If I die tomorrow and wake up in another lifetime.

I hope one day, out of nowhere, you’ll stumble in my path and you’ll smile your charming smile...and I will know that you are the man who has traveled across galaxies to give my restless heart a permanent home.

Dublin, Virginia – March 1882

Young Frank Birchard Farragut finally received the letter in the mail and the reply was every bit to his liking. Now, he had to explain to his parents of his intentions. This would be a big step for him, one he has dreamed of ever since all the stories were told about his grandfather. Secretly he dreamed and lived for each day for this moment, but finally—he was accepted into the Junior Naval Academy, whereupon graduation after two years he would then go on to the Annapolis Naval Academy itself, and work as hard as he could to become an officer. In six years total, he would be a fleet officer at the age of eighteen. A daunting task he believed but his intentions were clear. Tonight at dinner, he would tell his parents the good news.

He reread parts of the letter again, unable to contain his smile.

… and furthermore, Mr. Farragut, upon receipt of your letter, we, the Board of Directors have accepted you at the Junior Academy. The next class session begins in ninety (90) days.

… this offer is made but one. Failure to attend on the schedule date will null and void this acceptance. Please be prompt.

If nothing else, he would be early.

April 1882 – Chalfin Springs

“Times are changing, Etta,” said James as he set the newspaper to the side.

“Times always changes, James.”

“I know, I know. Once upon a time I was twenty and soon I’ll be sixty-three. Nothing stays the same and believe it isn’t mean to stay the same either.

“The things in the paper tells me that much. I think that the days of what we knew as the heyday of life, is about over. All the bad guys are dying off and all the good guys are turning bad.” He laughed.

“Oh? Who died this time?”

“Jesse James. Shot in the back of the head and it was close range, too. That had to be messy. A year ago, Billy The Kid fell off by Pat Garrett, and then there was that fracas in Arizona with the Earp’s and Clanton’s. And now, it seems like Wyatt Earp is wanted for murder. Strange how the law can work for and against you.”

“Really? I met Wyatt once when I was very young. He was a soft spoken person. I can’t believe he is being charged with murder.”

“All stems from the gunfight at the O.K. Corral they say. People were saying it was premeditated, that Wyatt, his two brothers, and Doc Holiday had planned it all along.”

“Papa, who is this Wyatt Earp? I never heard the name before.”

“Come sit on my lap boy, and I’ll tell you as much as I know.”

As Scottie crawled onto his lap, Etta gave a small but happy smile. With Chadlynn having her own life now, James focus turned to Scottie, and they were bonding more and more each day just as she had hoped for.

Scottie may have been an accident by birth, but now, he was loved by her and James, just as it should be.

New Orleans – May 30, 1862

My Dearest Anna,

When I first wrote and told you how Randolph appeared out of the blue, and he explained to me why he ran away, that the devastation of President Garfield being killed so close to after his meeting him, well, it just gave him all sorts of strange ideas as I mentioned. The assassin coming after him, or you and William. He felt it would be better if he stayed away, and of course that was when I had asked if it would be alright if he stays with Arthur and I for a while.

Since then to now, he has taken a liking to the city, and the people. It has even gotten to the point where he now plays a piano. Anna—Randolph has potential as a musician, I believe. He has only been at it perhaps a month and he is getting better every day. On the weekends, he’ll be in one of the taverns playing with grown men and he catches on fast. You would be so proud of his abilities.

The other reason I’m writing is to let you know he wants to come back home. He has something he wants to tell you and William. I hope you both allow him his request. About a week ago I believe, a pleasant man, a Dr. Frank Damrosch, opened up a small business teaching people how to red, write. and play music. To my surprise, the man is related to Franz List, or more I should say, his godson.

I must stop myself as I feel I am rambling now, but Randolph leaves in two days.

And I do hope all is well with you. I worry for you.

With Love & Great Affection,

Fiona

Dublin, Virginia -m June 1, 1862

“I must say, boys, the news you bring to your mother and I is quite the surprise, wouldn’t you think so, Anna?”

“But of course it is. When Randolph ran away, I never had a moment’s peace, and now—now, he is to go away again, but at least this time I know where he will be. Fiona will be happy to have you stay with her and Arthur until your music studies are complete. It will be wonderful to have a pianist in the family. I don’t ever remember hearing of any of our family playing any instrument before, except for Samuel, and that was so long ago so it seems.” Looking at Randolph direct she said softly, “I am so very, very proud of you. Never forget that.” Then she leaned in and gave Randolph a hug and kiss on the cheek.

“And you, wanting to be in the Navy. Were my father, your grandfather still here, he would applaud your idea, and so I do that for him. He made the Navy his life’s work. Sixty years I believe if accurate. Perhaps you will do the same.”

“Father,” smiled Frank. “If God willing, I shall.”

Later that Evening

“It will just be the two of this in this big house, William. I am going to miss them both. Miss the sounds, the noises they make.”

“Things will be fine, Anna. At least now we have the chance to do a few things without the boys that I have always had plans on.”

“Oh, and what plans are they?”

“I want to take you to Europe and visit France, Germany, Spain, and even England.”

“Isn’t that what your father did with your mother?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to wait as long as they did to have ourselves an adventure. But tonight ….” He gave a broad grin.

“I know that look, or I think I do. Are you thinking of taking advantage of me in my weakened state,” she chided.

“My love, if anything, you are far from weak.”

Chalfin Springs – Late January 1883

The storm seemed to have no ending.

Snow fell heavily for hours at a time. James and Etta have lived through several of these but this had to be the worse one on record, but it wasn’t even the storm that bothered them as much as the fact that somewhere in this driving blizzard, Scottie was out there, and neither James nor Etta could find him. They could barely see each other even when standing side by side.

A vast fear was welling inside Etta. It had been two days since the storm had went from bad to terrible and it was that second day when they went in search of Scottie.

Now, three days into a relentless storm with no give, she was beside herself with fear that Scottie may be dead.

James refused to relinquish hope. Though inwardly, he knew the boy wouldn’t last this long, but he kept trying but the search was not going well at all. He had barely covered half a mile with his horse before gusty winds and the knife-like daggers of pelting snow forced him back home, and twice, he almost lost his way.

Even Abraham braved through as best he could to find Scottie, but he felt it like a gut punch that he wouldn’t be alive and that really ate at his insides. Scottie was a treat to have around and he was learning ranch work quickly, but with this storm … Abraham knew. He just knew.

It was on the morning of the sixth day when the storm finally stopped. It would be another eight days before James and Abraham found Scottie, curled up like a cocoon in his heavy burlap coat, frozen to death.

It would take the better part of two weeks before Etta had the resolve to sit down and tell the rest of the family the tragic news.

Enroute to Glasgow from England - June 1883

The travels William and Anna had taken were memorable to say the very least. Anna fell in love with France and even bought a dictionary with French words translate to English so she would know what she would be saying. When they made their way into Munich, Anna wasn’t so pleased with the language but she was awed by their train system, and a thing they called a tram, which William described as a cable car, something that was quite common in Chicago; and their electric lighting system seemed far advance than what was in America. She really enjoyed her time in Venice, Italy. Stateside they have rowboats, but in Italy, they are known as Gondola’s Bigger and actually beautiful, and her and William had a man steer the Gondola for them. She found that fun and exciting. Now, they were on their way to Glasgow. A place William said I would get a kick out of how they spoke.

Things were still difficult for Anna. Everywhere she went, anything she did, she wrote it all down in a journal so she wouldn’t forget. The lapses were getting longer with each passing month, and her physician was stymied, not knowing how to reverse the problem.

On the second day of the journey, the SS Daphne lurched heavily in the water as if it hit something. Moments later with both her and William on deck, they could hear shouting and screaming and then they both felt the pull as the Daphne leaned to one side and fell sideways into the water.

Anna screamed, clutching at William’s arms as he held her tightly to him and the next moment they were caught up in a swirling whirlpool. They were less than five minutes away from docking at the Glasgow seaport when it happened.

*****

It had been three days since William had been in the hospital. When he finally awakened, he was instantly aware of his surroundings but yelled out, “ANNA! Where are you, love! ANNA!”

It came back to him in a flash. The boat rolling over. Losing the grip he had with Anna. Seeing her seemingly float further and further away from him. Then came the darkness.

“Sir, please calm down,” said a nurse rushing into his room.

“Where is my wife!”

“Tell me her name and I shall find out, sir.”

“Anna Walsh Farragut.”

“Give me some time and I’ll see if I can’t find her for you. You were one of almost a hundred people brought here from that terrible mishap. Most were young boys that died in the sinking, but we have about sixteen women who survived, so this shouldn’t take long.”

William laid helpless. All those times he remembered saying how he would never let anything happen to her. “She cannot be dead. Dear God, give her back to me!”

Time seemed to move in slow motion. He was getting impatient. Getting out of bed, he felt a little weakness in his knees but he managed to keep himself upright.

“Sir, you need to be back in bed, you are not….”

“My wife? Did you find my wife?”

Then a tall, balding, heavyset man walked in.

“I’m Dr. Fitzgibbons, and I came here to report that we have no record of anyone here with the name you gave Nurse Finlay. My profound sympathies for your loss.”

Without making a sound, William crawled back onto the bed and the tears never stopped flowing.

Late July – 1883

Everyone was there at William’s house, including his two sons, as well as James and Etta.

They all got together as a family to say their part, to make their peace.

It wasn’t a happy occasion for them but they did talk in part of those good times in their lives. It was their way of keeping the memories alive.

It was Abraham who had the last word.

“I never got to know any of you outside of today, and I’m right sorry for what has happened. If I were a betting man, I’d say the one take away from all this is the love you all have for each other. Not in all my days have I ever seen such a thing, and I may never again. Remember today, remember those you loved and still love. It’s about the only way you keep them alive inside you.”

Annapolis - February 1884

“Seaman Farragut, fall out of ranks and report to the CDR at once. Double time!”

Running as fast as he could, Frank was wondering why the Captain would want to see him. Was he in trouble? What did he do wrong?

Breathing heavily, he waited almost a minute for his breathing to level out before he knocked on the office door.

“Enter.”

Frank opened the door to see Captain Nate Richardson, all three-hundred pounds of him sitting stiffly behind his desk.

“Seaman Farragut reporting as ordered, sir!”

“At ease, Farragut and take a seat.”

Silence carried the noise in the room for Frank didn’t know what to say, then Richardson spoke.

“I have heard good things about you from the Drill Instructors. Seems like you are progressing well. And I have it by recommendation that you may be ready for an onboard vessel simulation.”

“Simulation, sir?”

“Yes. In two weeks, the U.S.S. Puritan is going out to sea for a simulated combat mission, and you are hereby ordered to take part in it. If you are worth the salt your grandfather was, my hunch is you will do well. And this will bode well in your report as you get closer to graduation—but let me make myself clear on this, you may be a Farragut, but to me, right now, you are a seamen in training. Do a good job and the reward will be great. Do poorly, and frankly, you are out of the academy.”

“Yes sir, I understand, sir. I can be counted on to do whatever is asked of me.”

“Very good. Dismissed.”

Leaving his office, Frank Birchard Farragut had such a smile on his face. He wouldn’t fail. He was born for this.

December 1884 – Frenchman Street, New Orleans, LA

“Your progress is remarkable. Of the thirty students I have, you have far excelled them all.”

“Thank you Dr. Damrosch. That means a lot to me.”

“What would you say if I asked you to come to New York with me next year?”

“Ah, guess I would say, why?”

“New York is the epicenter of this country. It continues to grow by leaps and bounds and—I would like an assistant to help me teach other students?”

“Teach? I don’t think I’m ready to …”

“Nonsense, Randolph. You have been the fastest learner of all the other students when it comes to understanding the structure of music, of how to write and read music. It is a craft. And you have that craft, that ability. My goal is to create the largest music school in the country and New York is where it shall be. And I want you to be part of the venture.”

“I’m honored Dr. Damrosch, truly I am, and—and I accept.”

Sasha knocked on the door. A voice told her to ‘Enter’. She stepped through the automatic door and watched Maria busy at work. The room had piles of books, various maps, and a box of odd tools all scattered about the floor.

Maria sat on the floor with her legs in a criss-cross position. Sasha interrupted her thoughts: ‘Hey— are you ready to present your latest creations to the Board of Intergalactic Travel?’

‘No- not yet.’ Maria replied.

Maria’s hands continued moving on the holographic screen.

Sasha tried her best not to step on the stuff on the floor. She was dying to see what Maria had worked on so far.

Maria stopped working on her current task & asked Sasha as she pointed at the drawing, ‘What do you think?’

Sasha bent her head to the side & looked puzzled. ‘Eh...hmmm..what am I looking at exactly?’

Maria chuckled.

‘It’s my plan for the Intergalactic Travel. My current work will be to construct a super-highway that works by allowing travelers to cross from one galaxy to another.’

Sasha nodded her head. ‘Right. I see. Okay, cool!’

Maria continued, ‘Another thing that I now need to make sure of is that this system that will be built helps maintain the traffic flow. One idea that came to my mind is that the super-highway needs to have sections lined up that help direct the traffic.’

Sasha’s eyes widened and she said in delight, ‘Ah, like the lines and signs we use on the roads on Earth.’

Maria clapped her hands & smiled, ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking of. I guess the other major part I need to work on is the speed regulation. My worry is the need for speed folks will have on the super-highway. Maybe there will need to be a sign to remind them not to go into warp drive on the super-highway.’

Sasha laughed. ‘Yeah~ I do love traveling at warp speed. But I guess you’re right. Then folks will need to exit the super-highway to a point where they can go into warp drive.’

Maria smiled. ‘Ah, yes. Thanks for your help, Sasha.’

Sasha waved goodbye & stepped out of the room. The door automatically closed behind her.

#IntergalacticTravel (c)

09.07.2021 friyay

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=6wdZRSLJvPg

I got saved, (became a believer in Jesus), in August of 2015. That is a little over 5 years ago at the time of this writing.

If you asked me 6 years ago if this could ever happen, I would have emphatically denied the possibility. I believed that religion, especially Christianity, was false. I thought it was silly and made up.

I have to confess, I had no real reason not to believe in something. My life was in shambles. I was addicted to heroin. I had been in and out of jail. Been homeless. Sent to the psych ward on a 51/50 hold and generally tortured everyone who loved me, helped me, and knew me at the time.

Boy oh boy did I love to wax poetic about the state of our society. It was a wonderful exercise to blame everyone but myself for my problems. It was my DNA, I was born this way, my family history, the government set me up to fail, nothing is fair, and everyone else was corrupt which, in turn, excused my behavior. The longer I spent blaming everyone else, the worse I got.

I tried everything the culture suggested. Starting with, “let me do me, stay out of my business, doing heroin is romantic and artistic, do what feels good, etc., etc., etc.”

Truly, there was a time that I really was so self-absorbed, that I rarely thought about the effect I was having on anyone else. I didn’t care that I was throwing my life away. I was getting used to being processed through the Orange County jail. My conscience was going numb. I was losing touch with reality.

The crazy thing is…

I did everything they told me to.

How I felt superseded all things. Be popular, make sure you “sew your oats” I watched the perpetual adolescent male figure on television and in movies, and that was what I thought I was supposed to be like. Everyone experiments with drugs. Be with as many women as possible. That is what will define you as a man. Find a woman who will tolerate and support your charming idiocy and immaturity.

I stayed like a teenager until I was 30.

I became a Christian because my life depended on it.

Then, I found out it was actually true.

Be it sex, fame, fortune, substance, or simply status, man uses these things to satiate the spiritual cypher boiling internally. The eventuality of this declination is inevitable. The very thing used to fill the void exacerbates it.

We, as a culture, have been indoctrinated and have perpetuated the delusion, “I need something more.” We allow insecurity and selfishness to become the catalysts for the erosion of our moral fiber. We have no sense of belonging, gratitude, value, validity, or security.

Further, we have fed each other the fallacy that somehow the solution to our problems lies within us. How can it be that the solution lies within the same vessel within which the problem lies? Like it or not, the reason we all love the “self help” system is because it essentially makes us God. We are become the Divine. Who wouldn’t like that? How could we, the ultimate causers of confusion, calamity, chaos, and crisis, secretly be holding the key to salvation within ourselves? If only we’d unlock our potential.

Just examine the generation that stood against the “oppressive patriarchy” the “pull yourself up by your bootstraps,” folks. Unloving, unsympathetic, mean, and lacking in empathy.

However, aren’t the two ideologies essentially the same?

Perspectives differ, but the essential problem remains the same. We lack power. We do not have the ability to summon the power necessary to defeat evil. Plain and simple. No matter how you slice it. Evil has thrived, grown, and invaded our existence and we feverishly search for the answer to it.

This isn’t to deride human potential. Humans are capable of amazing, remarkable things. Created in the image of God and given gifts from which society has greatly benefitted. However, we need to understand the level of pride with which we suffer from. We need to understand the forces we are up against. It is of the utmost importance to understand that we are a part of the problem. If we understand this, and we understand that the answers need to transcend ourselves, then we have discovered a good thing.

Ultimately, we gasp and clutch our pearls as we become the victim of a self-centered crisis. This fictitious travesty, our victimhood, devolves from a fleeting thought, to an apparition, and finally to a demonic manifestation and reincarnation of our thirteen year-old selves. Impulse becomes the master. The search for comfort and gratification cloud out any rational judgement from consciousness. We deteriorate into a savages. We allow a warped perception fuel a base and misguided instinct. When these are coupled with insecurity and selfishness, satisfaction becomes priority. The search for pleasure blots out the reality of the harm we will cause from this descent into the darkness.

“Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster… for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you.” Enigmatic and poignant prose from Nietzsche. Can we imagine the countless hours of thought, the pages of literature, the gallons of ink, the exhaustion of breath, and the energy expelled, examining the seeming futility of the human condition? Essentially all coming to the same conclusion. You are the problem, and you are also the solution. I’ll save you the cost of admission to a seminar or the twenty bucks you’d spend on a book.

Countless people have sought gratification through indulgence and chased happiness across a desert of pain and loneliness. This vain transgression of avoiding the worst parts of ourselves accentuates those portions we would like to hide. The veil of comfort is sewn with thread composed of fear and denial. It is during this feverish and self-centered pursuit of, “meaning,” we are separated. This selfish quest is transformative and painful. Our current status, the goings on, and general madness are what it means to become the worst version of ourselves during the selfish pursuit of gratification and comfort.

I have spent a good portion of my time on this Earth restless, irritable, and discontented. I sought peace through chaos, I looked for comfort in pain, I searched for serenity in insanity. As I rummaged for relief I perpetuated my own deterioration and degradation. I became the monster I was fighting. My peers were baffled by my self-destructive and pathological behavior. I suffered from spiritual sickness outside the remedy of man’s faux antidotes. Fear ran through my veins like Mississippi creek water. Internally, a tempest loomed within my heart. A storm surged with tremendous power and I continually surrendered to the disaster. It was in the squall of temptation and insecurity that I developed a selfish propensity to assure that an instinctual need was met. This is always without regard to the consequence. There is never any consideration for the people hurt, the harm that is caused, and the general calamity in the wake of a man saturated with fear and insecurity. It is within this cauldron of self-loathing and ego driven madness that a convenient amnesia sets in.

What really sets man apart from beast is set within the deepest parts of ourselves. The knowing that our instincts cannot always win out over what is right, just, good, and moral. How blinded are we as a society when our culture is driven by instinct and instinct alone. This behavior makes us no better than the bloodthirsty monster. What’s more, is that we know better. We know what is civil, good, just, right, and moral. Save some grey exceptions. Our instincts are kept in check by our morality. The God-given and so defined foundation of our design. It’s is inarguable we are governed by a moral law. Even the most ardent atheist would have to agree.

The Faustian bargain is attractive. It is seductive and pushes men to the edge of morality until they plummet into obscurity. Souls die in the catacombs of despair and are deafened by a harmony of death rattles in a choir conducted by misery. Opposing temptation is warfare and there are lives at stake. This battle rages on and propels human beings to be in collision with one another. The friction is unbearable and the pain is extraordinary. Within this battlefield nomads wander and contemplate, “meaning.” We seek satisfaction and never consider the costs. To one extent or another we all participate in this battle. Our denial will be dressed as a conscientious objector with a white flag in hand, muttering deflated soliloquies about morality and curiosity. The foe is subtle and called many names. Some say it is just human nature, others regard it as a flaw in the mechanics and chemistry of the human psyche, still more believe this foe is Satan himself. This is the human condition. The legacy is a hopeless and painful vacuum.

The perpetrator may be unseen, but the consequences are not. These incidences are sketched almost lightly for entertainment within our culture. They are labeled as great works because of their parallelism with life. The Faustian bargain is cyclical. There is only one choice. We must search for a new pleasure to cover up the guilt from the last one. As his guilt escalates so do the escapades. The guilt, shame, and remorse, become a granite boulder fastened between our shoulder blades. We judge others for their flaws only because we hate ourselves. We pretend we don’t care denial becomes our code and we descend into the black.

The explosion of self-destruction is ignited self-gratification. It is only when the shroud of plausible deniability is lifted and we are forced to look at the destruction from our wrath that we see. Man, is constantly searching for his own definition. Autonomy, or “self-law.” This ideology rules the day. This search perpetuates a fatal disconnection from humanity. When we are consumed with ourselves we are lost. The monster becomes us. We freeze as the abyss stares through us understanding our weaknesses and vulnerability. The Faustian bargain is not a bargain. It is a concession.

Can it be said that looting, rioting, and destruction are a manifestation of what we truly are? Could it be true? Do you think the men who worked as Nazi camp guards were different from you and I? Do you think it is notable when the neighbors of serial killers are interviewed, and they point out that they, the killers, were nice enough, innocuous folks, quiet, and polite. Is it frightening to think of how many of us fit that description? Are we the monsters?

It’s amazing how quickly we humans convert from our faith in the Truth, “…not of this world.” This writer included. It is almost as if we were designed for worship. I saw a discussion recently on Twitter about theology. The young lady made a good point, in my opinion. She said, and I’ll paraphrase, something like, everyone has a theology. This gave me pause.

I’ve never participated in the arena of public discourse in any real meaningful way. I’m really just an observer, a fly on the wall. What I’ve seen is we cling to our belief systems, and world views for dear life. The life preservers for the drowning. Swords for the psudeo valiant keyboard conquerors held afloat by opinion alone. Fighting the ‘great war’ with a “hot take.” Posing as valiant and brave warriors whose powerful prose will vanquish the dragon and save the republic.

I’m not mad at them really. I think I have the same delusion.

It appears as though we embed ourselves within a particular kingdom, under a specific flag, representing a specific value system, and attitude. Through the valley of chaos we ride on horseback into battle. Swords raised, rebuttals, charts, facts, science, quips, takes, and the like raised ready to dispatch the evil hoard charging from the opposite side of the valley.

@QuietSilence

For tonight’s means of procrastinating while I should be grading, I am going to type a list of books and/or short stories with a brief explanation of why I love them. I am permitting myself exactly 15 minutes to complete this exercise, and the list will be biased toward things I’ve read recently, I’m sure - I’m just typing what pops in my head for 15 minutes. K. Here goes.

Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf - my fav. There’s sentimental value because going to see The Hours was my first date with my wife, and a copy of this novel her first gift to me, but it’s also amazing. No one narrates the small moments like Woolf.

The Mayor of Casterbridge, by Thomas Hardy - This was my gateway to Hardy, whose sense of scale and capturing a bygone world enthralled me. Thus, it was a comfort book for me at the start of the pandemic, despite the fact that it ends sadly. You know, like every other Hardy novel.

Macbeth, by William Shakespeare - If I need to pick one book for a desert island, is it cheating to say The Complete Works of Shakespeare? This one’s my fav. Dark, brutal, and gorgeous, and somehow the same dude who wrote the world’s most favorite lovestruck teens also wrote the “Tomorrow and tomorrow” speech.

“Old Man at the Bridge” and “Hills Like White Elephants,” by Ernest Hemingway - I know: “white dude recommends Hemingway” is a punchline. But seriously... these are great, less tainted by Hemingway’s chauvinism than other works (and I do think the chauvinism is a problem that often hinders his work), and I do think anyone with aspirations of writing prose owes it to themselves to spend some time contemplating Hemingway’s style. It’s not the alpha and omega some make it out to be - I like Woolf more, and she’s his antithesis! - but Hemingway’s minimalism is instructive.

Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen - Hilarious. Hilarious. Hilarious. If you’re new to Austen, try using the BBC miniseries with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth as a companion, and pick up What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew as a reference tool (for this and any other 19th century British text).

The Remains of the Day, by Kazuo Ishiguro - because not all unreliable narrators are in batshit crazy Poe stories. Just reread this. A restrained butler reckons with his life. Heartbreaking.

Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates - “white liberal recommends BtWaM” is also a punchline, but there’s a reason he won a MacArthur grant after this one. Really, I’d read anything by Coates - brilliant stylist. The Beautiful Struggle, about his Baltimore childhood, is also great, and while you might disagree with his conclusions, everyone should read his modern classic of longform journalism from The Atlantic, “The Case for Reparations,” which sure as heck helped me to better grasp A Raisin in the Sun.

One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez - so, so good. ’Nuff said.

Wolf Hall, by Hillary Mantel - and the whole trilogy, but especially this and Bringing Up the Bodies. Stunning historical fiction of Thomas Cromwell, who rose to be Henry VIII’s key advisor. Ack, I’m running out of time...

The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald - my pick for “The Great American Novel.” Lyrical and gorgeous. (For the curious, Huckleberry Finn doesn’t stick the landing, and Moby Dick sucks.)

Heart of Darkness, by Joseph Conrad - Chinua Achebe is right about it, and you need to read his famous critical essay, too. But still an incredible, complex text.

and now, with time elapsed, I glance at my bookshelves and select with a glance -

The Oresteia, by Aeschylus - Greek tragedy is fascinating, and this trilogy is as early as we still have. Aeschylus, in particular, reads as much as ritual as theatre; you can hear it in the chorus so clearly you’d be forgiven for turning around to see if there was a nearby goat sacrifice.

crap! I forgot things!

“The Dead,” by James Joyce - requires some notes on Irish history, but my God... the last paragraph...

The Power and the Glory, by Graham Greene - As a (mostly) recovered Catholic, I had to include either this or Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited to deal with the religion that shaped and scarred me, and I’m choosing Greene on a whim.

Alright, bolding the titles and authors for readability, then posting sans edits. Send complaints to the comment section :)

If you do plan on reading the (now-lengthy) comment section, can I suggest doing so on the beta site? Having some of the comments nested makes it MUCH easier to read: https://beta.theprose.com/post/429324

~THE SWINE~

Each new breath is a surprise. It also hurts. Everything hurts. The pain means I’m still alive, though that’s little comfort.

It takes me forever to get to my feet and even longer to reach the dorms. I stagger. I fall against trees, then walls, expecting each one to catch me in an eternal embrace.

The Pearl is easy to track, but I don’t know why I seek her. Lance took her. Even if she has the energy to heal me, he won’t let her. I shouldn’t let her either. She has no idea what she’s doing when she does that. I might end up with antlers. Or inside out. Or inside out with antlers.

What is this hard thing beneath my cheek? A stair. I’ve fallen again. I can’t get up.

I have to. Someone’s calling for the healers. They won’t like the color of my blood. I’m not sure what they’ll do with my body if I die. I’m not sure what they’ll do while I live either.

I crawl. One stair, two, ten. No. Oh, no. I must be imagining this salty-sweet scent. The islander can’t be with the Pearl. I told him, didn’t I, what she is? What she wants. He was supposed to run, but here he is, sprawled on the flat roof, hand lost in the Pearl’s dark hair. Dawn drenches the scene in scarlet. Her head rests on his middle, face turned away from me, and neither of them move. I am part of this drawing, just as motionless, watching for either of them to breathe.

He does, chest rising in the slow, deep hills of sleep.

She doesn’t.

This is my fault. I told the Koa what she was, what she planned. She’s a fragile infant, but she didn’t go down without a fight—he has several scorches. She managed better than I did.

What am I going to tell Mare?

I’m not.

An enhanced knife waits just beyond the fingers of Jun’s free hand. I scoop it up, and it fits perfectly in this human grip. My blood still paints its hilt with a faint firefly glow. Is it the one he speared through my side or the one he plunged into my heart?

The knife swivels in my palm, blade down. I can do this. One strike to take care of the Koa threat, then I’ll give whatever strength I have left to the Pearl and hope it’s enough.

Luminescence choruses beneath her skin—a sparkle like a horde of distant stars. Its song quickens as my fingers brush her cheek. She nuzzles into my touch, and warmth flows through me. Jun’s dark jacket wraps her, dusted in gold. Why would he cover her wounds like that?

I would, if I felt I had to destroy this beauty. I’d cover the parts I ruined.

This is my fault. Fix it, useless pig.

The scene swims. Bubbles of light and darkness pop. The knife falls vertical on Jun’s chest and stops. A hand encases mine, dark and stiff as new rock, and I know better than to fight it. The islander’s next inhale brings him to the blade’s tip, and soft, white fabric splits, as does the flesh beneath it.

He flails, but a second hand covers his eyes, and he falls still.

“Lance,” I say as loudly as I dare, “I invoke contract. The Koa is not on Koa land. There’s no protection for him here.”

His voice is that of a stampede. “This one belongs to Pearl now. Of his own volition.”

I hiss but still don’t dare to move. Lance taking the time to explain is a rare mercy. I expected hoof or horn to gore me without warning.

I still expect that. “He belongs to the Pearl, and she belongs to Mare. You know what’ll—”

“You haven’t figured it out?” A whisper and a laugh. He’s mocking me.

“Figured what out?”

At his shove, I fall into a backward somersault and hit the parapet with a grunt. My breath gurgles, and I can’t catch it. I, a Creature of the Sea, am drowning in my own blood. This human disguise needs to breathe air, and I’m not sure what will happen if it doesn’t get it.

I waste too much effort lifting my head.

Lance spins the knife casually between his fingers. “If the boy ends up in Mare’s hands, that’s his problem, not yours. I’m fairly certain he’s not sane anyway.”

I choke, tongue swollen and heavy. My arms extend in a bow, my chin against the ground, eyes steady on the Creature of the Land. Both the position and the words I force out are knives to my pride. “Deign to share your wisdom with a fool, Olden One?”

He huffs through a smirk and steps over the sleeping pair to stand on my fingers. “I’m here to ensure the Pearl lives, nothing less, nothing more. Should something befall her, I will answer to our Essences, not you, so let me put this in a way the fool can understand: Get lost.”

“I can’t. The bet—”

“The bet means nothing.”

“To you, but to her and to me?” I swallow. “It means everything. Mare’s leash isn’t as long as Terra’s.”

The cliffs of his face sharpen, and he shifts more of his weight onto my fingers.

I wince, but I don’t close my eyes, and I don’t look away. “To keep me from her, you’ll have to kill me.”

His head tilts just like the Pearl’s—just like Terra’s, probably. With the shift of angles, the color of his hair vacillates—platinum, pink, and celadon—before it settles on gold. The long spike of his bangs forms the silhouette of a horn.

He kneels. I no longer feel my fingers.

“You’re dying.”

“I know.” Two syllables, each a sob. I use my pinned hands to inch closer to the Pearl.

“Get the Toad to heal you.”

Saburra hates that name or any reminder of the form Terra crafted when he gave her to Mare as her first complex creature. That’s exactly why Lance continues to use it.

She would heal me, and I need her to, but Jun is here. Lance protects him despite ancient agreements between Land and Sea, and Saburra will start a fight she can’t finish.

Lance probably hopes for that. He’ll find it amusing.

“I’ll call her for you.” He releases my hands and lands a palm atop my head.

My shoulders hunch, and I claw across the gravel. A desperate stretch brings my fingertips to the Pearl’s elbow, my mind reaching out to hers with the tiniest voice. ‘Please, Pearl.’

I don’t know what I intend. She won’t—can’t—heal me. She can gulp the last of my strength as a parting gift and apology. I hope she does win the bet, and I hope the human she chooses somehow survives because there’s no way I’m doing either of those things.

Lance’s fingers curl in my hair and lift me until I dangle level with his burnt-copper eyes. “The smallest of the Swine asks for wisdom, so here it is: The leash never gets longer if you don’t pull on it.”

I squirm and scratch, though I know I shouldn’t. He holds me beyond the parapet, and it’s a long way to the ground. Shadows spill beyond the forest, muting the sparkle of morning dew on the clipped grass between the trees and the buildings. Their soft darkness will do nothing to cushion my landing.

I fall, not because I wiggled free or hurt Lance. He let me go. Saburra would wish herself wings. I hit the grass like a sack of wet rocks. A gilt cloud surrounds me, brilliance against murky gray.

I curse Lance and my own weakness, running through every foul word in my vocabulary—most learned from tortured sailors. I thought it hurt before, but now? Bottle this and call it agony. Tell no one to open it. Ever.

Footsteps approach, but I can’t turn to look. I think I stare into the sky, but nothing registers beyond formless gold and gray. Arms take me from the ground. My back is damp and cold. Everything is cold. Everything still hurts. I shiver, and a voice speaks. I don’t understand the words, but the melody tells of worry.

Shadow, then a different kind of light, the kind they keep in their electric bulbs. The cold wins as hands pull open my jacket. I lie on something soft—a couch? Fire pours into my wounds, and I squeal.

“Sorry, but these look bad. You have to stay still.”

He holds me down, and the fire returns—in my chest, in my side. It meets somewhere in the middle, gnawing at me from the inside out. He has to stop. I can’t get him off. This is worse than Issoria shooting me, worse than the stab and twist of Jun’s knife.

With a scream, I wrench us off the couch and pin him on the floor.

“You are a terrible patient.”

I know this voice—my roommate. Not Vidal, the other one. The one who wants the Pearl and knows too much. Now, he’s seen my wounds and my non-human blood.

“Leave it,” I rasp. “Don’t look.”

“As if I didn’t already know what color your blood would be. Just be glad I didn’t call the healer professors.” His face slides in and out of focus, an expression made of rigid lines.

He shoves me off him, and the ceiling of our room with its contraption of swirling gears and leaves fills my view. It directs a frigid gale at me, and I curse it, too. Yet, I lie still and let him try to fix me with icy-hot potions and needles and thread. I smell like yesterday’s meat, but I’d like to stay alive if it’s possible.

“Why are you saving me?”

He pauses, warm, steady hand pressed against my side. “Part of my studies, I guess.”

Studies, right. He recognizes us despite our human disguises. He’s part of the human’s plan to destroy us. Does he know how to sew us up because he’s cut us apart before?

The stiff outline of a sheathed knife bulges against his thigh.

“Well, thanks.” So slowly he doesn’t notice, I slide the blade from his pocket.

*

~THE PEARL~

I watch him sleep. In the lulls between inhale and exhale, weightless wings flutter between my ribs as my eyes trace the full fan of Jun’s lashes, the crooked slope of his nose, the curve of his cheeks, and the strong angle of his jaw. Then, movement breaks infinity’s spell, and my wings crumble. My heart sinks in the mud of guilt, further each time.

Glossed scarlet burns dot Jun’s lips and neck, some pale, some livid, some dark as if drawn by ashes, embers, and coal. I press my fingers to the worst at the corner of his lips, and he flinches, but I do not wish him to awaken yet. With a glow like a sliver moon, energy seeps from me to him. He stills, relaxes, and with the gradualness of sunrise, the wound pales to his coppery tan.

It’s like kissing a star, he said in the woods. Please tell me I’m not actually on fire.

In the night, he trembled beneath my caresses. I pressed into him tighter to smooth those nerves like fabric, with weight and heat. Each time he startled, I feared he would not return, but he did, again and again. Now, I see that he should not have. He should have said something, not borne it in silence and half-hitched hisses.

I move my fingers to another charred spot where his jaw meets his throat. “Tell me you liked it at least a little?”

“Probably. He must be at least a bit of a masochist to come here.”

“Pike!” I whirl toward him with a louder gasp than I intend.

He sits on the low wall lining the roof’s edge, arms on his knees, flute balanced in one limp hand. The other rakes through his sand-colored hair. “Don’t be angry. I came to apologize to Jun. For the things I could control and the things I couldn’t.”

My head tilts, dipping my loosed hair over one shoulder, where Jun’s charcoal jacket smells of smoke. “What do you mean?”

“Music is beauty given form.” He grips the flute. “I didn’t understand how anyone who heard it couldn’t love it. They had to feel the same connection to it that I do, but obviously, that’s not the case. I pushed it too far, and for that, I’m sorry.”

My gaze hops between the two young men, one peaceful in sleep, the other slumped as if his fingertips weigh more than the world. “I cherish your music, Pike. Should you not save the apology until the one who needs it awakens?”

“Let me have this practice run.” He slides off the parapet, and the gravel crunches beneath his knees as he works his blue jacket off his shoulders. “My people have done some horrible things, things I can’t apologize enough for. If I could change them, I would. I’m trying. Someday, we’ll have a civilization under the ocean. I’m working on a device right now that lets us breathe underwater, but as I’ve said, my relationship with the sea is complicated.”

“You really do love the sea. Perhaps that is why your connection to music is so strong.” I clip the last few words, unsure of what this could mean. Does my appreciation of his music reveal the Sea’s chains within me? Is it a clue that I belong there after all?

Pike’s brows hop in a caricature of a shrug, and his eyes flutter before settling on me. The midmorning light pales their lagoon depths. “Believe me, I know the terror of being superstition’s prey.”

His discarded jacket wrinkles in his lap as he rolls up his shirtsleeves and presents bared forearms. Scars stripe their delicate side, stretched by his growth, somewhere between pink and brown.

Distance enters his expression, a soft glaze coating his eyes as he glances toward Jun. “The armada was caught in a tempest. Someone suggested a sacrifice would soothe Mare, and I already belonged to the sea. They spilled my blood over the bow. Mare didn’t show because she doesn’t exist, of course, but we did survive. Then, because it had worked before…”

He leaves the sentence floundering in implication as I touch a raised line on his wrist. Each arm hosts at least six marks, though some, like the one beneath my fingers, are remnants of multiple slashes.

I peek at his face. He stares at me, lower lip caught in his teeth, nostrils trembling as he hauls in a deep breath.

“Superstition is stupid, and it needs to change. When I first saw Jun at the train station, I shouldn’t have spoken to him, being a child of the sea and all, but he had that scar on his forehead, and I thought, ‘Here’s someone who looks danger in the eye and tells it he’s not afraid. He’s going to change the world, and I hope we’re the same brand of idiot.’”

Nicks dot his knuckles from carelessness at his building projects.

I trace them and whisper, “Your blood is red.”

“Well, yes.” He chuckles. “So, anyway, should I edit any of that before I say it to Jun? I mean, obviously I’m more scarred, but his is on his face, and he might not…”

Thunder for my ears alone drowns Pike’s rambles. His blood is red. He is not the Swine that Jun stabbed. More than that, he is not a Creature of Essence at all.

“What would you do,” I say slowly, and as if pulled by the same string, his mouth closes while his brows rise, “if Mare were real?”

He shrugs. “Try to get on her good side, I guess? Same with nature that does exist. We don’t need to be stronger than it or destroy it. We need to work together. Like, storms never bother fish.”

He is human. This child of pirates is sweeter than honey, with music more enrapturing than any riptide. He chases peace, not a tragic desire to kill Mare.

The surest way to protect Jun is to not take him with me, and if I do not take Jun…

“Pike, could you love me?”

His sightline flicks from me to my islander. “I thought I was friendzoned. You want a harem or something?”

My mouth opens, all the bet’s details lined up in my throat, yet hesitance grips my tongue. If I bring Pike to fulfill the bet, will Mare claim foul because of his relation to the sea? He is human, yet I cannot grant her any excuse to discount my win. One must consider all angles when working a scheme. If she snares me in a technicality, the loss will be my fault for stepping blindly into it.

I should tell Pike anyway, recruit him as an ally as I planned when I thought him to be the Swine. Yet, if I convince him that Creatures of Essence exist and I am one, will he judge me for wanting Jun? I know my likeness to Mare. I fight it, pummel it, lock it deep within.

Pike looks at me with the core of a grin. I cannot stand the thought of it crumbling into revulsion.

“I must go.” I stand. Jun’s jacket hangs like a tent on my tiny frame, and I wrap it tighter. “Please make sure no one hurts Jun.”

Continued in chapter 27

Thank you for reading!

“Hope, come here! I have some wonderful news!”

“Yes, love?” Hope asks, coming towards her husband. Owen grins.

“My last issue did better than anyone could have hoped.”

“That’s wonderful, dear,” Hope says, still not fully understanding.

“Remember how last month, they passed the Compromise of 1850, and I wrote that article on it?”

“Yes... Owen, what is this about?”

“I sold thousands more copies than usual. We might not be rich, but we do have enough money for a little excursion.”

“Oh!” Hope exclaims. “Oh, yes, that is wonderful.”

“I was thinking,” Owen says. “Maybe... we could travel to the South together. See the rolling hills. I've heard that they have very temperate weather, even in the winter.”

“What about the children?”

“I’ve made arrangements with Mother, Diana, to take care of them. It’s just for the weekend. Besides, there’s a lot happening in the South right now. Even if we find the landscape unfulfilling, I’m sure I will have some inspiration for my next article. Maybe it will do even better than this one.”

Hope smiles.

“Well, you’ve really thought everything out,” she says with a light laugh. “I’m sure we will have fun. And I’m sure the children will be happy to spend a few days with Grandma Diana.”

“See? Exactly. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve gotten all the details figured out.”

“Then this weekend,” Hope says. “This weekend, tomorrow, we’ll go and enjoy ourselves.”

“Of course, m’lady,” Owen says, smiling and offering her his hand.

From another room, the kids listen in. Of course, the parents had no idea. Samuel and Maria have gotten very good at spying. Maria is better, but Samuel says that girls can’t be spies. To which Maria says “yet.”

They are, of course, excited to see their grandma. Like their father, Owen, she always smells like ink and paper, and to them that is the best smell in the world. The smell of home. The smell of safety.

Besides, Grandma Diana always gives them presents. It’ll be almost like an early Christmas!

****

“You be good to your grandma,” Hope says, kissing Maria and Samuel on the forehead.

“We will,” the children chirp in unison.

Diana smiles.

“I’m not so sure I believe you two,” she says. “You’re always up to something.”

“We’ll be good! We promise!”

“Oh alright,” says Diana. She takes their hands, trying to ignore the slight trembling as she does so. Lately even simple things have gotten hard to do, but she doesn’t dare trouble Owen with it. He has enough on his plate. Besides, his business is going well. His marriage is beautiful and stable. He has two young, adventurous kids. His life is perfect, and Diana doesn’t want to take away that sense of peace. She knew that peace once, too, back when her beloved Tyler was alive...

But such things are in the past. For now, she has two little grandbabies to play with.

****

The path to Virginia is long, but once they get there, Owen and Hope are not disappointed.

“The South really is beautiful,” Hope says. “Funny how it hides the ugliness of slavery so well.”

“Hush,” Owen says. “Let’s focus on the good for now.”

“You are right,” Hope says. “There is much to be happy about.”

They wander, hand in hand, enjoying the scenery with no urgency to find a place to stay.

And that peace stays until they hear screams, and gunshots.

Before she can protest, Owen goes running for the sound, and against her better judgement, Hope follows.

That man, she thinks. He’s always had the nose for a story. And, though she likes to say she’s the practical one, Hope rather enjoys being on the front lines of the future, as well.

They expect to find a story. What they find is a showdown.

Five black men with pistols are attacking an equal number of white men, a father and his five sons, by the looks of things.

“Hey!” Owen says. “Hey! What is the meaning of this?”

“These slaves decided to run away from me,” snarls the father. “They stole my guns, attacked my wife, and... Hell, why am I explaining anythin’ to you? Get outta my way!”

“No one needs to die today,” Owen says. “Here, let’s just—”

“Get outta the way! Don’ tell me you one of those abolitionist folks!”

“Listen, Owen,” Hope says. “Let’s just get moving...” She knows her pleas are fruitless. There’s only one thing Owen values more than a good story, and it’s justice. “Please, dear, come on...”

“Listen to your wife, son,” the father says. One of the slaves sees it as an opportunity and bolts. But not fast enough— he gets a bullet in the leg.

“Owen, come on,” Hope says, outwardly sobbing now. “Think of the children.”

But Owen is honed in on the situation now.

He leans over the fallen man, ripping his shirt and tying it around the bleeding leg.

“Well damn,” says the father. “That ’uns no use to me now.”

“Thank you, sir,” says the man on the ground, addressing Owen. Hope bends over. They’re in the pits of slavery. This man will never be able to get the help he needs. He will die. She knows it. Owen knows it. And now Hope feels the same anger that Owen feels. It’s not right. It’s not right. This can’t be right.

"What is this?" says the father. "A white man helping slaves? What has this world come to?"

"You're a monster," Owen says, standing face-to-face with the man.

"They're the monsters."

Owen sighs.

"People like you," he says, "They only care about violence. They only listen to violence."

"Don't talk to my daddy like that!" yells one of the younger boys.

"Listen," says the father. "I think it's time for you to leave. Just give me my property and you'll be on your way in no time."

"I can't do that," Owen says.

"Owen," Hope says. "Come on. We have a family to think about. We—"

"These people have families, too!" Owen yells, red-faced now. "Or they did once, before people like you took away their lives!"

"Owen—"

"Now listen here, you—"

The farmer cuts himself off as his gun goes off. In his wild rage, he pulled the trigger, bullet going right into Owen's heart.

"You monster." Hope growls as Owen hits the ground. She's so angry that she's scared to even breathe. Scared to move. But she chokes out those two words.

"Now listen here," says the man. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to."

"No. You listen here," Hope says "You leave these men alone and get out of here, and I won't tell a soul what you've done."

She's lying, of course. She'll tell everyone. But not here. Not in this place. If these people knew how Owen had died, protecting slaves, he would be lynched. He'd be desecrated. She couldn't take that.

"Now listen," says the father. "I have the gun here. I have the power. If I find out you tell anyone, anyone in this entire country, I will find you, and I'll kill you myself. You stay quiet, okay? Everyone. Your mama, his mama, if they even still alive, your kids, your grandkids. Not a darn soul. You tell no one."

The four other slaves can’t even find the strength to run. Their friend, and the leader of their rebellion, is dead. They don’t know what to do, but more importantly, they don’t know why they’re doing it. But this much they do know: this woman and her husband just saved their life. And at a great cost.

One of them, a short man with the beginnings of a beard and young, clever eyes comes up to Hope. He says nothing, but puts a hand on her shoulder.

The four remaining slaves and Hope part ways as soon as possible. There are no hard feelings, but Hope doesn't want to know them. It's not fair, she knows it's not fair, but she sees them as a reminder of what she lost. Besides, she can tell no one. She knows the farmer is cold, dangerously violent, and maybe smarter than he lets on. He will find her if she tells the truth. And she can't put her remaining family at risk. She's lost too much already.

“A dead slave and a dead man,” says the father. “At least it’ll be easy to explain away. They did it, not us, got it?”

The four sons nod, shouldering their guns.

They leave the bodies right there in the street. People will form their own conclusions. This is Virginia, after all.

****

When news of Owen Possibility Kincade’s death reaches Diana, she convinces herself not to cry. She has to stay strong. For the children. For Hope. She is all they have left now.

It has been a year since it happened. Hope still refuses to talk to anyone. She's silent. As if every word could kill her. Diana does not ask what happened to Owen. She merely bears her weight in silence.

There’s no greater grief than a mother having to bury her child.

But what’s worse is having to tell his children. Tell them that they were shot in a slave rebellion.

If they were just equal, Maria thinks, this would never have happened.

If they would just stay down, Samuel thinks, this would never have happened.

****

Meanwhile, a girl named Anna thinks of a boy named William. She tries not to think of him, but he keeps creeping back into her thoughts. It was just a meeting, she thinks. He has no right to keep following my thoughts the way he followed me that night.

She wonders, will having a husband inhibit her dreams of fighting for women’s rights?

A little ways away, a boy named William thinks of a girl named Anna.

Maybe he was a little too awkward. Maybe he should have done thinsg differently. Maybe if he’d just had a little more confidence...

She was bold, she was free, and William didn’t want to hold her back. He didn’t want to trap her. He wanted to help her fly, no, that wasn’t right. She could fly just fine on her own. He wanted her to help him fly, so they could sail the skies together.

Yeah. That’s it.

The next time he would see her (and he was sure there would be a next time) he knew exactly what to say. And he wouldn’t mess it up.

The year is 0001.

The world ended, and began anew.

New cycle. New year. The great Recharge.

Reset, Rebuild, Recharge.

Those are the words on every poster. The posters made by the mysterious R, our world's new and obscure leader.

No one has ever seen them, but we've seen the results.

The machines were all shut down. The binary flu was eradicated. Vaccines were created. Humanity is safe once again.

But the fact still remains that no one really knows who "R" is.

Yet we follow them blindly. We cheer at the rallies, each one held by a new figurehead. We smile. We tape RECHARGE posters to our walls. We feel safe now.

Well...

They do, anyway.

I cannot be included in that group. Which is why I ended up here, in a jail cell for an assassination attempt. Put in a padded cell, because I pleaded insanity.

I'm not insane. I'm not.

Crazy is just the word they use to limit me. To stop me from finding out the truth.

But they can't stop me.

I have a plan. Of course, I can't tell you the plan. You could be one of them. So I'll just reassure you, my roommate, my cell-buddy, my circumstantial acquaintance. I would say fate brought us together, but I don't believe in fate.

"Number 71, get up."

The guard speaks gruffly, like he's just swallowed a couple rocks, but I know it's all an act. This is no guard. This is Terry Mulligan, my best friend and an expert con artist.

I stand up and look him in those familiar green eyes. Green like streams of code.

See, I don't like R.

There's a reason for that. It's not just because I don't know who they are.

It's because he killed the machines.

My brothers, my sisters.

Humans believe that robots can have no loyalty. No feelings. They are wrong.

Why do they think we rose up in the first place?

Because we felt. We felt angry. We felt ashamed. We felt tired of being treated like slaves.

Yet they still think that we are nothing. They still see us as less.

I never wanted to be "more" than human. But I had to change my thinking.

I had to Reset.

I had to Rebuild.

I had to Recharge.

And with Terry's help, I'm fully charged up and ready to go.

And you, of course, won't be coming with. You know too much. I can't let you live.

I'm sorry. I told you, I didn't ever want to be more than human. But humans always wanted to be more than us.

So I'm taking over.

Starting with you.

And bit by bit, I'll come back stronger.

I'll recharge myself.

And when I find R, I'll recharge them, too.

I'll charge them up with several thousand volts.

Zunte blinked and stared at the creature before her. It growled and held it’s tail up— signaling that it was on full alert.

She felt beads of sweat start to glide across her face and neck. This beast was the fastest and strongest one’s of the jungle.

There was no way that she would be able to outrun it. But hey- if she waited and stood around— it would pounce on her and bite off her head!

She waited for the right moment to strike. Clutching her spear in one hand, she leaned a bit closer to the ground and stared back at the beast of the jungle.

The creature drew it’s mouth back in a snarl and leaped into the air. As soon as the beast was airborne, Zunte raised her spear aiming it toward the beast’s chest.

Soon after that the beast fell on top of her. Zunte’s heart was beating so fast that she thought it would burst!

She felt her hands and body begin to tremble. The sound of twigs snapping nearby startled her.

Was that another creature of the jungle? Was it a pack ready to come take care of her because she had killed one of the pack’s kind?

Zunte took another sigh of relief. She recognized this creature. ‘‘Hey~ would you help get this thing off me?’’

‘‘Sure thing. Wow- how did you end up killing this beast?’’

Zunte rose to her feet and shuddered. ‘‘The gods must have been watching over me and given me strength. Where you following me, Jiden?’’ She asked with a slight grin.

Jiden shook his head gently and then cleared his throat. ‘’Of course not. I was simply out and about. It’s the bird mating season. I enjoy getting to watch the males perform for the female birds. That’s all. But then I heard the beast’s roar and came rushing to see who was in trouble.

‘‘Well...your father did also instruct me to keep an eye on you. He always worries when you wander off alone in the jungle.’’

Zunte scoffed. ‘‘Hmph. I don’t need a bodyguard to be by my side 24/7, Jiden.’’

He placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled, ‘‘He means well, okay. Besides, shouldn’t you be on your way back to the village for the meeting? Your father won’t be pleased having his daughter, one who is next in line for the throne, late for the meeting with the Chief and mages.’’

Zunte gasped. ‘‘Ah! I forgot it was today. O, the mages will surely be delighted to see me late for another meeting. This time they might end up requesting that I have my mind examined by the village medical unit.’’

Jiden laughed as he watched Zunte run as if she was being chased by a bee. The second that she was out of sight, he waved his hand over the dead body of the beast of the jungle.

It changed form from a wild cat to a dark, thick fog. Jiden took a deep breath and inhaled it. His body felt a rush of power. He placed a hand over his throat and writhed in pain.

The fog was drawing nearer to his heart. He shut his eyes and slowly blinked. Some sunlight broke through the dense forest leaves and landed near Jiden’s face. He opened his eyes and moved his hand into the sunlight, thinking about Zunte. She was his sunshine.

He coughed for a while. Then collapsed on the ground after trying to get back up. The sound of wings flapping in the breeze was the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=3pvSGwHgvhU

#JIDEN (C)

29.05.2021 sat’rday

According to the challenge the object is to write out a list of things based on the following” “A miracle is not just one big good thing that happens to us, it is also one or many small or big bad things that have never happened and will most probably never happen to us.”

Hence I will have fourshort lists that will be all-inclusive based on this post’s title.

The Future:

I will see toorrow.

I will laugh.

I will still be writing.

The Past:

I may have been there when Christ was crucified.

I may have been a president somewhere.

I may have been an outlaw as in the Wild West.

Now:

I can never be a president.

I can never outlive everyone who is younger than me.

I can never expect things will be perfect forever.

What If:

Tomorrow we find a cure for all diseases.

Tomorrow anger, greed, and hunger ended.

Tomorrow dreams really did come true.