A Sacrifice

For "Flash Fiction Friday"
****
I’m having a problem with God. No, not one of those theoretical problems, like, “How do we know He exists?” or “How can He be everywhere at the same time?” I’m having a Real Problem with God. Call it a Crisis.

See, God just told me to kill my son. Yeah. Now, that’s a problem.

I had the kid at a pretty late age. I mean, the old lady had the kid, not me. God still hasn’t pulled that off—the final trick—a man having a baby. I’m pretty sure there’s a movie out there about it, though.

See, the old lady and I have been pretty decent people for a long, long time. We’re really quite old. And we asked God repeatedly for a kid, but He just wouldn’t get back to us on that. I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t empty His voicemail, or some angel forgot to deliver the messages. In any case, it was a long time before we heard back from Him.

I distinctly remember the conversation, though.

Me: “God? Hey, you there? Pick up if you’re there!”
God: “What now?”
Me: “Yeah, we put in a request like, I don’t know, fifty years ago for a kid, and we still haven’t heard anything back.”
(Shuffling of papers in the background).
God: “Oh, yeah, here it is. It got lost in a stack.”
Me: “Well, you know…can I get a response?”
God: “You still listening to my broadcasts?”
Me: “Weekly.”
God: “Good. I like it. Sure, kiddo, knock yourself out!”
Click. The phone went dead and then, from the bathroom, my wife started crying.

“You won’t believe what just happened to me in there!” she screamed.
“I’d probably believe it,” I said, “but I don’t really want to know the details.”
Well, you guessed it. She turned up pregnant. We were really pleased.

And then: the reality set in.

Here’s my wife, seventy years old or something, going through pregnancy. She throws up in the morning and dislodges teeth. She craves prunes and Metamucil. Her bones hurt constantly with the osteoporosis, and the kid is sucking her dry of any nutrients. She takes vitamins, but they’re only for seniors, so now she takes Flintstones vitamins, too, and complains how they hurt her cavities. It’s at this point that I began to see how this whole idea was pretty lame-brained. I mean, my wife is miserable! So, I’m miserable, too.

“Call him,” my wife gasps at me one morning between heaves.
“Call who?”
“HIM!” and she points to the ceiling.
“Yeah, and say what?” I ask.
“Just tell Him I’m miserable,” she said, ducking back to the toilet again.
“Well, honey, there are a lot of people in the world who are miserable. I mean, you certainly are not the first woman to go through a pregnancy, and after all, it IS kind of your lot in life…” I was interrupted by the screaming.
“If you don’t call Him right now, I promise you the rest of your life will be nothing short of misery, old man.”
I looked around innocently. My eyes found an old crayon that I used to write parables with. My wife had put it in a cup besides a stack of papyrus papers. I picked it up and fingered it, saying, “I had no idea that’s where that goes.”
“CALL HIM NOW!” She was near an apoplectic fit.
“I’m on it.” I went outside.

“God? Hey, you there?”
No response.
“Hey, uh, God? God? Can you hear me now?”
“WHAT?” He asked. He sounded peeved.
“Oo, sorry, didn’t mean to bother You. What are You doin’?”
“Painting the ceiling.”
“You’re painting the ceiling? Isn’t that what the angels are for?” I asked.
“Turns out it’s not in their contract.” He said, sounding agitated.
“Contract?” I asked.
“Yeah, you know who most of them are contracted with, right?” He asked.
“No! You can’t mean-Satan?”
“Worse. Teamsters. These guys got by-laws that get them out of all sorts of work. So I’m stuck painting the ceiling. You called just when I was at the top of the ladder.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about that, God. Hey, wait a minute. I thought you were able to be everywhere at once!”
“Can we not get into that right now? What do you need?” He sounded annoyed again.
“It’s the old lady. Turns out this pregnancy is pretty tough on her, you know, being so old.” I said. In the background I heard the wife say something about ‘not being all that old’.
“Well, you know, you DID ask for the pregnancy.” God said.
“Yeah, but, I mean, I didn’t know it was going to be this miserable!”
“Well, it’s nice to hear you empathize with your wife,”
“No, I mean, miserable for me!” I said emphatically.
There was silence.
“But of course I love her, and hate to see her so ill all the time, and just want to be a good provider, O Great One, and make sure my family is well provided for, so I beg for your Mercy, O Lord of All, O Great Benefactor of…”
“Okay, shut it. Shut it. I’m on it. Problem solved. Look, I gotta run. There’s paint dripping on my shoe.” God said, and then hung up.

I went back inside.
“Nicely done,” said the wife. I thought she was being sarcastic, but for once, she wasn’t. Because there in her arms lay the most perfect, rosy-cheeked little baby I had ever seen. My son was born, and was healthy and beautiful, and my wife and I lay back in the glow of God’s greatness and smiled with affection and tender love upon the gift from Heaven, the little angel…and all was peaceful.
For five minutes.
Then, the kid started to cry.

So there was that whole ‘parenting’ thing we had to go through, my wife and I. Many times, I was on the helpline to God, but He had gone to an automated voice recognition system at that point, and I kept getting directed to India for help. Here’s an idea of THOSE conversations.
Me: “Hello?”
Yogi: “Please hold. I am currently trying to reach Nirvana.”
(Musak)
Me: pushing zero several times to get to the operator.
Yogi: “You persist much. Tell me, what is the nature of your question?”
Me: “The damn kid doesn’t get fractions. I tell him ‘Go get a fourth of a pound of lamb from the freezer’ and he just looks at me. So, I do the whole apple routine. ‘If you’ve got two halves of an apple, you have one apple. If you have four quarters of an apple, you have an apple.’ There’s just no getting through to him.”
Yogi: “Yeah, I can’t help much in that department. We’re on a different measurement system over here.”
Click.

But we managed to get by, and the little squirt wound up being pretty well-loved and nurtured.

Yesterday was his thirteenth birthday. We slaughtered a kid for him (no, not the neighborhood bully—I meant a kid goat). We put a bright red balloon on a string around his neck, to signify his importance. Of course, he almost choked himself on it, so we tied it around a chair. We had some of his little hooligan friends invited for a big party. I hired some troubadours for entertainment who only asked for wine as payment. I mean, I had done pretty well on expenses and the wife was happy and the kid was really thrilled.

So, an hour before the party started, I get this message while out feeding the sheep. It’s Him.

God: “Hey, you.”
Me: “Well, hey there, Stranger! Long time no hear from!”
Silence. Then, “I’d appreciate it if you spoke in a manner that expresses respect for Me.”
Me: “Um, sorry. Your Humble Servant doth verily apologize, O Great Master. What can I doest for Thou?”
God: “Better. Tomorrow, take your kid up to Mount Moriah and kill him for Me. It’s a sacrifice.”
Me: “Huh?”
God: “You heard Me. I need you to do this. The angels are demanding better terms in order to keep working for Me, and I’ve got to satiate them with the blood of a human boy, preferably a well-behaved one. That way, they can’t say I only stick it to them.”
Me: “Huh?”
God: “I know, it’s a trouble. I guess I now know what the Collections department must feel like when placing calls. But I need you to do this for Me. Okay?”
Me: “How am I going to explain this to the wife?”
God: “Easy. Don’t. Sins of commission are better than sins of omission.”
The line went dead.

So, you see my crisis, right?

I just went and gathered my son. He was busy playing with some new action figures.
“Look, Dad! This is how we stomp the Philistines!” he cried as he stomped all over some green army men.
“Uh huh. Look, kid, we gotta take a walk.”
“Where to, Dad?”
“Uh. It’s a secret. Like a mission. Or something.”
“Like a mission from God?” My son really liked parables.
“Yeah, kinda.” I said.
We’ve begun walking at this point. The evening is cool, and the sky is layered in all sorts of panoramic colors. The air is whispering of much-needed rain.

“Hey, Dad.” My son says.
“What’s up, buddy?”
“It sure is nice out, huh? And I had such a good birthday, and next week is the Bah Mitzvah, and maybe I’ll get some money…”
“Son, maybe we should just be happy for the time we have. Right now. Together,” I say.
“Oh, yeah, totally. Hey, are we climbing up this mountain?”
“Yeah, thought I’d work my muscles some.”
“Dad, you’re like ancient. You should so not be doing this. Here, lean on me while we walk.”
This makes me want to cry, so I slow down some. Now, night is setting in. We walk further up the mountain, and the first drops of rain hit our cheeks. The rain is ice cold, and it stings. I try to protect my son with my arm, but he pushes that away so that I can lean on him for support.

“Kid, I’m supposed to be protecting you, not the other way around,” I say.
“Well, I guess God would say we both have to take care of each other, right? I mean, He doesn’t talk to me the way he talks to you, but I guess that’s what I think.” My son wrapped an arm around my waist. I want to tell him that’s not God’s plan at all; apparently, God likes to torture us and not answer our prayers and totally disregard humans, and when He’s not ignoring us, He’s making us do really downright bad things. Like killing our kids for sacrifice. I keep silent on the topic.

We come to a ledge.
“Isaac, stop. Lemme sit here for a moment,” I instruct. I sit down and take a deep breath. I feel the cold blade of my knife under my robe, and imagine spilling my child’s blood for God. I’m shaking.
“Dad? Are you okay? You know, it’s pretty dark up here, and I’m soaked. Maybe we need to go home.”
“Listen, son. There’s something…well,” I stall, because this is so hard. I brush tears from my eyes.
“I haven’t always told you that I love you. That’s because I’m old, and cranky, and think most of the time, you take up too much energy. But the fact is, kid, I love you a lot. You are God’s gift to your mother and I. You are as precious to us as all the gold in the world,” I say tearfully.
My son moves closer to me, in order to comfort me. He embraces me, and as he does, I place my hands firmly on his shoulders, keeping him from moving. He goes soft, trusting, not understanding his life is in danger. I turn him around gently, then, I swiftly drop him to his knees as I pull the blade from beneath my robe and place it at his throat.
“Father!” he is screaming. Lightening cracks down the black mountain, and a voice comes through, loud and clear.
“ABRAHAM,” God says.
“What now? Huh? What do you want? I’m in the middle of killing my son for you here. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT NOW?” Rage is shaking my voice. My hands can’t seem to steady themselves.
“ABRAHAM. LET THE CHILD GO. YOU HAVE PASSED THE TEST.” God is speaking in a movie star voice, deep and powerful.
“What test?” I say, dropping the blade as Isaac stumbles away from me.
“I DID SEEKETH YOUR FAITH. I WANTED TO KNOW IF YOU TRULY LOVED ME. IT SEEMS YOU DO.”
“Well, no crap, God! Of course I love you! I mean, not like THAT, but, you know, I love you!”
“GOOD. I AM PLEASED. I HAVE TRULY CHOSEN THE FATHER OF ISRAEL, AND OF THE JEWS, AND OF THE TRIBES. BLESSED ART THOU, AND BLESSED BE YOUR SON, ISAAC, FOR HE SHALL CARRY ON THE BLOODLINE OF THE LORD.”
Isaac clamps his hands over his ears.
“Yeah, okay, thanks God. Can you stop with the dramatics? I’ve got a frightened kid, here, you know,” I say.
The lightening and rain cease. Isaac stands up and looks at me doubtfully. I shrug with an apologetic face, mouthing the words, ‘He’s crazy!’, as I point upwards.
“I saw that,” God says.
“Sorry, God,” I say.
“I know I don’t always make sense. But I promise you this: I’m always going to take care of you. Even when you doubt me and curse me, but then suck up to me to get back in my good graces. I’m going to help you. I may give you tough things to do, but only because I know you’ll succeed. I promise you, it’s all going to work out,” God says in a
kind tone.
“Dad, can we go home?” My son, forgiving, comes and wraps his arms around my frail waist. We begin to descend the mountain. Halfway down, we hear God again.

“Oh, Abraham?” God asks.
“Yes, Lord,” I respond.
“In forty minutes or so, can you bring some of that fried goat left over from the party?”
“Can’t you just come to the house?” I ask.
“Well, see, I just started this really good book. It’s on Oprah’s book club, and I’m coming up on the juicy part, and it’s so nice up here on the mountain…” God explains.
Isaac tugs on my robe.
“I’ll bring it back, Dad. I have a feeling that God and I have a lot to talk about. Like where babies come from. And how can God be everywhere all at once? You know, kid stuff.”
I smile at my son charitably. Of course the kid can walk up this damn mountain again. I’m going home and having the old lady rub some balm into my joints, because I’m an old, old man. I’m the Father of Israel.

Devoveo Ad Mare

The Captain pulled the wool coat close about his throat and stared hard to port.

The sea was roaring, she was, angrier than any harpy, any Charybdis. The Captain scowled.
Although young for a Captain, he had already adapted the look of a weathered seaman, used to barking out orders and having few friends on deck.

The Captain saw the waves swallow the tiny boat in the distance. He saw the arms and legs of men waving in desperation, flags hung upside down in distress. But his vessel could not bear the storm. He could not tack in this wind; it would be too much for he and the skipper to handle alone. The skipper was worthless, at this moment. Skipper was a huddled mass of quivery flesh, weeping in the galley, crying against the cold saltwater pouring in through the deck.

The Captain remained alone on the bridge, scowling at the tiny boat as it was flipped over and deposited the men to the high, gray waves and white capped vices. The men were fifteen in number, just enough to man a small vessel like the Captain's "Muse", just enough to fit into the one lifeboat the Muse carried.

The Captain had tied the rudder to stay the course through the storm, but put anchor down. It was not much help, as the seas were rough and hungry for life. The Muse rocked to and fro with each fervored hurtle from the water. The lines, battered and beginning to fray, were just holding in place. The boom was shuddering.

The Captain slid his way to the cabin, and practically swam down the stairs as the water rushed in. He could see the skipper in the galley, and made his way to him. As expected, Skipper had weakly lashed himself to the mast stem for fear of being washed out of the cabin--a foolish thing to do, indeed, for it the Muse went under, the Skipper would have no hope of escape.

"What's this, then, Skipper? Stop being a yellow-belly and get on deck with me!" Captain barked through the wet wool jacket.
"Captain, please! Untie me!" Skipper begged.
"You fool!" barked Captain. "You got yourself into this mess of rope, you blimey dunce! Now I have to cut you out!" And the Captain took his blade and cut Skipper loose.
Captain turned back toward the deck, saying, "Now, Skipper! To the bridge! Alas, our mates have squandered themselves by throwing themselves to sea too early! But I declare, the Muse will outlast this storm, and any like it! No mutiny will bring this ship to rest at a watery death! Come, Skipper, advance!"

And then, the Captain felt a hard shock to his head, and his eyes saw only water as he sank to the galley floor.
****
When Captain regained consciousness, he found himself lashed to the mast on deck, and a rag stuffed into his mouth. Skipper stood at the bridge, hands grasping the rail, posture stiff. Captain made a strangled noise, and Skipper turned. Skipper came to Captain with a scowl.

"The sea is quieter, now, Captain, as you see. Perhaps your sacrifice made her so?" Skipper asked scornfully, while removing the gag from Captain's mouth.
"What is the meaning of this? Unhand me at once, you bastard!" The words came out of Captain's mouth in froth.
"Don't attempt to be incredulous, Captain!" screamed Skipper. "Don't attempt to befuddle me with idiot wiles! Damn well, you know you put those men on that little, worthless vessel and sent them to sea! You put them there at gunpoint! You sailed them into the storm in a fit of madness! Your eyes were black as hell, they were, and your voice was cruel! Those men have perished because of you, you demon! And I? I, you lashed in the galley, screaming of mutiny and the storm! I, your best friend, your comrade in all things, your only confidante! You have betrayed me in your madness, and have killed fifteen men by sending them over!"

The Captain, lashed as he was, could do naught but slowly see the scenes of ten hours past play in front of him. The pale faces of the boys as he marched them to the boat, the tears of the youngest mate, only thirteen years old. He saw himself as he had been, blackened with rage and madness, shrieking of the sea's request for blood, sermonizing to the sentenced crew of sacrifice. The sea brewed quicker as the lifeboat had been hastily set afloat, and the Skipper had cowered in fear. These things, the Captain saw as he looked at the Skipper, his closest mate, his dearest friend.

"My God...I am mad..." Captain whispered.
"Mad? You are cursed, you horrid damp soul! You are a plague to the sea! Too many years, you've sat adrift in this ocean, on the Muse, and forgotten what life is! Too many years, you've broken yourselves against storms such as this! Captain, these years have stolen your sanity!"

The winds broke hard at that moment, and the ship rocked hard to starboard. Lashed as he was, Captain saw Skipper slip against the movement, and grasp a rail, only to have his hand loosed by another great wake of waves. Captain saw Skipper rolled down deck, and pushed over board. But Captain could not assist Skipper, tied as he was. He screamed into the wind, only to have it take his voice away from Skipper. Skipper was a spot in the sea, now, growing weaker by the moment, until his flailing arms quieted, and his mouth stopped gaping open like a fish caught on a line. And then, Captain could see Skipper no more.

Now, the sea was rough and black, and the night had fallen in. The temperature was desperately cold, and Captain could no longer feel his extremities through his wool coat. Captain groaned to the sea and sky for mercy, but the sky would not listen, and the sea continued to brew. The Muse took on more water, with no one to man her, and the Captain felt the list to port. Soon, the boat was almost on its side, taking in too much, and the Captain hung parallel to the sea. And as he stared into the water, lashed to the mast, he saw the vixens of the sea calling to him, holding up their pale arms amongst their deadened green hair. Here, the sirens of the sea were calling him once again, their lithe limbs curling into waves. And as the vixens came to the Captain in a great leap of water, and broke the mast with their fury, and lashed themselves about the Captain, he grew resilient and scowled at them.

"You whores of the sea! Take me, and suck my bones dry!"

As he screamed, the sky opened up its greatest fury, and pelted the ocean with rain, while the sea swallowed the Captain into a black tunnel of wet rage, followed by the wreckage of the Muse, and digested them into the darkest cave far below the surface.

The Captain came to rest amongst a bed of rocks, and suffocated amongst the mossy tresses of sea vixens, the lank swirls of despair, and closed his eyes, and was crazed no more.

A Chip off the Old Block

I got Flashed at JJ's Blog.

Hell bent for leather and ugly as a dirt clod, Max climbed out of the sewer onto the busy parkway.

The Zybus flew overhead, and someone kindly deposited a wad of chewing gum on Max's head. Max shook his head in disgust, and ran past the Zybus Depot, blinking with advertisements posted by the Government. He didn't stop to read them. Like everyone else, he knew the ads by heart.
"Save the Earth! Stay indoors!"
"Don't Pollute your Mind! Put the book down and turn on the Telly!"

Max was running for another purpose--that is, he was running away from the Government Squad. He could still see them now, as they were three hours ago, in the detainment room.
The two male droids were sheathed in pale blue metal, and had strikingly handsome faces. The female droid (the sergeant) had a pale pink apron on over her metallic breasts. The droids had been very charming and polite when they had informed Max of the intent to kill him--humanely, of course.

"But I haven't done anything!" Max proclaimed.
"Not so, sir," said the female droid, "We've documentation of your work in the lab."
"But that's my job! I work for the Government! Dr. Astley..."
"Dr. Astley is considered a fugitive, sir. He is a ribald example of rebelliousness within the confines of the Government."
"But I've paychecks from the Government! I'm a coroner, for President's sake! I belong to the union of the world government just like you!" Max was bewildered.
"I'm sorry, sir," the female droid continued, "that you were disillusioned about your work. That does not excuse you from performing immoral and degrading acts upon the bodies of the Government!"
One of the male droids slammed his hand upon the table.

Apparently, much to Max's benefit, the Government had another power failure that so recently plagued the world. All droids, being attached to the power source by remote location, shut down. At this point, while the three droids were drained of power, Max jumped from the seat, ran to the door, and escaped. He'd like to think he was incredibly clever about the whole thing. He wasn't. Simply, the entire building had lost power functions and no one noticed a slightly balding twenty five year old dashing out of the building and onto the Parkway. As Max ran, he thought about the 'immoral and degrading' acts he had so recently committed against the dead bodies piled at the Government interment Center.

He and Dr. Astley had been working round the clock to discover what was killing off so many individuals in the city. A plague like this had not been experienced since five hundred years ago. The Government doctors were unable to diagnose the causes, as doctors no longer really diagnosed anyone. Doctors simply dispensed pills to lengthen or shorten life. Nutrition was amply provided by Government Vitamins, and citizens decided the length of their life, generally provided on the lottery they were assigned upon birth. But the dead! Max had determined the dead were all over the age of 35, but not by much, and all had a small flap placed in the frontal lobe of the brain, where a tiny chip of some type had been placed.

Dr. Astley and Max had determined that somebody was heartlessly placing termination chips into the brains of the victims. The victims were of no certain pattern. Other than being around 35, the dead were women, men, black, asian, white, poor, rich. There was no denomination among them! It was perplexing. But the work was approved by the Government! Wasn't it...?

Max had run from the precinct on the parkway and had found the old sewer tunnel. Of course, it was not in use, as the Government had found an ecological method to remove waste (it had much to do with dehydration and small packs of aluminum shuttled to space), so Max found himself quite alone in the sewers. But as he trundled blindly along the passages, he found his locater government card was beeping urgently. Max was ready to ditch the card, but as he pulled it out of his pocket, he saw a ghastly sight on the small screen. It was Dr. Astley, trying to contact him! Max fingered the 'call' button, and placed the transmission through.

"Dr. Astley! Are you all right?" Max cried into the card.
"Max! You must come immediately! I've discovered it all! The plague..all of it!" Dr. Astley was frantically whispering.
"Yes, then! I'll come to the lab!" Max replied.
"No, no! Not the lab! Go to the Leatherface Saloon, by the Zybus Depot! I'm in the back, hiding!"
The transmission was cut short.

So, here Max came, climbing out of the sewer and by the Zybus Depot, running blindly into a darkened alley where he was directed by the locater card. He found the Leatherface Saloon by its ghastly sign depicting an old character from a movie, holding a blade of some type. Max stumbled into the dingy bar, shocked at its antiquity. He saw about him ancient serving taps for ale, and a telly predating the Government's reign. The barkeeper, a squat man with a patch, looked at Max and nodded toward the door behind the bar. Max dashed through the door, and there, he found Dr. Astley.

Dr. Astley was sitting behind a desk, with papers and ledgers spread out before him. His old hands were still and quiet. It seemed Dr. Astley was quite collected. While Max was observing this, seven droids stepped out from the shadows of the room and surrounded Max. Max gasped in surprise as he was shoved down in a chair before Dr. Astley.

"What the devil is going on?" cried Max.
"Tsk tsk, dear boy. You musn't fuss," said Dr. Astley. "I felt it necessary to bring certain events to light before your termination!"
"Dr. Astley! I do not understand!"
"Ah, poor Max," said Dr. Astley as he stood up, "You have the true brain of a scientist. So eager to discover! So foolish to believe the discovery will not lead to consequence!" Dr. Astley stepped into a darkened corner, and turned on a light. In the corner of the room, on a palette, lay a corpse, covered with a sheet.
"Come, come, Max. Come have us a looksee!" Dr. Astley directed. The droid behind Max shoved him in the shoulder. Max stood and joined Dr. Astley at the palette. Dr. Astley uncovered the corpse, showing it completely dissected with the facial skin pulled down and the cranium sawed open. The brain was exposed, and therein lay a tiny chip.

"My dear boy, you stumbled upon the Government's newest and greatest invention! While you pilfered away, diagnosing and determining death, I had to contact the Government and inform them of your great skills of deduction." Here, Dr. Astley took a scalpel, and delicately removed the chip from the corpse.
"You see, Max, this recent plague of illness, this recent surge in the death toll, is due to this little contraption. You came to the conclusion that the chip was a termination chip, like those seen in old computers. You were wrong. It was not a termination chip." Dr. Astley glared at Max with clouded eyes.

"Why, Max, would you think a computer chip could kill a human?" Dr. Astley asked.
"But it's been done! We've seen the exercises on the champs. A chip is placed neatly beneath the skin, preferably in tissue, and it rearranges electrical impulses throughout the body, thereby killing!" Max was sweating.
"But why so sudden, dear boy, would we see it happen on humans, without warning?" Dr. Astley queried.
"Well, I certainly don't know, sir! I'm merely a coroner!"
"Foolish boy. The termination chips have been used for years on humans, yes, but all at once? No, no. Tut tut! The Government is smarter than that. We clean out riff-raff in a much more discreet manner, and never place the chips in such an obvious way. No, Max," and here Dr. Astley sighed, "what you discovered was something completely different. You see, a number of years ago, our droids began...feeling things, yes? They began thinking, and functioning independently. The droids began to feel emotion. Some of the droids discarded their blues and pinks for street clothes. They mingled with humans in bars and nightclubs. And through some glitch in evolution, they mated with humans."

"What?" cried Max.

"Yes! Quite the problem! The Government was nonplussed, but thought the offspring, if able to survive, should be monitored before extinguished. Perhaps, something good could come of it! Meanwhile, the droids behaving this way were terminated, and the human parents were left to wonder their partners' disappearances. So, these individuals were tracked, this half-breed of human and droid. They functioned quite well, with adequate socialization and general human characteristics. But there was a problem. Most of the individuals began to...question the Government more than any human had. It seemed they were capable of understanding both droid and human aspects. In short, they were a threat to our society, our way of life."

Dr. Astley fingered the scalpel, watching the light glint off the steel.

"We knew someone would find out. Someone would be observant enough to discover the chip, a mutation in these half-breeds. And soon, someone would see the Government had short circuited each chip through the Power Source...hence, the recent failures of power."

Max grew aware of the droids circling in closer around him.

"What we didn't know, dear Max, is that there are thousands of these creatures, all roughly the same age, all roughly the same intellect, and all roaming about our fair World, thinking un-Presidently things. And what we didn't count on, dear Max, is that one of their own would discover the deaths."

A droid grabbed Max and threw him to the floor. He was pinned by droid hands; his head was restrained and a droid drew back his eyelids, so that he might see the dreaded Dr. Astley coming closer.

"It was the leathery skin, dear Max, that gave you away. So tough compared to mine. So durable. It's such a shame that we lost such a great scientist."

And as Dr. Astley plunged the scalpel into Max's eye, and tore through his brain, Max remembered his father, a solid man with strange mannerisms, a man of calculating knowledge and leaden features. While Dr. Astley located the chip embedded through evolution in Max's brain and plucked it out, Max understood, finally, why his father had disappeared so suddenly. And as Max slowly died, the lights of the Government World dimmed, and then, went out completely.

A Wooden Heart

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
The holy tree is growing there.
From joy the holy branches start
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
-The Two Trees
William Butler Yeats

The boy had not dreamt in weeks. The doctors told his aunt the boy suffered trauma, stress, and behavioral changes. The boy overheard the doctors when Aunt Lynn came to retrieve him from hospital. The boy did not think he was suffering from any behavioral changes. He just didn’t dream, anymore.

London: 1946.

The boy’s name is Daniel. He lives in an old brownstone with his Mum and Da and Nanny, Cook, and Butler. The furniture has been sold. The great pieces of mahogany were pushed out the door, sold to an Indian gentleman three streets over. Da’s bank had dried up since the Nazis began the air raids, and Mum and Da had to sell a great many things to buy milk, bread, cheese, meat. Nanny, Cook, and Butler stay on because (they told the boy) the Old Country is worse off than England. Daniel does not think of the Nazis anymore than he thinks of Prussia, or China, or Japan. He has heard about the camps in Japan, but when he hears the word ‘camp’ he thinks of a great safari in deepest Africa.

He is thinking of elephants when the sirens ring again. Nanny bustles Daniel out of bed, cooing in Gaelic. She takes Daniel up in her arms and runs down the stairs. Daniel looks for his parents; Mum and Da’s bedroom is empty.
“Where is Mummy?” Daniel cries. The windows are shaking, the sirens are screaming. ”Where is Da?” Daniel screams as Nanny runs outside, to the street, toward the shelter.
Daniel looks back and sees Blackie, the cat, in the windowsill.
“Blackie!” Daniel is screaming, the sight of his pet cat sending him into a panic. He kicks and dislodges himself from Nanny. He drops to the ground and charges back to the brownstone. Nanny is on the street, screaming for Daniel when the mortar shells drop down. Daniel is launched into bushes, his little frame writhing. When the great boom has cleared his ears, he sits up. Nanny is gone. Her left shoe is on the street. That is all.
Daniel whimpers, and goes back into the house. He grabs Blackie by the scruff of the neck and hunkers in the corner of the dining room.

He is an orphan, now. His Mum and Da had been at the church while he slept. They had gone there to pray together. The church was hit harder than Nanny had been. Butler is gone. Cook is gone. Daniel and Blackie remain in the darkness of the house, not knowing his mum and da were dead. Daniel and the cat sat for one day, huddled in the shadows. Daniel clenches Blackie to his throat the entire time. He wets himself, to afraid to go to the loo. The soldiers come and search the homes.

“ ‘Allo? Anyone here?” cries a soldier. Blackie squeaks. “Mew!”
The soldier follows the cat cries and finds Daniel. Daniel cannot move. The soldier picks Daniel up and takes him to hospital. Blackie escapes. Now, Daniel is alone in hospital with the doctors until Aunt Lynn comes. Aunt Lynn is Mum’s sister. She is dressed in wool. Everything about Aunt Lynn is scratchy and dominant. Aunt Lynn hoists Daniel to his feet.

“There, there,” Aunt Lynn says. Daniel is weeping.
On the boat to Ireland, Daniel looks over the rail and sees the North Sea, belching great white capped waves. The sea is gray and lonesome. The boat rocks to and fro and Daniel clutches the rail, white knuckled fear. Aunt Lynn finds Daniel on the slippery deck and whisks him to the cabin. She sets him on her scratchy lap and places her two great arms about him.

When Daniel and Aunt Lynn reach Cork, he looks about her cottage in wonder. It is warm and cheery and bright—not scratchy at all. And there are cats all about. Daniel sinks into the straw mattress and sleeps, but still, he does not dream.

Outside of Aunt Lynn’s cottage grows a great tree with a wide hollow in its trunk. Daniel has found this tree mysterious and inviting. Aunt Lynn gives Daniel chores and lessons, and Daniel is obedient. He goes to church with her, and sits still as a dormouse. Daniel accompanies Aunt Lynn to town and tea with her lady friends. But when they return to the cottage, in the evening, Daniel crawls into the trunk and finds the heartbeat of the great tree. Here, he can dream, and he dreams of the brownstone in London, and his mum’s footsteps, and Blackie’s yellow eyes. Daniel speaks quietly in the tree, and sings to himself. Only in the tree are the screams of the sirens silenced.

Aunt Lynn finds Daniel in the tree one morning. He is curled into a ball, a smile upon his face, his still hand curled against his pale cheek. And before the ghost of Daniel leaves, she sees spots of color on his flesh—the color of youth, of happiness, of joy. Aunt Lynn weeps for the boy, for he passed in such a relenting way, such a quiet way. And for just one moment, Aunt Lynn hears the heartbeat of the tree--a steady, ponderous beating, thumping nourishment to its green leaves, to its long limbs.

The Last Supper

Lindsay stared at her plate. The waiter was smirking, his hands tucked behind his back.
“What IS this?” Lindsay asked.
“Your salad, miss.” The waiter was wearing one of those snobby server aprons. It was white and stainless and looked ironed.

“No, there’s a misunderstanding,” said Lindsay, “I ordered the house salad.”
“This IS the house salad, miss,” the waiter said, condescendingly. “It’s the arugula con scallops especial.” The waiter stalked off to harass another customer.

Lindsay picked through the fountain-like stack of fish on her plate.

“What the hell happened to this place?” Lindsay asked Sam.
“What? It’s classy, honey. It’s totally hot.” Sam was looking at his Cartier watch while shoveling some kind of tuna burger in his mouth.
“Shut up.” Lindsay tried a taste of the salad. She spit out some of the carrot shavings.
“Oh, Lindsay, please! Don’t spit in public!”
“Fuck you, Sam. We’re breaking up. That’s why you dragged me here. Isn’t it? The last straw! The final slap of humiliation! You’re taking your hick girlfriend to some upscale Manhattan restaurant to humiliate me and then break up with me!” Lindsay started pushing scallops all over the twelve inch plate, decimating the six-inch-tall stack of food.

“Hon, it’s our anniversary.” Sam was patronizing.
“I KNOW it’s our anniversary. You do this to me on purpose! You’re trying to poison me with this yuppie food! I just wanted a freakin’ burger. You know, beef? A patty, slightly rounded? On a bun? With lettuce, not some weird weed grown in the South of France? Jesus. I can’t wait for the main course. No, really, Sam, I can’t wait.” Lindsay was steaming.

Sam smiled at a nearby table of onlookers. He mouthed, “Withdrawals” to the table. The onlookers raised their eyebrows in understanding and went back to their conversation.
Lindsay saw the whole exchange.

“Excuse me!” she yelled to the table of onlookers. “Hey! Hello…yeah, you, people. I am NOT going through withdrawals. This man is trying to kill me. He’s dumping me and killing me on our anniversary! When I wind up dead in a dumpster outside of Radio City Hall tomorrow and you see my mug in the New York Times if they still post that kind of thing, well, yeah, you’ll be sorry you believed him. I don’t have a problem with withdrawals. I firmly believe in staying ON my drug of choice, thank you very much.”

The waiter approached with the main course, presumably. He whisked the salad plates away.

“Hey, I was eating that!” Lindsay cried.
The waiter made no reply and slapped the plate down in front of her. Lindsay took a moment to look at this new insult called a meal.

“I ordered a chicken breast.” Lindsay said.
“It is a chicken breast…marinated in the finest sunflower oil and brushed with wheat germ. It is then sliced to perfection and wrapped around baby pickles. The whole affair is then made a soufflé with some squash and toothpicks.” Now the waiter was just mocking her.
Sam smiled behind one manicured hand.

Lindsay grabbed the waiter by his collar and yanked his face eye-level. Now, all of the patrons were observing Lindsay.

“Listen, you scum of all servers, you trial of all mankind, you filth from the homeless man’s rags, don’t EVER humiliate me again. Now, tell me something,” (and she shook the waiter a little, so that his eyes watered), “Tell me what you had for dinner tonight.”

The waiter swallowed nervously. Clearly, he was dealing with a psychiatric patient.

“I had a bowl of macaroni and cheese and a ham sandwich,” the waiter squeaked.
“Oh, really? Well, that sounds nice. Yes! That sounds perfectly reasonable! What a nice, wholesome dinner! What a pleasant thing to dig into! My! I certainly would LOVE a bowl of macaroni and cheese and a ham sandwich! Maybe you should march right back into that kitchen and prepare something like that for me!” Lindsay let go of the now whimpering waiter and sighed heavily. The waiter limped away, head down.

Sam said, “Remember the Sesame Street character who went to the restaurant and Grover was always the waiter? And how Grover kept messing up the order? And how, eventually, the customer would get so angry he would leave or go into the kitchen and yell at the chef? Think about that for awhile.”

“Don’t make light of this! Don’t do it! This happens every time I go out with you. EVERY TIME! You’re plotting my death, is what it is, you fiend.” Lindsay was screeching.

The waiter returned with a B.L.T. and a bowl of chicken noodle soup.
“How’s this, ma’am?” His entire demeanor had changed.

Lindsay looked at the food set before her and smiled, just a little.
“Now THIS,” she proclaimed, “is REAL food.” And she dug in, without another word.

As Sam and Lindsay were leaving, the waiter pulled Sam aside.
“Sir, what will the review read?” the waiter asked.

“My wife does not affect my review material,” Sam replied. “You’ll see the review in the paper.”

The next morning, while eating dry toast and nursing his pride, the waiter found the review in the Metro section. He was found later in the week, hanging purple from a ceiling fan.

A Ship Without a Rudder

If only I had been able to retrieve the Ark of the Covenant before that awful flood.

Look, I know what the Pharisees have told you. I'm sure you've heard them in the town center or at the well. They'll stand there and wave their arms around and look like snake charmers without the turbans. They'll tell you all about the Laws and the Prophets and the Ark of the Covenant.

If you are the common illiterate Aramaic, you'll ask commonsense questions, like, "How do we know you're telling the truth about what the Laws say?" and "Where is this Ark of the Covenant?" And the Pharisees will condemn you to live as a village idiot or make you shovel sand for some silly king, or some such nonsense. More importantly, they'll bitch at you about Moses.

"Moses went to the mountain and brought down the Ten Commandments! But the Jews were so devious that Moses threw the great tablets on the ground and they cracked! Now, the sight of these tablets are so powerful, normal peons like yourself would go blind and insane if you saw them! We've protected them! We've gathered them and placed them in a sacred place! The Ark is holy! Just believe what we tell you and put some coins in the box at Temple."

Lemmee tell you. Moses did NOT find those damn rocks; I did. I built the boat, I put the animals on it, I put up with my wife and in-laws for forty days and nights, and I saved humanity. Those damn rock tablets came tied on the back of an Asian elephant (the one with the small ears). The elephant had trekked all the way from China or someplace with her mate. By the time they got to the boat, the elephant was cranky and tired. We got some chimps to untie the tablets, but you know monkeys. They're just plain clumsy. By the time the elephant got on the damn boat, the tablets had slipped and fallen on the deck. They cracked, all right? Plus, they plummeted right through the deck into the cabin...right in with the penguins. I promise you, those were some unhappy flightless birds. Yahweh really gave them a shit deal. Can't fly, only hang out in the cold, very unimaginative dress. Yeah, you can imagine. Well, those two penguins are down there in the cabin and BAM! here come two big tablets.

Then, Shem, the black dude, gets all frantic. "Dad! Those rocks are gonna send the weight limit over! Look, we're working with some pretty intense measurements. The Big Guy said," Shem drew out the blueprints, " 'Make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without with pitch. And this is the fashion which thou shalt make it of: The length of the ark shall be three hundred cubits, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty cubits. A window shalt thou make to the ark, and in a cubit shalt thou finish it above; and the door of the ark shalt thou set in the side thereof; with lower, second, and third stories shalt thou make it.' Those stone tablets are gonna throw the dimensions off by 3.1456648789521256789432466614588751's of a cubit. We gotta lose 'em!"

(By the way, whoever started that crap rumor about black dudes only being good at basketball was SO off the mark...Shem whoops my ass on the court AND at calculus...)

So, the tablets got put in another box made of gopher wood and thrown overboard. They sunk. So began the concept of concrete shoes.

anyway, you know the story. We float around in the stinking mess of two million plus species and mates, miserable and/or drunk, until the damn dove got the olive branch and brought it back. We ended up in Hawaii, which was fine until the volcanoes started going off. Pretty soon, the Earth looked less like a dirty toilet bowl and more the way it SHOULD...with trees and fluffy little clouds and happy animals and all that Hallmark shit...

Don't you know those damn tablets washed up in Mesopotamia? MESOPOTAMIA! The country sounds like a damn dinosaur! Then, they got to Mount Sinai by way of confused camel, and here comes Moses, walkin' around with them like HE discovered them first. Buncha crap--don't believe a word of it!

Now, I know you're asking, "Why should we believe Noah over Moses?" Well, I'll tell you why. First of all, I actually MADE it to my destination...Moses never even GOT to the Promiseland. And that whole trick with the staff that turns into a snake? Pshaw. Try fitting four million animals, one wife, three lousy kids, their wives, grandkids and a smelly dog in one ark. THAT'S the miracle, folks.

Plus, Moses died at like, what, 950? Well, I'm well over 1200 years old. That just goes to show you...they don't make 'em like they used to. Man, I'm telling you, if I had been able to keep those damn tablets on that rotten waste of gopher wood, I'd be in good shape with a decent retirement. As it is, I just have to sit around these village squares, listening to Pharisees and watching idiots confuse Asian elephants with African elephants.

Sometimes, I almost wish that boat had sunk.

Oy, I gotta go. The wife is calling for some assistance with a balm. If I knew old age was this miserable, I would have signed off centuries ago.

Symphony for Life

I was born in the rumble of the city, beneath the elevated rail, beside the gassy bus, above the bright yellow taxi cab, shrink-wrapped in checkerboard. I was born in the spring of Chicago, a crumpling between cold and hot, a defrosting of the grimy streets at dawn. I was born in a nondescript hospital room, cinder-blocked walls, a cross over the bed, a doctor, a nurse, a wailing woman. The room had a window; the woman insisted on a window. Through the grimy panes came the faded city sunlight that morn, and as Barber’s Adagio for Strings grows with strength, so did the sunlight as I emerged from the cave of fertility. I was born unto light, in the simple white linens of sanitary bedding, between the gristle bone and blood of my mother.

She heard ringing in her ears, the tonal eclipse of fifty sopranos belting out the fondest notes, the final chords of harmony as I was wrapped in cloth and brought to her breast. And the very end came for her as I lay across her chest, searching the pale light for my mother’s eyes. They closed in a bird’s eye movement, settling shut, pianissimo. Quietly, my mother died as the sun reached the highest point in heaven and I was shuttled away, a babe, just wondering, just barely wondering…where did she go? Where did that life go?

Now, I imagine she alit from the window, soaring high above the brownstones, the traffic, the messengers, the clergyman, the tired trees in metal rods, the skyscrapers, the Gold Coast, Navy Pier, Wrigley Field. She flew above and grew wings and celestial creatures beckoned, and she never looked back at me, the bundle of nothingness left behind.

She is buried near my apartment. I tell myself this is coincidence, merely. A one-bedroom at such a good cost, sublet from a symphony flutist, with crown molding (original) and claw-footed bathtub. I do not allow myself to look East to the skyline, to the grave, to the last bed of the first woman who abandoned me.

There are many women in beds who have abandoned me, but my mother was the initial cause—the alpha of disappointment, of rejection. And so, reclusive I have become, a detective of light, a miserable loner, a reed of a young man.

I spent the last few years of teenage angst in a group home for orphans. I lived with a fat Italian kid, Rich, and five black brothers (in the literal sense; their mother left them all at once on the steps of St. Mark’s Church, Evanston). The brothers’ names, from oldest to youngest: Sorrel, Johnson, Cyrus, Lyle, Nehemiah. Nehemiah, contradictorily, is the tallest of the five. Cyrus is the smartest. Lyle is the funniest. Sorrel is the leader. And Johnson was vacant-eyed slow. Johnson is no more. He died last winter; Sorrel called and informed me. He sluggishly existed until he slovenly wandered in front of a taxi-cab. He died several days later, in a slow fashion that prevailed throughout his life. The brothers four remained, clutching one another in a tight grip, a huddle, a pool of sadness for Johnson. A limb had been severed from the body. I went to the funeral and saw the brothers stand, a united front. No open casket. Flowers were few and faded; the brothers begged the chapel for gifts. Johnson was buried in simple wood. He lies not far from my mother.

Rich eats a lot; he comes over on Saturday nights and we get take-out pizza. We go from family-owned pizzeria to pizzeria, trying to deliberate.
-Is Johnny’s better?
-You can’t think so. Johnny’s fuckin’ Irish.
-I’m sayin’. I like Johnny’s.
-Take it from a wop. A wop makes a better pizza than a mick. Fuckin’ mick, he fuckin’ learned pizza from a wop. It’s a lie.
Rich still eats Johnny’s pizza. He gets mad because I’m Irish. Shocked red hair, freckles, skinny body, potato head. Rich is short and fat and squeamish about his clothes. Every oversized shirt is perfectly ironed, every expensive sneaker, wiped with damp rags.

After Rich leaves, I open the window. Somehow, the lake wind gets in here, this apartment facing the wrong way, and the breeze spins up the curtains in a lazy way, and I watch the sky, or the condensed water on my glass drip down. Entropy. I miss my mother.

The record player is old; the needle needs replacing. But my mother; she left me these few items. The record player, the needle, the albums, the vinyl. She told the nurse on that morning:
-See that he gets them.
She waved to the items in the corner. Three boxes. Maria Callas, Mozart, Bach, Barber, Handel, Strauss, Wagner (how I hate Wagner), Beethoven, Pachabel. Requiems. Misere’s. Albums and albums of Oxford Choir, Westminster. Evensongs. A whole church library of religious music. The boxes have followed me for twenty six years, each tatter a memory, each new scratch delivered an epic history. My whole life in those boxes my mother gave me.

On Sundays, I open the window wider and place the record player beneath the sill. The records spin. The children love Gershwin. The little girls twist their hips to the atonal qualities of his rhapsodies like they are dancing to hip-hop. The old men sit in the alley and smoke pipes, mumbling at the music, complaining. I know they enjoy it; otherwise, on the hottest of summer, these men would not sit on the stoops or overturned crates to hear the music and watch the children. It brings the old men joy to complain, to have the right to complain. And beneath the elevated rail, we listen to the hymns of the choirs of majesty, or the trinkles of Irish ballads. The solitary wail of the first Soprano.

I bring this world music. This is a slice of my life, just one tiny gift. When the sky opens wide its maw to swallow me as it gulped my mother, I will leave behind this legacy. Three boxes of music, of vinyl, of sacred broken needles and abandoned jazz trios.

Then, one moment, it is Sunday and the little alley is teeming with life. Next, she is there. A porcelain doll, but real and fleshed out. Her forehead is wide, her face is long, she has lashes curling over her round cheeks. What is she, Slavic? German? Asian? I can’t tell, but I see the part in her waxen black hair. It zigs simply over her crown, a river of browns and blacks and reds. There is so much depth to her bearing, I could dive from the sill into her heart. She is looking up at me now, her eyes pools of darkness, her skin the shade of paper lanterns. And now, I am home. Her adornment is simple. One thin tattoo wrapped around one ankle. One bracelet. One sheath of a dress, no pattern. Sandals. Smooth skin and the smell (I imagine) of linen and soap. Our gazes will not break; she is enthralled with my crystal blue eyes, my speckled face, my lean arms and bony shoulders. And she hears the music drifting and wafting.

The children have stopped playing and observe this springtime ritual. The little girls are impatient to grow older and have men look at their eyes in the same manner. The little boys scratch their heads and throw balls to one another. The old men have seen this before and cluck to one another. I go down the stairs, letting the music continue to play.
We meet. Simply, we duck into each other like fallout victims in shelter. This time, we promise one another, will be different.

I take her to my mother’s grave the next Sunday. I lean down to the gravestone, and plant my lips on the granite of my mother. She is still silent. But Hannah folds her hands in front of her and smiles her funny little smile.
-She is a loud ghost
-I never hear her, and I am her son
-She is loud to me. Her singing is everywhere.
-I never hear her.
Hannah sighs and looks far off; she is listening to my mother.
I am so jealous of Hannah during these times, but I trust her to convey to my mother my happiness in this new find of love.

The brothers meet us at Johnny’s. Rich comes in, jeans creased, jersey shining. Cyrus is yelling for cold beer. Nehemiah has to put his feet in the aisle as his legs are too long to fit underneath the table
-Short micks, he says.
-Shut up, I say.
Rich cusses the pizza until the owner’s wife glares at him. Rich falls silent. Sorrel says something about Johnson, how he talked to all the stray cats. We laugh and remember him. Johnson is now my mother’s new pet, I am sure. She keeps him from running into the highways of souls.
Lyle talks about politics. No one listens. Hannah lays her head on my shoulder and I see all about me, the angels of dead composers have drifted over to our table. Our music is the loudest orchestra. Our movements include all brass, wind, string, timpani.

And then, there is only Chopin, at night, during candles and Hannah’s skin. There is the shadow played on each crease of skin, each hair, each fleck of desire. Only then do I see my mother, and hear her. She is smiling, and Hannah gasps in the glow of candle. It is these tiny staccato beats I hear in her skin that I desire. It is the flap of earlobe, the crest of her nose, the smattering of moles on her chest, the aureoles of pink.

As the candle burns down, these nights, I hear the rumble of the city that birthed me, and I lay my palm on Hannah’s back, and drink in the shimmering lights glancing off the puddles in the alley. The record stops playing, and Hannah’s breathing evens.. There is only the sound of needle against groove. I am my mother’s final movement; acknowledging her presence and her absence, I lean over and kiss Hannah, and we are left with darkness and each other.

Simple Fuel

On April 27th, 1985, the day was cheery-cold and brisk.

The man went to work. He walked down the cold roads with his fellow friends. He shoved his hands in his pockets. His knuckles were bright red and chapped.
In his knapsack was a hunk of bread and cheese-supper.

The tests were to begin this day, and he worked outside the core reactor. Just outside.

The great towers that ran the cooling water up and down up and down were churning this day. It was a dangerous day, but what day is not dangerous at Chernobyl?

The man sat outside the core reactor when he got to work. He listened to the instructions. Tests were to begin. The man ate his bread and cheese at the supper bell, then listened to more instructions. He was to assist in case of emergency.

The engineer inside the head core turned the power down, down, further down. The water pumps began to cool the reactions off. The engineer was sweating heavily. He twiddled his thumbs and watched the monitors...beep beep.

One monitor grew red in hot frenzy. The water pump was failing. The water pump was failing! The engineer saw the molecules expanding in his mind's theater. The molecules wore faces of Stalin. The molecules were cruel and relentless. The molecules grew and grew and grew until there was nowhere else to go. The engineer could not turn on the pump. The control rods shook and broke. The energy released.

The engineer squawked into the radio, "Shut it down! Shut it down!"

The man with the chapped knuckles rapped on his radio, once, to make sure he heard it right. He looked at the land surrounding the plant. He looked at the land in requiem.

The reactor whirred down, but the molecules had created their own flight pattern, and now the fire came. It was a fire unlike any other. It was a boom, a cloud, and mist, an ash spray of hope. It swelled as it hit oxygen, and the molecules fired into destruction.

The man with the chapped knuckles found the engineer. He wrapped his coat about the engineer's head. Both men began to feel the searing heat of nuclear burns. It was unlike anything the man had experienced.

He remembered his grandmother singing the old songs, and talking of God when God was illegal.
He remembered his wife on their wedding night, her peasant face an explosion of joy.
He remembered the harsh winters.

The heat sears through flesh. The heat melts bone, gristle, and organ. The heat takes away the senses. The heat transfigures the body into that of a space creature-smooth, ivory, plastered.

The explosion was done. The fallout began. The firemen came from nearby villages. They only brought water. No masks. No protection suits. The firemen began to die. Next, the government sent in the liquidators. The Liquidators did not know what they were fighting. The wind blew over Europe. The government arrested the engineer.

The engineer was sentenced to fourteen years in prison. He died three weeks later.
The man's knuckles were no longer red. His knuckles had melted. His wife was not permitted to see him. The doctors treated him through plastic sheets. When the nurses came, they wore gas masks. He could not see the faces of his care-givers. He thought the whole world now wore a gas mask. The man didn't need to wear one, now, because his ears were gone. His hair was gone. His mouth was gone. His lungs had melted.

He died, enshrouded in plastic. The man thought of one thing as his skin evaporated, his breath expired.
He thought of fresh cheese and bread, and the taste of simple fuel.