual room. They had exactly thirty minutes to get ready and head to work. The time was 5:00 am.
In a remote room on the third floor two of the children were busy ignoring their morning rituals as they dreamed of a world outside of their own. One pretended to knit with a fork and spoon while the other smoked a paper pipe, held together by sticky bits of toothpaste and careful folding.
“Seems like there is going to be rain today,” said the boy with the paper pipe in a deep, rumbling tone.
“Really George, because Margaret said the weather is going to be quite tame,” said the girl with the knitting needles, her voice taking on a pleasant English quality.
“Oh what does Margaret know? She married
“
“Not hard enough,” said the boy, his face turned serious. “There are rumors that the boss is going to start laying people off. If he isn’t careful he will be the first to go.”
The boy and the girl looked at each other with unmoving stares then broke down into laughter at the thought of it all, as they jumped up and went out the door. It was 5:20am.
The mass of children headed towards the compound at 5:29am as the cool mist of the morning enveloped and divided their forms. The visibility was no more than a couple of yards but the workers knew this path well enough as they had traveled this path so many times that they all knew every inch of the trail and were able to travel its reaches in complete darkness if necessary. They all walked with confidence towards the compound that was hidden in the fog. All, that is, except Samuel.
Samuel kept close to a large clump of children, talking as he went. Talking was of course not discouraged in any way, yet the children felt uncomfortable all the same.
“What happened to Peter?”
The children ignored him the best that they could.
“I heard that bad children are put to sleep.”
Mary began to whimper under her breath, holding back her fear as to not upset the others.
The child named Samuel continued unabated. “What happened to Peter? Was he a bad child?”
A child named David spoke up. “He went to the bathroom without permission. The Almighty Teddy never said he could use it.”
“Really,” asked Samuel.
The others shook their heads yes; all that is except Mary. She stared at the ground.
“Why did he use the bathroom without permission? Didn’t he know it was a naughty thing to do?”
“He had spilled solder on himself,” said one of the children.
“And got hurt really bad,” said another.
“And the Almighty Teddy told him to go to the bath…”
The boy stuttered, his voice caught in his throat.
“Room…”
The children looked at each other, confusion in their eyes and minds.
Mary fell back behind the group then headed off into the woods, her form soon lost to the fog.
“The Almighty Teddy lied to us,” one of them whispered in disbelief.
“No. We must not be remembering correctly. The Almighty Teddy wouldn’t lie to us.”
The girl had doubt in her voice. It was impossible to hide. The children looked away, shaking their heads as they continued towards the compound. Only Samuel remained calm, confusion wrapped completely in his features.
When they arrived, the workers sat down at their stations, their progress made slow by the worry that rested heavy on their shoulders.
The Almighty Teddy stared down at them with his cold, collected features. All felt as if somehow he knew what they had done. When nothing came over the loud speakers, the children began to relax their tense muscles as they fell into the routine of their work. Fifteen minutes later the Almighty Teddy spoke.
“Attention.” His voice was vacant and empty, mechanical now and without the calm reassurance the children were used to.
“You are all failures.”
The children felt their hearts sink.
“Who was it that took you in after the Great Fall? Who saved you from certain starvation at the hands of the world that had suddenly been given back to you? It was Great Father Walt who rescued you, who took you in and gave you a home. And how do you repay him for his efforts?”
One the children tried to speak but his voice was cut short by a bullet through his neck from a machine gun nest that had descended from the ceiling, the sound issuing from his throat registering only as a struggled gurgle.
“You need not tell me. I know of the doubt that fills your minds. I know of your treachery. You have forsaken your leader and father, and in so doing your leader had forsaken you.”
As he spook a green gas began to fill the room through the air ducts.
“You are all very bad children,” the voice snickered, the cruelty in his voice overwhelming the fear the children felt rising in their throats, “and shall be punished.”
The speaker clicked off.
One of the children nearest to the air duct began to grasp at their throat, their eyes rolling in their back of their head as their body convulsed with the poison in their lungs, a white foam issuing forth from his mouth.
“Thanks a lot Samuel,” one of the children screamed, anger cracking his voice. The child launched himself upon him, clawing at Samuel’s face, tearing away the flesh like tissue paper. The child reared back in shock as the mechanical interior was revealed; containing many of the parts the children had been producing. Samuel removed the remaining skin from his face, his blank features and yellow eyes containing a certain amount of joy as the child’s screams filled his ears.
The mechanical body reverberated with laughter. The laughter was not that of a child however, but instead of a quality of a series of heavy gears attempting laughter but only expressing a high pitched grinding.
“You should have listened to The Almighty Teddy.”
The robot laughed as his giggling intermingling with the screaming of dying children.
Mary gasped as she headed blindly through the fog. She had no idea were she was going or what she was going to do when she got there, only knowing the pounding in her chest and the sickening feeling of guilt that flooded her form. In the distance she saw something moving in the mist. She cried in relief as she picked her stride. As she advanced the object became clearer yet it remained nameless under the cloak of the fog. She had no time to react before she became caught in the mass of razor wire.
Her cries of pain tore through the mist as her screams carried and reverberated off the surrounding trees, amplifying in her ears. She tried to struggle free, but found the wire tearing at her flesh no matter what direction she moved. She screamed and cried until she could no longer speak, her voice rendered as rasped gasping.
The sound of an object descending from the trees captured her attention. She turned her head, her eyes meeting the red stare of the machine gun nest.
In a darkened room illuminated by a single ceiling light above a long cold steel table sat an assembly of twelve. Remnants of the corporate wars that had destroyed the adults of the world, they continued to fulfill their purpose even after their creators had died: to increase productivity. Their yellow eyes of color were in sharp contrast to the rest of their gray, mechanical heads. Their jaws on hinges opened and closed in a fashion reminiscent of breathing, but it was of course just the lifeless movements of hydraulics. Each wore a full suit, each a particular shade of brown, tan, green, or blue steel.
Around the table they sat, the conversation taking on more serious subject matters.
“
“Sector three has failed the test as well,"
“Were there any survivors?”
“One girl snuck away before the purging began. She was headed towards the coast but ran into the razor wire along the way. According to current estimates she will be dead within a couple of hours.”
“How long will it be till the new stock is ready for work?”
“Three days,”
“Usually it takes a matter of weeks to train them. Why so short a time?”
“The training process was originally based on a caring and nurturing conditioning, much like parenting. This system has been replaced with a more fear based system where-by the children respond in productivity to the fear of disappointing their peers. The levels of obedience and responsiveness to orders have increased by nearly eleven percent. A positive central figure however is still implemented, however its purpose is more that of a figurehead then a actual father figure.”
“What are the results upon productivity,”
“From what we know of the records left over from the Great Fall, a high degree of research was done in this area. The studies we found put forward that children are highly subject to situational rationalizations. The information suggests that children are nearly in-cable of a negative response to a system if it is the only one they know. The implementation of fear also contributes to improved subjectivity to influence from authority figures. In the end, the numbers suggest a thirty-five percent increase in productivity, but further test batches will be needed to be tested before we can be sure.”
“What has been done about the baby powder shortage?"
“The failures of sector three, two, and seven should make up for the shortage. As the powder is derived from bone, the shear number of dead should more than cover our supply for some time. After all, we already use hair for clothing so recycling the bone would fall in line with what we are already doing. Of course the tissue will first have to be detoxified to remove the poison, but the increase in our supply of baby powder should cover the cost.”
The mechanical forms continued to talk amongst themselves, their voices never rising above a monotone pulsing.
Mary collapsed on the sand, her eyes wavering and hands shaking from the loss of blood. Tears pored forth from her eyes, running across her flushed cheeks. She felt the surf washing against her skin, sinking into her wounds. Despite her pain for the first time in her life she felt at peace. She began to close her eyes, but opened them quickly as she felt a warm reassuring touch as a blanket was wrapped around her.
“Mommy?”
Mary looked around her expectantly, but was greeted only by an empty beach, gray, stormy skies, and the cold, churning sea. She laid down her head again, in to much pain to cry. Her uncovered form struggled with the weight of her breath, her chest shaking with the effort. Her heart beat like the drumming of an approaching army, picking up its pace as the army moved closer to battle. Suddenly the sound was cut short, the drumming and her heart silenced completely.
How can we categorize the value of a life when we ourselves have not yet come up with a singular definition for what life is, where it begins or when or how it ends? News of test tube babies and cloning coupled with news of war, famine, and ultimately death are within the touch of a button on our remotes so it isn’t as if we have been caught unawares.
These are issues that have existed since the beginning of time. We have had time to think about it and we still don’t have an answer to what makes the beginning or end of life so damn important. SO If the birth and death of life is still up to debate, then why do we not value what lies between?
the scarlet and ebony hues
showing their dying grandeur
as we the observer
look on in reminiscence
It is that time when it all comes back
when we look upon our deeds
and consider fate
so our mind may be at peace
while our body struggles through
the cold winter months
we watch the leaves fall
one by one
two by one
and ask ourselves "What if..."
and in the distance
a pleasant voice calls
"Rebirth..."
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