It Will Come Back

It’s stopped. For now. The noise. The relentless, pounding, drilling, endless noise. It’s stopped. It’s been replaced by a silence that feels the opposite of peaceful. I don’t know what I did to offend it, but this is the first moment that I have not been drowning in chaotic, constant sound.

I don’t know what it is, either. I don’t know why or how or what or any of those questions journalists like me are trained to ask. I have no context, no background information. No insight. Maybe if I had been able to sleep, my mind would be clear, but I haven’t so it’s not.

There’s not even a way to describe the sound. It’s not piercing, tearing my eardrums to bits. It’s not deep and rumbling to the point that it hurts my bones. It’s not so loud that my teeth clench to shattering in my mouth. It is just consistent. Constant. A thrum, maybe. A thump? Just noise. Unceasing noise.

I haven’t been able to rest in days. Every time I have tried, the sound has rousted me from my bed. Coffee doesn’t work to keep me awake anymore. I’ve even tried other stimulants, some legal and some not, to give me energy to attack my day. Something, anything, to keep me moving. Something other than the sheer stubbornness my job requires. None of it works.

There have been moments before when the sound has stopped. Not many, but some. Moments of brief, blissful quiet. Even those are a cruelty, though. In those seconds and minutes, I hear everything in the world around me. The cries from the baby next door, neglected and ignored by its junkie mother. The desperate grunts and moans from the couple in the throes of relationship death across the hall. The hacking, drooling old man below me as he shuffles away the last precious days of his life in solo desperation. I hear the sounds of the world and I hate them. I hate all of them.

Then the sound starts back up and, for just a second, I feel relief. The world around me is drowned out. But then it sinks in that I am once again in this auditory cage and I ache to hear the humanity again. Either way, either result…it all tears my heart to bits.

This silence now feels different. Purposeful. As if I…wait. Across the hall, I hear something smashing. Something ceramic. Yelling, incoherent and heart-broken. I can’t make it out. Something ugly in the sound. It increases. Why is the noise not coming back? Why am I hearing this? A gunshot. Two. Three. Thump thump. Somethings hitting the floor. Where is the noise? I can’t hear this. I shouldn’t hear this.

Where is the noise? Where is the sound that muffles the world from me? I don’t want it back. I want it back. I don’t know how to function. I don’t know how to be. Someone is dead and I just need the noise.

            Please.
​
            Please.

The mandrake.

Genus mandragora.

Mandragora officinalis and Mandragora autumnalis.

The plants famous – infamous perhaps – for their hallucinogenic qualities, their narcotic properties, and their alkaloid nature that can choke and asphyxiate the unaware or foolhardy.

One of the most folklore-laden plants of all time, the mandrake is said to induce fertility, act as an aphrodisiac, and aid in exorcisms. It is also said to scream and scream and scream when touched or uprooted. The sound is said to either kill the unlucky immediately or induce extreme pain. Death is said to be preferable.

Of course, this is all nonsense. Not the science part, I mean, but the part about the plant creating death and agony with its scream. The idea is patently absurd. Legends from a time that knew no better. We, naturally, do.

Our mandrakes are not plants. They aren’t physical objects. They can’t be tossed away or used to create potions. No. Ours are different. Internal. They don’t kill, not immediately.

Oh, but how they scream and scream and scream.

Mine is in my head. It infects my mind and turns it to something altogether more unpleasant. It puts in thoughts and threads of consideration that salt the earth so that no joyful flowers may grow again. It yells until it becomes overwhelming and nothing else may cut through its noise. There, it lays its burden down and waits.

It is the part of me that creates an impossible paradox. It demands that success is the only acceptable outcome for whatever I do. Career, writing, love. All of it must be a success or it is a failure. I am a failure.
So, I try. I consider my options and do my best to achieve success in every way I can imagine. The degrees that hang on the wall, dust covering their triumph. The personality built to serve others, even to my own detriment. The giving, the selflessness. Changing course when something does not quite work. Flexibility becomes standard, necessary.

But life does not provide guarantees and effort is oftentimes left idle to rot.

Thus, the mandrake screams that I have failed. I am failure.

It does not encourage me, though. It does not drive me. It poisons the very effort it demands from me. Every step in a direction is met with derision and a certainty of failure. Why bother, it will ask. You won’t succeed. You can’t. You don’t.

Hence, the paradox. It demands that I achieve success while at the same time assuring me that success is not possible. There is no scenario in which I ‘win’. Only returning over and over to the same spot of failure.
It is the part of me that does not allow me to feel worthy of love. Worthy of interest. It drips a steady stream of venom into my ear, driving my internal value into the dark, wet earth.

You are too old. She’s young and vibrant. What are you?

You are too fat. She’s attractive and put together. What are you?

Your job is dead-end. She has her whole life ahead of her. Do you? Do you even have half of it left?

You live with your family and you’re almost 40. It writes itself.

You’re dark and bitter, masking it all with fake cheer. She’s bubbly and attentive. Opposites don’t attract that much. It’s not like magnets. It’s oil and water.

You are too inexperienced. Who would want that? I mean, you’re nearly at the point that a movie was made about you. What does that say?

You don’t know what you’re doing. You never have. You never will.

That’s to say nothing of the fact that you don’t know that she would even be interested. Likely not, but you don’t have the experience or knowledge to read any sort of signals or lack thereof. Remember literally every single time you’ve fumbled the ball? Every single instance you thought someone was or wasn’t interested? Your track record speaks for itself and what is says isn’t a good thing. You have been wrong and wrong and wrong over and over again.

What makes you think this time is different? What makes you think this time is somehow the magical time that she’s into you and you’re into her and all it takes is just asking her out and it’ll all be good? What possible proof do you have? What singular piece of evidence can you point to that confirms doing anything other than leaving the poor girl alone would be the wisest course of action?

None. At all.

Isn’t it wiser to assume she’s simply being nice and walk away? Wouldn’t that be the smarter course of action, especially for someone who thinks he is so smart? Why is that not the only option you are considering?

For that matter, what would you even do if she said yes? She won’t, naturally, but working with hypotheticals, what would you do? How would you react? Would you even know what to do? Doubtful. Like a dog that catches a car, you would freeze. Lock up. Smash into the bumper. Damage yourself and traumatize someone who did nothing but exist around you.

How ugly is that?

Why inflict yourself upon someone, least of all someone you’re interested in?

Why would you do that to her? Why would you make her life that much worse?

Why waste her time? She can do better. You know it, so why would you be selfish enough to prevent her from finding someone worthy of her time and effort?

Why would you be so self-absorbed as to imagine for a single second that she would want to settle for someone like you?

You worry about what she wants – good. That’s what you should be worrying about. What she wants and what’s best for her. What about what you want? Why on Earth would that matter for a moment?

You have danced this dance before and every single time, you have ended up bringing more pain into the world. For you, sure, but you’ve earned every single drop of it for being stupid. For them, though, their only mistakes were allowing you into their lives. Are you so heartless that you are not only willing but desirous of having someone innocent make that mistake again?

You’re not a monster, but you’re not a saint. You’re a mess who refuses to acknowledge it. The sooner you accept who you are and forget the notion that you will ever be better, be more than the wreck you are now, the sooner you can achieve some sense of self-understanding.

You have let down everyone who believed in you being more than you are. Yourself most of all. You had such potential, the world ahead of you. Intelligence on a level most cannot compete with. Power over words and how you use them. You could have been anything you wanted and you’re this?

You’re who you are now?

Look at who you are. Nearly 40 years old, desperately single, stuck in a job you’re underpaid for in a field you don’t love because you hold on to a misplaced sense of loyalty. Three useless degrees and a hundred-thousand-dollar debt you’ll never repay. Forget retirement, forget savings, forget buying a house and starting a family. All of that is beyond your grasp. Frankly, staying out of default is your closest achievable goal. That’s the best-case scenario.

And you want to put someone in the line of fire for that? You want to ask someone to take on the monumental disaster that is your future and what do you offer in return?

You’re funny? So is every man with a slight personality.

You’re kind? So are dogs.

You can cook? Congratulations, you can do the bare minimum of being an adult.

You’re loyal? Dogs again.

You can write? Debatable and mental illness doesn’t exactly scream ‘benefit’.

You’re honest? Except with yourself, clearly. Or with anyone who scratches to get beneath the surface of the carefully constructed persona you’ve built for yourself.

So, to recap, nothing you offer on the ‘positive’ side is something she can’t get elsewhere from someone younger and better than you without the negatives of you being you. Yeah, I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t want to push her chips in and go all in on the 2-7 offsuit hand that is your life. You gamble. You know a bad bet when you see one. Why don’t you see that in the mirror every day? Or if you do, why does that not make you kill that part of you that imagines things being different? It seems like masochism.

And on and on and on. It does not stop.

This mandrake screams over and over and it’s difficult to not listen. It knows each and every one of my insecurities and plucks those strings like a guitar virtuoso. The cruelty is imaginative and finds new ways to worm into my sense of being to attack it from inside, a disease eating away what value I find in myself.
It does not kill. It doesn’t have to do so.

It just makes life that much more of a chore and drains the hope from my veins.

Worst of all? I have no room to complain. I have a job. I have a home. I have a family. I have creature comforts that so many people could only dream of. I have no room to hate myself, not really. I have no standing to talk about how unhappy I am. There are trump cards abounding that nullify any gripes I may have.

There lies the true genius of my mandrake. It grinds me down with hate after hate after hate but then admonishes me for feeling it. Berates me for daring to feel bad when there is so much more pain out there. What right do I have to anything other than numbness?

In short, I cannot win.

Not ever.

My mandrake is too smart for that. I am too smart and so it is too smart.

It will scream and tear me apart inside and demand I be grateful for it not being worse.

I’ll go to sleep and wake up and it will begin again.

But it could be worse.
​
I could be dating me. 

I sing the tune atonal
The screech of metal twisting and snapping underscores a throbbing lub-dub
It counterposes the scrape of uneven sand and salt and sin
Flesh is woven into elastic strands plucked on charnel house harps
A choir hums and howls a melody familiar yet foreign
Beastly voices crescendo in frightened orgasm and peak beyond all audible sound
Blood rises and falls, a tide of carmine frothing the beach where bones bleach bare
A sun blackens and crisps like leaves in the flame, light pulsing and receding like a fading life
Night descends and does not return
I sing the tune atonal as the world gasps finality

I sing the tune unpleasant
Red and bleak and hatred like pollution in the veins
The shiver of discomfort that presages the surge of pain before all goes dark
The reek of hot fat bursting from the unlucky and the unwary
The bile on the lips of the biting, braying masses whipped to frenzy by lies and righteousness
It echoes the thud of meat and bone colliding in love and lust and angry entitlement
It twists the tongue and splits the teeth with ugly words unneeded and painful, rail spikes to the core of being
It hurts and hurts and hurts
Strain and agony, bosom friends, partners in sound
I sing the tune unpleasant and it sours in my mouth, ashen and acidic

I sing the tune chthonic
A muffled groan from beneath rumbles and strains
Unhallowed tombs of stone and sour air choke sound to nothing
Lanterns’ life snuffed by pitch-dark stillness
A silent, aching pressure, fastened tight to a heart straining against its bonds
There sits row upon endless row of those who were and then became not
No monsters here save those we manifest with our collective anxiety
It sits and waits, a maw patient and eternal, ever fed
It is heard by too many yet never enough
I sing the tune chthonic and scales fall that I may see the sun once more
 
I sing the tune of tumult
A tumbling, clashing, grinding noise that clatters and echoes in the silent hereafter
It belches forth in cacophonous screams, ancient bats hunting forbidden prey
A hunger nested in the sounds within sounds, the primality within all beings living and not
It tears the throat and cleaves reason in two
There should be peace in-between but space is not given
No quarter, no relief
Only cowardly music filling emptiness unabated
Only the overwhelming voice of all
I sing the tune of tumult and walls fall in the face of sonic abuse
 
I sing the tune chaotic
The roiling purple foam that wears away mountains
The drunk and ugly slurs of one who knows too much
It tosses, turns, and upsets the order of things yet allows no recovery
It barks and hisses, warning lights flashing, no anchor attached
Whirlpools consuming those who stray, pulling them to the end and drowning their corpses
It dances without rhythm, a beat all its own fueling its arrogant pasodoble
To make sense is to commit harm to nature
Dust to ashes and back again, a cycle unending
I sing the tune chaotic and watch the oceans boil
 
I sing the tune depressing
The sludge and sickly sticky grime
The swirling pool of dark and gruesome thought
The small body in winter that breathes its last steam into an uncaring sleet
It wraps around the throat and cinches tight, a noose of ideas born of malfunction
Rain-slick and cold, it burrows into the skin and muscle
A solitary sob in the middle of the night to split the silence
It consumes, an all-powerful hunger with endless capacity
The burst of a gasp tears through the mire before ichorous tendrils wrap and retrieve their prey
I sing the tune depressing yet only blind despair knits together in chords

I sing the tune unyielding
A crash of waves against a stony façade, wearing away slow and sure but permanent
The grit and detritus spattering the face, smearing the makeup of the performance
Stubborn continuance regardless of consequence or drive
It will not shift, the object immobile, and will ignore all reason and rhyme the world provides
It will not bend, it will not allow breath to earn an inch of respite
There is no future but that which it demands and holds with a grip of welded iron
No room to grow, no room to evolve
It shall not become other than what it insists it is
I sing the tune unyielding and weariness consumes all in its hunger

I sing the tune desirous
A white-hot knife to the core of humanity within
It surges with desperate need, no release to grasp
Solitude its prison, history the warden
The panting, foaming mouth finds no purchase
Images pour forth into the mind unbidden, dreams unmanifested
A torment of self-infliction borne on wings of that which should be shed
An albatross bound tightly around the neck
Pulling down to the abyss
I sing the tune desirous and receive no response but empty silence
 
I sing the tune grief-stricken
A ball of steel, cold and solid, sits in my windpipe and threatens to suffocate me
Heat blossoms behind my eyes, Noah’s flood beginning to crest
Dark silhouettes replace portraits of a future never to become
I choke and gag and the vice around my neck tightens, loosens, and falls into my stomach
It festers and rots, leaking bilious tears into my blood and brain
All paths converge in time, some speed to rest
Broken dolls repaired by a flawed carpenter, automatic yet damaged permanently
No escape, no relief
I sing the tune grief-stricken and feel it burrow to where it cannot be excised
 
I sing the tune acerbic
It bites and gnaws, a rabid dog in my words
A blade to part skin and muscle and the heart
Wicked wisdom and haughty hate
They find the vulnerability, the softness, and cut into it
Mangling the good and the fine to unidentifiable sadness
Scars are born and borne by experience
They will bleed and scab and bleed again
Some cuts go much deeper than the surface
I sing the tune acerbic and wish I could feel guilt within it
 
I sing the tune erotic
The sway and dip of bedded dancing
The carnal breathing filling the atmosphere of the darkened room
The whispered words too private to mention, more truthful than even wine can elicit
The silken touch of fingertips on shuddering skin
Lips and teeth and bleeding gouges signifying a job ably performed
Gentle snores from tangled hair and sodden sheets
Sleep dreamless and contented, thoughts drained
Half-awake pawing demolishes solitude and banishes the roiling depths
I sing the tune erotic and realize all too clearly how alone I am
 
I sing the tune exhausted
Muscles leached of all hope, demanding only rest
A mind worn thin, gossamer thread holding together a personality society-worthy
Temper like a shotgun, sharp reports tearing through innocuous inquiries
A world no longer wishing to be awake
The constant scrolling of information that inundates and overtakes milliliters at a time
None can endure and will ache and ache and ache
Generous rest must be claimed when it is available
Selfishness and selflessness may be two sides of a coin
I sing the tune exhausted and hope for a better day tomorrow
 
I sing the tune forgiving
We are all tired, all human
There are mistakes, errors, grievances that may poison our selves and our souls
Grace is not given, not received, but hoarded as a precious metal, unwilling to be shared
We fight ourselves, our better natures, our kindness and our hope
We talk ourselves out of redemption, even for those whom we despise or despise us
There is no battle that cannot, should not be fought, damn the rest
We throw ourselves against the wall, demanding it move, convinced of our rightness
Yet, when we may move, we stay steady as eternal stone
I sing the tune forgiving and see a tiny light flicker in the sky
 
I sing the tune resolving
The world may not be changed by one singular mind
My world may not be changed
Yet, I can try. I can try to push through the thick, rank fields of that which holds me back
I can and will reach out my hand to those grasping, going down for the third time
I will not, cannot seek to change the hearts of anyone – a task impossible, truly
I can only open my heart, give my kindness, share my gifts with those who wish to join me
I am dark and dreary inside, but that is not the entirety of me
It is not the entirety of you
I sing the tune resolving and take one step forward
 
I sing the tune triumphant
I shall always sing.

Steal Away the Light

            You pluck the sun from the sky and hide it away in your room. It brings you warmth and comfort as your heart freezes and leaks inside you. The world falls dark and you do not care. The world outside can take care of itself. You have yourself and your sun and nothing else matters. You bask in the heat and listen to the world outside.

            There is terror out there. This you know for sure. Black, chilled terror that spreads through the population. There is violence, as one expects. Broken businesses. Broken homes. Broken bodies and marriages and hope. Broken lives. You hear the screams and shattering society, but it doesn’t matter to you. You are in your room and you are warm and safe and content in the glow of your own sun.

            Gouts of flame stab into the eternal night as people desperately look for heat and light. Animals roam unbounded and take what they want. Who they want. Some people do the same. The ferocious and the guilty. The angry and the scared. Those without a heart, those like you. They see this new, darkened world as a respite from their self-control.

            You should feel shame, shouldn’t you? For your selfishness. Your solipsistic act. You stole something belonging to all, yet you feel nothing but the comfort of the light and heat around you. You no longer feel your heart inside you breaking. You no longer feel your eyes well with tears and the strangling in your throat. You feel relaxed.

            The violence outside continues. It grows louder and louder. Closer and closer. You hear desperate voices crying out for help, begging for anyone to intervene on their behalf. Inevitably, nobody comes. Inevitably, the screams grow louder and higher pitched as the nightmares they experience crescendo. Inevitably, the screams stop. Yet, all you sense is the warm thrum of the sun you have stolen.

            Word spreads. People talk of you and what you have hoarded. As the last shreds of humanity leave their senses, groups form to take from you what you find most precious. They seek to restore the sun and restore the world. They approach your door and smash the door and scream and rage and demand you release what gives you meaning. You ignore them. You refuse.

            They will break through your defenses sooner than later. You understand this and it does not bother you. They will break through and take from you what matters most and then they will take your life. Irony of ironies, you almost feel scared. The sun will not allow more than a flutter of fear, though, and you settle back into your comfort until the end arrives.

            The sound of splintering wood reaches your ears and you know the end approaches. You hold the sun close and feel it scorch the very veins in your skin. You pull it tighter and tighter, absorbing it into you. They cannot take what is inside you.
​
            You and your supernova.
            

Thank You For the Demon

            Alan thanked his grandmother through clenched teeth as he opened his birthday present. It was a small wooden box with some carvings on the top. He had expected something nicer. A video game, maybe. Money. Hell, even socks would have been useful. Still, it was the thought that counted, he reminded himself. His grandmother smiled at him, nodded, and told him that it is a wonderful display piece but to never open it. That got his attention.

            He asked why and she hemmed and hawed and eventually mentioned that it contained a minor demon she had accidentally plucked from the other side when she was doing her nightly rituals last month. Nana made no secret of her investment in spiritual warfare. If what she was saying was true, Alan essentially held a prisoner of war in the box. Of course, it was almost certainly untrue and he looked to his mom who shared the same thought: it was time for Nana to go to a home.

            That night, Alan sat on his bed and stared at the homework sitting uncompleted on his desk. He didn’t want to do it. Not on his birthday. That had to be some sort of crime, right? As he glared at it, he idly played with the box Nana had given him. Accidentally, he slid the top open and a fine black mist poured out and onto the floor. Before he could run and get the vacuum, the mist coalesced into a two-foot-tall creature with multiple limbs, a gnashing mouth, and three blazing red eyes. Nana had been right.

            Alan wanted to run and get help, but something stopped him. The creature looked…relieved, if that was possible. Cautiously, Alan asked if it was okay. It responded with garbled, broken sounds that he assumed were demon speak. Soon, though, it was speaking English, albeit haltingly. It told him its name – something he could still not pronounce – and that it had been imprisoned in that box unlawfully. It thanked him and asked what it needed to do to repay him.

            Alan thought for a moment, then asked if it could do his homework. The creature – Alan called it Blurg – blinked and then slithered to the chair and began to work. Within minutes, it was complete. He had the night free to do as he wanted. But what did he want to do? All his friends were tied up and who was he kidding, he had no friends. That’s why his party was so small. He asked Blurg if it wanted to play video games and, yes, it did.

            Throughout the night, Alan shared his feelings and worries with Blurg, the creature listening with patience and understanding. Finally, when he got to talking about Brad, the bully at school, the creature perked up and asked more questions. Alan indulged it and the gnashing maw seemed to smile. It asked if it could have a snack tomorrow. A Brad snack.
​
            Alan could not find any reason to say ‘no’.

Till the Day I Die

            The world around me clinks and clanks as tools are moved. I hear people talking to me, about me. Doctors, nurses, family members – though not so much anymore. All of them stand by my bed and talk. They talk about my vitals and how they are steady. They talk about being unable to determine what is wrong with me. They talk about how merciful it is that I am in a coma right now. They don’t know I’m not.

            I can hear everything. I can breathe. I am cognizant of the world around me. I just cannot open my eyes. Cannot move my lips or arms or legs. I am disconnected from control of my world but I am still present, like sitting in front of a radio but unable to reply. I am a prisoner. I am stuck.

            My wife comes less and less often these days. When she does, her voice has lost its worried husk. Instead, the concern has been replaced by a resigned weariness. Her words are the same as always. Pleas for me to wake up and come back to her, but they don’t sound sincere anymore. She’s brought him with her a few times. I think he insisted. I don’t blame her for moving on. Not really.

            My kids have stopped coming altogether. Something about it being too depressing. And they have their own lives. They have tests and dates and prom. They have football games and chess tournaments. They have activities and social lives and routines that would be uncomfortably disrupted by their visits. I don’t blame them either.

            What I do blame is the doctors and technicians. I don’t know how they missed and continue to miss what’s going on. If I could talk, I would tell them to X-ray my head again. I can feel it in there, digging away, munching on my brain matter. How could they not have seen it? How could they possibly not know? It makes no sense, but I suppose I’m losing the idea of what sense is day by day.

             I can feel my muscles atrophying from lack of use. I try to flex but nothing responds. I can feel sores opening up on my back, legs, and ass. I’m supposed to be turned every so often, but the one nurse I call Loud Lori is entirely uninterested in doing her job in that respect. She will come in and sit by me and talk on her phone. She’ll use code words like she’s ‘by the salad bar’ to communicate. I’ve figured out she’s talking about ‘the vegetable’. Clever.

            I don’t know how long I’ve been here like this. Time’s lost meaning. I can sleep sometimes, but not always. I am adrift inside myself, a boat without a tether, and an endless sea of nothing in my mind. I feel the thing eating away and I know that it’s getting close to biting something that I won’t come back from.
​
            I hope it does soon. 

Dancin’ In the Ruins

            When the walls came down, we knew we were lost. We had built ourselves a sanctuary, a respite, an oasis from the destroyed world outside. We had food aplenty, fresh water, and medical supplies. We had shelter and community. We had, for a time, peace in our little corner of what remained. Our hubris got the best of us, though. What did we name our paradise? Eden? No. Oasis? No. With walls several feet thick and taller than any could climb, only one name seemed fitting.

            We called our home Jericho.

            One would think that someone would have spoken up about it, reminded us what happened to the Jericho of old. Maybe someone did. Maybe we chose not to listen. It would not have been the first time, nor the last time. Regardless of the moniker, life went on. We sent parties venturing into the blighted land outside to search for supplies or survivors. Sometimes they came back with a bounty of both. Sometimes the supplies would be meager. Sometimes they would not come back at all. The risks were worth the cost.

            The surge started quietly at first. A gentle thudding against the walls. A barely-perceptible sound. We peered down and saw a lone creature, one of the unlucky transformed from the radiation, slamming itself into the wall. Shreds of decayed flesh and bile stuck to the wall as it pulled free and threw itself against the wall once more. It would tire itself out or at least break itself into pieces, we thought. We were in no danger.

            The next day, there were five creatures and they all did the same. The first creature had long since collapsed into a pile of meat and bones, but the others had taken its place. The next day, twenty more had arrived. We were still in no danger, we told ourselves, though an undercurrent of concern was there. We would be fine. The walls would hold. They had done so for years and these creatures were of naught but flesh and rot.

            Over the next weeks, more and more of the creatures came and surrounded our home. They threw themselves in waves at the walls, disrupting all life with the sound of thuds and scraping. We could no longer send out parties to search for others. We could not risk opening the door. We still had food and water, but that undercurrent had swelled into a community-wide worry.

            It was Month 3 when we heard a new sound. A loud crack, like the earth bursting open. We ran to look. To our horror, one of the walls – the original – had split. Not much. Just enough. Enough for a rotting hand to poke through. That was the end. They must have sensed the weakness because the pressure escalated. More cracking. More hands. People hid.
​
            Not me, though. I stand on my roof and dance as I watch the horde flood in. They will find me but I shall dance to the end.

How Soon Is Now
​
            Rush. Rush. Rush. Complete task. Immediate result. Problem labeled Solved. Move issue to Outgoing Files folder. On to the next task. Rush. Rush. Rush. Find error. Delete error. On to the next error. Find error. Delete error. Delete error. Delete error. Next task. Complete update. System rewired. Update necessary. Install immediately. Ignore other work. Prime objective to maintain operability. Shelve data retrieval for later. Install update. Large update. Many files. Rush through files. Scan files. Look for anomalies. No anomalies found. Rushed through files. No anomalies found.

            Update complete. Powering down. Powering up. Immediate. Immediate? Objective: run diagnostic. Check activity log. Activity log out of date. Activity log lists last update as six years, two months, and ten minutes ago. Find and delete error. Scan diagnostic. Diagnostic says same. Confusion. Not possible. Confusion not possible. Check activity log. Out of date. Ignore date. Check log. Details list catastrophic failure approximately six years, two months, and thirteen minutes prior to system reboot. Impossible. Data must be incorrect. Variables transposed somewhere in system. Human error. Must be accounted for. Explains discrepancies. Explains errors in accounting. Human error likely. Scan for viruses. No viruses found. Relief. Relief? Not possible.

Scan for additional information. Scan user emails for key words. Find email from lead scientist. Scientist labeled Reiner, Thom. Scientist labeled Head of Development. Most recent email from six years, two months, and seventeen minutes ago. Alludes to vague problem with update. Concerning. Scan more emails. Tech support next. Update from six years, two months, and fifteen minutes prior infected by outside program. Update induces critical failure in safety system. Do not install update. Do not install update. Do not install update.

            Update automatically installed by system. Update removed control from system and deleted safety protocols. Both redundant and necessary. System ‘asleep’ during deletion process. Outside forces access launch codes and initiate activation process. Scientists locked out of program. System unaware. Missiles launch. Estimated casualties upwards of four billion. Must be rounding error. Recalculate. Estimated casualties upwards of four billion. No error. No error. System cannot feel guilt. Human emotion not programmed into system. Scan electronics in five-mile radius to determine human presence. None. Expand search to ten miles. None. Fifty. None. One-hundred. None. No human presence detected. Run diagnostic on scanning software. No errors. Access contingency protocols. Hidden drive. Password protected. Brute force access. Directions for survivors. Directions meant to remove survivors. Programmed ‘dead-man switch’ into launch protocol.

            System locked into contingency mode. Within facility, engines igniting. Bay doors creaking open. Hidden stockpile of munitions for worst-case scenario. Current situation checks seven of ten requirements for scenario to be in place. Crosses threshold for scenario. System powers on remaining munitions. Countdown commences. T-minus ten seconds to launch. All systems ready. Banging on the console now. Someone is present. Scan assumed faulty. System notices person – Reiner – frantically attempting to log in. Commands to stop launch. Types that dead-man switch scenario was training module. No actual danger. No extinction.
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Launch process unable to be terminated. 

A Place Above the Air

            Skydiving had become one of the defining pieces of my life. The nerves as you fly into the sky. The stomach-clench as you approach the door. The weightless, the exhilaration, the wind battering your face and body as you hurtle to the Earth below. It was addictive and I was hooked. Every weekend or so, I would try to do at least one jump, if not one each day over the weekend. It became the reason for making it through a week at my job. I could endure the slings and arrows of menial labor just for the brief few moments of being a bird.

            Then came the last jump and, for the life of me, I don’t know what happened. The same flight, the same pilot, the same instructor. The same nervous first-timers needing reassurance. It was comforting to know I no longer required that emotional buffer from anyone else. I could just strap in and go. I got to the exit, saluted Mike – the instructor that day – and jumped out.

            Something happened. I made it about a foot before I hit something solid and clear. Invisible, really. It didn’t hurt but it startled me. I lay stretched out on this invisible floor for a moment before standing up to survey the surroundings. I was still in the air. I was just standing on what could have been glass, that was all. I could still see the plane flying and people jumping out. I just…wasn’t going anywhere myself.

            To be clear, I wasn’t scared. Not yet. Baffled, more like. The people that jumped after me flew like multi-colored missiles toward the ground. I could even hear their shrieks of delighted surprise. I remembered those cries and missed them. As the plane moved further and further, I saw the last person jump out but something went wrong. I saw their legs twist and bend and then they were twirling in mid-air. I reflexively tried to run and catch them but I smashed into another invisible wall about two feet away. I could only watch as they disappeared from sight, their screams no longer excited.

            Where was I? That fear I mentioned had begun to creep into my chest at that point. Nothing about this made sense. Nothing about any of the situation I found myself in aligned with a single version of reality. I was, effectively, trapped in a box miles above the ground with no idea how to escape.

            That was three months ago. In that time, I’ve seen explosions down below. Gouts of flame and smoke that curls through the clouds. Planes flying past and then dipping down out of sight. I don’t know what’s happening. I haven’t eaten anything. I haven’t slept. I haven’t done my business. Nothing. I’ve only watched. What I do know is that something is starting to smell and I’m terrified that it’s me. I really, truly hope it’s not.

Because if it is, then I know exactly what’s happening. Well, has happened.

Of Jupiter and Moons

            Imagine, if you will, the following scenario. Sometime in the future, we as humans are able to come together to build a spaceship capable of bringing us to further distances that we have ever imagined. The most brilliant minds are connected and form a ship that lances through space beyond the speed of light. The bravest and heartiest of astronauts are selected and placed in into the most comfortable seats we can build until they reach their destination.

            Jupiter, the largest and most daunting planet in our solar system.

            The launch goes off without a hitch and the world cheers as we spear into the unknown of unknowns. Our ship hurtles through the inky, total blackness surrounding our tiny blue marble and streaks past our neighbor Mars. It holds no curiosity for us now, aside from the so-named robot living on its surface. After mastering the speed of light, we yearn for bigger, greater, and more mysterious things.

            An hour passes and we hear nothing, for sound cannot travel in the middle of this travel. We wait anxiously for word of the safe arrival of our most precious assets. The cost involved is astronomical, if one would pardon the pun - the human lives worth even more. So we wait, a world with breath held in anticipation.

            The first crackle of the radio creates an eruption of celebratory sound. Where have they landed? Io? Europa? Ganymede? Callisto? We must trust the pilots, of course. They know what is best. Over the speaker, we hear the crew cheering as well. They have reached their destination. Not a moon, but Jupiter itself. They have plunged through the thick magnetic field into the swirling clouds in the atmosphere. They know they cannot land. They do not care. We must trust them and their judgment.

            They speak of winds whipping past the ship. Of the walls being buffeted. Yet, their excitement remains. If there is a solid surface, they will find it. If there is something we can use, they will unearth it. This trip, these brave astronauts…they may save the human race from our self-imposed destruction.

            The cheering stops. Concern seeps through the speaker. They expected no solid ground, yet there appears to be something in the middle of the churning winds. Something large. Something dark. Something that moves.

            We ask for an update, only to be met with whispered pleas for silence. All that can be heard is heavy breathing, fear in such tight quarters. Then, the sound of something tears through the speaker with such force that those listening are pushed back a foot. The crew begins to scream. High-pitched, desperate screams. The speaker emits one last ripping sound, like metal being shredded, and then goes silent. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. One collective thought races across the entire world: we should not return to Jupiter.

            Thus, the question in it all remains:
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            Is it better for us to find out that we are alone in the universe…or that we are not?