“Earth is not the same.”

September 25, 2024

I had not been back in nearly a standard decade. I left just before the war began. However, now that I am stuck in this holding cell, I had no better option than to listen.

“Sunlight rarely makes it through the smoke. When it rains, what falls is as greasy as the soot that went up. Children don’t laugh. They don’t even cry. The government keeps lowering the draft age. It is now 13. Most of those who go, do not return. We hear stories. We see evidence. But, we are never to speak of such things. To do so is illegal. To do anything is illegal. If what we are fighting for is our way of life, we have lost.”

“Is there any hope?”

“If there was, I wouldn’t know. If I knew, I wouldn’t tell. You know that.”

“So, what is next?”

“If you are like me, we get a trial with a forgone conclusion. Then we get a neck brace and a life sentence with hard labor.”

“I heard the average term was only 5 years.”

“Like I said, a life sentence.”

We both paused and drank the water they gave us. It was orange tinted, most likely to kill the microbes that would kill us. Very thoughtful.

“Any chance of escape?”

“How long can you hold your breath in space?”

Another sip, another awkward moment passed.

“How long have you known?”

“That all of this is a deception? Since you began speaking.”

“What gave me away?”

Another long awkward pause. Another sip from his cup.

“I am going to let you figure that one out. I don’t get paid to train you.”

“We can use your help. We need a man who hasn’t been touched. We want you to go back to Earth, planet side, and await orders.”

“Orders for what?”

“Orders that will end the war. Orders that will prevent the next war. Orders that will keep Earth from becoming the next penal mining world. Are you in?”

“Got anything better to drink than this?”

“It looks like real orange juice, but tastes the same.”

“Better than any other offer I’ve had today. I’m in.”

They say it's never too late to start a new career, but I'm not so sure. A second act may not be in store for me. I'm stuck. It's not a new feeling. Inertia has plagued me for much of my life.

Being a teacher is a weird thing. We do it because... why do we do it? We care, that's definitely true. We wouldn't do it if we didn't, or if we hadn't at some point. But's hard to keep caring when it seems like no one else does.

Most days I come home feeling like I didn't do much. The to-do list never ends, and I rarely get the satisfaction of checking something off the list because the students and their needs come before everything. The to-do list can wait.

So what did I actually do today?

I listened to a young girl, who is normally happy and gives me book recommendations, tell me she was on the verge of a breakdown and that's why she'd been avoiding her work. She'd turn it in by the end of the day, she promised. I told her she needed to take care of herself. It's okay to shut down from time to time, as long as we come back. Maybe I made her feel better. Maybe I didn't. I'll likely never know.

I wrote a college recommendation letter for a student hoping to get into an Ivy League college. As easy as it would be to recycle a past letter, I started this from scratch and put my heart into it, recalling stories from the time he was in my class, hoping that if this letter actually is read by the people who matter, it will tip the scales in his favor. If history is any indication, I'll never know.

I gently encouraged a student to wake up and finish his work because if he doesn't, he'll fail my class and won't graduate. As I approached him the smell of weed became stronger until I felt I could get a contact high in his presence. I can't even blame him because I know what his life is like. He's spoken of gunshots in his neighborhood and bodies lying dead on the streets. He's lost cousins, uncles, friends. I don't begrudge him this habit that gets him through the day. I hope he'll make it out of this place and break the cycle. I'll never know.

I gave band-aids, advice, feedback, grades, tips, strategies, information, lessons, assignments, love, encouragement, my all.

I hope it'll make a difference. I'll never know.

Once upon a time there was a boy. and that boy did all sorts of things that he shouldn't have, all because his parents did not break the bad habits, did not heal their own wounds. he smoked and he drank and he fought and he had girls and he knew he was smarter than everyone around him but didn't know that his intelligence was limited by his parents' failure to model love and empathy.

the boy grew up and he had a hard time in school, in college, because no one likes an asshole who picks fights with professors. he got married, eventually, he thought he'd pulled it together. the boy in our story loved classical things, he loved poetry, and music, and art. but he only loved the "right types" of each, the works recognized for their accolades and for the number of people who knew of and praised them. the boy saw himself reflected in a film that became his favorite. the film starred an actor who understood pain and dedicated himself to laughter. (better to die later having lived providing light to others than bleed out alone without it.)

the boy had children. but he treated them just as though he regarded their value to be up for debate, to be determined in the future in the same way as the works he so loved. and he did not trust them, because of how he had once behaved, and so did not allow their autonomy or freedom to think, feel, or to be.

and one day, many years later, his eldest child watched the film that the man had always said he loved. and she left with the knowledge that the man who had raised her, who had once been the boy, was oblivious to that which she considered obvious: that the boy had seen himself in that film, but he did not not fill the same role as the man she knew now. because that boy, who had become a man, had seen himself as the main character, as the boy who escaped the thumb of a controlling and ignorant father the only way he could.

she left because to her, the man had only ever been the person to belittle and harass her, to throw insults and derision and to break her down with the slightest hint of self-confidence showing or even a taste of the adult she was going to be. he had been the person to make her dread existence, and the man that meant she did everything in her power to hold on just until she could escape. she vowed to herself to only use the same route as the character in the film if she could not see any other way out.

there were many times she came close. she even tried once or twice, but in the end, she didn't use it. instead, she grew up. and she became a teacher, much like the one in the film, who had seen too much of the world, but despite her disillusionment with it believed in the power that young people had. and just like the actor who played the teacher, she knew she had to keep laughing. because even though laughter isn't any sort of medicine, at least it's a band-aid to stick on top of the wound and hold it together.

and she realized that instead of covering the wound he had received, the man who was her father had ignored his injuries entirely, had pretended that they were not even there. because of that, it had festered and spread. and he had not bled out but had instead pulled down and stabbed at others in his effort to rise. then he'd gone through his life with an infection that seeped too deep into his soul and his mind, and somewhere along the way, the man had become the exact person he'd once hated and feared.

the girl refused for that to be her path too. so she kept slapping on those band-aids, pitiful as they were for such a large wound. every laugh, every joke - she does it over and over and over. and maybe she'll make it even longer in life than that comedian did before she too has no choice but to peel off the plastic strips, and the barrier that covers an infection that could not be avoided, and let herself, finally, lose the limb, and maybe her life in the process. just like the comedian did. but at least, then, she will die as he did too - having chosen a life with laughter in it, for the price of dying later instead of bleeding out alone and in the dark.

and if she survives? well, the price of that wound that she had to wait so long to treat will be worth it. even if it is a huge part of herself she has to cut off just to ensure that the next child doesn't know what it is to be that little boy, or to be the little girl that came next, and to be overtaken by a wound that just won't heal, or die doing everything to rid yourself of it, or take the same route as the main character in that film who saw no other way to break free.

just jabbering gibberish (A - J)

Again, another awkward ambitious

arduous attempt at alphabetically

arranging atrociously ambiguously

absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.

Because...? Basically bonafide belching,

bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,

bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting

bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,

boasting bougainvillea background.

Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap

chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,

chafed centenary, codifies communication

cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably

cheerful college coed.

Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,

doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood

descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring

dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,

deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor

Demento double, declaring depraved

daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck

derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.

Eccentric, edified English exile,

effervescent, elementary, echinoderm

eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,

etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional

emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,

eschatologically entranced, elongated

elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,

effectively experiments, emulates epochal

eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,

exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting

emphysema.

Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative

flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,

fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,

felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,

flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,

faceless, feckless, financially forked,

foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled

feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,

fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs

"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating

fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.

Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,

goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,

genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,

gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,

garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,

gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic

giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy

gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,

geographically generically germane,

gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,

guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns

ginning gumpshun.

Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,

haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,

hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely

hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,

hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,

Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic

heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,

homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.

Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,

idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,

irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,

ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,

insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble

itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating

immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted

inside igneous intrusions immensely

imperturbable improbable.

Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester

just jimmying jabberwocky

justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish

jubilantly jousting jittering

jazzy jawbreaking jumble

justifying, jostling, Jesus;

junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll

joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;

jammed jello junket jiggled

jeopardized jingled jugs.

Empathic ability is a gift

I no longer fear having it

I no longer fear losing it

I remain wholly here for awhile longer

for reasons I yet complete

Benefit, reason, is for Him to weave

being, trust, my part discovering

yesterday, not restful

today is better

recalling these truths, already settled

Much to learn, plenty of time

construct to play with

misaligned pain does not define me

we’re a multi-knotted tapestry

warps and frays belong

Ikat, Afghani, nomadic, ancient, present

connect the dots, something twangs true

Kelp, seagrass, fronds, currents wayfinder

present in cellular watery tomes

Indigenous of any color interlaces through

Forgotten legacies

poignant still

lies seem louder

but here my mouthpiece

refuses homage demanded

Another set of eye-clouded orphans

before me awoken, resurrected, disoriented

fabric matrix snapping, straining

although not stranded

my purpose placed here timely

One of many, I trust this now

never again I fear the backslide

toward that hellhole

willingly my hand

reaches back, for them, anyone

paying forward miracles wrought for me

Together, we are woven

Together, we twist and curl

into patterns of foreseen distinctness

reflecting in this era, on the cusp

our language confessing

Of power to heal, to testify

unreliant on approval

offering kind ears and prayers liberally

relentless, set as flint, sparks inevitable

milestones enshrined within gratitude

Nations I’ve birthed, will reign

their rightful curse-breaking stead

red Theatre velvet ropes corralling the lines

awaiting the porters, stepping up, then reassigned

each misstep has value, take note neighbor mine

No one left behind, their choices do not dictate mine

wayward I’m judged by those not the jury

prayed for, my mantle, Hur-im and Aaroni

as escort I witness these Grand Theatre seats filling

willingly, purposely, aha’s settle into savory vibes

~Written by Dominique Wingerd 8.31.2023

Watch them.

There they go.

Fleeting past.

High or low.

Flying fast.

Walking slow.

First or last?

They don't know

Watch them.

Laugh in play.

Scream in fear.

Seize the day.

Shed a tear.

Stay away.

Hold them near.

Hope and pray.

Some will hear.

Watch them.

Constant fight.

Muscles, quake.

Pine for night.

To escape.

Cool moonlight.

Need a break.

When the light's

Too much to take.

Watch them.

Exist to wonder.

Exist to pry.

Exist to ponder.

Asking 'Why?'

Brave explorer.

Courage, high.

Challenge thunder.

Break the sky.

Watch them.

Dream for years.

Hear the call.

Fate, unclear.

Fail and Fall.

Wounded tears.

Standing tall.

Own their fears.

Own it all.

Watch them.

Don't know how?

Here's a mirror.

See them now?

Deity exhales

Dust spills and breathes a new life

Spinning into light

Joy, love, innocence

Carefree days of youth divine

Mere child’s glimpse of time

Evolving through years

Life’s measure is full and fast

Will it end or last?

Fate takes aim and curves

The years melt away like snow

A sun’s fading glow

Empty cages fill

The haunted halls of our souls

Regret is tenfold

The dishes overflowed. The rug was a crumpled mass, an unintentional booby trap. The soup was half finished, and the pot was boiling over.

Hastily, I scrambled to the stove and shut it off. While he sprawled himself over the couch, beer in hand. The TV mindlessly babbled as he watched it without regard to the hot mess around us.

"David, honey, could I have some help here?"

"Ah, just do it, yerself, ya old hag!" He waved an uncaring hand at me. Slowly, I brought myself back to work. I washed the chipped tea cup as I wondered where the charming man I once knew went. The yellow mustard went back into the cupboard as my heart sunk.

"He was never that person," a small voice in my head hissed. "He knows you love him too much to complain as you're neck up in junk!"

Silent years fell as I sat by the window of our bedroom. Another Christmas came and left with poisoning isolation.

My family seemed so far away, and my friends weren't able to contact me anymore.

No more cherries I got to pick from bushes in the country. No playing in the tennis courts. No putting on fluffy socks as my brother and I raced across tile floors.

Now, my life was a shadow of what it once was. It is filled with creaky wooden planks and a deadbeat.

The only joy I could get was from the neighbors' Christmas lights. Oh, how beautiful they were flickering crimson and green.

Eventually, night would fall, and I had to tear my eyes away from the lights.

As I slept, a strange thought entered my mind. I should leave. Go home for Christmas. Slowly, I crawled out of bed. I packed a bag long into the night. Once the work was done, I went back to sleep, waiting for the morning.

Christmas morning. I tentatively crept down the stairs. Pulling my backpack on, I skidded toward the door.

The bump of my shoulder on the shelt shocked my soul out of my body. Everything froze as his angry footsteps came closer. Louder. And louder. My heartbeat stopped.

"What the HELL are you doing!?" His ranting was cut short when he saw the backpack. My breath was caught in my throat.

"Are you leaving me," he shouted.

"No! No! I just wanted to go home for Christmas please—"

I don't remember anything after that. I huddled myself in the corner. He had been gone for hours, but it still felt as if he was right beside me.

Between sobs, one thought entered my mind.

His demise would be mine.

I'm not sure where I got the idea of how he would die. Maybe I wanted him to suffer the way I have for four years. Maybe it was inspiration from the pranks my brother pulled on each other in the brighter days of my youth.

Whatever the idea came from. I worked tirelessly. Tying and taping. Screwing and measuring. Then all I had to do was wait. Patiently wait like a predator for their prey.

Soon the prey did come. Staggering drunk, per usual. I faked washing dishes waiting for the inevitable tug.

And it came.

He went flying and flailing. His voice pierced my ears. Still, a smile plastered my face.

Now he knew what agony felt like.

I waited for silence. His breathing was ragged as I walked over to him.

The look on his face— Ah hah ha! Oh how I've waited for this.

I could only smile as his breathing cut short.

As I stood over his motionless form, the trails of blood that swarmed out of his body filled me with euphoria.

My lips curved into a small smile as I addressed him.

"Merry Christmas, honey," I said. He gave no reply— of course, he couldn't. What was I thinking? I giggled at my own foolishness.

"I wish my gift was as special as yours," I continued. "After all, I've got exactly what I wanted."

The pot was boiling over, but right now, that was the least of her concerns.

Her chest stilled. A chill traveled up her spine. The light above her head flickered, and the sound of crickets outside died out.

She couldn't bring herself to move; her eyes frozen on the man in front of her.

He was in her kitchen.

The Reaper, as the recent newspaper had called him.

He was in her house. In her kitchen. Right in front of her.

A small breath escaped her as the glint of something shiny caught her eye.

Her gaze shifted from a pale mask down to a long, silver knife. She could almost hear the dripping of the crimson liquid that coated it. How many lives had it taken? How many more would it steal?

"I thought I said no more blood in the house," she finally spoke, a snapping tone in her voice.

He didn't respond, but disappeared behind a wall while she turned to tend to the overfilling pot.

"And stop sneaking up on me," she called out, her back facing where he had been standing moments ago.

The loud sound of something heavy being dropped caused her to twist around.

A large, black bag now lay at her feet. The Reaper stood above it, watching ruby blood leak out a tear in the side of the material.

She smiled a wicked grin and grabbed the blade from his hand.

"Dinner's almost ready. Help me carve the meat, darling."

It was a hot, airless summer's evening, the type that you get after a humid, windless day. Horrible. The sort that wants to make you want to drop everything and head to the nearest beach and soak in its cold waters until your skin turns blue.

That was not the choice for Doris. She lived in small cottage in Battersea, not far from the park in which funfairs used to be held. Not that she had much fun nowadays, now that her beloved husband, Donald, was dead. Her two sons lived overseas and never visited her.

She opened the patio doors. Not that there was much of a breeze but she could not afford air-conditioning and she hoped, with the setting sun, some cool air would refresh her stifling home. There was none.

She opened the door of her freezer and took out some carrots, peas and mushrooms. She was a vegetarian and did not eat meat. In another pot, she began cooking rice - a copious amount because she loved rice. She added too much of it to a medium sized saucepan and the boiling water spilled onto the stove. In fact, you could say: "The pot was boiling over."

She was so engrossed in her cooking that she did not hear he stranger creep behind her, clad in black, his eyes concealed by a black balaclava, a knife in his hand. She was still tidying up the mess that the overfull saucepan had caused and did not even have time to react when he plunged his knife into her back, ending her life instantly.