There was a time, you may have heard of it, when all things were possible. Imagine a thing.
Very nice. Now imagine it was perhaps a little bigger. It's alright, you can go bigger than that. Too big, too big! I'm just kidding. What if it was purple? Sharper, more jagged? What if you could ride it? You can, of course, ride anything. Tame, is a different thing, but ride? You can ride anything. That's wonderful. That thing you just imagined? There was a time when it was possible. A billion trillion million hundred of versions of that were possible. And one more to grow on, numerically speaking. That time, when everything is possible, was too much for us to handle, or even to ride. The reason for that was time itself. You see, almost, almost, everything is possible Now. Unfortunately, not everything. Because to experience now, this moment, this word, and this one, and this one, you had to get through the words that preceded them. The moments that led up to Now. We can't perceive then, we can only have experienced then so we can possibly do things Now. We only ever see, feel, hear, taste, please stop licking the screen, what is Now. Now, there is nothing keeping you from putting this down and reading no further. Thank you for continuing on though; at least for a little bit more. Just like there is nothing keeping you from quitting your job, wandering into the woods, and complaining to the nearby stream about splinters in your teeth from your maple dinner. You can do almost anything. Right now. The tragedy is that what is available to do, right now, is limited by what led up to Now. You can't very well eat a steak with thick garlic sauce and pepper seasoning with a side of chocolate drizzled ice cream if you didn't collect those things in the previous moment. And those things wouldn't be available without a lot of farmer killing and milking and icing and driving before that. What we can do Now is trapped behind the moments behind it. We are always attaching more links to the chain, but that chain is held up by the links before it. It's very sturdy. Tug as you might, you're bound by it. Now, if we checked your eyes, and they seem to be fine, look at you reading along, top marks, working well, we might see your prescription for hind-sight and fore-sight. You see, of course you do, that hind-sight is just reviewing the chain from a different angle, at a different time of day to get different light. Some times links look especially dark, but then you take your shades off and the sun comes out and you can be quite proud of those links, holding everything together. Mighty fine work. Fore-sight is less an understanding of what is to come and more planning what links you want to make Now for the effects of the links to come. Fore-sight is knowing you wish you were eating that delicious meal right now and planning to do the things necessary to have that meal later. Almost everything is possible right Now, but we have to connect a better chain to have that now. Our moments, are precious. No two chains are exactly the same, and they often interlink with other chains, bouncing off each other and making that horrible rattling noise. Or, perhaps, it is the shuddering music of connection, something cacophonously beautiful. Regardless, the next chain doesn't have to be going to that meeting with the people that don't fulfill you. It doesn't have to be drudgingly building that gazebo. It doesn't even have to be breathing! It can be whatever you want it to be depending on what you do Now. Thank you for taking another breath. Keep doing that and you can have the strength to keep making more chain links. Not everything is possible, maddeningly close, but not everything. Most importantly though is that you can change things Now to make Soon wonderful. Jump through that window, take the leap, swing on your chain to the next great vista. You can do it! At some point, you have to.
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“Tell me a story,” she says, crossing her legs and leaning in close.
His smile catches the light of the fire they sit beside. “What kind of story would you like, my dear?” Her face scrunches up as she considers what world she would like to explore tonight. “A story of horror most foul?” He raises his hands as claws. “No, not tonight. It’s too dark out.” “A tale of perils at sea, waves crashing against men as salty as the oceans they travel?” He gazes through his hands as spyglasses. “No, it’s too cold tonight for that.” She rests her head on her hand. “A journey of love and loss, both intimate and virtuous?” He clutches his chest, feeling the pitter patter underneath. “No, my heart is full enough tonight.” “Hhhhmmmm,” he rests his head on his hands and thinks. For a moment, they sit by their fire, saying not a word, hearing only the rustle of night and the crackle of their small fire. “Have I ever told you the tale of the first fire?” She perks up, “The first fire?” “Oh yes. Fire, like everything else, didn’t always exist. It has a beginning. A first.” “But how? So much comes from fire, what could fire have come from?” Her small head tilts ever so slightly to the side. “Well, it was cold and dark, as you can imagine,” he begins. She closes her eyes, doing just that. “In the darkness, was a voice.” “Who’s voice?” “The darkness itself.” She opened her eyes. “The darkness? The darkness can speak?” “Oh, most certainly. If you listen very closely, in any dark room, any tree shadow, you can hear it. All the darkness speaks as one. Everywhere that it is, it has something to say.” “What does the darkness say?” She looked around them, surrounded by shadows and places their small fire could not reach. “Oh, all sorts of things. It reaches so far that it speaks every language there is but at the time, it reached everywhere. The darkness covered everything like a cold blanket.” A shiver slid down her back and she leaned closer to their fire. “The darkness, was, well, how best to put it; the darkness was bored.” “Bored?” “Wouldn’t you be? It covered everything, had nothing to watch or play with or do. It was, by all accounts, blocking everything fun.” “But what did the darkness say?” “It started with a sigh. An all-encompassing, long, sigh.” He heaved a long sigh, his shoulders slumping forward, his head tilting down. “This went on for some time.” He sighed again. She couldn’t help but giggle softly in the gloom. “The darkness sighed. It shook. It grumbled.” He leaned his head back in exasperation. “Until the darkness finally caught its breath and said, quite to itself, ‘More.’” “More?” She said. “Oh yes. The darkness was bored, and lonely, and could only dream that there had to be more. More than it. More than all the things it covered that it simply could not enjoy, only envelope.” She moved closer to the fire. “So, what did it do?” “It sighed, and wanted more, and ground its teeth.” “The darkness has teeth?!” “Absolutely! If it didn’t have teeth, how would the dark eat?” “The dark eats?” She was right next to the fire now. “What does the dark eat?” “Mostly dust and memories. When anything is too dirty? The darkness has most likely been feeding. Dust, after all, is just crumbs from the dark. Or when you walk into a room and can’t quite remember why you went there, especially if there isn’t any light there, the darkness was probably having a quick snack.” She covers her ears and shakes her head. “Now, now, don’t be afraid. Everything eats something. You eat, don’t you?” “Of course. I have to.” She doesn’t look up at him. “Well, then the dark isn’t so different from us. Though we do try to enjoy things a little more filling than dust. Would you like me to stop?” Her head pops up and she locks eyes with him, the fire glistening in the moisture of her gaze. “No! I want to know where the fire came from.” “Alright, alright. As I was saying, the darkness was bored.” He sighs again. “So bored that it was grinding its teeth,” he watches as she shudders, “until something popped out of the darkness’ mouth!” “Was it fire?” “Do you want me to tell it?” “Yes, but it was, wasn’t it?” “It was absolutely fire. Small, and sputtering, and smelling just a bit off it floated through the air. The darkness was blind for a moment. All it had ever seen was itself and now there was something else.” “What did the fire do?” “Well, as you can imagine,” she closed her eyes again, “the fire was rather confused. It didn’t know where it was or why, much like us at times. It had only existed for a few moments but already it had decided a few things. First, that it was quite hungry. Second, that it was too quiet, so it started to pop and crackle, which, incidentally, is the sound fire makes when it speaks, or when it hasn’t stretched in a while and its bones are particularly creaky. In this moment it was both. And third, it wanted to travel.” “Like us?” She smiled, the fire dancing across her soft face. “Just like us. You see, fire had only been around for a few short moments but within that time it decided it wanted to see the world, however, it looked around and saw only the darkness.” “What did the darkness do?” “Once it had finished rubbing its eyes it looked upon the fire in awe. It had never seen anything like it.” “It hadn’t seen anything before.” “You are paying attention. So, the darkness was awestruck. What was this thing that had emerged? And why did it hurt to stare directly into it? Before the darkness could say anything else the fire crackled, ‘Is there more?’” “What did it mean?” “Is there more? More like it, more to see, more to the world? The fire had only been alive for a very brief time and didn’t really know what it was asking itself, but it felt the same way the darkness had felt. Wasn’t there more? Shouldn’t there be more?” He leaned in, “The darkness had no answer. It had lived its whole life by itself, it didn’t know how to accommodate a guest. So, the darkness did what anyone without an answer to a question does, it answered the question with another question. The darkness asked, ‘Is there?’” “What did the fire say?” Her front was beginning to redden with the heat of the fire but her back was still soothed with the light breeze of the night. “Well, imagine you’ve been invited into someone’s home, you ask if there is any water around to be had, and the host simply asks you if there is? That would be a bit maddening, wouldn’t it?” “Oh, absolutely.” “That’s how the fire felt. Here it was, in a large void made up of the thing it had just burst from, looking for answers, and the only one around, the elder, didn’t have any. So, you know what the fire did?” “What did the fire do?” “Can you guess?” She crossed her arms in a pout, “Now you sound like the darkness.” He smiled, “She explored.” “Where?” “Where would you think? Everywhere!” He waved his arms above his head. “The fire rose above to the warmest reaches it could, it sank to the deepest depths where it made a small summer home, it traveled far as well as wide. The fire went everywhere! And everywhere it went it marveled at all the things it found.” “What did the fire find?” “Everything. You see, before the fire, the darkness had only seen itself. It got the occasional back ache or pain in its foot from things it was resting on, but it never knew what it was. It just, was. But now, the fire soared all over and found caves, delicious trees, hateful water, skittering creatures. It spit out rocks, it turned sand into glass, it destroyed and made things. All the while, the darkness was right there, behind everything the fire did. Sometimes it would take the wobbly shape of the thing the fire was looking at and sometimes it would just rest behind the fire and marvel at all the things it was finding. The darkness had no idea such things existed, right underfoot, all the time, and it had never seen any of it. The fire showed the darkness the way.” She smiled and looked at him, then looked down at the fire. For a moment, she felt like she was putting off as much heat as the fire. “Did the fire love the darkness?” “Oh yes, and the darkness loved the fire. You see, of course, without the darkness, the fire would have never come to be, but, without the fire, the darkness would have never seen the wide wonderful world it was surrounded by.” She sat in silence for a long while. Every so often she would take her eyes off the fire to gaze into the darkness all around them. Then she would look back. “I liked that story,” she finally admitted. “Thank you. Now, you know what time it is?” “Time for another story?” “Oh, so close, it’s time for bed.” “Maybe one more story?” “The only story you’ll get next will be in your dreams.” He stood up and began gathering dirt to put out the fire. “No! Can’t we keep it going a little longer? We can watch it from bed.” “You know it isn’t safe to leave the fire going like this.” He began pouring dirt on the fire in clumps, the fire dimming and sputtering. “Please! Just leave it. It’ll be okay.” Her eyes were so full, so wide. It held him. Until he put down the extinguisher and rolled out their beds. “Alright, we’ll leave it.” Her smile now was brighter than any fire in the world. They gathered their things, slipped into comfortable attire, and laid down. Surrounded by darkness, warmed by the fire, he quietly began to snore while she looked at the fire and hoped to see all the places the fire had visited, resolving to bring the fire with her so it could be reminded of how wonderful the world is. Breath deep, dear friend. Do you smell it? The night air. Cold as a mountain spring and still as death. It is, some may say, perfect. It is on a night like tonight, when the world slumbers and only the foolish or brave may wander. It is on this night, that one such wanderer is both. His name, dear friend, is Carl. Carl is a simple man of simple means and simple needs. He awakens with the sun and often slumbers with the moon; holding no allegiance to either ruler of the sky. He eats his whole grain cereal with 2% almond milk and ties his shoes twice to keep them tight as he wanders. Carl has spoken to many a bird, not begrudging them their lack of conversation in return. He collects bottle caps in a large jug, often many of the same caps repeating a sporadic spiral pattern in their respective container. Any time Carl goes to eat he tips the server generously, even in lands where it is not a common practice. Carl has been called an odd fellow, a vagabond, a nincompoop, a third-rate musician, a hangabout, a loiterer, kind, charming, well-to-do, and once, by a very careless elder lady, the cat’s pajamas. Carl has, however, never been called late for dinner. On this particularly auspicious night, Carl finds himself wandering in unknown territory, in the dark of night, his eyes wide to soak up all the glorious luminosity from the ever-endearing Moon. Carl has been wandering for several hours, his bladder filling, his heart steady, and one shoe slowly losing one of its knots. Cresting over a ridge, Carl sees it. Glistening in the night, buried in the ground, is a star. Now, Carl has heard many stories about stars falling from the sky, and expects he will hear many more, but this is the first time he has come across such a phenomenon himself. Having never seen a star so close before in his life, how does he know that it is, indeed a star, you ask? That is simple, my astute friend, because within the fresh crater expanding out before him lays the shape of a curvaceously beautiful woman whose skin is brighter than the moon. Her hair flows like a river and her eyes shimmer like fire. Standing up, brushing loose dirt from herself, coughing to catch her breath from the crash, she rises to a not quite yet imposing height. Carl blinks, but the star remains, pulling herself together and giving yet still little mind to her unusual surroundings. Finally, largest lumps of earth swiped from her visage, she notices Carl, standing dumbfounded at the edge of her mark on the world. Their eyes lock. His a dirty hazzle with specks of green. Hers pale and vivacious. Carl isn’t sure what to say. So, with little else to him, he raises his hand, palm up towards the star, and gives a small wave. The star, having watched countless years of human behavior, wonders for a moment if Carl is lifting his hand to strike, to lash out, to attack, but as he stands there, body rigid, expression placid, the star recognizes that he is simply waving. The star mirrors Carl and returns his little wave, moving only at the elbow, small pendulous motions. Success so far, Carl decides to up the ante. “Hello,” he says, as inviting as if he were again speaking to a simple terrestrial bird. For a brief moment, the star seems almost confused, perhaps thinking hard, then, expression unchanged, the star replies, “Hello.” Joy and pride swell in Carl’s chest. This is going so well. Not only has he wandered into a meeting with a fallen star, but also given a wave much closer than he has ever previously managed and heard the voice of one. Her voice carried with it a timbre not dissimilar to her image: light, bright, illuminating. Carl smiled. The star cocked her head to the side and grinned. This was going wonderfully. “Do you think you might be able to help me?” The star asked. “What do you need?” Carl was always eager to offer assistance. He had once caught a cat from a high tree branch and been rather proud of himself the rest of the day. “I seem to have tripped. I rather need to make my way back home.” The star took a few tentative steps towards Carl leaving sparkling prints in the dirt as she did. Not being known as a most graceful man, Carl had tripped many times. He had tripped over recently rescued cats, over stray pebbles in the weeds, he had even tripped over his own feet, a truly disheartening situation that he regarded as the break down of personal society that even his two similar feet could not be trusted to work together at all times. Carl was very familiar with the fine art of tripping but had never suspected a creature with a path always so well lit by its very existence could manage to do the same. Then again, not all paths, no matter how illuminated, are as equally free of hazard. “Have you ever fallen this far before?” Carl was unsure of how to proceed with jettisoning a star back to its place of origin in the brilliant black sea above him and hoped for a hint or guide. Perhaps past experience would prevail and the requested assistance would be without excessive effort or additional calamity. “Once, but I remember this land being much softer, and without so much debris.” The star shook her head, running her fingers through her hair and leaving flecks of shining embers fluttering down behind her as she continued to traverse the crater she had created. “How did you get back that time?” Carl pictured a very large catapult, trebuchet, or even slingshot of sorts. “Well,” began the star, scrunching up her face as she tried to recall, “I don’t really remember. I was much younger then and you know how things go. You travel, see things, and your mind makes space for the new.” Carl certainly understood this. He scarcely could recall all the things he had seen among his wanderings. Exact events became more of feelings. A sense of accomplishment from a certain expedition or a scar here or there. The major parts of the event stood out. The going there, the sensation of being there, the moving to the next, but much less the exact hewn of the cobbles, the texture of the walls, the smell of the vines. Everything became a transient impression. “Well, is there anyone that we may ask for help?” Carl was grasping at straws but felt his hand ready to clutch them if they appeared. “I’m asking you.” The star said, finally closing the gap between the two of them, her heat splashing onto Carl and sending shivers up his spine as if he had just stepped into a hot bath. Carl pondered this. “That you are,” he whispered to the star, looming over him expectantly. He hoped not to disappoint her but this was new territory for him. Although, that made it all the more exciting. So, Carl thought. Carl thought and he pondered. He pondered and he considered. He considered and he contemplated and he sat and he puzzled and he paced and he speculated and he wondered and he rubbed his head and bit his nails and he deliberated and he opened his mouth towards the star before closing it again and pacing even further. He walked the circumference of the crater and he mumbled and he looked to the star for help but she merely watched him, eyes fixed, legs crossed, head cocked. Carl picked up sticks and bent them as he thought. He cracked them as he continued to walk and flung them as he trudged. He knocked his head against a tree and scraped himself on the bark. He rubbed his sore flesh and lumbered on, thinking as he did. Carl traipsed about and speculated how a star, especially one so pleasant and beaming, could manage to trip and fall in the first place. What must she have been doing? What was there to slip her up so completely that she would plummet so far? Carl was curious, itching with inquiry, but felt it too impolite to ask. “Are you certain there is no one else to ask?” Carl bellowed to the star from the other side of her crater, on his fifth lap. The star looked around herself. She rose from her sitting position with a twirl and gazed between trees and toward ridges. She briefly lifted a rock and peered under it. She dropped the rock and looked back to Carl. “I don’t see anyone else.” Carl sighed. He flung another twig into the dirt. He flung another twig. Hmmm. His mind turned again to past experience. When he had found himself flat on the ground before, after sliding on ice, tumbling on angry felines, toppled by aggrieved birds, and sent sprawling by an ill-timed sneeze, he had always risen with a lunge. A quick burst upward to his feet. Carl made his way back to the star and looked her over once again. He could feel her soothing heat brushing against him as she gazed at him, hopeful. “How much do you weigh?” Carl asked. The star seemed momentarily offended. “Do you ask how much the sun weighs? The moon? How much for a forest or a blade of grass? How much does a kiss weigh? How heavy a memory?” Carl brooded on this, keeping an eye to the star. Then, without warning, he wrapped his arms around the star’s blazing body, his own body feeling like it was hugging joy itself, and said, “As with all things great and small,” before hurling the star above his head and watching her rise and rise, deeper into the darkness above, further into the inky ocean, “home is merely a push in the right direction.” Soon, the stars soft features were no longer visible. Her shape had returned to that of all things too far away: a beautiful blob. Carl smiled and waved to the star and she shrank further and further away. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed like that star flickered back at him. Carl smiled his brightest smile and, after several minutes of watching the stars go by together, stepped forward, around the fresh crater, and continued his wonder, one shoe a little looser than before. As it was in the days of old, as well as they were remembered, Barty raised the torch high into the silvery night sky and spoke the words of key. “Moon on high, among clouds of shade, lend me your strength and everlasting glow that I may too rise above those of simple shimmer and illuminate the path of all those lost to the dark.”
A subtle wind rose through the underbrush and rustled the branches of the nearby willows. It was a small, simple, gesture but Barty took it to his heart as deeply as a knife, and just as life changing. He breathed deep the chill air; filling his lungs with the moment. Barty had come to find that it was the small moments, the moments that no one saw or wrote about that were the most profound, the most pure. The most memorable. Exhaling, Barty saw his breath glisten in the light of the night and fade off. His reach was minimal but already he was spreading warmth to the world. He wondered, for only the length of a blink, if it was wrong to hold such power, such strength. Then he opened his eyes and knew, there was nothing wrong with having and sharing the light he had acquired. Traveling back through the trees, Barty saw a small ball of light, flitting through the branches, whipping around the fruits and past the sleeping animals. With a touch as light as snow’s kiss the light landed on Barty’s nose and smiled a human smile. The fey creature smelled deeply upon Barty’s nose and laughed a whisper. Barty found himself smiling back. “How can I help?” Barty asked. The joyful light smiled brighter and said, “Oh, you will find so many ways, of that, I am sure.” You look terrible, you enormous lump of quivering, pustuous viscera. You sniveling, forgettable, tumor of weak-willed flatulence. May your existence be so wiped from the earth your name never stains the life of any future babes and your visage falls so completely into obscurity as to hold not even the vaguest recollections of humanity. Begone forever, begone you pile of missed chances and fouled opportunities, begone!
How could something so thin hold so much weight?
Dennis patted his coat pocket, checking again to see if the letter was still there. He felt its subtle rigidity and was momentarily satisfied. He had read the contents countless times to the point that the paper was beginning to show signs of wear and skin oil staining. He wiped his brow and kept walking. Alamogordo was a long distance away, further than he had ever traveled, but the hard page in his pocket bid him onward. His phone buzzed and he fumbled to extract it and answer. “On your way?” “Listen, I’m trying to find a way but there aren’t a lot of options.” “So you aren’t on your way?” Dennis could hear the edge in the voice beginning to sharpen. “I’m on my way. It’s just going to take me a while. Please.” “You understand that the letter could have been a phone call, right? I didn’t have to send it to you.” “I do.” “Do you know why I sent you a letter?” “Yes.” “Why I bothered to go to the store, pick up stationary, find a pen that works, lick a damned stamp, travel all the way to the piece of shit post box?” “I do. I’m sorry.” “Do you understand why I would go through all that trouble to send you a damned letter when a call is just as good at conveying information?” “So I wouldn’t forget.” “Your fucking right. So you wouldn’t forget. I don’t want you, for even a second, to forget what is at stake here. What all this means for you, for me, and for those close to you.” “I haven’t. I won’t. I remember.” Dennis reached up and felt the letter again. “Not one, damned, second.” “I understand.” “So when you tell me that you’re taking your time, galivanting around town, instead of getting your sorry ass to your destination sooner, I have to wonder if I should have sent more than a letter. If I should have sent some skin.” “No, please.” Dennis was shaking in the heat of the day. “If I should have written the letter in blood instead of ink.” “I’m coming. I promise.” “Hold that letter close because the next time I have to call you it better be miles from where it is now. Do you understand?” “Yes. Thank you, sorry, I’m on my way.” Dennis was frantically looking for a way to expedite his travel. Something, anything nearby that could rush him onward. The call ended. For a moment Dennis held the phone to his year, in silence, feeling the smooth surface of the glass and the rough edge of the buttons on the side. His breathing was shallow and he could feel his heart thumping against the cage in his chest. He blinked and his vision cleared. Someone nudged him walking past and he realized where he had wandered. He was standing at a bus stop. He blinked again, reached to the other side of his jacket from the letter and felt the much firmer outline of a gun. He needed to get moving, and any wheels were better than none. It was a fresh start, and Jenna wasn’t going to waste it. She had her bus pass, her sling bag, carrying her phone, chap stick, plenty of change (which felt just right to her.) She was wearing a new sweater, sunscreen, and new shoes with fresh gel inserts. She was ready. The world was going to be hers.
She looked out the window at the passing city; her city no longer. She had spent her whole life there, learning to bake, playing in the one good park, learning and forgetting reams of math, meeting Susan, Mark, Linda, and Jeffry, finding and losing love, finding and losing jobs at convenience stores, a movie theater, two law offices, and a car wash. This place had been her life. She was done with it. It was time for something new. Something fresh. Jenna was sure that if she didn’t leave this city right now, she never would. She would find more things to do here, to fill her time with, and before she knew it, her time would be full to the brim, and she’d be dead having only lived in this city, seeing these same sights over and over, only changing with the leaves. She smiled to herself and took a deep breath. The bus slowed, approaching a red light, as Jenna’s bag began to buzz. She fumbled with the zipper and moved the change aside to answer it without looking. “Hello?” Jenna greeted. “Jenna, hey, are you going to be over tonight for dinner?” It was Jenna’s mother. “No mom, I’m on the bus right now. I’m heading out of town.” There was a pause on the line before, “That’s nice dear, it’s just that your father hurt his leg again and it isn’t looking good and he’d really appreciate if you’d come by tonight and help him out.” Jenna imagined her father leaned back in one of the rickety dining room chairs, his leg extended, trying to get the muscle burn to subside. “Mom, I really can’t tonight. I’m already on the bus.” “It won’t take long, I promise. Just a quick visit. Then you can get back on the bus tonight.” ‘Mom.” “Probably safer to get on the bus tomorrow, you’re right, it’s dangerous to ride so late.” “Please, Mom.” “Just a quick visit tonight and you can get back to your bus ride tomorrow. No problem.” Her voice was so chipper. “Mom, really, I need to get going. Besides, I can’t exactly tell the driver to turn around and take me straight to your house.” “Sure you can honey, there’s a bus stop right near the house, just tell him to drive a little further for you. It’s fine.” “You know they can’t do that, Mom.” Jenna readjusted the strap of her bag. The change in her bag was getting heavy. “Either way, your father would really like to see you. Just make a short visit, you know how much he’d appreciate it.” “I love you, Mom, and I love Dad too, tell him that for me, but I need to go.” Another pause on the line. “Jenna, you know we don’t know how many day’s your father has left. Just make a quick stop over and you can leave on your little trip tomorrow. I’ll even send you off with some of your favorite homemade coffee cake.” Jenna’s stomach rumbled at the mention of the soft, fluffy, cinnamon and spice delight. She barely felt her bag for a moment as she could almost smell the intoxicating aroma. The bus moved through the intersection and reached a stop. Jenna felt herself unconsciously begin to lean and shuffle towards the exit. “So we’ll see you soon?” Her mother’s voice was almost as sweet as the lemonade that would no doubt be served with the coffee cake. People began to load on and exit off the bus, going about their day, towards whatever life held for them. Jenna was still on the bus, but she was closer to the exit. She shifted the weight of her bag again. “I don’t know, Mom.” “I’ll start cooking right away,” her Mom said with an audible smile. The driver of the bus stood up and exited. Jenna hardly noticed. A man sat behind the wheel, slipping something back into his shirt, while Jenna stood between where she had been before the call, and the door to leave. Without a word the bus lurched away from the curb and sped down the road. Everyone jolted, struggling to stay in place. “Excuse me, I think I need to get off,” Jenna found herself saying to the man behind the wheel. “No one is getting off for a while,” the man said. He noticed Jenna’s phone, snatched it from her hand, and tossed it out the window. Jenna yelled in surprise but the man shot her a look that demanded no conversation. He took another turn too hard and the weight of all the change in Jenna’s purse pulled her back into a seat. She had no idea where she was going now. There was never a time quite like this. With exactly these problems and exactly these people, we people, to try and solve them. Our pasts, our struggles, our views of the future, they all make our time, this very second that we occupy right now, ever on the edge of a new world, our assets. We can create a new world, a better world, than has ever existed before.
The horror that there has never been quite a time like this one, the abyss of the unknown, is that in that empty space lies nothing but possibility. We can make whatever we want within it. It’s entirely ours to command and control! Now, naturally, there is a certain audacity required to see this space before us and decide that we are worthy of shaping it. Who are we to take this place and time and mold it as we see fit? Who are we indeed. We, my dear, are the only ones that can. No person of the past can rocket forth and build it for us. Those in the future are awaiting our work so they may come into existence and be shaped by it. This space, our space and time, can only be created by us. Who are we to do it? We are the only ones who can do it. There is no help coming. There is no back up plan. There are no other creatures or forces around who can make this for us. It has to be us. It was always going to be is. And it is, us. Us, who have seen the rise and fall of empires, who have watched the expansion and madness of a digital age, who have seen countless deaths brought on by ignorance and misunderstanding. We, you and I, are the only ones who can make the change; who can mold the world going forward into what it must be. But, by what metric can we decide what the world going forward must be? Ah, my fine fellow, there is the most important question. If we are to be the ones doing the work, how best to decide what our grand outcome must be? This is the true question. As soon as we know how to make the world we will undoubtedly uncover into what shape we must make it. The, perhaps, best way to decide this then is to imagine ourselves in several different positions. Or, maybe, in only one that has some of its multitudinous facets obscured. When creating our new world, laws and standards, methods and works, we must ask a very pertinent question: If I didn’t know which side of this I was on, would I be happy being on any side? If, say, we create new programs to help feed those without the means by which to feed themselves for a time, with the resources for this coming from excess food of farmers, supported by payment supplements from businesses and the otherwise wealthy, and we had no idea where we ourselves might sit within this web of assistance, would we be happy to be within it? If we are the farmer, and we have to set aside a certain percentage of foods to give to those without, we should be happy that some of our less picturesque food is going to a good use, knowing that we could not sell it otherwise and that it is just as nutritious and filling as any of the other foods we make. If we are the business or wealthy individual, we should be happy to be building good will with any onlookers seeing our good deeds and adding more positivity into the discourse. If we are the one who lacks the resources to eat otherwise, we are certainly happy to have that opportunity to consume nutritious and tasty foods that we would have otherwise been forced to go without. This thought is known as the Original Position, originally thought by John Rawls, as we do not know which position we occupy in the evolving equation, we build the circumstances to be beneficial for all within it. This ignorance of our place allows us to consider the overall structure of the deal being given and grants us the sight into whether it is one worth creating. So, my friend, we have come to the place of a new calendar year, a new mark on the wall, a new number to recite and write on our forms. A chance for positive change as the world becomes increasingly malleable. We know that the only ones who can make this change are us, there is no one else coming to do the work for us. To quote an old doctor, “It had to be me, someone else might have gotten it wrong.” We know that we must keep an eye to the whole structure of what we create that it may be positive for all those involved. With this knowledge, with these minds, hands, and hearts, we go forward, doing our part, for this is our world as much as it has ever been. Let’s make it one worth being proud of. She could not trust her eyes, not just because there was a befanged shadow a mere six feet away from her bed, but because she wasn’t wearing her contacts.
The world was fuzzy, but so was the shade heaving in the darkness of the room. Starved saliva dripped from its exposed maw as Tina squinted, trying to make sense of the gloom. Was that a pile of clothes, a twisted fan, or something more sinister? Tina was frozen with choice. Did she really want to know what she was looking at? What her eyes were telling her? Her weakened eyes transcribed the distant shapes but her mind wasn’t sure how to interpret the information sent to it. Her ears reached as hard as they could. Was that the heaving of some midnight creature hungering for flesh or was that air flowing through the vents of her simple home? Was that a step? Towards her? The crush of the carpet, then another, closer and closer to her. Still, she couldn’t see for certain what was in front of her. Slowly, she laid her head back down on the pillow and tried not to think to hard about anything happening around her. She had made her choice. This was going to be something she wouldn’t deal with. She would force herself to sleep. Everything else was something she would ignore. The steps stopped. Well, certainly they weren’t steps. Nothing was moving around her. She tried to close her senses and rest. She didn’t see it, her eyes were closed now, again, but she could feel something, something, move next to her face. There’s nothing there. It’s time to sleep. The room is clear and there is nothing to worry about. Then came a voice like gravel scraped against cinders. Matchsticks dragged across chalkboards. Guttural and dark. “Stay hydrated.” With a simple clink there was a small glass of water placed on the side table and, with the crunch of carpet, something stepped away back through the ether. Tina hadn’t realized how thirsty she had been but with a single sip from the glass she was rejuvenated, energized, and soothed. And things would be okay. Certainly. He could hear the reporters milling about, sharpening their wits, gathering their gotcha’s, and steadying their aims, and though Laurence should have been nervous, he was confident in his words. Major speeches of this type were often delivered in a somber state, the President seated behind his desk, the camera slowly pushing in, My fellow Americans and all that but it was decided that, given the gravity of the situation, this speech was best delivered to a room of reporters, ready to disseminate the speech to all corners of their newsphere. Focus groups had felt this lent a kind of personal touch to the delivery. The difference between a studio album and a live show; you could feel one a bit more, the air of the space, the hum of the room, the closeness of where it was made.
So, the words would have to stand firm to the pointed onslaught of the reporters. Laurence had created the speech in only 4 hours time, not yet a personal record, but certainly one of his finest moments. He had wracked his brain, stretched his mental thesaurus to the edges, and come out with something that was simultaneously mighty, heartwarming, wrought with conviction, and most importantly, hopeful. If a good speech was anything, it was hopeful. Laurence had found over the years he had written speeches for great leaders, and some of questionable moral fortitude, that the people hearing the speech would pick apart the words, the prose, the pauses, intentional or otherwise, but it was rarely the words themselves that really stuck with people and always it was the emotions that the words invoked. I have a dream gave people hope and empathy. They too had dreams. Four score and seven years ago was simply a timeline but it gave people a sense of place and an eye for progress, how far they had come. Thinking on it, in his small office, running his hands through his hair, Laurence and mused about the opening lines of speeches. The heart may not be until the third paragraph but it was that opening line that quieted the room, set the tone, and prepared the world for a new tomorrow. You may have an incredible heart to your speech but without that opening line, you were giving yourself a much more difficult hill to climb. He could hear the reporters moving to take their seats. Laurence looked at his shimmering black watch and smiled. It was about time to begin. To the sound of camera shutters snapping closed, Laurence saw the President of the United States of America steps from the wings opposite him and come to rest behind the official podium. In his hands was a small stack of papers covered in hastily typed words, Laurence’s words. Briefly, he saw there were pen marks on the pages indicating last minute changes had been made. This was not inherently unusual but Laurence’s back stiffened ever so slightly. It was going to be fine. A calming breath, and the President began. “In times like these, troubled times, times when so much of the world is at odds, it is these times in which we must come together as one united front and band together against a common enemy.” Laurence’s head tilted to the side involuntarily. That wasn’t how he had written it but the general message seemed to come across. It was alright, the heart of the piece was to come, and no speech could be solely judged on its beginning alone. “We are facing something none of us living have ever come into contact with before. We’ve all known the flu since we were young but I think we can finally all agree this is more than a flu, though the symptoms are very similar. “We have lost many of our friends, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, countryman to this terrible sickness but the time for cowardice is over. The time for action is now. Decisive, quick action.” Laurence was listening intently from the wings. His speech was beginning to unravel. “I am personally advising every state official to end their mask program. Masks are to be worn only for holidays, but no longer for this. If we are going to beat this thing we have to face it head on, with our faces proudly on display, unlike so many among the despicable riots we continue to see in the streets.” Unbidden, Laurence’s hand crept up to his mouth in silent awe. Good God brought us to life with his breath and we will no longer restrict our breathing with cumbersome, ridiculous masks. We are Americans and we will live and breathe free.” Laurence had not noticed that the President wasn’t wearing a mask. He was still getting accustomed to people in their masks anyway. Even still, he would have understood the President not wearing a mask at the podium, distanced from others as he was, and to make it easier for the deaf community to read his lips. But now it seemed different. “I’ve spoken to experts and it has been decided, thanks to clean, honest, science by good, trustworthy scientists, that the more we wear the masks the weaker our immune system becomes.” Laurence thought to his discussion with Falyn, the head of the White House science team, just this morning about the positivity of wearing a mask and the benefits to yourself and those around you. “If we are ever to reach herd immunity, where all of us are immune to the virus, we have to all catch it first. Once enough of us catch it, we will begin to spread the antibodies and our nation may heal. Our mothers were right when they would have us spend time with the local child that had chickenpox. We could get it and get it out of the way. Now, we as a country, must do the same.” What had happened? How had the words on the page Laurence and stressed over and refined so methodically have changed so drastically? There was no sustainable hope here, no sense, this was blatant disregard for those sick and dying. “Our ultimate goal is to defeat this virus. Make no mistake, we are at war, and though this is a war without bullets, tanks, or land, this is a war of frontiers with a ruthless enemy that we cannot see, that we can only feel but all the same must defeat. This is our Pearl Harbor, our Normandy, our Bay Of Pigs and we will come out victorious. We must.” A bead of sweat slipped from Laurence’s dark hairline and rolled silently down his back. So, my fellow Americans, remove your masks, spend time with your friends, and if you see someone coughing or feeling ill, be careful, but do not shy away. Even Jesus bonded with the lepers. The sooner we all get over this the sooner we can go back to business as usual.” Laurence couldn’t help but gasp as he watched the President of the United States of America, holder of the highest office in the land, take a crumpled mask from his pocket and rip it up towards the reporter’s cameras and throw the shredded pieces under the podium. He then stood proudly, shoulders square, with the smile of a general surveying his soldiers. The room was quiet for a moment. A fly buzzed through the room looking for decay to rest on or pungent food to eat. Then the room erupted as the reporters began lobbing questions. With the poise of a man who had spent much of his life in front of cameras, the President held up a hand to stall the questions, then pointed to one reporter. The reporter barely managed to state his name and the name of his news organization before blurting out, “Mr. President, many scientists, including ones that work for your administration, have stated that the only way to stop the spread of this deadly virus is to wear masks, wash our hands regularly, and keep a distance from people that may be infected. You seem to be urging citizens to do the exact opposite. Why is that?” “If you were listening you would have noticed that we are not trying to stop the spread of this germ, we are trying to overcome it, and the only way to do that is to develop antibodies to it, and the only way to do that is to catch it. So the sooner everyone has it the sooner no one has to worry about it.” Stammering the reporter tried to get in a second question but the President waved him off and pointed to another. This one managed to speak their name and company easier then said, “Sir, just to clarify, many other nations who had the virus before it reached our shores have managed to stop reporting new cases and attribute this to the measures you are now rebuking. How do you consolidate that?” “I hear the question you’re asking under that nasty tone and I have seen the numbers, I’ve seen them, I get reports from all over the world, and I see what the rest of the world is doing, but I believe in creating the strongest nation in the world and the best way to do that is to not create a citizenship that is still vulnerable to this germ by having them run from it. Look how high our number of cases is, and people have been wearing masks. They don’t help. Not only do they not help, they leave us vulnerable to a second, a third, a fourth wave. By sluffing off the masks and facing this danger head on, like our forefathers before us, we can not only stop the spread of this but become immune to it, something the rest of the world has not done.” The President waved the reporter to sit and called upon another. This one stood and got their name and outlet out with practiced ease. “Mr. President, what would you say directly to the families of people who have had loved ones die from this virus? You are now telling the nation that it should deliberately catch this virus but that will no doubt make our case numbers soar as well as herald in a wave of virus related deaths the likes of which the rest of the world has not seen and has, in fact, managed to mitigate. What would you say to the thousands of potential people that are going to catch this virus and die?” “You make it sounds so sadistic but I’ll answer your question anyway.” The President straightened his back and looked at the crowd of veteran journalists. “There will be deaths caused by this germ, that is unavoidable. When our grandparents and great grandparents went to war, some of them were going to die, and they knew that, that kind of situation doesn’t happen without some people dying, it happens. It happens.” The President waved his hand. “But in the end, the ones who survived, the ones who were strong, and smart, and resilient, came home and made our great nation even greater. Make no mistake, this is a time of war, and the battlefield is our very backyards, but there’s never been a war our country has ever lost and we certainly won’t start now. What would I say to the people who are going to die from this unfortunate situation? I would say thank you. Thank you for your sacrifice. Thank you for helping to save your country. You are a true patriot and we could not do this without you.” Laurence shuddered. What was happening? The tone, the direction, the undertone, was all completely wrong. He wasn’t sure but he thought his jaw might be hanging agape. The President pointed to another reporter among the stunned mass. They rose and spoke their name and plainly. “First, I want to thank you, Mr. President for finally speaking some sense about the senseless mask debacle and for actively trying to embolden our proud country. Second, what would you say to your detractors, many in this room, who kowtow to the ultra-rich 1% that want to see you fail in the upcoming election and want to see America turn into a fascist socialist dictatorship welfare state rather than listen to the hard science that only you seem to be able to conduct and share?” The smile on the President’s face was broad as his shoulders. “Thank you for that and you’re welcome. What a wonderful question. What would I say? I would say that they won’t win. This country has a long heritage of rooting out the malicious and seditious. We will find those who would wish to harm our country and its citizens, and I want them to know, I won’t let you. I won’t let you hurt this country that I love. That all of my supporters love. This is our country, it has always been the country of those who care for their fellow man, who fight for their nation when called upon, and who will defend those ideals. Ours is a nation of respect and focus and we will not be deterred by the angry few who would try to distract us from the hard work, the important work, of building an even stronger nation. To those who do not support me, I would say, we won’t let you stop us. We will win. We’ll defeat this virus and we’ll defeat you.” With a gesture, the President of the United States of America stepped back from the podium as the reporters either gawked or shouted follow-up questions. In a few short strides he was in the wings and passing by Laurence. Without a thought, sweat speckling his forehead, Laurence turned as the President walked by and said simply, “Mr. President.” The President paused and looked at Laurence. He smiled and came back to him. “I want to thank you for your speech. We had to make a couple minor tweaks but it was you that really made that moment happen. Thank you for that.” He clapped Laurence on the back with two hard thumps that Laurence was sure he would feel for the rest of his life, and strode away. People moved around Laurence, to the stage to collect the bits of mask the President had torn up, on to some meeting somewhere, but Laurence was frozen, shaken, feeling the reverberation of the slaps to his back. For perhaps only the third time in his entire life, Laurence was without words. Frozen and speechless. |
Sean Patrick
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