Time Surge

It was a major trip, a major moment in his young life, a BIG DECISION. He was going off to start his flight training, and then, if it worked out, begin living his dream life as a commercial aircraft pilot. An unexpected bonus was that he had a girlfriend. He was a good guy, but had never defined his life through love and relationships, except those he had with his family. He knew, from talking with others, and posts and articles read on the web, he had a good family. All loved one another. Sure, there were problems, and they argued, but none of them were killers, addicts, or criminals. All of them were pretty smart. He felt like he was the dumbest. They mostly argued over politics. He and his father were more conservative than his mother and sisters. A liberal like his sisters, but not as liberal, his girlfriend easily plugged into this familial unit. They’d exchanged vows of love, and when he’d been accepted into the flight training school in Texas, she worked it into her plans so she could go with him, and continue her college education.

His planned departure was just nine days away, which was impossibly long. He felt like a kid again, waiting for Christmas morning, so he could open his presents. That was a minimalist impression, because he had all those other activities to take care of to move down there, possessions to cull and purge, good-byes to be said, an apartment to clean, a truck to pack up, and then the long drive. Two thousand plus miles, the drive would take twenty-nine hours. They were diverting to New Mexico for a two-day visit with her father, a Santa Fe artist, and then go on to Austin, Texas.

Then, then, it was suddenly just two days away, and, Jesus, he was frantic with everything that had to be done in that short period. It seemed like every little fucking thing was going wrong. His girlfriend thought she might be pregnant. He couldn’t sleep over that possibility. She’d told him without getting a kit first. Why she’d done it like that was beyond him. She said that she wanted them to do it together because she was scared, and it wasn’t something she should go through by herself. First thing when they could, they went to the stores for an EPT. It was a relief when she came up as not pregnant, but now, there was the worry about why her period was late. He loved her, and he worried about her, but he had plans and dreams, and he worried about them.

Her period began. It was late, and heavier than usual, so there wasn’t a lot of relief. She cramped with pain, and didn’t sleep with worry. Then it was the day to move, to begin the drive. Everything was miraculously done. After saying good-byes to friends, professors, neighbors and co-workers, he looked around his adopted town and said emotional farewells in his mind to the streets, trees, and buildings, as he thought about everything that had happened here. He’d met his girlfriend here. He wondered if he would ever return.

Funny, in the days leading up to his departure, it had first been impossibly slow. Every minute felt like an hour, and every day seemed like a month. Then, time had surged, accelerating like a beam of light. Every minute seemed like a nano, every hour was a second. Days? Forget it; days no longer existed.

But he’d survived the time surge. He’d survived it all. Now it was time to go. Looking down the road, he thought he could see his future, like the Emerald City from the “Wizard of Oz,” out there awaiting his arrival.

He just had to get there.

Masquerade

The day was supposed to be a Thursday. That was the word from the calendar, and sources like computers, phones, and Fitbits. Other people asked, agreed, “Yes, today is Thursday.”

He remained unconvinced. The day didn’t feel like a Thursday. It didn’t feel like any proper day. His senses and thinking couldn’t penetrate the mask the day wore to see what day was under it. It definitely wasn’t Thursday. It didn’t seem like Friday or Monday. Distinctive in their feel, he thought he would have known them. Nor did it seem like a holiday behind the mask. Each holiday had its own uniquely cultivated taste and sound. He was certain that a holiday couldn’t be completely and successfully masked against his awareness.

Could it be Sunday behind the mask? It seemed out of character for Sunday. In fact, of all the days, he would expect Thursday to be the one that would pull a prank like this and masquerade as another day. Certainly it wasn’t something Saturday would do; Saturday was too full of itself to pretend to be another day.

An odd idea came to him. He had nothing to tell him it wasn’t Thursday behind the mask. If it was, Thursday was masquerading as itself, but doing a poor job of it.

He considered why that would be, why Thursday would want to pretend it was another day masquerading as itself. Doing a poor job of it would make him distrust everything about the day.

That was it. One of the days was up to something, and the way they were going about it was inculcating distrust in all of them. He looked around the day with sharpening suspicion, wondering which day could be, and what was going to happen. Whichever day it was, it was a cruel, cruel thing the day had done. If a day couldn’t be trusted, what would be next? Gravity? Sunshine? Time? That was all that he needed now.

Looking to the future with dread, he looked to the past with doubt, and stayed wary about the present, certain something else was about to happen, and completely unprepared for what it was going to be.

Lesson Learned

He’d discovered a small stone in his sandal during his evening walk. He tried dislodging it through contortions that involved kicking. He knew he could remove the sandal and get rid of the stone. He didn’t do that. Instead, as the stone inflicted a more painful moment on a toe, he complained, “Is there anything worse than a stone in your shoe?”

“Maybe,” he replied to himself. “A hair in your soup?”

“That’s not worse.”

“Okay. A shot in the head. Getting stabbed in the heart.”

“I get your point.”

“Acid thrown on your face. Your throat slit. Being set on fire.”

“That’s enough.”

“Starving to death. Dying of thirst. Suffocating. Drowning.”

“Enough!”

He fell silent. That would teach him to talk to himself.

Life Poetry

Moving singing walking dancing choking sleeping eating

Thinking breathing hearing feeling seeing

We hunt the rhythm and listen for the chords

Trying to do the things that need done

To keep what we need

Get what we want

And strive for what we hope for

Kisses go unfelt

Words fade unspoken

Skin is left untouched

And dreams wither

But we go on

Because there’s too much time left to stop

Feline Rhapsody

Inspired by cats and “Bohemian Rhapsody,” by Queen (and sung to that melody, with the instrumentals). We pick it up about a third of the way in.

I’m just a ginger silhouetto of a cat.

Scalaboosh, scalaboosh, can we give him some kibble?

Thunderbolt and lightning,

His claws are very frightening to me.

Galileo. Galileo.

Galileo. Galileo.

His name’s not Galileo,

Is it Magnifico-ooo-oooo?

Oh, no, no, no, no, NO!

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I’m just a ginger cat, nobody loves me,

He’s just a ginger cat, from a ginger litter,

Let him sleep on the bed tonight.

 

Easy come, easy go,

Let me go back out.

You just came in,

We will not let you out.

Let me out.

We will not let you out.

Let me out.

We will not let you out.

Let me out.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO!

 

Oh, Mama Mia, Mama Mia,

Mama Mia, can I keep this cat?

You can’t keep this cat because it’ll be more work for me,

For ME,

For MEEEE!

 

So you think you can lock me inside?

So you think I won’t run around and cry?

Oh, human,

You can’t do this to me, human.

I just gotta get out,

Just gotta get right

Outta here.

 

Nothing really matters,

Anyone can see,

Nothing really matters,

I’m just a feline that you must…

Pleeease.

 

Sorry, Queen.

During the Eclipse

I don’t know if I was the first to think it. How could I know? I didn’t tell anyone what I was thinking. It was too damn crazy. There were probably others who likewise noticed, but kept it to themselves. Because, what could we do?

When I began thinking it, I don’t know. I didn’t mark the date. Like the economy, or a war, it took a few months to get a true and complete sense of what was transpiring.

It began with people telling about miraculous recoveries from cancer, and other diseases and injuries on Facebook. Those stories swept across the media as newspapers and television networks noticed. Reporters hunting the stories found bigger stories, even as hospitals and government agencies added other elements.

People weren’t dying. Gunshot and stabbing victims recovered. So did people who overdosed. Burns healed. Drowning victims took sudden new breaths, startling everyone. Diseases went into remission. Those who needed assistance from machines, nurses, caregivers, and doctors were able to push them aside, walking, chewing, and wiping their own asses, without others’ help. Memories, speech, and motor control returned. Their vision and minds sharpened.

So many thought it a miracle, a proof of some God’s love. Meanwhile, the planet’s average temperatures jumped. Hurricanes and cyclones destroyed cities, but nobody died. Glaciers melted. The sea levels rose, as did the heat, shriveling crops. America’s Midwest dried up, becoming another dust bowl. Water grew scarce and precious. Unemployment climbed, because there was less need for taking care of the sick, dying, and dead. People cried and screamed in hungry pain. Animals were killed. Fights over food and water broke out. Then came the riots.

I was sure I knew what had happened. Sometime during the cover given by the eclipse, others invaded Earth. They were wiping us out by accelerating our climate change, and keeping us alive even as we starved. It was a soft invasion. They didn’t want us dead, just weak, so they could enslave us.

Guessing that’s what was happening, I’d taken quiet actions to make things as pleasant as possible for my family in our remaining days. There was no way to kill ourselves; there was no way to die. All we could do was wait.

After eleven months, Nate Silver published results. August 21, 2017, was day zero. That was the last day anyone had died. We should all remember that date, when we meet our new masters. I’m sure they’ll introduce themselves by giving us food.

And we’ll be so grateful, we’ll do what they want.

 

His Walk

“Did you see how Marla says I walked?” he asked.

“No,” she replied.

“She was talking to you in the kitchen She said, “I knew the look, and the walk.” Then she did this weird walk. I don’t walk like that, do I?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t see what she did.”

“How would you describe my walk?”

“You walk just like your father.”

“That’s not helping. You’re basically saying that I walk like Mott the Hoople.”

“I don’t know how Mott the Hoople walks.”

He didn’t want to show her; it would only prove her point.

 

 

 

Broken Nose

“You mean you’ve never broken your nose?” the other man asked.

He looked at the guy. “What’s the big deal?”

“I don’t understand how a boy can grow up without breaking your nose. You weren’t ever punched in the nose?”

“No.”

“Wow.” Grinning, the man shook his head. “Wow.”

Which made him feel bad. Two broken necks, a digit cut off, stitches in five places, a broken ankle, and a displaced wrist, but he’d never had a broken nose.

It felt like he’d been doing something wrong.

The Connection

Thousands of small, black ants were swarming over the kitchen’s granite counter-top. Looking at his tanned forearm, he began crushing ants under his thumbs.

Yes, there was no doubt; each time he killed an ant, a black spot appeared on his arm. There seemed to be more and more ants, too.

Discounting what he was seeing, he kept killing ants. His arms blackened, and then his hands. He refused to stop even when he felt tingling on his face and an itchiness on his back and legs.

He would get rid of the little bastards.

He would win.

The Sound

He was in the bath room, fresh from the shower and reaching for a towel, when he heard the sound.

It sounded like a thump in the other room, like someone was in the house. Knowing he was home alone, he grew still and listened for it again. He’d left the windows open to bring in fresh, cold mountain air before the day became the oven in hell’s kitchen. Someone may have come through one of the windows.

The thump came again.

It was not from the other room, but from below.

He looked down, considering what he’d heard and where it emanated. For, it seemed like the sound had come from his abdomen.

Listening for it, he heard it again, like someone jumping on the floor, coming from his abdomen.

Was that normal? He’d never heard a noise like that from his body before.

He resumed drying. Growing old was a murky business. The more he aged, the less he knew his body, and the less he trusted it.

He never knew what it was going to do next.

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