Our feet

We were talking, he and I, like we always did, of ideals and existentiality, of hopes and fears, life and death, and other things that swim in the deepest parts of our selves. It was the two of us, alone, in the dark, our legs dangling from the bed and our fingers intertwined. Neither of us could say how the conversation started. We never could. But, start, it did, and down a steep, corkscrew path it led us.

The fears always tugged us deep, near to drowning. But, clinging to each other in our darkness, we whispered our way through. We spoke of grotesque imaginings that pounced on us, unawares. We talked of the pleasant surprises when empty fields of grain didn’t reveal hordes of flickering shadows in the fleeting moonlight. I told him of my goblins and he told me of his gremlins. We traded ghosts and shadows, demons and angels. We laughed, heartily unafraid, as we pulled our feet onto the relative safety of the bed.

Then, he whispered of the darker places in his soul. The places no one had seen. He sighed and longed to know he wasn’t alone.

He wasn’t.

I, too, lived in the barred, cold pockets deep inside. We laughed again, to know we were the same. We moved on, to the silly secrets and corny jokes we’d hoarded for just this occasion. Our fingers played together, twined above our heads.

But our feet, our feet stayed on the bed.

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City: A.E.

City: A.E.

The sunset, behind the chemical veil, washed the ancient buildings in fire. The ruins lingered long after the civilization that built them. The toxicity of the soil and the air meant no one would inhabit the zone for millennia to come.

The roving machine took picture after picture, sending the information to the observers far overhead. The descendants of the world, the last surviving members of an ancient aristocracy, sighed and turned their attentions elsewhere.

The robotic servant, quietly and unobtrusively, beeped a secret message into the chemically altered air. Its enhanced vision watched, without recording, as bent, misshapen forms moved out of the ruins.

The left-behinds raised arms to wave, their weapons held in standby mode. The mechanical servants of their offspring were their only allies in the war to survive. Swiftly, the strongest of the once-men moved to stand beneath the construct.

A door opened in the bottom of the machine. Several plastic crates dropped from the hidden compartment. Food, water, and other supplies, smuggled by other mechanicals, floated through the contaminated air to land on the rubble-laden ground.

Several beeps sounded within the camera drone. It flashed lights at the people gathered below, then sent another coded message to those waiting.

Not long, now, it said. The armies of the suppressed were nearly ready to strike.

 

 

*Based on my own original acrylic painting*

Nobody told me

Nobody told me that dying hurts.

Maybe not for those who meet their loved ones at the sunny end of the long, dark tunnel; those who lived the fullness of the life God gave ’em. But for me, who hastened to meet the end in the beginning of my travels, it hurt. Like hell.

Which is where I was headed, I suppose. Preacher always said those who sinned the sin of suicide were doomed to eternity in hellfire and damnation. Maybe he was right. It did seem like forever while I was dying.

The funny thing about painkillers is that they don’t. Kill pain, that is to say. Not when you gobble down a whole bottle at once. No sir, those little pills tumble right on down inside you and start brewing up the worst pain you ever felt.

I figured I’d just lay myself out, all pretty-like, on my granny’s patchwork quilt and let go of the pain of the world as I drifted off to sleep. I’d never taken more than two of those pills at once before and every time they’d make my head swim and my feet twine about themselves until I just laid down and slept.

But when there’s eighty-six of ’em, all roilin’ and boilin’ in your stomach, there’s no sleeping. No pretty, either.

It felt like my insides were clawing to get to my outsides. My brain went all swimmy, alright, but not the warm, fuzzy fog I was used to. Instead, the world turned itself upside down, then scrambled around like a Rubik’s cube and I couldn’t flip those pieces back the right way, not with the gnawing and clawing my belly was doing.

Falling, from the rumpled quilt on my four-poster, to the shag carpet on my floor, took about a million years. Time enough for me to think of all the things in the world I’d never do. Time enough for me writhe in agony for half of forever.

I’d thought the pain I was living through was hell, but the pain of dying leeched the color from all my previous hurts. The light I thought I’d see was only the sun setting out my window. The loved ones I’d hoped to reunite with kept their distance from the basest of sinners that I had become. At the end of forever, I called for help.

Nobody told me that dying hurts.

The suit’s rescue

Huge piles of rusted and pitted metal glinted dully in the mid-afternoon sun. Ancient wheeled vehicles held up the newer, though still aged, rubberless hovercraft. In the nooks and crannies left by the transports were other discarded metal pieces, with faded paint and misshapen lumps.

Down in the valley, between two mountains of metal detritus, stood two men. Both were clad in brilliant orange and yellow tear-proof safety suits, made of recycled plasticine strands. With practiced eyes, the pair scoured the scene, searching for useful pieces.

A crane overhead waited for a signal. The hovering automated machine, just bordering on awakening, quivered in anticipation.

One of the scavengers shouted, causing the other to rush to his side. Together, the men moved closer to the largest of the metal mountains. The one who shouted, his hat ringed with the double stripes of a manager, pointed to a faded maroon piece.

The younger man, a mere apprentice by his unadorned hard hat, nodded and lifted a tiny black box to his mouth. He commanded the hovering crane to maneuver into position above the articulated metal the manager wanted.

The crane obeyed immediately. The clawed arm lowered, guided by the apprentice’s words, until it dangled directly above the desired junk. The younger man glanced to his manager for approval, but found none.

The more experienced man smiled faintly and turned to take the comms device from his son. His words to the crane were succinct and rapid. The crane again obeyed, repositioning itself to a safer angle.

The two men moved away from the mound of debris and watched as the crane maneuvered a faded maroon and gold piece from the pile. The crane, heeding instructions, gingerly grasped the upright end of the thing and pulled.

The young man gasped in surprise. His father, a knowing smile on his face, watched the boy rather than the crane. An ancient hero’s iron suit was a rare prize, indeed.

The People of Gendreau

In the eternal twilight of the forest, life was simple for the earth-folk. The People, as they called themselves, communed with the other living things in the forest, from the tiny, hard-working woodmouse to the massive, lordly hawk that flew overhead and from the towering hardwoods that sheltered the people, to the delicately flowering mosses that cushioned the folk’s beds.

For thousands of years, generation upon generation, the People had lived in the Forest of Gendreau. Several clans roamed the sprawling forest, coming together only once every year. During the longest days of the snow season, every member of every clan met in the heart of Gendreau, despite the shortened days and bitter cold. In the midst of the dormant forest, life blossomed within the people. Bonds were formed and children conceived, trading and crafting boomed, and clans grew stronger within themselves and the whole.

On the last night of the gathering, while the eldest of the clans were conferring within a steam-lodge, a shrill, shrieking thunder boomed across the clearing at the heart of Gendreau. The folk, frightened out of their hide huts, gathered together, searching the darkness of the surrounding forest with questioning eyes. A young hunter, bolder than the rest, stepped away from the huddled masses and stepped toward the forest.

The elders calmed their people the best they could, but fear caused their steps and their words to falter. Snow began to fall, though it was not the pristine white that usually floated from the heavens. These flakes, though shaped as delicate lace, were tinged with crimson.

A smell, of iron and blood, washed across the crowd as the elders stumbled through. The terrified people stood frozen, waiting for reassurances that never came.

Near the forest edge, the young hunter still stood, now joined by other of his clansmen. Still more stepped forward, of other clans, but all were young and fearless. The elders consulted among themselves. The leaders of the clans moved to the hunters.

“Go,” they said, their voices strained. “Go and find out what has come to Gendreau, what has come to the People. Run quickly, remain hidden. Take no chances. Return on the winds.”

The hunters shouldered their weapons and melted into the forest.

The elders whispered among themselves. Wild speculations moved within the crush of clans, stifled with the turning of their leaders.

“The gathering ends,” the eldest of the old intoned. “But we will not disperse. The Time of Change has come.”

In shock, the people kneeled, their faces drawn and serious. After a brief blessing from the elders, the earth-folk returned to their huts. But soon enough, all the men of the People had re-emerged, holding tightly to laser-scoped assault rifles and clad in ancient polycarbonate armor.

Vat 1765-243

The machine hovered over the vat of inky liquid. Tubes and wires dangled from the dull metal of the selector, trembling with even the slightest movement of the bulky device. In the control room overlooking the chemical vats, Luther grimaced as he punched in calculations on the main control board.

“I don’t like it,” he muttered to himself, his voice echoing in his headset. The balding man stood and peered over the control board to stare down into the eerily illuminated room below. Hundreds of containers of viscous goo stood in rows on the floor beneath the control center. Each one held several specimens of a particular species.

The control room, on its metal rails, moved on, pushing the attached selector deeper into the bipedal section. The computer ran endless calculations, showing each as a line of green code, on its way to choosing the most desirable candidate. But Luther still frowned. He went over his parameters once more, certain something was missing in his formulae.

The control room shuddered to a halt. As if by free will, the selector moved, the articulated metal arm smoothly maneuvering the wire- and tube-covered metal shell into place. Luther stared open-mouthed at the section and specimen numbers on the screen, then compared them to the numbers below the selector’s main body. He shook his head and slapped the emergency stop button on his command board.

The selector responded slowly. Luther watched in horror as the selector’s tubes and wires snaked into vat 1765-243. The delay was almost too much to bear for the controller. He slammed his hand down on the faded red button twice more, willing the selector to obey.

The machine stopped, finally, the main body halfway to the surface of the inky liquid and its tubes already submerged. Never taking his eyes off the selector, he snaked out his hand and grabbed the inter-system phone handset.

Into the static, Luther harshly breathed, “Command, we have a problem. Parameters, as stated previously, have led the system to choose vat 1765-243. Please advise. Repeat, please advise.”

The static continued in Luther’s ear for several long seconds, with no response from Command. Then, a single word, the word Luther dreaded most:

“Continue.”

 

Struggle

The assembled men stood stiffly in their formations, their gazes blank and expectant. Their leader, in every way less-than-average, stood before the group, his lapel pinned with an electronic loudspeaker. His voice bellowed across the men. His exhortations did little to stir their fires, but still, he continued his incitement.

The waiting mob wore a simple uniform, navy blue and crisp, pure white, with spit-shined black boots. The blinders were leather, like the boots and belts and gloves. The light above the raised platform focused the men’s eyes. The loudspeaker promised hollow rewards while the surrounding darkness smelled of fear.

From within the deep ebony lurking behind the assemblage, a single voice cried out. A solitary syllable, refuting the vileness spewing from the platform. Quickly, it was hushed, but just as rapidly, another rose.

Those few uniformed souls nearest the back turned, their attention momentarily diverted from the words of their duly appointed master. But at an outburst from the small man, their faces flashed forward again.

In waves, voices cried out from the blackness. With each undulation of sound, a few more of the blissfully blinded army turned away from their leader. But the progress of the resistance was slow. For every soldier turned, another outburst came from the tiny leader, insisting on loyalty and faith.

The light and the dark, locked in bitter battle, neither side relenting, neither side clearly winning. For years, the struggle will endure.