“Now the only sure basis of an alliance is for each party to be equally afraid of the other.” —Thucydides

The missile tokens rounded the board, each moved by the numbers thrown on the existential dice. It was a stalemate thus far.

Player One: "I'll trade you New York for Moscow."

Player Two: "Moscow has 5 million more people than New Yorki. Will you consider adding Los Angeles to your offer?"

Player One: "No way."

Player Two: "Really? It's a good deal. You’d still be giving me less than a million lives. Not to mention the recent fires. That was a real mess."

Player One: "Lemme think about it. Roll the dice."

Player Two rolled a seven and landed on the USA submarine, the USS District of Columbia. He drew a DETENTE card, which read…

YOU HAVE LANDED ON AN OHIO-CLASS US NUCLEAR SUBMARINE CARRYING 154 TOMAHAWK CRUISE MISSILES. TENSIONS ARE HIGH. YOU SHOULD SERIOUSLY CONSIDER SURRENDERING A SECOND-TIER CITY.

Player Two: "Gavno! That sucks. Couldn’t be a six or an eight…had to be a seven, OK, take Krasnoyarsk, podonok."

Player One: "No way, Comrade. I'd rather have Novosibirsk."

Player Two: "No deal, Yank. That’s first-tier.”

Player One: “Not quite, assholed. Don’t be a dick.”

Player Two: “It’ll be first-tier after the five-year plan wraps. I urge you, in all sincerity and fairness, to look at Krasnoyarsk again. Hell, it’s second-tier, which isn’t shabby. The second-largest city in Siberia. Lots of aluminum for you."

Player One: "Hmm. OK, we can always use more aluminum."

Player Two handed him the deed to Krasnoyarsk. Player One added it to his stack of reciprocal collateral damage. Then he threw the dice, which came up four and four. He moved his missile token eight spaces, past S.T.A.R.T., collected 200 megatons, but landed on the THREAT space. He drew a THREAT card, which read…

ADVANCE YOUR MISSILE TOKEN TO THE NEAREST OPPONENT SILO AND PAY THAT PLAYER 100 MEGATONS OR SUFFER 200 RADS’ WORTH OF ACUTE RADIATION SYNDROME.

Player One: “Christ! I was gonna use my megatons to sink another silo in Montana.”

Player Two: “Yes, golova-chlena, don’t you think I knew that?”

Player One: “Sure you did, you Commie rat.”

Player Two: “Go ’head. Keep with the name-calling, zasranets. MIRVS and SAMs may melt my bones, but words’ll never…”

Player One: “OK, OK. Instead of the megatons, how’d you like Avery Island?”

Player Two: “What! A stinking island instead of the megatons you owe? I don’t know where or what Avery Island is, but it ain’t no Greenland.”

Player One: “Which I’m gonna own in a couple more throws. No, comrade, Avery Island is where they make Tabasco.”

Player One’s offer struck a chord.

Player Two: “I do like things spicy, but no dice. Pay up. Now!”

Player One took inventory. If he could just make it around the board one more time, pass S.T.A.R.T., and collect his megatons. Reluctantly, he handed over the hundred megatons. But the eight he had thrown was doubles. He had another throw coming to him.

He threw the dice and the number was eleven. He knew where he was landing even before he moved his missile token the spaces. He smiled at his adversary.

Player Two: “I can’t believe it!”

Player One: “Believe it. Looks like I’ve landed on RE-ENTRY DOME. I’ll just add this card to my deterrence pile. So, fire away, Stalin-kisser. Lauch ‘em all. Watch my dome eat ’em all up. If I said it once, I’ve said it a million times, ‘The only thing better than mutually assured destruction is unilateral other-guy-assured destruction.’”

Player Two: “That’s if your stupid DOME works. And it’s a big if. It’s not even tested. Are you sure you wanna take that chance?”

Player One: “It’s not like Russian technology, my dostoynyy protivnik.”

Player Two: “Hey, now.”

Player One: “No, really, comrade. Spare parts, remember?”

Player Two: "I'm getting tired, my American friend. This game just goes on forever. What say we just call it a draw? I mean, no one ever wins this chertovski game until one of us throws the entire board in the air."

Player One: "Where’s the fun in that? It’s certainly not sportsmanship. Then there's no winner at all. "

Player Two: "What's the difference?"

Player One: "Haha!"

Player Two: "Haha!"

Player One: “Here goes nothin’!”

Today you are to die. Please meet me at the corner of Main and Highland at 4 PM. Come alone.

This correspondence is expressly meant for the addressee. If you have received it in error, please call 1-800-REAPER; otherwise, you forfeit your right to be excused from said intentions. And we don't care.

February 10, National Umbrella Day, is coming up. Hoisting barriers to water and against ultraviolet radiation has proved convenient for about 5,000 years.

But to mix a bad pun with the gravitas of metaphor, there's a darker, shadowy side to these accouterments. After all, they block the light, and blocking light is a powerful metaphor, too.

We seek clarity. We observe with acuity. We need light for both. We even seek "the light," as portrayed in our death mythos.

Consider when Mrs. Rittiner was prepped and draped for her laparoscopic surgery. Anesthetized without incident, the anesthesiolgist confirmed the successful induction of her controlled coma, and Dr. Stolier began.

The trocar was inserted at her navel and her abdomen inflated with gas for visibility. Unfortunately, a vagal response slowed her heart rate, which--tragically--came to a stop.

Both the surgeon and the anesthesiologist, well trained, were no strangers to complications. The anesthesiologist pushed cardiostimulatory drugs through her IV while Dr. Stolier began cardiac compressions. Over the brief time of observation during these maneuvers, the doctors awaited a favorable response.

It was not immediately forthcoming.

Yet, Mrs. Rittiner survived. The surgery was aborted and the resuscitation ultimately succeeded. Weeks later, Dr. Stolier saw Mrs. Rittiner in his office to reschedule her surgery.

"Y'know, Mrs. Rittiner, you were technically dead for about ten minutes there."

"I heard that, Doc. I wanna thank you for saving my life."

"Well, it really wasn't a heart attack or anything like that. Just a vagal response that bottomed out."

"My heart stopped, right?"

"Yes."

"Dead's dead."

"I suppose so," Dr. Stolier agreed. Then he asked, "Tell me, I'm just curious, you understand. Did you see a light. Y'know, like they say."

"I didn't see shit!" she fired back.

"Oh, my."

What arises now is a dichotomy of faith:

Is there truly nothing after this life, a secret Mrs. Rittiner was privileged to learn? Or, alternatively, should Mrs. Rittiner re-examine her doomed, wayward life and strive to re-ingratiate herself in the eyes of God?

Seeking shadows is a seductive umbrella: protection--from the elements and from very dark clouds alike: you can't see them, but they can't see you. Or, alternatively, it's just a way to stay dry.

When God and his angels slept

They dreamed of another life

Saddled by the laws of physics

And flaws of the inept

When God and his angels dreamt

They followed painful routines

Living human journeys

Of external lives unkempt

When God and his angels awoke

They blotted the sweat from their faces

And were thankful for the reality

Of which they rarely spoke

We slither and slide and sink and slam and

Hurt ourselves then don’t understand

We pop and we jug and we dis and we dat

And we can’t understand why we jump like that

You dis me so I kill you

I dis you so you kill me

We all do dis and we all sweat flack

We black on black like yellow on black

chorus:

at each other--it’s a fact

on our brothers--it’s a fact

fail our mothers--it’s a fact

to each other--that’s that

Black on black is the darker track

We gotta be up to cover our back

We brace our back and take up the slack

To back the attack--it’s a fact.

White man freed the slaves, so what?

Put us in the autoclave, so what?

We hold our brothers back, that’s us!

Ridin’ shotgun in the back of the bus.

chorus:

Red on black--venom lack--it’s a fact

Yellow on black--watch your back--it’s a fact

Black on yellow--kill a fellow--it’s a fact

Black on black, blood-curdling howl of racial feedback

--it’s a fact

I refuse to make any resolutions. Just like I felt last Lent. I live for Fat Tuesdays and the status quo. I collect the beads thrown from balconies, with fond memories of breasts nipp(l)y.

I ride the annual protractor along the Earth's orbit, revolving but unresolved. My seasons, unevolved, pass unabsolved. Because absolved, as X solves for Y, is for suckers.

And when I die, I will have outlived many who have labored against their yearly resolutions. That's my solution.

The missile tokens rounded the board, each moved by the numbers thrown on the dice. It was a stalemate thus far.

Player One: "I'll trade you New York for Moscow."

Player Two: "Moscow has 5 million more people. Will you consider adding Los Angeles."

Player One: "No way."

Player Two: "Really? It's a good deal. It's still less than a million."

Player One: "Lemme think about it. Roll the dice."

Player Two rolled a seven and landed on the USA USS District of Columbia. He drew a card:

YOU HAVE LANDED ON AN OHIO-CLASS US NUCLEAR SUBMARINE CARRYING 154 TOMAHAWK CRUISE MISSILES. SURRENDER A CITY.

Player Two: "Shit. OK, take Krasnoyarsk."

Player One: "No way, Comrade. I'd rather have Novosibirsk."

Player Two: "No deal, Yank. Look at Krasnoyarsk again. Hell, it's the second-largest city in Siberia. Lots of aluminum for you."

Player One: "Hmm. OK, we can always use more aluminum."

Player Two: "I'm getting tired. This game goes on forever. Let's just call it a draw. I mean, no one wins until one of us throws the entire board in the air."

Player One: "Then there's no winner."

Player Two: "What's the difference?"

Player One: "Haha!"

Player Two: "Haha!"

I was feeling uninspired and creatively dulled. Oh, I could write about anything easily, really. I could draft a predictable romance or some stupid dragon fantasy. I could tell a cautionary tale or even take a thrill ride on a stream-of-consciousness piece. I could involve animals for cuteness, irony, metaphor, or even to champion animal rights. Space battles? Easy!

I could wield maudlin, chagrin, regret, irony, epiphany, metaphor, and even the dark in ways that are good but, regrettably, had all been done before. Dark and stormy nights are for pussies! The best of times really are the worst.

I'm yawning.

All that's been done before. Where's the fun in such things?

There are no new twists to be had. Writing—good writing—is not just recycling. Emulate Hemmingway? There are still Hemmingways around in his estate to pay a lawyer for a cease-and-desist. Rip off Vonnegut? Yeah, just try. It won't even be close. Channel the NYT best sellers? You don't have a head start, so forgeddabout it. Magic, witches, wizards vs coming-of-age, thrillers, or whodunnits? I'm not just yawning.

I'm desperate.

I must write something that's never been read before. That's the only way I can climb Mazlow's pyramid. I want a sentence that has never been uttered to leap off the page and hook the stupid agent who insists on that "good fit."

The opening line would have to be unique, totally novel, even startling but, most importantly, be something that's never been said or read before—in English or any language.

And so I begin...

He looked like a millionaire on a horse. (I don't exactly know what that means, but a millionaire on a horse must look some good.)

Quick, hand me the piano! (That depends on who's saying it. You wouldn't want a large percussion instrument to fall into the wrong hands. After all, it's not just black and white.)

The way I see it, Hitler had a point. (No, wait, someone said that recently, although Grammarly reports, "This text is well-written.")

I loved her like a cactus. (Although I could wrap a whole novella around explaining how that was true.)

Even the cows laughed at my thumbs. (Has anyone ever tested the cow demographic about thumbs? Gotta think.)

We made love on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day as the bullets flew over us. (I'm afraid I can't write that, even if I want to write something that's never been written before. There are limits to both the laws of physics and the rules to lovemaking that cannot be broken. Well, maybe the laws of physics.)

We made love on the beaches of Normandy the day after D-Day, the spent bullets in the sand no more bothersome than the sand fleas. (Now you're talkin'!)

On the day my father died, I beat Mick Jagger bowling, two games out of three, blindfolded. (Imagine the exposition derived from explaining that Mick Jagger is my father and that I used The Force to beat him.)

My wastebasket fills with single, crumpled sheets, each with a single impossible sentence. Some sentences, it turns out, are dead on arrival. I throw a match in, the impossible sentences are, again, impossible, as the paper ashes float away.

No wonder I'm never a good fit. And no wonder I'm no damn millionaire on no damn horse! And now I wonder about my thumbs.

A trillion trillion years after the last stars flickered out and what was cold and final became absolute at -273.15º Celsius, it occurred to me.

Born of a true vacuum, my only warmth was memory. My consortium of entangled ionized particles wondered, wandering in and out of the vacuum to God knows where. God knows. I found that funny, and that’s what occurred to me. My nascent thought.

Nothing. And me.

Yet, all that ever was, all that came before—forces, objects, sentient things—left something, somewhere, laid out in a gossamer dimension that encircles the lesser dimensions within. Past has not passed, and the future has already happened.

Nothing, in my present, which is unstable. And me. And Charles McElhenny, who was stable.

Charles McElhenny had been born a trillion trillion years earlier than the absolute cold, yet he still was—on the special fabric of the gossamer dimension. Even I cannot see him, yet I know him. My entangled crosses over his entangled. There’s room for everyone in a perfect vacuum.

Charles McElhenny was born illegitimately and was suckled by a wetnurse in the year of his birth—by the nomenclature of his origin—1926. He was adopted by educators. He knew Greek and Latin, and by 1944, when he was killed in action in a place called Normandy, classical aphorisms came to him as his blood was leaving, akin to passing on the torch. Waves and waves of entangled ionizations entangle at higher dimensions, which is what put them on that beach in the first place.

The future has always been written in the past; the future has always written the past.

Charles McElhenny fathered a daughter and a son by the time he left for his death. During combat, he saved two men from death who went on to save two more each. The returning soldiers, alive thanks to Charles, had progeny in the tens of thousands by and large by the time the human epoch wrapped. Great things were done long after Charles suffered his last moments.

His was great a death of tremendous and spectacular suffering, because of an extra hole put into his body by someone who did not know him or even know the hole had been made. That man was killed by one of the men saved by one of the men Charles had saved, and thereafter there were fewer holes in persons visiting Normandy that day, although negligible in the final tally. Those without the intended holes from the assassin ignorant of the holes he had made went on to have hundreds of thousands of progeny, which moved civilization such that it rose to astounding heights and created technological magic for the masses.

But Charles suffered that day: suffering never ends; it just goes somewhere else.

His throat gurgled in air hunger. He could not feel his feet except for the knives he felt in the soles. He was dragged further up the beach by one of his saved beneficiaries, where he was left awaiting help that never came. It took him eight hours to die. There are a lot of aphorisms that can occur to a classically educated, but dying mind, in that amount of time.

All that, now, is long over, a wisp of data on the gossamer dimensional tesseract.

The suffering is there, somewhere, indexed inert—but there, notwithstanding. I know about it and the sufferings and joys of all of those who came from Charles McElhenny along the consortium of entanglement that I am. And that makes him, eons gone, forgotten, and molecularly dissipated, relevant. He lives in me.

When the virtual is and is-not particles remain as is, and the singularity collapses to create the big implosion to come, and when the unstable elements that have been strewn throughout the new universe coalesce—stable—once again into those who look at the sky and wonder, Charles McElhenny will still be relevant, because he was, albeit a streak of being on a gossamer membrane that oscillates in the undiscovered background.

It is something extraordinary and beautiful to see, for those who look for it.