Light and Set
The pair had put in a long day of travel and sought a place to ‘light and set’ awhile before continuing on. A cup of hot coffee would do some good for the one, and a rubdown for the other, and perhaps to gather some news on the lay of the land.
The hair curling down from under Johnny Cotton’s Stetson spilled over his collar as snowy white as his name. Another fine bit of it tickled his upper lip, while still a tad more curled over his bronzed and angular chin, the patchwork amounts of them all told the tale on Johnny’s youthfulness.
The gelding was equally as tired and dusty as his rider. The only accoutrement on man or beast still holding it’s shine was the well-oiled Colt’s revolver on the man’s thigh, but the shimmering pistol still remained as dark and nondescript as were the horse, the man’s clothing, and the Stetson covering his head. An admitted vanity, his hair was the only thing showy about our boy Johnny. Well, that and the perpetually high arc of a single, dubious brow. Aside from the gelding there had been little in Johnny’s past to allow for trust, not in his fellow man… nor in women, either.
The house Johnny reined the gelding up in front of was little more than a one room shack sitting on the farthest outskirts of a far away one street town. Several things caught Johnny’s eye about the shack, to include a white-washed picket fence which corralled nothing in it’s front yard save several water deprived flowers planted in a neat row along the shack’s front, those and a dead and leafless shade sapling which clung to the sandy soil on the one side of a barely discernible dirt path which led up to the cabin’s warped door; doomed luxuries these, luxuries which few frontiersmen had leftover time to care for, what with the nonstop and mostly brutal industries required just for survival. A man would only supply such things if he truly loved his woman… or if he was pushed to procure them.
The woman, or girl rather, who emerged from the door did not look to be the frontier type, but then, Johnny supposed, who did? Pioneers tended to come from all sorts. She was young, probably not much older than Johnny was. The woman, or girl rather, had the expected youngster on her hip, and another, larger one clinging to her aprons. The tight bun on her head was dark, just as her eyes were, and her expression. She did not appear happy with her life situation, but then, other than dance hall girls Johnny had not known many women who were happy. Nor men either, for that matter. But those dance hall girls sure seemed happy, didn’t they? And why wouldn’t they be happy, doing what they did for a living? And the men with them seemed happy enough too, so long as they were with them, though Johnny had seen plenty who had soured on that opinion come the morning after.
”You want something?” The woman‘s directness was not off-putting.
Despite the appearance of past gentrification her tone had taken on the more casual ‘prairie speak’ Johnny was accustomed to; her “want” coming out sounding more like “won’t”, and the “g” in her “something” remaining silent. “Good,“ Johnny thought. He would not have to ‘put on airs’ either, as the saying went.
”Naw, It’s just your fence is falling down, and your tree is dead.”
”Humph. Ain’t you somethin’.” It had not come out like a question.
”Just sayin’, is all.”
”Man’s gone. You wanna climb down and fix it? I could use another around here.” The hopeful list in her voice was undeniable, but the invitation was not especially appealing, despite her obvious beauty. ”Ain’t my affair.”
”Then why’d you stop?”
”Curious, was all. Don’t normally see these sorts of frew-frews like you’ve got, not out here on the prairie, leastways. How long‘d you say your man has been gone?”
”Didn’t say, but awhile.” The woman, or rather the girl, switched the baby over to her other hip while Johnny adjusted to a more comfortable position in the saddle.
”How come?”
”Nosey, ain’t ya?” She’d gotten pretty good at prairie speak, though the Virginia gentry in her still shone through it.”
”Like I said, curious is all. Though I expect I already know the answer.”
”You just want to hear me say it? All right, then. He was lazy.”
”Figured as much. Lazy, huh? Fields are empty, what happened to the cows?”
”Sold ’em to eat.”
”Pens are empty. You sell the chickens too?”
”Weasels.”
”Pig slough needs tending to.”
”No point. The pigs ran off.”
”And all this happened since your man left?”
”Yep.”
”Hmmm. You are partly right, Mam. Your man might have been lazy, I can’t speak to that, but he sure wasn’t dumb.”
Neither was the gelding dumb. The gelding’s rider might be young, but the youngster had never done nothing to spoil the beast’s trust. The pair had put in the miles together, and sensing his rider’s mood and needing neither a kick nor a cluck to start him, the gelding picked up where he’d left off on the long walk towards town.
This would not be a place to rest.
“Too bad.” The smarter of the pair ruminated. “It might have been nice to light and set, if only for a short while.”
Manifest (Ch. 2)
Chapter 2 of the Novel I'm writing for Booktok. They recently voted for a dual point of view, the female main character's name/ physical attributes, and an enemies to lovers to enemies arch! Find Chapter 1 in my previous post.
CHAPTER 2
Greyson
I find her at the foot of a towering Mirthwood tree. Foolish girl. She’s curled into its woody embrace, legs wrapped loosely in feathery roots. The Mirthwood would simply have to pinch, and Caera could be crushed to death. For some odd reason it doesn’t. I honestly don’t know how these witches survived this long. Caera is the most reckless person I know. She is everything a ruler should not be: rash, impulsive, stubborn, and brimming with searing, volatile anger. She’s sloppy with it. And this is who my father thinks will heal the realms? It’s all hogwash.
She looks terribly young when her brow isn’t wrinkled in the special scowl reserved just for me. I can almost take it as a compliment. Almost. I would if I hadn’t seen her smile the one time. If I hadn’t seen the way it transformed her face into a revelation, into the face of a Lunar Witch from legends, so beautiful it was pain, so alluring, I’d nearly dropped my sword and bowed at her feet. Instead, I remembered. I remembered the other lovely face I’d glimpsed when I was barely into my eighth year– the witch who had cut my mother’s heart out and stuffed it into her satchel before turning her to dust, unaware of the eyes that watched. Yet another insult, that Caera has to look like Artemis, though I suppose she can’t help that they are family. Unfortunately, the more I get to know Caera, the more I see that she is her own kind of monster.
The Mirthwood tree reaches questing roots for her hair, entwining its deep magenta brown with her own, ready to tug her awake, to alert her of my presence. I flip my sword free and silently slap the roots away with the tip. I need another moment to ground myself before she wakes. This hour we’re forced to spend together each morning is pure torture. I’ve never met someone so stubborn, so wretched. You’d not know she is a princess, if you hadn’t been told. She behaves a lot more like the band of Fae Ravingers I met once–all female, all utterly feral. They were ruthless, like her. A small part of me admires her. The larger part loathes her.
I’ve spent every moment of my life being trained in propriety, in the ways a ruler ought to behave, in tradition. She spits on it. All witches spit on it, actually. And something about her causes me to behave with the ill manners of an intemperate youth. I can’t seem to help myself. She gets under my skin, and the little line that forms between her brows when I say something particularly vile, has words flying from my lips I know much better than to utter. She flusters easily, and the sight of it fills me with sick glee. Her attempts to kill me have been laughable at best, though, in fairness to her, she doesn’t fully understand who she’s up against. The same could be said for me, I suppose. I often wonder why she keeps her power on such a tight leash. Surely that would be the quickest means to her ends. Perhaps it frightens her. It should. I can sense it even now, pulsing beneath her skin, mighty and boundless, restless, but somehow subdued. It’s a testament to her control, that she can keep it in check when not fully conscious. It must have taken years of training to achieve that level of restraint. It seems uncharacteristic to Caera, to exercise control, but what do I really know about her? She’s a puzzle.
I nearly jump out of my skin when Caera croaks, “Ya know, that’s creepy as hell.”
I smooth my expression into passivity, “What is?”
“You standing there, leering over me while I sleep,” her hand drifts toward her boot, to the dagger I have no doubt is stashed there, “You come to finish the job?” She taps the side of her neck, where blood from the cut I gave her crusts rusty brown on lightly tanned skin.
“A bit of a hypocrite, aren’t we? You forget, Caera,” I spit her name like a slur and revel when she flinches, just the merest bit, “I am not the one trying to commit murder here.” The truth is, I’d like nothing more than to end her right here– to end this ridiculous notion of my father’s. I don’t want to marry this… creature. But father says the seer’s visions were clear. Only with this woman at our side can we heal our lands. And she has to come somewhat willingly. Gods know it’d be easier if I could just kidnap her and be done with it. I was the idiot who suggested using a witch-boon to secure her. When word had spread about her challenge, I’d leapt on the opportunity, knowing I could defeat her in a duel, thinking I’d just compel her into helping with the boon. It was Father’s idea to tie us together in… unholy matrimony. He’d been smug when he made the demand, “Greyson, my boy, I’ve always promised you a princess. So, a princess you shall have. Make the witch your wife. Secure an alliance for me, son. It may well end the war.” I disagree, but one does not argue with my father. I must simply do as I am bid. More than that, I have no choice, but to comply. Father is not like me. He does not let himself be swayed by a heart that remains stubbornly soft, no matter how much I try to quell it. No, Father is not ruled by emotion, but knife-sharp logic and relentless determination. I wish it were so for me. I will make it so, even if I hate every moment of it. Even if it forces me to get into bed with my greatest enemy, I will make it so. I will steal this witch's affection, if it’s the last thing I do, and then, I will crush it into dust. I will wither her the same way her aunt withered my mother. I must simply bide my time.
With all of this in mind, I extend a hand in peace offering, “Come on, little dove, I’m not going to kill you today– and you aren’t going to kill me, either. Let’s talk about why you continue to fail to do so.”
She slaps my hand away and snarls, “Don’t speak for me,” before leaping to her feet, agile as a cat, “And stop calling me that.”
I smirk, but ignore her request, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand, “So, are you ready to give it up?”
“What?” She groans, limping slightly as feeling returns to her legs and she stalks away.
I catch her in two strides. I know that irks her, too– that I dwarf her in height. I often make her jog a little to keep up. Today, I match her gait. It’s time to move past this pettiness, if for no other reason than the fact that I have to report to father this afternoon.
“Are you ready to give up trying to execute me?”
She stops and turns to me, swiping tendrils of long hair behind an ear and tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Yeah… I don’t think so.” She turns on her heel and continues to the sparring ring. I follow doggedly behind.
A half-hour later, I’ve pinned Caera in the dirt more than a handful of times. She has yet to land a blow. She fights like a rabid squirrel, relentlessly flinging herself at me in a string of vicious attacks, using teeth and nails and shrieking all the while. It’s almost funny. It’s been six months, and her anger with me hasn’t cooled in the slightest. She flies at me, sapphire eyes flashing with that mysterious power she refuses to wield. I step to the side and kick out my heel, catching her in the shins, sending her sprawling into the dust. She flips onto her back and glares up at me where I stand over her, hands braced on my hips. I lift a hand and read the time by the slant of the sun, “By my count, we’ve got another… fifteen minutes of this? Are you going to keep acting like a child, or are we going to spar?” She sucks in a breath, ready to hurl a glob of spit up at me. She’s done it before and I quickly clamp my hand down on her mouth. She sputters and claws at my wrist, digging sharp nails in until she draws blood. I hiss at the gouging sensation, but don’t let go. “Caera. This has got to stop. Stop fighting me and fight me already. I know you can. Let me train you.” I’m surprised to find I mean the words. I watched her cut down a slew of warriors all those months ago. She moved like quicksilver then, all calculation, none of the rage. As much as I enjoy pummeling the witch every day, I itch for a proper opponent, and with the slightest bit of effort, Caera could be that. Instead she hides behind her hatred. She wastes it, when it could be used for so much more. I move my hand from her mouth murmuring, “Let go of the rage.”
As I go to pull away, her nails bite impossibly deeper into my skin. She smiles, but it is not the thing of beauty she unwittingly revealed once before–no– this is a grin of pure malice.
“Oh, my sweet fiance,” she purrs, slicing my wrist with her claws until blood drips down in a steady rhythm onto her hair, “I will never forget what you took from me.” She twists her nail, carving the soft flesh just above my palm. I bite my tongue to stifle a wince. The blood flows now, coating her forehead, painting her face into a vision of a queen of some macabre masquerade. I should stop her. I should step away, or incapacitate her, or…something. I should do anything but let her continue to rip into me. But I don’t. I stand there, transfixed in fiery blue eyes she keeps locked on me, barely breathing. They say blue fire burns the hottest. I believe them. Caera could burn the world with a gaze.
I see the decision in her eyes a breath before she acts, too late for me to stop her. She strikes, pulling my arm down to the dirt, trapping the elbow at a painful angle while swinging her knee up to slam into my nose with a sickening pop. She continues in another smooth motion, tucking her legs until she’s curled smaller than seems reasonably possible. Her feet impact my stomach and then I’m airborne. I hit the dirt with a dull thud, any breath left in my lungs leaves in a ragged gasp. And then I’m laughing. I wheeze, trying to suck down enough air to fuel the hysteria. “Bra–vo,” I gasp as Caera moves to stand over me, brow quirked in annoyance at my outburst. She grins that malicious grin once more, and then she raises her boot, pressing the toe of it over my mouth, just as I’d covered her mouth with my palm. It’s a vulgar gesture, but everything about her is.
She leans closer, voice lowering to a whisper, “I will keep my rage.” She presses her boot harder into my jaw. I let her. “You assumed you had the right to claim me,” she laughs bitterly, “Did you think I’d just give you my heart? You thought you’d show me your pretty eyes and I’d throw myself at your feet, thrilled by the opportunity to wed one such as you?” That is what I’d thought, actually. It had always worked before. I will the thought not to show in my eyes. Too late, she's seen it. She chokes on the absurdity of it before continuing, “You assumed you had the right to claim me, so I will assume I have the right to do the same.” She removes her foot from my face and crouches in the dirt, bringing her lips to my ear, as I’d done to her the night before. The hair rises on my arms, sensing what she’ll say before the words slither in. “I claim you, Greyson. I claim your heart.” A thrill spears through me at the words. This is an unexpected development. I still hate her guts, but at least I’ll have something to report to father. Before I can celebrate, though, Caera hisses once more, “I claim your heart. I will cut it out… and I will eat it.” I feel as though I will retch. Visions of the witch carving my mother’s heart pummel me in relentless flashes of too bright color behind my eyelids. A low, choking sound involuntarily emits from my throat. Caera leans back on her heels and punctuates her sick sentiment by dragging her tongue across the tip of her finger, still coated in my blood. Her eyes flare wide, as if she’s shocked by the flavor, but before she can continue with her sordid speech, a voice like rumbling thunder booms across the ring.
“Caera!” Kath bellows her name in reprimand before lowering his voice into his customary buttery tones, “Come. Join me for lessons.” Kath extends a palm and Caera rises, wiping my blood onto her filthy pants before placing her hand in his. They fade into the shadowed arch to the palace courtyards and I lie on the ground, panting. I will myself not to vomit as I slowly put the images of my mother’s death back into their proper box in the back of my mind. But Caera’s words echo, I claim your heart. I will cut it out– and I will eat it. My cut wrist throbs in beat with the words, flaring pain ruthlessly sears through my veins and lodges somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. I lift my hand to examine the vile wound. A jagged letter C is carved into the underside of my wrist. C for Caera. C for her claim on me, my life, my heart. I shiver, ignoring the crowd that gathered, piecing myself back together. Her words ring on repeat, and for the first time in a long time, I am afraid.
~
I’m still in the dirt when a familiar cadence of steps approaches, followed by a wry chuckle, “I never thought I’d live to see the day that the noble heir of–” I kick Con in the shin so hard he cuts off abruptly, cursing low and filthy. When I look up at him, he’s clutching the offended limb and hopping rather dramatically on one leg. He settles and offers me a begrudging hand up.
I swing to my feet, draw Con close with a slap on the back and whisper, “You forget yourself, Con. We have an audience.” I flick my gaze to the handful of witches, warlocks, and human-hybrid soldiers standing at the edge of the training ring, still attempting–and failing miserably– to stifle their laughter at my rather embarrassing defeat. Con follows my gaze and his cheeks stain scarlet. He ducks his head and falls into step beside me as I make a hasty exit, careful to fix each snickering fool with a glare that promises retribution.
“Forgive me, your high–” Con starts, but I cut him off with a sharp elbow to the ribs.
I can’t help it when my eyes roll skyward as I grit out, “Falcon, for the love of the gods, shut up before you get us both killed.” He clamps his mouth shut and has the decency to look abashed. Why they sent Con, of all people, here is beyond me. He has no grace for this kind of subterfuge. Still, I’m glad to have him. I love Con like a brother, more than that, maybe, because we chose one another. We’ve been best friends since my ninth summer, when his family visited our estate for Sun festival and Con crashed into my life like a drunken idiot in a room made of glass. To be fair– he had been. He’d been gulping down generous glasses of wine under the table while the adults droned nonsense for long hours over a meal of countless courses. I’d been ready to fall head first into oblivion on my plate of lightly toasted peapods, when Con had burst from beneath the tablecloth, vomited in the shrubbery lining the balcony on which we sat, and then turned and hopped upon the table, kicking goblets and crystal and slurring a bawdy tune he most definitely didn’t learn in the private music tutoring befitting a child of his status. I’d burst out laughing despite myself, and in a rare show since my mother’s untimely demise, I’d seen a smile twitching on my father’s lips. At the sight of that quiver of a grin, I’d decided then and there that I’d make this blessed boy my friend– for surely he had immeasurable power, if he could make my father smile. Falcon’s mother had nearly keeled over from embarrassment, but her husband had laid a hand on hers, and they’d both looked to my father, whose shoulders shook from barely restrained laughter. And then, we were all laughing, chanting Con’s unwholesome ballad along with him, until his father had caught sense and hauled him off the table and chucked him into the fountain. He’d been extracted from the water moments later and given a proper tongue lashing before being sent to bed without so much as a poultice of posey to treat the wicked hangover that was already brewing.
I eye my friend, now a man grown, though his face still holds a quality of the mischief that is boyhood, despite the sharp cut of his jaw. I hope it always will. There is a small constellation of scars along his right temple, the results of a disastrous encounter with lichen lice on our first foray into the Bramblewood when we were twelve, and a smattering of freckles dust his golden cheeks under a mop of sun-kissed brown curls. Con is tall, though not so tall as I, and lean, covered in ropey muscles and more scars from our many adventures– and our less favorable encounters within the legions. One look at my friend and it is clear he is a warrior, but he still wears every emotion on his face as if he’s written it in ink upon his brow. Now he is gnawing his lip, and he’d slipped up in his speech, twice. Something is amiss.
When we’re out of earshot of the others, I grip his forearm and turn him to face me, “Alright, out with it– what’s going on with you? You’re not one to use my titles… unless…”
He meets my eyes with a dispassionate silver stare, “It’s not really a what…but a who, my dear friend.” Now it’s Con’s turn to slap me on the back and stride off into the forest, “You coming?” he calls over a shoulder.
I jog after him, “I thought the meeting was at dusk.”
Con laughs cynically, “It's not gonna change your report, is it? The witch won't hate you any less in a couple of hours, Grey.” He fixes me with a knowing look. I groan, but I know he’s right. A few hours won’t make any difference when it comes to Caera. I’m not sure a few centuries would be enough time to make a difference with Caera. If only I could make father understand that. I tear my fingers through my hair and helplessly attempt to wipe the dust from my sleeves. It’s no use.
“Lead the way, Counselor.” I sigh, gesturing to the tangle of trees. Con chuckles at my use of his title, but ducks his head and leads on. Dread curls in my gut with every step. Time for a visit with dear old Dad.
Pat
Pat
April 26, 2024
“These will be your final three weeks of training. Pass or fail, you will be deployed. Whether you succeed or not, will be up to you. Patricia, do you understand?”
“My name is Pat. Call me Pat or I will fail, intentionally.”
My trainer expected this level of resistance. He grabbed my arm and injected me with a dose of some type of drug that makes one pass out.
“Patricia, here you are not a young man. So stop acting like one.”
When I awoke, he had dressed me for the role I was to play.
I was wearing a corset and petticoats, heels, a gown, and makeup.
Actually, I was locked into the former, which squeezed me tightly, barely permitting movement, let alone breathing. The latter reinforced what little control I had at my disposal.
“Patricia, as of now, you are on a severely restricted diet. You must have a 19 inch waist soon. You must learn to act as a lady of the court immediately. Please arise, Patricia and make the most of what you still have.”
“My name is Pat.”
I never finished my remarks.
Men always have the ability to hit you in the face exactly where it hurts the most. My trainer struck me hard enough to send me to the floor. I covered my face with my hand as he approached, grabbed my arm, and pulled me up. He took me into his arms and told me to follow his steps. The music began (from where?) and he began to teach me to dance.
“This is the waltz. Patricia, pay attention.”
“My name is not . . .”
He threw me against the wall for the outburst. This time he picked me up across his knees, hiked my petticoats, and began spanking me.
I could not resist. When I screamed, he only hit me harder. When I whimpered, his force subsided. When I stopped, he stopped.
Then we began dancing again.
He told me to smile, or else.
He asked me. “What is your name?”
Instinctively, I replied, “Pat”.
I have not eaten in two days. My bruises may heal in twice that time.
By Friday, I learned the waltz, how to curtsey, and some polite phrases in both French and German. That night, his helpers removed my corset and heels while they bathed me and I ate.
By midnight, I was back to dancing. By 3 am, I was to learn how to write a proper letter. Ironically, morning began my attendance in code school.
My trainer asked my name while holding a tray of real food. I wanted to say, Pat. I wanted to escape the indignities I have been put through.
However, I wanted to eat more than anything else.
So, I acquiesced. I said, “Patricia.”
For this, my trainer hit me harder than ever. His fist found its mark against my lower abdomen. If not for the corset, he would have ruptured both my kidneys and liver.
“Tell me your name. Make me believe you are who you say you are. Say it like the woman you are meant to be. Do this or never leave here alive.”
So many people had worked so hard to transform me to a proper lady. My trainer spent all of his time enforcing my change. I had no other choice.
I introduced myself as Patricia, here to make your acquaintance.” It was all an act, what I thought he wanted to hear. It was good enough.
My trainer placed the food tray on the bed, turned, and departed. I never encountered him or his attacks again.
I slept soundly on a bed for the first time since being brought here. I feasted on a simple breakfast. I still had two “servants” forcing me back in a corset, petticoat, and gown.
I did not complain.
But I did wonder.
Every question began with a “Why”. Every answer led to more questions.
By noon, I was formally invited to the laboratory (this place had a lab?). Remaining in character, I accepted and was escorted accordingly.
Upon entering, my escort departed and I witnessed the machine energize. The prompts told me of the expectations and why I was here alone. I was to travel back in time to New York City, 1895. I would be escorted by no one. My goal would be obvious soon after my arrival.
The last prompt was hand written on a sheet of paper. It read, “Do what you must.”
There was no name attached, but I knew the author.
By this time the lights of the machine shone brightly and I was part of my own past.
The UPS driver arrived earlier than usual. The package he carried made him rethink his decision not to use a dolly to move its girth and weight.
The employees at Richmond Research saw the name of Henry Miller and directed the package to his office.
It sat there collecting dust for the next three weeks. Mr. Miller, arriving for a full day’s work with a boxer’s wrap around each of hands, found it difficult to unwrap the package with the injury a fighter participating in a bare knuckles brawl frequently encountered. It was his birthday, November 5, and he had high expectations. By 10:30am, his expectations exceeded even his wildest dreams.
The NY Times from this day in 1895 spoke of Patricia Sullivan, adventuress who halted the bombing of City Hall. Her actions preceded the election of Secretary of State, Attorney General, State Comptroller, State Engineer, a Court of Appeals Judge, members of the NY State Assembly and the State Senate, and saving her newly engaged finance, Mr. Walter Miller of Miller Woodworks in Queens. Miss Patricia took action defeating the ruffians planting the explosive device, impervious to their fisticuffs upon her midsection. Miss Patricia saved the lives of scores of people this day and was personally married the next by the Mayor of the City himself.
Various photographs of the future Mrs. Miller with her four children and six grandchildren adorned his desktop. While each one had a monetary value to the discerning collector, only one held a sentimental value for him. In it, a doting grandmother, wearing a corset of years past, carries her small grandson, sporting a clearly visible skunk patch of hair, while walking across 5th Avenue, in 1965.
The trainer instinctively ran his hand through his not so clearly visible skunk patch of hair that he used to show as a child. Old age removed the coloration of his remaining browns to match his always present whites.
A single tear ran from his eyes.
Then a small smile arose.
He then knew his real work had just begun.
Chapter Twenty-Eight Basic Training
Mark was bored out of his mind. It seemed like he had been sitting in that cart forever. Regardless of how long they had been travelling, the horses were just not in any hurry to get to where they were going. Several of the men, including Mark, fell asleep as the night dragged on. When Mark woke up, the horses were still plodding along toward their destination.
It took two days for them to get to basic training. A camp had been set up to train the new men they picked up along the way to continue to fight in the war. So, one moment you were fighting against them, and then those who survived the onslaught were converted into fighting for them. In this way the army, kept replenishing itself. Mark thought there must be a lot of these camps and wondered if anyone in the original army was still fighting. It would be ironic if that were to be the case.
As soon as they got to camp, all the men were lined up and the commander who led the camp addressed them. “This is the best day of your lives.” The commander started off, “Instead of fighting for a royalty that could care less if you lived or died, you now have the honor of fighting for all humanity. Your job isn’t to conquer, it’s to liberate. It’s to liberate your friends and neighbors, not only here but in places you’ve never even dreamed existed. When we liberate an area, the people there experience a better quality of life, because their toil doesn’t go to benefitting a select few, it goes to benefitting themselves. By organizing resources on a mass scale, we can eliminate hunger, provide shelter, and give everyone the opportunity to reach whatever potential they have inside of them. We will eliminate violence and war and bring about a peace that will last for ages. The generations that come after you will remember you as heroes. The skills you will learn here will make you invincible. As you learn to work as a team, those who oppose you will have no choice but to fall. Now your instructor will tell you what to do.” After the commander had finished giving his inspirational introduction, he left and disappeared into a structure and that was that.
The man who was given the task of taking the men and turning them into a well-oiled fighting machine, was not inspiration at all. In fact, he always seemed to be in a bad mood because he yelled. He yelled a lot. As soon as the sun came up in the morning he yelled, and it seemed like his voice was stuck in the loudest setting possible. Mark didn’t have to think, he just did whatever he was told to do. In a way it was a good thing for Mark because he didn’t have time to think about the people he left behind. He didn’t have time to think about Carla or Toby and Gina.
Day after day it was the same. He had no idea of how long he had been there, but he did recognize that he was better. The things he learned about fighting and working as a team amazed him. Back in the Kingdom he had always focused on skill and never got to the point where he needed to learn strategy. Soon his group was the well-oiled machine his new masters had wanted to be. He was not only stronger, but he was also smarter.
One morning, his group was told they were joining the war. Mark was not at all happy about joining the war. He wasn’t afraid of dying, he just wasn’t interested in dying for someone else’s cause. All the talk about making the world a better place through violence didn’t resonate with him. It resonated with others, not him.
There were others in his group that had fully committed to the war effort. They believed that what they were doing was for the long term good of humanity. Mark wasn’t sure one way or the other. Of course, time would tell. The thing is Mark didn’t think he would be alive long enough to find out. Mark’s group were sent beyond his own kingdom to a place Mark had never been before. Anywhere beyond the kingdom was a place Mark had never been before. It took several weeks to get there. By the time Mark got to the front, he was amazed at just how much ground they had captured since his own Kingdom was overrun. He passed carts of men who had been defeated on their way to be trained like he was.
Now you would think that the new recruits would cause trouble, but you would be wrong. The morality of their mission and the promise of a better life for all resonated with all who were forced to join. They had a greater purpose now than just fighting for someone who didn’t really care if they lived or died, and they committed themselves to it.
Mark saw battle for the first time in his life. It was something you never forget. The first time you kill someone. The first victory your group secures for the cause. The strategy of those in command amazed Mark. It was like they knew in advance what their enemies were going to do. The battle that Mark participated in was nothing less than brilliant and the enemy soon surrendered. The bloodshed was kept to a minimum and the whole process repeated itself.
Once the enemy was subdued, the soldiers started directing the common people in getting their lives back to normal. New organizations were established, and the new territory started contributing immediately to the overall good of the world. Mark couldn’t see how this army could be defeated and over time, He felt like it was destiny.
The Last of Us
When we were young, we were immortal. Always eager to try something new, even if it was dangerous or could kill us. We lived our lives with an unmatched vibrancy only equal to each other: fearless, carefree, and inquisitive. We had an entire life ahead of us. We were untouchable—a rat pack, born together, never leaving each other’s sides except to chase our dreams, and we always had each other’s backs except when we slept.
Heath, the most musically talented of us, shared a room with Sigmund, who should have been an engineer with his gifts of foresight and planning. Tasha, our only sister, self-appointed stylist, and inspiring chef, shared her room with Samuel, who hated his first name, and after many years of badgering us about it eventually forced us to call him S. He was the most sensitive of the pack, and the most allergy stricken. He spent most of his early summers avoiding the outside during peak pollen season, which dampened it for all of us, but with the advent of better medication, he started to venture out as we grew up. Then there was I, Touré, the one who avoided wool, hated handshakes but longed for a hug from time to time. I had my room, and kind of preferred it that way, as I needed more space than the rest of them to grow and to feel. I was deeply complicated, but more emotionally mature than the others, and when push came to shove, I easily had the thickest skin of the group. I kept all of us together throughout the good times, but especially the difficult ones. Even during the Great White Hurricane in the winter of '88 when I lost a part of myself to frostbite, it was I who kept everyone relaxed in the hospital despite the excruciating pain of losing two and a half fingers.
We grew up differently than most, and I am grateful for it. I want to say that we were lucky, yet I never did feel the asphalt of a public schoolyard, so the conclusiveness in such a statement would be simply negligent. I can say that growing up attending school from home, had many perks, most of which would have never been available with a free education from the state. We taught ourselves many days when our parents were away. Our substitute was the forest. Many of our classroom hours were spent outside on the grass, and in the leaves, among the wildest parts of life, where we learned about the trees and the insects. We learned about ourselves. The woods stirred up our imaginations into a whirlwind of bursting creativity, untamed wonder, and unmatchable confidence.
Heath enjoyed listening to the birds every morning until lunch while Tasha ate every berry in sight to ruin hers. Frequently, she left little for the rest of us to enjoy, and the majority that remained were found in the discard pile made up mostly of the poisonous ones Sigmund warned her about. When he was medicated, S, did his best to have a good time for the sake of the group and eventually grew to love the flowers. He always described his fondness for the delicate fragrances hidden deep in their pedals. His favorite, was a white gardenia because it reminded him of the fresh oranges from Florida, a place he always wanted to visit, but sadly never did. Sigmund was usually on his back observing everything above us. He called out new shapes in the clouds and confirmed the identities of Heath's birds for him when they flew over. He enjoyed making up stories with his unique "cloud characters" that took on impossible odds, covered vast distances, and searched for love in all the right places. Entertained for hours, we never forgot his imaginative stories.
I learned a little differently than the rest. My body became a vessel through which I felt everything inside and out. When the breeze whipped through my hair I was reminded of freedom, and to flow like the wind instead of against it. When a ladybug crawled across my bare feet, I became mindful of how even the tiniest things can make an impressive impact. The rough bark of the oaks that lined our driveway felt like a hardened cloak of armor with a highly important secret to protect. I imagined they hid decades of stories in their creases, and I often wondered what the trees would share, if they could speak. I compared those trees to humans, who similarly have protective layers around them hindering their ability to share their authentic selves. I wondered how the world would be if everyone were more open and honest. My favorite feeling though, was the mountain water from Beaver Creek. I always splashed it into my face whenever we passed through, even when it was its coldest. It was brimming with its trademarked healing powers, always cooling my soul to the bones. I often dreamed of jumping in a lake filled with that same water, and for some reason, I wanted to drink my way through it, while I swam fully submerged, as if I would heal from the inside out or become one with its energy. Those days, when it was simplest when we did not need to care about the dangers of the world around us, and the sun determined our bedtimes, were among the best years of our lives.
It's cliche to say, but we really did grow up fast, continuing to seek all that the world offered up to us, and before we knew it a man’s voice began announcing our names from a clipboard among the few other homeschoolers attending the Class of '77. That day, standing on the football field of the Middlebury Union High School, our black caps were flung high into the sky reaching for Sigmund clouds, and our childhood floated away just like them. It wasn't long before we each ventured out to see the world in our ways with our diplomas tightly gripped in our hands. Like most siblings, we too began spending less time together, as we each chased our separate interests into adulthood.
As usual, our over-achieving sister found her calling first. Tasha was talented in almost everything, but had a particular knack for the ability to decorate, and settled on becoming an interior designer. Though she tried, she never made it to become a top chef, like in the shows she religiously followed, but she will always go down as the top chef of the family. Heath was right behind her with his choice, which wasn't hard for him as he naturally dove headfirst into music. Though he never got famous for it, he had an amazing ear for talent and did very well for himself as a sound mixer and music producer locally. Unlike the others, Sigmund never went to school but attended the university of life in its place. After a few years traveling abroad, he settled on becoming a self-taught photographer with an eye for everything beautiful, especially a girl. He immediately fell in love with his first model, Iris, and they quickly eloped in Paris in the summer of '82. After the wedding, we lost him to her in the first couple of years of their relationship, as she was his entire focus, and had hold of his heart. Then there was S. He developed a nose for solving crimes, and after five years at Norwich University in VT, he graduated with a degree in criminology, and became a police officer immediately after. Despite his younger, more sensitive years, he quickly grew into himself as an audacious bloodhound, and just like Sigmund, but without the girl, he married the force. I took the longest path and perhaps the hardest, but eventually got around to figuring it all out after many soul-searching and somewhat questionable years. I would rather not explain the details, but the spiritual realm reached out and grabbed me one day, and I knew that I was meant to become a massage therapist with plans to later add a yoga instructor to my resume. I started as a spiritual advisor first because I wanted to touch the minds, bodies, and spirits of the whole world. It suited my life perfectly and made me whole. From those early days on we chased our careers, followed our hearts, some of us found love, but we all experienced fulfilling lives.
Like all who came before us, and all who would eventually follow behind, the years had piled on, and our clocks ticked closer to midnight in the eldest part of our lives.
Though we had always kept in touch, usually visiting a couple of times a year for holidays and birthdays, we eventually found ourselves further apart than we had ever imagined. I cannot attest to when, but somewhere along the road of life there was a day of singularity for me. I finally looked over my shoulder to examine where my footsteps had traveled and where they were heading. After a while, I concluded that we were not perpetual beings, but instead, without question we all were heading into the cosmos to each become a tiny new star. That day of reflection came just in time, and because of it, our visits happened more frequently, especially as the five of us soon started fading away. One after another, we began saying goodbye to each other, which was something that had never crossed our minds we would have to endure. Something Sigmund or even S. could not have predicted. We thought we would live forever, we thought we would die together. We never anticipated having to attend each other’s funerals, but we did.
Heath passed first. His death was sudden, but we found out months later, that he was hiding his decline from everyone, and instead had been over-compensating for years. As it is commonplace to say, I wish I had known earlier, so I could have spent more time with him before he left us. In retrospect, he never was a man who wanted special attention, especially for a disability. So, he died his way, and for that, I appreciate and love him more. The next to leave us was Sigmund. A huge surprise again, and a loss that tore the three of us apart the most. He seemed to most invincible to us, and we never truly recovered after his passing. He was such a stable leader in the group, never to complain about the appointed position he had no say in, but he was the one that we all relied upon to help guide us forward and lead the way. Without him, we had lost sight of ourselves, quickly becoming lost. It was only two years later during the peak of the flu season, when I had to bury Tasha and S., myself. It happened within the same month of December. What was once my favorite time of the year had quickly become a month of mourning and pain, and thus stayed that way for every subsequent year after that I survived without them. It seemed to rain all thirty-one days for them as if the world stopped to cry for their loss. I wept an additional thirty-one after realizing my family, my brothers, and my sister were all gone for good.
All that is left, after my siblings have vanished into the ether, is I, an empty shell of a man who is held together by a thick membrane of connective tissue, loose skin, and faint memories helping to glue everything in place. My bedsheets have me wrapped into a tightly wound death burrito with an extra layer of expired meat, soggy lettuce, and no Picante sauce inside. Each day, I long for the soft touches of the hospice nurse during her hourly rounds. It's the only touch I have left. I don't know her name, but I know she hums a special tune that makes my skin dance a little longer. It reminds me of Heath and his melodies and I find pleasure in the warmth it brings me. I have no one else to share my life with, nor stories to burden onto them in hopes they would learn a valuable lesson or never forget the life that my siblings and I had lived. I realize now that when I used to observe old people talking so much about their lives, they were reliving their favorite memories, but they also were trying to preserve them in someone's mind, so after they pass they hopefully would be remembered for just one more day.
My engine is on idle, and my exhaust fumes are creeping heavily throughout the room. I know the oxygen will eventually displace from here leaving only toxic fumes, but I would never know when it happens. So, I wait. I lay here as fearless as I once was, as we all were so long ago, and I am left only with the feelings of what my memories used to be. Without knowing what lies beyond that closed door that awaits my turning hand, I eagerly invite what will soon be the final chapter of my life, death. As if it is the final song in my concerto of life, the sold-out crowd of thousands of hairs on my skin reach up like extended arms, eagerly rising to meet the distant echoes of my siblings who sing beside me on the same stage. Their voices vibrate intensely through my body. I know they are here, and a calmness fills me. I grin with hope. The rat pack will soon be whole again. Their presence invites me onward; to leave my vessel; They soothe me as I begin the same journey they did. Similar to S.'s flowers wilting after an autumn frost; my hairs wither and flatten while my body's warmth radiates out of me. I begin to close our book of life for good, with me as the final chapter, who wrote the last words, and I place my author signature on the inside cover, for someone else to read.
Remember my kin, for they were so many things; So many experiences, and they lived with such a vibrant love for the world around us. Remember Heath for his beautiful tunes on the balcony during the summers overlooking the lake. Remember Sigmund for all of his wild quests he took his characters on, and how he was gracious enough to let us come along for the ride. Remember Tasha for she filled our hearts and our stomachs with every part of her very soul. Remember Samuel for his sensitive side, and the poems that explained it, especially when he read them to us on the days we couldn't go out because of his allergy "condition." Finally, remember me, the one who had felt the entirety of a lifetime, and barred the scars to prove it. I can only hope that I touched the lives of many, healed the hearts of a few, and inspired at least one.
I, Touré was the last of us.
©2023 Chris Sadhill
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Role Reversal
Carla was taken to the castle. The same castle where she had been working before the foreign invaders disrupted everyone’s life. Ironically, she was given the room that the now defunct princess once inhabited. A guard was placed outside her door so she could not move about freely. However, the staff was free to move about. In fact, they were free to keep doing the things they have always done. The only difference as far as they could tell was that the people that they waited on had changed.
A young woman, whom Carla knew (she knew the entire staff) came in a made a polite bow. Carla was not used to being treated with respect and it made her feel uncomfortable to be given respect by someone that she had worked alongside previously.
“May I get you something miss?” The woman asked. Carla could see the fear in her eyes. It was the same fear they always had, only this time, she was the one they were afraid of.
“Some tea, please.” Carla answered. Carla did not drink tea often so she thought if she had privilege, she might as well have a cup of tea.
“Coming right up miss,” The woman answered and then disappeared out the door. Carla wasn’t sure why she had been singled out like this. She was just a common peasant. Did the man single her out for entertainment purposes? She couldn’t think of any other possibility that made sense. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do. She would decide when the time came.
It wasn’t long before the woman returned with Carla’s cup of tea. She placed the cup on a sitting table. “Here is your tea, miss.” The woman announced. After a moment, she turned to go.
“Wait.” Carla ordered. The young woman stopped and turned back around to face her,
“I didn’t ask to be singled out.” Carla explained.
“Of course not, miss.” The woman answered politely. Carla could tell the woman was very nervous and wasn’t interested in staying any longer than was necessary. She thought about questioning the woman further but then decided against it.
“You may go.” Carla ordered and having been given permission, the young women left. Carla sat down and took a sip of tea. It tasted wonderful. She sat back and got lost in the experience. However, soon she was done with her tea and didn’t have anything to do so she decided to go to bed. It wasn’t long until she was fast asleep.
Carla woke up the next morning to another young woman staring at her. It was a bit creepy to think this woman was just staring at her while she slept. “Here is your breakfast, miss.” The woman said. Carla sat up and the woman put a tray of eggs and toast on her lap with a glass of water.
“Thank you” Carla answered, still not quite awake yet.
“You’re welcome, miss” The woman said smiling as she left the room. Carla ate her breakfast. Once she was finished, she laid back down and stared at the ceiling. She wondered where Mark was and if he thought about her. She wondered how Gina was getting along as a peasant. She wondered when someone would come a tell her what she was doing in the castle.
The hours went by slowly for Carla. No one came to see her. The guard stood outside her door. She could have escaped anytime she wanted to through the secret passage, but she didn’t do it. There were two reasons why she didn’t, the first reason is because she was curious as to why she was there in the first place and the second reason is that she wanted to indulge in comfort. At least as much comfort as this time could offer. Carla had been spoiled in the future and to go back to being a servant was a thought she didn’t want to bear entertaining.
Sometime in the afternoon, two men came to visit Carla. She recognized one of the men as the one who ordered her to the castle. She didn’t recognize the other one. The other man was old. At least he looked old to Carla. He looked at her intensely. It made Carla extremely uncomfortable. After several minutes of just staring at her. The man spoke.
“She is not the one.” The man announced.
“My apologies, my lord” The man that Carla recognized said, “I know potential and this one has it.”
“You have a gift at appraising people, but you can’t tell if someone has the spark.” The other man said, “She does not have it. The old man gave his spark to someone before he died. I must find out who that person is. Was there anyone else with the Wizard when he died?”
“Yes, there were two boys and a girl.” The man answered.
“We need to find the girl. She is the one who has the spark.” The other man answered.
“What is the spark?” Carla asked. She knew it was impolite to interrupt but curiosity got the better of her.
“The spark, my dear, is the ability to use magic. You either have it or you don’t. Now who was the other girl with you in the cave?” The man asks. Carla swallowed hard. She didn’t want to give Gina up but if she lied, she was pretty sure this guy could tell.
“It was the princess.” Carla answered, “The princess was the other girl in the cave.” The man studied Carla. He could not detect any deception in her.
“My Lord, the princess was apprehended this morning.” The man Carla recognized said.
“Are you sure?” The other man asked.
“Yes, she had on the same clothing as last night.” The first man answered.
“Then I must see her.” The other man said.”
“What should we do with this one?” The first man asked.
“She will our guest and stay where she is, after all, you are right about her potential.” The other man said smiling.
The Sons and Daughters of Liberty
Five Characters:
Andrew Iberi
His daughter
Veronica Lewis
Nicholas Jenson
Andrew's commanding officer
Chapter One (His Daughter: POV of Andrew Iberi)
In the cold, dark rooms of the hospital, I can only see what’s become of my daughter by dim candlelight. I don’t want to think about what she would look like fully illuminated. Her chest still rises and falls to the beat of the bombs that drop around us, but barely. The power has been out for three days now in New Seattle, ever since the war began, since my predecessor Nicholas Jenson had mysteriously died, and everything went to hell even more than it already had. The thing about relying on a single nuclear plant instead of a dozen small ones, is that it only takes one wayward engineer. One determined saboteur and the whole system collapses. So here I am, faced with a decision no father should ever have to make. It’s an easier one for me than for most, though.
The backup generators had kicked in almost immediately, so the nurses were able to get her on life support. Her skin is covered in burns so dark they are nearly black, the rest of her as red as the blood that leaked from every orifice, staining the bandages. I suppose she was a necessary sacrifice, but I can’t help but wonder if this is what my predecessors felt, watching what they had done to Hiroshima and Nagisaki. If this is what a small firebombing campaign could do, I don’t want to know what could happen if another nuclear war broke out, how mottled the victims would look. But to know that I caused all of what my daughter and countless others had suffered is the worst pain imaginable. And I’ve known far more than my share of pain.
Of course, I’d seen the victims of firebombing before in my time in the service, but only in photos. And as realistic as the virtual reality was, it did little to prepare me for the stench of burning flesh, disturbingly similar to a barbecue. It might be enough for me to swear off meat for the rest of my life.
“Don’t you dare look away,” my commanding officer had said, with the tone of someone who was used to being listened to and obeyed. “If you can’t stand to watch, you have no business being an officer. How can you inflict suffering if you won’t even observe it?” And I had heeded his words, watching the destruction, hearing those screams without flinching. Did that make me a monster? Perhaps, but the evil that wormed its way inside me was made, not born. It had been trained into me since I was a child. If that makes me the villain, then so be it. There is no story if nobody plays that part. And I play it so well. It comes to me as naturally as altruism comes to better men than I.
I allow myself a moment to gently press her eyes closed, whispering a goodbye to my dead daughter that I know she can’t hear. And then I pull the plug, without hesitation or remorse, because there is no good that could come out of pointless suffering. Because for all the darkness that wraps around my heart, I am never one for pain without reason, without excuse. I feel content in the knowledge that nothing could ever hurt my daughter again. I watch her heart stutter to a stop, feeling almost nothing for the girl that I frankly never knew well enough to care for.
I was beginning to regret starting this war, though. Almost.
And just like that, I’m out of time to mourn. I’m whisked into dozens of back-to-back meetings. Strategy sessions, we like to call them. We stick pins into deerskin maps, like children playing some kind of twisted board game. It is a cold thing, representing hundreds of young men ready to throw their lives and their souls away with red dots. As red as their blood would be, sacrifices to the greater goal. It is easier to think of them this way, as pawns instead of people. Think too long about their faces and their families back home and you lose direction, lose focus. After the UN had collapsed, governments became free to use any manner of torture, chemical or biological weapons, or even nuclear weapons. Some use all four, which I think is rather crude. Asia doesn’t exist anymore, for all intents and purposes. It started with Taiwan and China, then India got involved. They all had nukes, let’s just say. And they don’t anymore.
Any and all treaties went out the window when life became about survival rather than living. Now that the polar ice caps had melted, swallowing entire islands, releasing plague after plague that we are just now managing to get under control through antibiotics and vaccines, life was chaos at best. Just as smallpox ravaged the Native Americans, our bodies are unprepared to fend off these ancient diseases. The worst of them is called Icarus-103, for the year it was released and for the way it seems to melt away your flesh. It was a grisly sight, eerily similar to what I saw happen to my daughter who got a little too close to a bomb.
If you’re reading this, feeling guilty that you couldn’t stop climate change, don’t be. Past 2040, it was already too late. There was truly nothing to be done.
New Seattle is at the edge of what is now the West Coast, a place that used to be mountainous and has gotten much closer to sea level. There is still protection offered by the mountains, and by the gnarled oaks and pines that now grow easily in the altered climate, but less. Much less. If we thought climate change would be bad, it is nothing compared to this. And so quickly, too. The human population has shrunk to a little over two billion, ravaged both by war and disease. But enough about the world, about war. Let’s discuss a more pleasant subject: Me.
After graduating with a political science degree and a minor in economics, I was a shoe-in for Yale. Law school was something, but easy compared to the rigors of military life. I quickly climbed the ranks to become the Secretary of Defense. And defend America I did. By staging a wildly successful coup. I had the military and the people on my side, and we were all sick of Nicholas Jenson anyway. He’d started as president, but was practically a dictator, thanks to Unitary Executive Theory which had somehow managed to gain popularity even among scholars. Something about giving the president more power during times of war? We weren’t at war with anything but Icarus and the ocean, but whatever the Supreme Court said went at that time. The federal courts and state governments had been dismantled by now, which would have had Washington rolling in his grave. Every decision came out of the capital, so no one was surprised when Jenson formally declared himself a dictator.
So yes, I am a traitor and a liar and unbelievably handsome. I’m also wanted in 37 countries, but that’s unrelated. Mustard gas doesn’t win you any friends, I guess. I played a part in dismantling the UN, not that they had any power to begin with. But is it really a crime to take power from a brutal and repressive dictator? At least I have fashion sense instead of wearing a black suit every day. Sometimes Jenson even had the audacity to wear a uniform, despite not spending a day in boot camp. It was part of his strong man persona, as if the man could even grow a beard. He was weak, I am not. He is dead, and I survived all of this. End of story. I’d also slitted Veronica Lewis’s throat, but that was more of a personal vendetta. The Secretary of Education’s worst sin was wearing too much perfume and being unbearably irritating, but that was enough to me. Plus, she’s very passionate about democracy. well, was.
“There is no country if it cannot defend itself.” My personal motto which I had tattooed across my forearm, only slightly smaller than my daughter’s name. I would have to get the latter lasered off. I can’t be strong if I flinch looking at my own arm. Already I am starting to forget what she looked like in life, and all I can see is the burnt out mess my recklessness had made her.
So yes, I am a populist dictator, but I am popular, if nothing else. I didn’t have to be violent, because I brought security and food and vaccines to my country. I do everything for my people, and I do it gladly. I would do it all again, everything, even when it had cost me my only child. I didn’t mean for her to be the sacrificial lamb to my war, but the loss is an acceptable one. How could I bomb other children and then weep for my own? My mentors had taught me better than that.
And it is my war. I’m going to let you all in on a very dangerous secret. But before I do, please remember what I do to people who betray me. I might not prefer senseless violence, but I am more than willing to dole it out if the need ever arises. Just keep that in mind, alright? Nobody can ever find out what I’ve done. Your head and mine depend on this secret remaining a secret.
Alright, enough preamble. I who orchestrated the beginning of this war. I paid the engineer to sabotage that plant, to take the fall for it and spend the rest of his life in prison. And I had ordered the very bombs that took the life of my daughter. I would do it again, over and over until this “rebellion” had been stomped out. Why? It’s a show of strength, of course. An excuse to destroy my enemies. Because the unfortunate thing is, there really is a rebellion brewing, and they are more than happy to take credit for this bombing. They call themselves the Sons and Daughters of Liberty, and they have amassed in the South, just as the old separatists had. Originally, they had been nothing more than a thorn in my side, one that had long shed its rose, devoid of anything that had once made it beautiful. Because it had been beautiful, or at least useful. They had provided a scapegoat, a reason that my programs were failing. They aren’t Jenson’s loyalists, though. Those don’t exist. They also aren’t my greatest fans, but they have the decency not to shout about it during their very public protests. Now if only I could locate their headquarters…
Perhaps they are afraid of me, but maybe a part of them respects me too much to insult me to my face. Delusional, I know. Freedom of speech had flown out the window when Jenson took charge, and I see no sense in bringing it back. Some words are illegal and punishable by death. What good are rights when you can’t eat, when your flesh turns liquid from that horrible disease. Nobody has the gall to complain out loud, thankfully. Probably because it is illegal and punishable by death. A lot of things are punishable by death these days. I have no qualms about a bit of blood, but I am practically bathing in it by now. First, most members of Congress who had been stealing the money they were supposed to be putting into social programs. Then I executed 13 officers who had refused to join me in the days leading up to my coup, and killed their families too. The others were eager to join me after that.
All in all, 231 people had met their death at my command, and I’m sure I killed at least a thousand when I destroyed the power plant. Probably even more during the bombing. I am the villain, yes, but somebody has to be in this world that would fall apart without one. I’ll bear the burden, I’ll commit the sins, because somebody has too. And why pretend otherwise, a part of me enjoys the power. The darkness wrapped around me grows with every passing day, and I let it. I welcome it like an old friend. I have no regrets in this life, because every decision I make, cold and calculated as they might be, is for the benefit of my people. My land that shrinks with every inch the ocean grows. But it is slowing, the laws I created are doing their work in healing this world. Soon it will stabilize, soon we will be rid of the diseases and wars that plague us. But first, I’m going to have to spill some blood. Blood is not so beautiful as roses are, but it has its place in the circle of life we all choose to participate in. I destroy, yes, but I build things from the rubble more beautiful than anything that was or ever will be: A lasting peace, tranquility. Eventually. The way we would get there might be horrible, but every last drop of blood would be worth it in the end. The end of wrath, of greed, is nearing. They are nothing but love gone astray, easily reformed by the right person. And that person is me.
Surfeit sans sic-squalid spoiled sundered smorgasbord squandered serenity
Let me preface this synopsis of self with a poetic epistle (hopefully such reasonably nonrhyming license acceptable videre licet, this non-friction category) before delving into the heart of this bipedal hominid, the apotheosis sans earth, wind and fire depleting air supply and whip lashing the apathy annihilating will to live, thus forever suspending me as still thirteen and thirsting to taste and touch a youth untouched by fiery passion – so:
Despite three score
plus five birthdays elapsed
since exiting the birth canal
uber cataclysmic neurological
eruption would parlay
with forces of destruction
pell mell to rent asunder
psyche, an internal maelstrom
wrenched self worthiness -
pitting mine mien as blunder
bulldozing with razorblades
former childhood's end
wondrous glee raising suicide
quiet riotous ambition, a painfully slow
(self starvation) mine inexorable ride,
which chronological frieze kept hog-tied
and hide bound this one grown male
dredging haunting spectre – where
to be gratefully dead – within Elysian dale
youngest of me two female progeny
segued emotionally troublesome
twenty plus five year old
today April twenty fifth
two thousand twenty four,
cuz these lovely bones
triggered flashback to wretched tears
sans insidious roiling
jagged stone shredding/
thwarting desire to lyft motive to be alive
shockwaves extant to this day -
no matter long since
recovered from nose-dive
dog gone emotional, psychological
and social repercussions
hound me present mental state
indelible permanent scars
(per anxiety, herky jerky,
hokey pokey, panicky,
quirky tic) seem never to abate
try as I might to shake free
from the riptide affects
that drowned this boy to grow
he experiences an especially
perilous remembrance
of things past regarding
abysmal infernal woe
when thee second punim
o thine two lovely offspring
passed that milestone age
with nary a hint how her papa felt
life locked up within
his abysmal agonizing stage
impossible to forgive permanent harm
inflicted not only on self but searing pain
my late mother and
then living octogenarian father
whose angst this dada insight re: did gain
from bringing forth progeny,
which years eclipsed
at break neck speed,
whereby each special daughter
evincing greater sturdiness
akin to hardy weed
bound to surpass their dear ole dad
permanently branded with ghost
of Christmases past for never knowing
thee potential that burned black toast
and hunger pains even to this day frequently
blithely ignored as if still callous
tempted, lured and baited by hand of death
this grown man wished inxs to kiss.
Social anxiety (incorporating the alphabet soup of physiological symptoms i.e. clammy palms, heart palpitation, nausea, vertigo, et cetera) erupted to rent my psyche asunder and forcefully endearing themselves to my being (like dasher, dancer, Prancer, vixen, comet, cupid, dinner and Blitzen) with most every visit to college cafeterias, (an unpleasant effect explaining termination from the umpteen universities i matriculated), especially when hungry hordes (like madding crowds swelling the sea of Muslims practically stampeding their way en route the Hajj) clamored to be fed sustenance or spiritual succor respectively.
Never did this liberal minded scrivener get trampled underfoot, but he experienced physical manifestations entailing great discomfort probably on par with any devout pilgrimage to the holy shrine of Mecca.
Within the labyrinth of this mortal being i.e. christened matthew scott harris, hid unseen live, googly-eyed, earth-linked, mailer daemons that resounded with a quiet riot chorus of their unheard yahoo kindling the trip wire of damned perspiration, laceration (stinging tips of metallic whips and chains) induced hallucination prodding sphincter muscle to go into overdrive vis a vis via defecation, (irritable bowel ran rampant) creating one wreck of a human abomination kept in check from any unsuspecting observer.
This general figurative broad-brush stroke pertaining to the collective soul wrenching episodes does an injustice to panic attacks.
Best for me to winnow thru the quagmire of countless instances to evoke emotional explosion in an effort to engender comprehension, fixation, interrogation (pardon the hyperbolic exaggeration fueling this assay wantonly craving super) layman preservation, than zeroing in on a singular instance.
Little effort required for me to dial back mental chronology and pluck one generic panic attach festooned with the usual attendant coterie of kindling internal microscopic killing machinations swaggering like hotmail fresh off the field of a winning team.
Meal times at college (particularly with the madding crowd of voraciously famished coed undergraduates), the most frequent settings outbursts generated feverishly essentially annihilating any ambition to enjoy a normal peaceful repast (to satiate hunger), the most common environment envision a generic college cafeteria.
About twenty years ago (two decades spanning mine some total of fifty six birthdays plodding through the pernicious plots per me world wide web) represents the most recent non-voluntary foray into the field of dreaded descent into the domain of all out internal combustion, whereby attrition into no mans land of wretched undulating spasms quaking ole matthew knocked immunization generally enjoyed clinging assiduously to hibernation, meditation, self actualization as self sedation.
Eyelids now temporarily closed to re-envision the nada so salient salad days whence the feeding time instantaneously transformed into frantic frenzy at Kutztown university. While most all other student feasted on the ordinary industrial chow, i felt the grippe ketchup and override excruciating hunger. Adrenaline coursed thru this measly dry mouthed body (starving to savor the institutional haute cuisine.
No sooner did this then rather bony gluteus maximus became situated at the table (often whereby a quick exit could be made in the predictable panic stricken outcome that pierced and hammered me with gut wrenching agony), the medley of organic constriction of throat re: named near asphyxiation, furious pounding of ma poor heart churning out hormonal secretion sans flight or fight, strong sensation sans regurgitation (despite the likelihood my bowels recently purged per diarrhea courtesy of irritable gastrointestinal stress), disallowed even one morsel to appease thine palette.
Much as waste not want not the coda, ethos, general integrity keeping afloat my dogma, that credo went out the window (with or without the baby and bathwater – plugged pulled so no infant drowned, nor any other animal harmed in the making of this mindful video), the tray of uneaten food left for an employee to discard.
Complete discombobulating disorientation (in tandem with the tried and true trademark tell tale signs of tumultuous ferocious fracas re: Tony the tiger witnessed personal pandemonium, which violent trigger, nonetheless did offer a scant few minutes to gather peanut butter and jelly sandwiched haphazardly slap dashed together, whereby to escape this jam.
Cumulative episodes whence tumultuous shell shocked warring faction repeatedly played itself and affecting escape from this perilous perdition.
The shoals of home (which appeared sweeter than ever) specifically sighted when sitting with pangs of stomach churning aches to eat instead delivered a sentence whereby this anguished author felt himself severely lashed and slavishly held within thine fragile self witnessed withdrawal from campus life (for the umpteenth time) and hence avoidance became the coping mechanism.
Fast forward to the present. Now a cornucopia of pharmaceutical medications keep in check (akin to a mate) and put a lid on susceptibility toward chaotic sensation run amok.
This collective soul (whose esprit de corps rose from thine Heiress house of the rising sun) in fits and starts finally seems closer to psychological nirvana.
Now, now longer does a led zeppelin manacle this Renaissance man from the culture club. He scales the Ashbury heights of ecstasy via pharmacological panacea. He feels indomitable emotional strength to haul in the oats of a misspent youth.
...City Streets You Used To Walk Along with Me...
My music feed has been mostly radio. Muesli as such, with the premix and hodgepodge invitation for infiltration of the psyche. I speak of the random input of compilation by dj. Music not sought out, and I recognize it, Life like, not controlled by me despite having some dials to twist: to the left or right; up or down; on or off. A bit more treble or bass if my equipment was up to snuff, which varied widely. To call up a song-- on demand-- that was a power of disc/cassette I just didn't have for a very long time. By which I mean purchase, not in dollars, but in the means to go fetch.
Let it be known, I grew up in the official Boondogs.
Pointing the antenna took considerable learned skill.
As did capturing songs on mix tape...
Residing on the East coast mountains, it would seem that the feed would be mostly from the Tristate area, and predominantly NYC as largest hub.
I listened to AM and FM. The AM very poor in connection and rapidly changing. Staples were actually WMU (*that's Western Michigan University Public Radio) based NPR, and Temple University Radio (*a Philadelphia broadcast from what I was later "informed" was a black leaning school, from former professor...). NPR is where I tuned into for classics, but also to find occasional wonders like "Who Shall I Say is Calling?" which when unattributed prompted a flood of questioners and the All Things Considered main guy returned shortly with a statement of apology to listeners.... Guess they didn't really think we were listening....
https://youtu.be/6VHQq-XTSEk?si=4Bw1KWcYayrSYSLZ
Leonard Cohen - Hallelujah & Songs from his Album
Early morning public university radio played stuff local radio didn't like Euro Beat tunes and stuff in foreign languages (French, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Scandinavian). I'm still looking for that fun foreign accented tune with English refrain... hey, hey, supergirl...
One of the first cassettes I ever owned, given to me for Christmas, fresh, age 10 was:
https://youtu.be/TIQyAitAcPk?si=oJslHOtysCtoQmiehttps://youtu.be/LCzgsZi_zfg?si=2oH_bAFb9klWkOGR
Beats International - Let them Eat Bingo
Jazz, funk and swing, especially electroswing are my blood type. And that's where Temple University radio was a sustainer. One of my first vinyls insisted on, later:
https://youtu.be/HFz1RbQg9gE?si=OTnrFDsMmVL-BRkw
Dave Brubeck Quartet - Time Out
Sure, I listened to local pop radio as well, and Casey Cason's Top 40 weekend countdown, and it was informative to a time... until Clear Channel swept through and started buying up stations and stacking the same cue of tracks on rerun. No matter what local station you tuned your dial, it seemed suddenly Clear Channel was sitting on it, and playing the same stuff over and over and even in the same damn sequence day after day. Maybe I listened to intently or too often; it really seemed a blatant take over of the airwaves. And I stopped listening.
I started buying CDs, and now mp3s.
Back in Diapers
I thought I was done with diapers for good. Now I’m changing them daily.
At least this time they’re on a dog and not a human. In a way, this is a good news story. My carpets are protected, and my beloved/maligned mutt, Niko, gets to stay alive. His accidents were becoming frequent enough that friends and family members were starting to subtly (and sometimes not so subtly) suggest it was his time to shuffle off this mortal coil. Saturday, he turned sixteen, which, in dog years, is twice as old as dirt. Everyone knows dirt is eight. He’s outlived his brother from the same litter by most of a decade. If I’m not careful, he’ll outlast the rest of us, too. He’s making a good attempt at it, even as his body is showing some signs of wear and tear. He’s mostly deaf and extremely lazy, not that he was a working dog in the first place. He doesn’t bark to scare away intruders. He can’t hear himself, so he gave up on trying to make sounds. He also doesn’t cuddle. For most of his life, we’ve been polite but distant acquaintances. Once a day, he whines at me to feed him, and I oblige. Then he goes back to napping. Were that the extent of his activities, we never would have had a problem. Over the last year or so, however, he’s managed to squeeze in multiple accidents a day. That nearly brought our cohabitation arrangement—and his life—to an abrupt end. Those doggy Pampers saved us all.
I tried everything to change his regressing bathroom habits. He’s supposed to address his bodily needs at his leisure by letting himself in and out through the doggy door. For nearly fifteen years, he stuck to that plan. In the last several months, however, he had a change of heart. Now, the inside of my house is his toilet. At first, I thought maybe he was too old and tired to walk out to the yard. I carried him out there like a princess on a luxurious sedan chair. Niko refused to do his business. Instead, he would simply hold it until he got back to his preferred pee spot, which was my entire house. I tried deep cleaning the carpet to get rid of familiar smells that might be drawing him back, but that just made him defile new areas. He wasn’t picky as long as it was indoors. He’d urine-ify hardwood floors and cold tile with equal abandon. After multiple recommendations from people who’ve dealt with old dogs, I put out puppy pee pads. Those were the one thing in my house he specifically wouldn’t go to the bathroom on. If I would have lined my entire floor with them, I could have solved the problem. I have to admit his behavior seemed malicious. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to be the one to put him down. He wasn’t suffering; he was just a jerk. I wasn’t sure if my kids would ever forgive me if I killed their dog because I was tired of cleaning up after him. More importantly, I didn’t think I could forgive myself. My Catholic guilt extends to the animal kingdom, even the parts of it that are a direct threat to my happiness and sanity. I was determined to keep giving him food and shelter for as long as he wanted to stick around. In return, I merely wanted him to stop desecrating every square inch of floor in my house. Clearly that was one request too far.
Then death paid a visit. When we went to Missouri a few weeks ago, we lined up a friend to check on our animals. That would work for the pigs and guinea pig, but we couldn’t trust Niko in that situation. By the time my buddy got over here to verify the animals were still alive, my house would be destroyed from the worst kind of water damage. Instead, we made a half-hour detour to drop off Niko at my parents’ house in Illinois. At the end of the trip, I called my mom to check on the dog. I was moderately afraid he might pass away while he was there. It’s a dick move to send your beloved pet to your parents’ house to die. A dog did die, but it wasn’t Niko. My parents’ Yorkie, Moose, had a sudden and unexpected medical emergency. After paying a ton of money at an overnight veterinary hospital in another city, my parents made the heartbreaking decision to put him down. He was only seven. My parents adored that dog. I don’t want to say where he would rank among their seven children, but it wouldn’t have been last. Niko, meanwhile, kept on trucking, happily peeing on my parents’ rugs while they were gone. My best guess is that the doggy grim reaper showed up for Niko and took Moose by mistake. Who knows what shenanigans Niko pulled to throw death off his trail? I should be nicer to him. When death shows up next time, Niko might redirect him to one of us.
My dog was unphased by Moose’s death. Likely, he didn’t even notice. He wasn’t bred for situational awareness or emotional empathy. His only job is to look cute, and he does it well. He would be similarly nonplussed if I disappeared. We’re long-term roommates, but the bond isn’t much stronger than that. Pets really do take after their owners. He learned that aloof attitude from me. Maybe it’s that protective layer of Zen-like serenity that’s kept him in one piece for all these years in our extremely stressful household surrounded by kids and pigs. It’s probably why I’ll still be writing newsletters like this when he’s twenty.
Niko resumed his old habits soon as he got back to our house. Out of ideas, I confined him to a hallway near the doggy door. That seemed to work. He never, ever peed on that narrow stretch of tile, despite being exactly the same flooring material that’s in the kitchen next door, which is among his favorite bathrooms. If we left the kitchen door open a crack, he would slip in there and do his business. It was like he waited all day for the chance. The hallway tile must have had some magical protection over it that I didn’t notice. I wish I could find whatever wizard cursed it so he could extend that protection to the rest of the house. Lola theorized that Niko’s bathroom struggles were due to the pigs, whose room is on the way out of the house. He’s afraid of them these days. When he was younger, he used to push them around, even though they’re many times his size. In confrontations, he’d remember he’s descended from wolves and they’d remember they’re descended from bacon. Now, he can’t hear, and his eyesight is questionable. Sometimes, he seems to see fine, and other times, he appears functionally blind. It’s selective depending on what he’s trying to get away with. His sensory issues make him reluctant to approach the pigs, which is understandable. I wouldn’t want to scuffle with a ham bulldozer I couldn’t see or hear either. That doesn’t explain why Niko continued to have accidents at my parents house or why he doesn’t pee when I take him outside. I think Niko uses the pigs as a convenient excuse. The kids do the same thing. No, I don’t believe Gilly used a marker to write your initials on the wall. I’m not dusting for hoof prints.
Niko didn’t like hallway jail, even though he could escape it and go outside through the doggy door any time he wanted. He didn’t want fresh air. He wanted the great indoors and all the forbidden bathroom opportunities it offered. It was a shame because, besides going potty, his only other activity is sleeping. He could do that just as well in the hallway since I moved his dog bed there, but apparently it wasn’t the same. He wanted the ambiance of being surrounded by a bunch of screaming children he couldn’t hear. There really is no replacing silent chaos. It’s like being entertained by your own private troop of mimes. Niko wanted out so badly that he scratched at the ancient, eight-foot-tall swinging door that kept him confined. It now looks like it was attacked by an infuriated wolverine. Our house was built a hundred years ago by the treasurer of a bank and has all sorts of fancy rich person flourishes, like a back staircase so you don’t have to see the help and inlaid floors so you can see art when you look at your feet. If that guy knew what would one day become of his architectural masterpiece, he wouldn’t have splurged on any of those features. If he’s in hell, he probably has a live video feed of exactly what his house looks like now. Niko could be a key part of his eternal punishment. No wonder that dog has lived so long.
My brother-in-law suggested that I should tape tin foil to the back of the swinging door to discourage Niko from damaging it. His claws sliced right through that thin metal armor. That’s when I finally broke down and bought doggy diapers. It’s the second time in Niko’s life that he’s worn them. We had them on him and his brother Spencer when we first brought them home. (Yes, that name was the original inspiration for the character Spenser in The Chosen Twelve.) I call Niko a mutt, but really he’s a designer breed made by a single person in Missouri, who mixed together every kind of little yappy dog she could get her hands on. The resulting hybrid was supposed to seldom bark and also be litter box trainable. Basically, we thought we were buying cats. When we got Niko and Spencer home, we learned the truth. They never used the makeshift litter box we set up. We ended up putting them in diapers until we could install a doggy door and build a fence around the yard. The diapers were fabric scraps attached by Velcro that my mom had used when training her own dogs. For absorbency, we slapped on a maxi pad, which we threw away after each use. After we got the fence installed, the dogs used the yard and our problems were over. We threw away all the diapers. Flash forward fifteen years and we’re right back where we started. Time is a flat circle, and it looks a lot like a pee spot on my carpet.
Unlike the ones we used last time, these new diapers are professionally made, no maxi pads required. The technological advances of the last fifteen years really are amazing. I bought two three-packs of diapers from Amazon. After the first two days, it was clear that wouldn’t be enough. I ordered three more packs. I put the diapers on Niko as soon as he leaves his hallway home. He’s now free to nap in his old spot, which is all he wants from life. I can accommodate that, as long as the rest of his life isn’t unreasonably long. I’ll give it another year or two. Beyond that, the extra cost of running the washing machine so much might break me. Niko, of course, hasn’t offered to chip in for the water bill. He’s a simple dog. He just wants to water the carpet.
Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.
James