Jean-Paul Sartre's work was once scrutinized in Nazi Germany. Today in Iraq he is banned completely. This is a sequel to his work No Exit. While not a book is a play rewritten as a novel this is my take on the reverse of his philosophy.

No Exit [a continuation] On a Satre’s way to Heaven.

3 Individuals are present in an empty space. There seems to be an endless pathway in each and every direction. All around is an indistinct emptiness, yet it is not foreboding. The individuals are not facing one another but staring out into the limitless horizon. Rios, Anna, and Melain are transfixed at the beauty of the place, but do not dare move or make a sound until Anna breaks the silence.

Anna: What a view [Rios and Melain are startled turning around. Anna is still facing away.]

Rios: Ah! Both of you, and here I was startled to know anyone was here at all!

Melain: Indeed, but I am glad to know I am not alone.

Rios: I’ll admit, even though I am a solitary figure it pleases me that I will not spend eternity alone.

Melain: Eternity? Why, doesn’t that sound fascinating, yet, at the same time devastating. All those years spent on the withering dust to become dust oneself.

Rios: To me it is a relief. [Anna, who is still silent walks out a bit, but hesitant looking out with some form of yearning.]

Anna: I thought I would meet them.

Rios: My dear, whom do you mean? Melain: Isn’t it obvious? People we’ve proceeded. Our loved ones. I also thought I’d see… well Him. I fear to think what that may mean, for me and for us.

Rios: It seems though we are in a much better place than Catholic Hell. More like the Greek’s Elysium.

Anna: [Turns around, teary eyed, barely speaking] Is that much better? All I see is an endless nothingness. [All are silent for a bit, looking around for something, anything, that would indicate they were somewhere better than before.]

Rios: Well, I have often thought Elysium to be quite cruel, but deserving an end to those who’ve done nothing with their lives. Perhaps… well, I’d like to think I did enough, but…

Anna: That is one thing I am free to admit… The things I’ve done with my life, now that I think upon them, I can’t recall much of anything.

Melain: That can’t possibly be true… For me it is all so clear, what I have done, what I haven’t. Oh, like a film constantly being unwound and rewound. I haven’t lived a very good life. It was my fear on my dying bed which motivated me against death, but now that the choice was taken from me, I am too late to change anything I’ve ever done.

Rios: I highly doubt any of us are free from mistakes. Truly, there on the withering Earth every living agency has made pitiful decisions.

Melain: But being here, away from others… why are we three left together?

Rios: That is a mystery to me. (Gently he takes a step toward the emptiness) I do wonder, how far we can go? Is it as eternal as it seems?

Melain: Who’s to say if we are all lost? I do not mean to sound like a cynic, but if it is endless, would we find another? Perhaps it is better to stay together?

Anna: [quietly, angrily] I want out.

Rios: Sorry, my dear, what did you say?

Anna: I want out [loudly, tearfully] This must be Hell! No point in our decisions, nothing for guidance.

Melain: Please, don’t say that. We simply cannot say that. I, like you, want nothing more than to be somewhere I’ve imagined all my life. The Heaven my mother spoke of on her deathbed. With my loved ones long passed before me.

Rios: If is true what she says… And if at the most it is true completely that we have been damned, shall we not make the most of it?

Anna: I barely know who you two are… Who’s to say you are human, or even human at all! [Crumples on the ground in tears]. Was I even human at all?

Melain: (kneels beside her as Rios scratches the back of his head) You most certainly are human to me, at least you do look like one, and certainly your feelings show like one. [Melain also begins to tear up] Certainly you must have been more human than me.

Anna: I can’t remember. Maybe I don’t want to remember if it is my life that brought about this fate…

Rios: It is curious that you don’t. I remember my life clearly. Do you remember your name, at least?

Anna: I… It’s.. An.. Anna.

Rios: A surname perhaps as well? [Anna shakes her head.] Well, if it helps, although I don’t believe we’ve ever met in life. My name is Rios Grande. A bit of a joke my parents thought would be funny.

Anna: [Laughs a little but still sniffles:] Well, perhaps I knew a little Spanish in my life… Grand River… what a name indeed. Rios: If they can see, perhaps my parents are glad it made someone in need laugh a few tears away!

Melain: Rios… somehow that is familiar to me. My! I don’t recall ever having met, but I believe my brother had a friend named Rios. His name was Charles Renee, does that ring a bell?

Rios: Charles Renee… Charles Renee… Ah! Charlie! My wonderful friend Charlie! Oh, I did wonder whatever happened to him after university. We meant to keep in touch, but never had the chance to swap addresses. You must be Melain! Is he well, do you recall?

Melain: That was my fault, I’m afraid Mr. Grande. I fear… Well, I had an illness… a rather terrible illness. Charlie left University to take care of me. Our parents… well they died young you see. Charlie’s all I had. I do wonder how he’ll get on now that I’m gone. I hope he’s not terribly lonely.

Rios: Oh, Melain. I’m so sorry, had I known I would have come with him. My family were doctors you see.

Melain: It’s not your fault Mr. Grande… There was not much doctors could do any way. I had quite an advanced case of tuberculosis. It’s why I think this can’t be Hell, since I’ve been here, I’ve never felt the cough, and I can move about freely. I’ll take that as a miracle.

Rios: He never did tell me much about home life… I wish he would have. Perhaps if I could have been there for you…

Melain: And save me you would not be here?

Rios: No! Well yes, but not in the way that you think! I do believe I would be here regardless of that, but perhaps knowing that I tried to do some good in my life would sit better than… Well, my doing nothing for anyone save myself. I lived quite a terribly selfish existence. Mind you, I never murdered, or took advantage of anyone, but I drank fine wine, dined on lavish food, and barely took notice of the leper begging for my scraps. Charlie was a good sort. He gave when he had none. Owned his life in a way I never let myself try.

Melain: I wish I could be angry with you Mr. Grande… You were the type of person I envied most. I wasn’t just ill with TB; I was also born paralyzed from the waist down. I dreamt of being able to run with the other children, to share the joy of the sun without the walls of doctors telling me I could never live a normal life. But the choice was taken from me… that’s what I believed anyway before Charlie made me think otherwise. But I listened to him far too late. In a way it is fitting that I would end up in… what did you call this place? [Rios is about to say something but is cut off by Anna:]

Anna: Elysium… The Golden Fields of the Underworld.

Rios: Do you remember then? Something of your past. Anna: Just now, what you were talking about… I had an image… a kind of painting. A man is holding it, smiling. I think it’s beautiful, but he thinks it ugly. He writes a name on the bottom right corner. C. Renee. He jokes that if I hold onto it long enough it might be worth something.

Melain: Charlie… He was always going on about being a great writer, but I never realized he painted.

Rios: Truly? That’s where we met. He had a knack for watercolor if I recall.

Anna: Yes, that’s true… the painting I kept… it was watercolor. [Suddenly an image floats down from the sky, a 5x5 piece of paper.] This… This is the image! But where did it come from? Oh, this place makes no sense! [Rios, Anna, and Melain crowd around the image.]

Rios: May I? He takes the image gently from Anna after she nods.] Oh, this is Charlie alright, he was a bit heavy handed when it came to water. It’s what makes this painting look so undefined, but he was really talented. There. [He points to something on the page] You see how he implies a shape without really creating one? That was the trickiest thing, but he did it like an old master.

Melain: [Looks more closely] Oh how wonderful. Aw Charlie… [Anna gasps, seeing something again with her ‘vision’] Anna: Melain, I see him now… he’s holding a set of watercolors and some paper. He’s sitting on a bed covering his face. He’s in a room, with daisies on the walls and a wheelchair in the corner.

Melain: [Covers her mouth in shock] He’s in my room… he was going to share this with me. Oh… But he must know it’s not his fault… I was sick… I was weak---

Anna: It’s changed now, he’s trying a telephone asking for Rios Grande… he gets a call days later. He hears about your accident. He’s drinking… he has a rope… oh no…. Charlie no –DON’T DO THIS CHARLIE!! [She reaches out as if to catch him when he falls, but falters as her ‘vision’ fades]

Melain: What, what’s happening Anna? Is my brother alright?

Rios: Please, is the man still alive? He didn’t--- did he?

Anna: He did, but I’m seeing lights… police… he’s being taken to the hospital. [Gets up suddenly] I remember now.

Melain: What? What do you remember, oh please, is my brother alright? Anna: He’s fine… he’s talking with someone. I see his mouth moving. I think he says “I’m sorry, Melain. I won’t do it again.” It looks like years have passed. He seems… happy. He’s painting now, another image… It looks like you Melain, somewhere quite nice.

Melain: Charlie—[Sobs in relief. All are silent for some time]

Rios: Ms. Anna if it’s not too much. What did you remember? [Melain nods, also wanting to know but much too upset to speak]

Anna:[hesitant] I…didn’t survive. I did what Charlie had done, but the police didn’t arrive in time, I was already dead on the way to the hospital. There were no sirens, only a body bag. I thought…. I truly believed I didn’t have a choice, but I was wrong--- Charlie--- He saw right through me the day he gave me that painting. We had met by chance. I ran into him at the train station. He dropped his bags and his paintings fell out, I helped him pick them up. I was drawn to that one (Points at Rios’ holding the painting) It was so peaceful, so unlike my life. He saw me and asked if I had wanted it. I tried to deny it, but he gently held my hand and lightly pushed it my way. ‘Keep it’ he said. ‘To remind you there is a place where you can be truly free.’ If only he knew. Oh, I was such a fool. [Anna cries and runs into Rios’ who at first is unaware what to do. He awkwardly tries to comfort her. Melain stands shakily and rubs Anna’s back comfortingly.] What have I done? All the people around me—I never saw them, never thought perhaps there were others like me walking in this endless darkness. And now I know, and I can’t change anything! [Anna continues sobbing, Rios patting her shoulders and Anna rubbing her back.]

Rios: Perhaps this is why we’ve met in such a place. This endless possibility. Maybe… Maybe it’s not Heaven or Hell but a second chance.

Melain: A second chance? Surely not at life?

Rios: No… but for ourselves… so we make of it a Heaven or Hell. I certainly don’t want to burn [He chuckles] I certainly don’t deserve Heaven, but maybe… maybe together we might try what Charlie has been trying to teach us all along.

Anna: I want that… Truly I do. For the first time in my existence, I feel like I can do something for me, and for someone else.

Melain: Then it’s settled. We’ll make the best of this. Together. [A loud creak is heard, the three turn to look in front of them]

Rios: That looks like…

Melain: Oh… It can’t be…

Anna: [Takes a step toward the front of the group and wipes at her tears and smiles as she whispers] Charlie. END

Deep breath. Her finger twitches. Let your lungs do their work. Her eyes flutter. Atta girl. She gasps. Dingy streetlights flicker out of her view and cast shadows onto the edges of a narrow space. It’s an alley. How ever did she get in an alley? Ah! She touches her side gingerly… blood. But I’m not surprised…why am I not surprised? It comes back to her, slowly and in pieces but the pain serves as a reminder. Face aches... punched probably. Nose? Oooh, that’s broken. She begins counting her fingers. 10. Well that’s the number they’re supposed to be, I think. Her head it seems is not smashed too terribly. She tries a gander at her side wound. There isn’t a pool of blood, just a stain. Count your blessings, I guess.

She lays there for a moment more as whatever haze she is in passes. Who is this girl? My name is Kaede. She reminds herself. She lists off the things she remembers before finding herself face-up in a piss-smelling puddle. I live in a shanty by the bay. She takes a moment to feel her pockets. There’s something there. Pulling it out she scrutinizes the thin silver band. It’s malleable and long enough to put around her wrist. She slips it on, a bright light pours through the air in a neat rectangle.

You have been unconscious for 2.5 hours.

Heartrate rate reached a dangerous low of 0 bpm.

Please locate local medical authorities immediately

So, she died it seems. A small blue icon blipped in the corner of her display. She reached for it and immediately recoiled at the sound.

“Lode!” shouts a tiny image of a robot in an electronic crackle. “You are alright!”

“Define alright, Uvii. I feel like death, which apparently isn’t inaccurate.” She clears her throat and covers her ear with her free hand. Do they have to be so loud?

“Detective Caisias’ injection worked then! Don’t you remember?” Uvii begins pulling up contact information maybe in hopes of jogging Kaede–or Lode’s memory. It works.

“It’s coming back to me, Uvii… where’s everyone?” As she asks the question Uuvii moves out of the display above her head and dances around where Lode hears movement. Bursting from the corner is a small team of trauma responders and behind them a young man with a neatly trimmed beard and haircut. She doesn’t recognize him. His face is set with a hard line on his brow and a kind of look in his eye that doesn’t bear good news.

“Get her stable and out of here, we need to leave yesterday.” His tone is gruff and urgent, but not aimed at Kaede. Something went wrong somewhere, she’s aware enough to read that much from the situation. From the look he’s giving her, her side of the plan might have been the only thing that went right. The trauma team gets to work moving her, a wise decision on her part to stay still a little while ago. As soon as they move her pain shoots through her system like an electric shock. She gives out a whimper but not more, exhaustion an immediate companion to the stress of it all. The team does their best to get her situated in the ambulance. Two ambulance attendants settle her in the back gurney and set her up with vitals and fluids. One takes the helm and places the HOV in hover. The young man in charge sits in the single rider chair across from the bottom of the bed, but that’s all Kaede can take notice of before a creeping blur to her vision takes hold.

“Stay with me, Lode.” She hears the man say over the commotion around her. “We’ve only just started.”

Kaede vaguely hears the EMT say a few words about her condition, none of which she understood. She knows her arm is stuck with some needles and the wound on her side is being patched up, her head feels a little bit lighter when someone puts a mask over her nose and mouth. She sees the EMT mouth something to her. Breathe, just take a nice deep breath. So she does, and the world fades to black.

Kaede wakes to a dimly lit room. A machine taps away to the rhythm of her heartbeat. What a day. No longer under an overwhelming sense of pain, Kaede chances moving into a sitting position.

“I wouldn’t get up just yet, Lode.” Says a familiar gruff voice. “Might pop your stitches.”

Kaede turns toward the source. The same young man from before stands at the window peering out of one of the slats. Casting a glance, Kaede could see he was quiet, not that he made no noise. He doesn’t move much when he meets her gaze, doesn’t blink or shuffle when he turns his head. His movements are purposeful, direct. He walks toward her with a stride well-practiced of a soldier rather than a cop. Maybe he was military. When he reaches over to turn on the adjacent light to her bed his face in full light is a different story.

His face is nicked with light scars, patchy skin, and a visible burn on the left side of his jaw, but Kaede is most interested in a faded tattoo just above his brow. Three horizontal lines. Two dots. Former Knightwraith. What is a former Knightwraith doing talking to—

“Triad girl, eh? Read up on your file, nasty stuff. Impressive. Caisia chose well.” Kaede perks at the name.

“Where is Detective Caisia?” It isn’t the plan that this man would be talking to her, whoever he is. But he has information, something Kaede desperately needs.

“Dead.” Well, that was unexpected, she thinks. And now it makes sense. The team was late because they were delayed. This guy is the secondary handler. Someone killed Detective Caisia. Plans have changed.

“Oh.” It really is all Kaede can say. She isn’t overly attached to the detective, but she is—was a friendly face in a world Kaede did not know very well. The guy sitting next to her now doesn’t miss a beat.

“Sergeant Rigs Marquez. I’m your new primary handler. As I’m sure you’ve figured out some plans have changed.”

He stays quiet, letting her take it in. The plan used to be she’d walk away from everything holding her to this place. This city, Neon Heights, was the hole she just couldn’t crawl out of. It seems like so many little rats on the street she’d die here…and stay dead.

“I guess shipping myself off to a colony isn’t in play anymore.” She muses. Her new handler only nods. Marquez, like Kaede, bore a little more weight on his shoulders. She didn’t know what relationship he had with Detective Caisia, but it was obvious her death meant he would shoulder more of the burden if whatever the new plans were didn’t work out. Kaede keeps silent, not wanting to know what other things she must do in this city, it takes everything from her and finds more to take. Marquez rises from the chair and in one fluid movement opens his console from his own wristband. A clean interface appears midair, and he swipes an icon toward her. Her own bracelet lights up, receiving the message.

“That’s my contact information. I figure today has been enough of an adventure for you. I’ll be back tomorrow, so rest up if you can. See you soon.” He leaves without another glance and strides evenly to the automatic door. Alone with her thoughts, Kaede can’t help but stare at the slat he left open while the rest blackened the room. Can’t see outside, but he lets in a little neon glow. Why does that seem like some kind of metaphor?

She presses close on the shutter controls on her bed then turns off the lights. Pressing on her bracelet, Uuvii greets her with a wave, or what looks like a wave as she wiggles a thin adapter on top of her small frame. She archives Sgt. Marquez’s message. Tapping another corner of her screen she brings up a new chat box.

L: plan worked on my part. Not dead. Handler dead.

C: L! Worried about you. Story’s over the Net. Gang involvement. Hit job.

L: Figured. Triad?

C: No. At least I don’t think so. Net says Triad, Knightwraith, even Night Market is spooked.

L: But you don’t think so.

C: No too clean. Professional.

L: F0x?

Kaede waits for a moment for Cnode to reply, but the pause tells her what she needs to know.

C: Did they say when you can get back?

L: No. C, take care. Tell more when I can.

C: You too, L. Please.

She closes the chat. If Cnode thinks it is a professional, it’s likely to be true. Detective Caisia’s death meant another player is part of her case. Wonderful…another deadbeat, another psychopath with a victory score. That psychopath is F0x, the Net’s boogieman. It’s unlikely she will sleep tonight. Opening another part of her screen, Kaede brings up a sound mixer and board. It’s the only thing that helps her relax. She checks the volume then turns it down to where only she can hear it and begins to play.

Here he sits bored. King and some say prophet. He does not know. He knows he sits and sighs with thoughts of stars and charts. He wishes anything to be out on the sea in the sky. In his youth, a conqueror. How times change. Now he sits and becomes fat on foods he doesn't know the name of. Perhaps credit should be given where it ought. He wouldn't be sitting in relative peace had it not been for his conquests as a lad and the triumph of his warriors. Certainly not the good old days, but nostalgia has a way of making it seem that way. Anxiety is remembered as excitement. He could use some excitement. Perhaps he ought to stretch out his bow arm. He stands, stretches then pouts. Where was that bow again?

"My King, you seem lost," speaks a voice across from him. Normally such casual and direct discourse would upset him, if the speaker would be anyone other than his Queen. But the Queen it was, gilded with the finest golds and skin pure of any blemish.

"Wife, I am lost." He gestures toward one of the attendants at once, the one he usually spars with he thinks. Why did they wear these uniforms again? And why did they all seem like the same man with shaved heads and no beards. He strokes his own. "Bow." he spoke. The man bows and leaves backwards as is custom. He wonders how anyone could walk backwards for such a long distance without once looking.

"What a simple man you are today, My King." The Queen hides a faltering smirk. He supposes he is rather laughable at this moment. King of this part of the galaxy and at loss for his bow.

"My Queen. I desire air. Care to join me?" He is still standing. She inclines her head. He is pleased with her agreement, perhaps he is not the only one who is bored. She rises and looks something of a lioness sauntering toward a point of interest. He admits a small fear of her as dazzling as she is. They were a fearsome duo in memory. She from a wandering tribe of ferocious blades-men of the Isles of broken moons, he from the desert planet of ancient princes. The attendant presents his bow. He takes it, examining it. It glows ever slightly at his touch. Metal from those very moons his bride hails. It was a gift if he recalls on their wedding day. From it bears a resemblance of disuse in recent memory, but like a child looking upon a beloved toy he once played with regularly he strokes the grain and scuffs. Was the nick because he foolishly dropped it during training one day or was it because he used it as a shield during a rather intense battle? He could not recall.

"It is a rather quiet morning," states the Queen as they walk toward their playground, attendants following at a respectable distance. "I suppose I should be grateful. It has not been easy keeping the quiet."

"Yes, of course you are right." The King knows what she meant. Memories of blood and anguish cross his thoughts. It has been years since the Battle of the Republic and the Kingdom. It has been years of quarreling in counsel rooms and public debates. It has been only recently they reached an impasse only held by a lazy embargo no one really enforces. Still, he itches to do something. Court affairs are tepid at best, and neither one of them is used to being a glorified administrator. They arrive at the archery range in short order, eager to do anything other than sit. The King rolls his shoulders and takes an arrow to notch it rather tensely. He groans, has it been that long?

His Queen ever a dear approaches, but he is disappointed when she does not offer a massage to his aching shoulders. Rather she takes one of the soldier's training bows and fires a shot herself. Her form is calm and her aim a streamline toward the center of the target, she releases. She misses. It is off center by only a few inches, but the King knows her better. He barks a small laugh and she hits him softly when he releases his own notched arrow causing him to miss his target entirely.

"Sore loser are we?" he asks knowing the answer. The Queen twitches her nose and should the attendants have been anywhere else he knew she would have stuck her tongue out like a spoiled child. He takes another arrow and fires, he also misses center by a few inches. Pouting he can almost hear her exuberant laughter from the glean in her eye as he catches her gaze. It hasn't been that long since he shot a bow, but the evidence speaks otherwise.

"We've both been out of practice it seems, my King." He relents as she sighs. This time she gestures to her attendant asking her to schedule a wake up call. He half listens as she delegates something or other speaking 'it unbecoming of a queen to be so lazy.' He sighs, at least she tries to do something about their state in life. He simply waits. Waiting for anything to happen.

She prattles, which is unusual. He wonders when they became prattlers of all things. Idleness begs for gossip he supposes. His thoughts are interrupted.

"My King," speaks the Queen. Her eyes are alight with a fire he did not see in a while. "Your attendant speaks."

He turns to see one of his appointed attendants sweating at the brow looking gaunt. "Well?" speaks the King.

"Sire, the Republic has begun an embargo," he mutters. The king resists to role his eyes, he knows this.

"And what of it, lad? We've been in an embargo for years," the king blurts. Since when did he blurt? The lad doesn't look placated, rather he bows an apology but continues.

"Yes my king, but they've never enforced it-" he says bowing once more perhaps surprised at his own boldness, "-until now."

The king fires another shot just as his attendant finishes but he does not look to see the result as his eyes are on the poor boy still bowed in front of him. The king stills. The attendants are gossiping now with their whispers hardly hidden under murmurs. He gestures toward his Queen in silence, the attendants quiet themselves immediately. He speaks to the lad before him. "Get my coat, and the queen's while you're at it." The lad leaves with one more bow and quickly backwards without missing a beat.

The Queen merely places the bow back into the hands of the soldier she borrowed it from. The King also returns his own bow by attendant. No sooner he receives his coat as though the attendants knew something was going to happen, or perhaps they too were prepared out of boredom. He doesn't care. The Queen, also ready meets his gaze, fire ablaze. She mutters something to him and he smiles pompously. They walk briskly towards the exit of their palace. He is a lad again ready for battle, and she his lioness her words ringing in his ear. Nice shot.

“Do not forsake the gifts of your God.”

The words rang over and over again in her head, she almost thought perhaps she should see a psychiatrist about it. She buried them in her heart, buried them in her mind and did her best to throw away the key.

She avoided the churches, the Christian smiles. She avoided the crucifix and all things referring to stars and crosses. She just wanted a normal life, simple and uncomplicated.

The complications found their way despite, but nothing she felt she couldn’t handle.

But she always felt empty. She found sex, she found drugs, she found the devil and had her fun. But she couldn’t recognize herself in the mirror.

She only saw the maniac her mother always told her to stay away from on the streets.

She hated the cross, she hated the stars, she hated everything.

So she wept, she got on her knees, she cried out in pain and all anguish.

“Where were you? Why didn’t you stop me from becoming this?”

At first, there was nothing. She felt the urge to simply take a long walk over wrestling waves, but just yesterday despite her pleading she witnessed her father do the same.

Her father left her, and she was too stubborn to die.

So again she cried out in anguish and in pain. She cursed this life she had made. She cursed herself for letting it get this way.

“Why didn’t you tell me I would become this way?”

Then the tears came, tears she had not shed in such a long time.

They burned.

They scorched her eyes and felt hot on her skin. They stung as they washed the dirt away from the palms of her hands. Then calm came to her.

She wanted to worry, but the calm would not let her.

She wanted to cry, and cry she did.

I was here. I always was.

“I’m sorry...” She could not find the words. “I’m sorry!” It was the only thing that came to mind. “I’m so sorry for everything that I have done!”

I know. Come home.

And so she did. Like the miracles she never witnessed, a woman came to her that night. “I don’t know who you are, but I was told to take you home.”

She said nothing, just sat amazed. Across from her a woman who had given her a few dollars everyday. Her little crucifix hung in her car window. Her smile drove whatever darkness she had accumulated over the years away in an instant.

“I’ve strayed so far, I don’t know the way.” She said as she gathered into herself, hugging her knees. The woman merely took out her phone and opened up a map.

“Do at least remember the address?”

Oh. Right.

So she told her, and they left for a place she ran from when she was 16 and there on the porch was her mother waiting with open arms. “Mija, where have you been?”

“Forsaken, mama. On the streets on a whim.”

She and her mother thank the woman profusely but turned to see no one there. She thought she saw some lights in the distance, but it was the middle of the day.

She dreaded walking into the little hallway of her mother’s house. There hung a mirror, and she dreaded what she would see. As she turned the corner with every intention to hide her face in awe she gasped at what she saw.

It was her, a little rough around the edges, and in desperate need of a shower, but it was her.

She hadn’t seen herself in such a long time. So she bathed, she brushed her teeth, she cleansed herself of the garbage she lived in most of her life, then followed the scent of her favorite meal into the kitchen.

Her mother had already set the table and waited with clasped hands for her to join. She sat in her usual spot and did the same, and undeniably she heard it. She really really heard it for the first time in her life a deep most beautiful voice that she had forsaken for so long say:

“Welcome home.”

orsaken; Transfigured

“Do not forsake the gifts of your God.”

The words rang over and over again in her head, she almost thought perhaps she should see a psychiatrist about it. She buried them in her heart, buried them in her mind and did her best to throw away the key.

She avoided the churches, the Christian smiles. She avoided the crucifix and all things referring to stars and crosses. She just wanted a normal life, simple and uncomplicated.

The complications found their way despite, but nothing she felt she couldn’t handle.

But she always felt empty. She found sex, she found drugs, she found the devil and had her fun. But she couldn’t recognize herself in the mirror.

She only saw the maniac her mother always told her to stay away from on the streets.

She hated the cross, she hated the stars, she hated everything.

So she wept, she got on her knees, she cried out in pain and all anguish.

“Where were you? Why didn’t you stop me from becoming this?”

At first, there was nothing. She felt the urge to simply take a long walk over wrestling waves, but just yesterday despite her pleading she witnessed her father do the same.

Her father left her, and she was too stubborn to die.

So again she cried out in anguish and in pain. She cursed this life she had made. She cursed herself for letting it get this way.

“Why didn’t you tell me I would become this way?”

Then the tears came, tears she had not shed in such a long time.

They burned.

They scorched her eyes and felt hot on her skin. They stung as they washed the dirt away from the palms of her hands. Then calm came to her.

She wanted to worry, but the calm would not let her.

She wanted to cry, and cry she did.

I was here. I always was.

“I’m sorry...” She could not find the words. “I’m sorry!” It was the only thing that came to mind. “I’m so sorry for everything that I have done!”

I know. Come home.

And so she did. Like the miracles she never witnessed, a woman came to her that night. “I don’t know who you are, but I was told to take you home.”

She said nothing, just sat amazed. Across from her a woman who had given her a few dollars everyday. Her little crucifix hung in her car window. Her smile drove whatever darkness she had accumulated over the years away in an instant.

“I’ve strayed so far, I don’t know the way.” She said as she gathered into herself, hugging her knees. The woman merely took out her phone and opened up a map.

“Do at least remember the address?”

Oh. Right.

So she told her, and they left for a place she ran from when she was 16 and there on the porch was her mother waiting with open arms. “Mija, where have you been?”

“Forsaken, mama. On the streets on a whim.”

She and her mother thank the woman profusely but turned to see no one there. She thought she saw some lights in the distance, but it was the middle of the day.

She dreaded walking into the little hallway of her mother’s house. There hung a mirror, and she dreaded what she would see. As she turned the corner with every intention to hide her face in awe she gasped at what she saw.

It was her, a little rough around the edges, and in desperate need of a shower, but it was her.

She hadn’t seen herself in such a long time. So she bathed, she brushed her teeth, she cleansed herself of the garbage she lived in most of her life, then followed the scent of her favorite meal into the kitchen.

Her mother had already set the table and waited with clasped hands for her to join. She sat in her usual spot and did the same, and undeniably she heard it. She really really heard it for the first time in her life a deep most beautiful voice that she had forsaken for so long say:

“Welcome home.”

"Open the message." The Magistrate demanded. Her long nose, wiry hair, and stuffed throat would have made anyone churn like spoiled milk. Lest they did not see her appearence, her quality of voice would have made nails on a chalkboard seem like choir angels singing.

Her poor victim was none other than Milain Mildred, a young woman with an air of innocence and puppy-like trust which would make anyone want to squeeze the daylight out of her (out of annoyance or love is anyone's guess). Poor Milly- as her friends call her- didn't hesitate to do as she was told. The Magistrate huffed, most likey irrate by the girl's candid joy-something she very much lacked. You see, the Magistrate was once much like Milly. She too was once colorful, and a catch for the lucky man who would have caught her eye, but the Magistrate-like many- grew to be a sour woman. She was about to show Milly why.

"Magistrate," the girl peeped, "what was it you were going to show me?"

"Quiet. Read the first sentence." The old woman snarled, teeth bared like a rabid wolf. Like a child, Milly obeyed:

It comes as a heavy burden to inform the caretakers of the young ladies' orphanage

that soon, under commandment of Prefect Sliz, that all orphanages shall put all

able-bodied children to work for his lordship's advancement project.

Milly, with eyes bright, looked up toward where the Magistrate who stood contemplating rather sternly the ruffled edges of her office's curtains.

"Surely you know what this means, Milain." The Magistrate huffed once more, this time utterly ruffled from her subordinate's lack of response.

"It surely means that the orphanage... the orphanage is to close its doors."

"Hmm. Surely you are smarter than that Ms. Mildred. Think a bit if you have a mind to. It means our country is at war or going to be very soon." The Magistrate had hoped her prod would bring a bit more of a reaction out of the girl, but alas the woman-like so many of her peers- uttered no sound.

"What is a war?"

It would have been simple for the Magistrate to finally loosen her barbed toungue off at the girl, but this was not the first time she had ever heard the question. In fact, she had heard it so many times her response was nearly automatic like the automatons who taught at the children's schools without any children to sit at their desks.

"A war, Ms. Mildred, is a conflict." The older woman did not spare Milly a glance, rather she walked toward her office's secret, one which she most certainly would be imprisoned for. Milly watched in fascination as she took out something leathery and geometric, something rare and wonderful that only ever were mentioned by her metal professors.

"A conflict," the Magistrate continued, "is a disagreement between two parties. A disagreement, dear Ms. Mildred, was something our species never knew how to resolve without bloodshed."

Milain Mildred had never heard these words before in her life. Wah-or, CON-flict, blud-shed; all were a wonder. The Magistrate did not care to explain further. Instead she opened up her leathery chest filled with much treasure and began to sing, something Milly-and many others- never knew could resonate so beautifully from a woman so bent.

הֶֽעֱלֵ֖יתָ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרָֽיִם " חסָ֣רוּ מַהֵ֗ר מִן־הַדֶּ֨רֶךְ֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר צִוִּיתִ֔ם עָשׂ֣וּ לָהֶ֔ם עֵ֖גֶל מַסֵּכָ֑ה וַיִּשְׁתַּֽחֲווּ־לוֹ֙ וַיִּזְבְּחוּ־ל֔וֹ וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ אֵ֤לֶּה אֱלֹהֶ֨יךָ֙ יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר הֶֽעֱל֖וּךָ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרָֽיִם: טוַיֹּ֥אמֶר יְהֹוָ֖ה אֶל־משֶׁ֑ה רָאִ֨יתִי֙ אֶת־הָעָ֣ם הַזֶּ֔ה וְהִנֵּ֥ה עַם־קְשֵׁה־עֹ֖רֶף הֽוּא: יוְעַתָּה֙ הַנִּ֣יחָה לִּ֔י וְיִֽחַר־אַפִּ֥י בָהֶ֖ם וַֽאֲכַלֵּ֑ם וְאֶֽעֱשֶׂ֥ה אֽוֹתְךָ֖ לְג֥וֹי גָּדֽוֹל

It was a song that Milain never heard before. But it didn't sound like a song, nor did the Magistrate read it as if a set of laws from Prefect Sliz. It almost sounded as though she were enjoying the melodic prose. Milly never thought the Magistrate knew any joy. Too soon did it end. All the more did Milly want to hear the rest, but as before the Magistrate said nothing. For some time it was silent between them. The Magistrate at some point during her song had sat heavily behind her wooden desk with the leathery relic carefully placed before her. For the first time the Magistrate did not have that air of commandment. Something about her seemed less. Perhaps her wrinkled brow or the shadows dancing across her face changed it. But before her the Magistrate looked vulnerable.

"Milain, what I have just read to you is what was read to my ancestors so long ago in a market place. Before it was sung, it was told for generations before from elder to elder. Sons to sons, daughters to daughters. It was taught throughout the world. And still somehow, through people like me, is still chanted privately."

"Milain, I have no idea what you were taught, what you were trained for before you came to be my assistant, but what I need now, more than ever is an answer to this question. What would you do for these children here at our orphanage?"

The question struck Milain like bolt of lightning. It was a question she never expected, because questions like that were never asked. It was the first time she was ever asked to think about another's well-being, and she did not know how to do so. Somehow she did know the answer. The idea of losing the children crossed her mind every now and then. She often asked herself if there was ever another option, another possibility. Surely there must be a way for good things to happen. She never expected the Magistrate to give he r the words she needed to make sense of it all.

Her words now made sense. Her world now made sense She now knew what happened so long ago on a summer's evening when her world turned red before her. She had words to make sense of it all. She was in a Wah-or. Her disagreements with Prefect Sliz are a CON-flict. The red she witnessed so long ago, the red she could not understand before now seemed to make sense. She saw Blud-shed.

But she still hadn't answered the question.

"The children are going to be trained for this- uh... Wah-or"

"War, Ms. Milain. It is little emphazised."

"The children will be in CON-flict"

"Conflict, Ms. Milain. The word is said quickly."

Milain couldn't bring herself to say the other one. She thought of her little girls going out and learning of these things in the strangest of ways, ways she did not understand. How dreadful it would be. And she thought much about how she dotted on these children, and how infectious their smiles were. Oh, how could anything keep her from her children? She had her answer.

"Magistrate," she uttered under her breath, almost fearful of her own answer. "I would do anything."

Suddenly the weakness Milain had seen in her superior vanished, but what replaced it perplexed her even more. Dare she say the Magistrate looked... hopeful? It was a most curious day indeed. The Magistrate stood, steadfast and firm as she was, but brighter. She picked up her leathery treasure and with care offered it to her.

"Then read this, as much of it as you can, and I will answer any questions you may have on the condition that you will not speak of this to anyone. I promise you, it is for all of our sakes."

As Milain took the wonder into her hands she marveled at how heavy it truly was, but its weight was a sentiment to her, nearly comforting. She wondered if the Magistrate thought the same, but before she could ask the Magistrate was at her door, gesturing for her to leave. Ah, it was time for them to put the children to sleep. But for Milain, she would find no rest tonight. Rather her dreams would instead be living things, things with feeling, things with depth. Milain knew she had little time to read the special gift she had recieved. Ah, if only she could remember what it was called!

But perhaps it was best she forget the name. Afterall, this was why the world when she was so young turned red, red, red. Perhaps finally, she'll understand why.

Oh, sleep elude me, she'd surely say. The children would need her to know everything she possibly could. So Milain tucked it away deep into her pockets, then helped the Magistate with her duties. She had to make plenty of time to read as much as she could. And perhaps, if she were lucky, she'd ask the Magistrate to sing that song again.

"The technology of a civilisation does not determine its advancement. The advancement of a civilisation is the worth it puts on a life. A boy in a river, a boy who came from nothing, who is no one- who drowned. What value does a civilisation put on that boy? That boy's value is what determines the advancement of a civilisation."

--The Twelfth Doctor

For years I've looked at the stars.

I've looked, searching for something

anything

I did not know what

I picked up the Bible

I read it and became convinced

We are not alone

But something felt missing

The narrative felt incomplete

Not because it was not enough

But because I felt not enough

My universe was me

I searched the stars, praying, hoping, thinking

for an answer that was not mine

I searched under the bones of learned men

I heard talks from smart women

But none of it fit

Eden came to mind over and over and over again

Why Eden? Why Now?

I hear the rain, smell petrichor

My heart aches for something

I am completed by my God, but something feels missing

So I look to the stars

I pray, and prayed

Then Eden came again, this time with a withered tree

Its branches were black

Its trunk was charred grey and smoking

I heard three claps of thunder, and a bolt of lightning through me

It was I who ate of the tree

Creation groans because of me, my mother, father, brothers, sisters

We consumed its heart, tore at its body

I wept, as I now weep; bitterly

We destroyed Eden, pillaged it.

Then after the scraps did we turn on one another

What is so different now than what was back then?

Why now do I think it has come to finality?

Because Eden is waiting to be born again.

Brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers.

Eden is lost.

But the stars wait for our return

As does the sea

As does the wind

As does the ash

As does this body made from dust

Our souls have lost Eden, but the Garden still waits

God has prepared a homecoming

And all creation yearns for us to attend

Tend your hearts brothers and sisters

Prepare the plot before the storm

The Garden must be watered soon

From a speck came life; complex and anecdotal. Think about this for a minute or so. While science has yet to come to a conclusion about what started the Big Bang, I would turn your attention rather to the idea of the Big Bang. We generally accept it as truth because it suggests truth, yet turn a blind eye to the improbability of it all. In sequence, giant balls of gas, hot particles, and things came from supposedly nothing. Humanity may think they can do anything but when it comes to making something from nothing, we don't have that ability. I don't believe we ever will. Physics, as we understand it, always has something whether in relationship forces or light or molecules of unidentified dark matter.

We believe things fade and lose momentum, our guess at what the universe will look like at the end of matter is bleak; a place merging black holes that consume themselves for eternity. Time there is irrelevant because there is nothing to sustain the act of time. Will the universe continue to nothingness? Probably, probably not. We simply do not know. Yet we think we do.

But let us consider the "something" we do know. It is structured. It is mathematical. It is not completely random. Everything happened in sequence. Life could not happen unless it happens in a specific condition in a specific sequence as far as we know. I'll let you come to a conclusion on your own what any of that means. If it means nothing, I will not believe it. Every kind of molecule in our body somehow formed to be a cohesive, functional, and specific collection of parts to somehow act as a whole person. It doesn't make sense that any of this is random.

It simply isn't mathematically possible. It seems to me that Earth is simply too perfect to be random. We have a moon to balance us and just big enough that from the distance of our sun we have eclipses. We have a magnetic field just strong enough that it protects everything on the surface of the planet without inhibiting its growth. We have a sun just strong enough that it holds us at a safe distance without pulling us into it's melting embrace. It's simply all too perfect. That never happens except in thought.

But it did. And so here we are. Killing each other because we think that's our nature. Natural selection and all that.

We are here and we've made it seem like we are the universe. We are a collection of specks unwilled together. None of us chose to be here. We are simply here. I call that a blessing.

I call it a blessing that I am even aware at all. I call it a blessing that I exist at all. I call it a blessing that somehow the genetic line of my ancestors didn't get killed off by mass extinction of the human race via preditors, temperature, poison, or every other million ways humanity could have died.

So I don't understand why we are okay with killing each other. We don't eat each other's flesh (minus the cultures who still do) because it causes us illness. The more diverse our genetics are, the more likely we are to survive. It seems to me that humans were meant to thrive. But it seems to me we've forgotten that. We have this brain, a very complex brain that no one knows really anything about (even though we've studied it extensively) that is capable of complex thought, planning, envisioning, etc. We seem to be ending ourselves too soon.

We seem to not understand the miracle that is this Solar System, this Earth, and human life. Everything seems to me to be by design in our corner of the universe far before humanity ever existed. I don't believe we're a coincidence of space-monkey brains (a real theory by the way). It simply doesn't make logical sense. What makes sense is that everything seems to fit together if it is sequenced in just the right way. What makes sense is we could learn a thing or two about natural design, and not ideological primitivism. I am not saying nature is our god, but I am saying that maybe God isn't impossible.

What I am saying is we have this amazing complex brain somehow formed after millions of years of properly sequenced particles throughout time, and we have forgotten to use it in consideration of the something that we are. Because so far all we know is that something came from nothing. Logic says there must have been something outside our idea of existence because so far something always makes more something. Perhaps it was a thought. A thought is held in a particle of matter but what is the thought itself? Nothing unless it acts on something.

Perhaps a thought was all we needed. A thought that existed before any of this, because it definitely wasn't human thoughts or alien thoughts in our reality.

Perhaps Descarte wasn't completely loony. Perhaps instead of "I think, therefore I am," is actually "I am, therefore you are." Not so crazy, think of the dead cat paradox. It is both dead and alive; it exists only in the state it is perceived, but that alters its state.

Somehow we exist, and we question our existence. Why do we exist? Perhaps it is because there is something thinking of us after all.

I smell it on the wind.

I see it in the air; gun smoke and target practice

The oceans are stirring because of a red sea

a red sea of fishers

fishers not of men

fishers of violence

War.

Red is Coming

Red will pour from you and me

Red will make us pray for a sign

Stand.

Do not let this wave go unnoticed

Pray.

Make a sound, and warn them

Kneel.

Only God can help us now

War.

Is.

Coming.

Can you hear the canary sing?