It must have been strange for them to wake up after 44 years of artificial slumber. There were 2,074 passengers aboard that massive transport, Leviathan, that brought them to our planet. I have often thought about what it must have been like when the robotic AI aboard their ship began the process of awakening them, when they were 1 day out from their destination, a planet they called HD 40307g, but to us is simply home.
            Apparently, we were the last hope for the human race. We were the only habitable planet in the known Universe that was a realistic distance from their planet, which they called Earth. These colonists were to be the last step in an experiment to determine whether or not their civilization could survive in an environment so alien to them. If not, extinction was imminent for the humans, as their planet was about to die.

            That was in the year 3516. We had hoped that after everything they had been through this second chance would be a new beginning. After over a century of sharing our home with them, it is clear that we have made a critical mistake. The humans have been a plague on our planet, a plague we must now cure. I believe that if we do not act swiftly we will no longer be able to, and our home shall soon meet the same fate as theirs.

            Of course I know that I must be loyal to my people above all else, and so I always have been. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of despair when the council voted in the affirmative of Secretary’s motion. As the Minister of Homeland Security and Immigration it will be my responsibility to carry out the eradication of an entire race. A race that is mostly good, but has been unfortunately doomed by a greedy few. And so I am faced with a choice, follow through with my commands and drive the humans into extinction or defy my people and save them.

            On a personal note, which I can tell no one, I have fallen in love with one of them. And I know when this order is carried out there can be no exceptions. 

The Big Brown Bear

It was deep in the jungle in the dead of night. All that could be heard was the trickling of water from a nearby stream, and the chirping of crickets. Most of the inhabitants were sound asleep, cuddled up to their partners and young. Yet, far in the background, leaves began to crunch as a great big brown bear walked over them.

            The bear walked along the dark forest path with a longing in his eyes. His immense furry legs moved with purpose, illuminated by the pale silvery light of the Indian moon. Suddenly, he stopped. The bear cocked his head to the side, trying to figure out where the purring noise he was hearing was coming from. As he turned to the right, he saw a black panther, comfortably asleep on a log. A soft roar emitted from the bear’s snout as he approached the panther. His roar got louder as he placed his clawed paw on the panther’s back. “RAAAAAWR”, the panther exclaimed, jumping off her log in surprise. She dug her razor sharp claws into the brown bear’s shoulder and scampered off into the jungle. Clutching his wound with one paw, the big brown bear hung his head low and continued on his way.

            The big brown bear was starting to get hungry. He grabbed a banana from a nearby tree and as he ate it, threw the peel up into an adjacent tree. An “AIEEEEEE” came from it as a rudely awakened orangutan jumped down, waving his fists as he yelled. “Roar!” responded the big brown bear, running towards the angry creature with his arms outstretched. But the orangutan was faster, and was in the tree pelting bananas at the bear before he could get his paws on him.

            Down the path the bear strolled, his furry head hung even lower, splattered with mushy banana. On and on he went, until he encountered a herd of elephants. The massive creatures lay sound asleep, their enormous bodies silhouetted in front of the glimmering black lake behind them. The big brown bear’s eyes’ opened wide, and a smile began to form on his snout. He ran towards the herd, roaring. And just like that, the cool night air was filled with the sound of thousands of pounds of elephant gallivanting off into the distance, of water splashing every which way, and of deafening trumpet-like blows that resonated throughout the entire jungle.

            The big brown bear was getting tired. He sat down, staring at the reflection of the moon on the dark water; whose surface was now rough and disturbed by the elephants’ abrupt exit. The big brown bear wiped a tear from one of his big brown eyes. It’s too bad no one spoke bear; all he wanted was a hug.

The Day I Woke Up Alone

When I was five I wanted to be just like my dad: one of America’s heroes. And when I turned six, my mom would let me stay up until 8:30 but only if I had eaten all my carrots, and so my hate for carrots often earned me an 8:00 bedtime. A few birthdays later, my bedtime evolved into 9pm and Mom would tuck me in under my Obi Wan Kenobi and R2-D2 covers and then her dazzling heels, red as Dorothy’s slippers, would click-clack down the hallway.

Click clack. Click Clack. Click clack.

And she would click clack down the hall and then down the stairs and out the door, swishing her hips left and right with a purpose, her thighs, freckled and sweaty, sticking to that cardinal red leather skirt she wore every Thursday. The sign outside my window frantically flashed green and yellow letters, signaling that Thursdays meant free drinks after 11, even Joe Campbell said so, and Joe Campbell knew everything. He lived in the house next to us, was fourteen and knew the square root of 100, so naturally when he told me that my mom was ‘broke,’ I thought he must be right. Joe Campbell said a lot of other things too. He said he always heard his dad saying what a good dancer my mom was. But I had never seen her dance so I think Joe Campbell’s dad was mistaking my mom for someone else. Maybe he was thinking of Sally Quimby’s mom. Sally Quimby’s mom had been a ballerina when she was in college. After two entire days of parading outside of his door, begging, Joe Campbell finally explained what ‘broke’ meant. “Did we buy an antenna TV from Mrs. Shelley’s yard sale last week because we’re broke?” I asked. But Joe Campbell only laughed and shooed me back through my doorway.

On that yard sale TV, I watched the president talking about the war. He said he was trying to get all the soldiers home as soon as he could. I hoped Mr. Kennedy wasn’t a liar, but my mom said most presidents were. Still, I hoped his promises proved true; I hadn’t seen my dad since last Christmas. I kept watching. When the TV showed images of soldiers in tanks and rescuing little children, I imagined my dad was one of those soldiers who won awards for courage, for leadership. He had been there so long, in those countries my teacher pointed out but I couldn’t pronounce the name of, that he must have been in charge of the whole army by now, I thought. But I knew my mom would be home soon, so I slurped the last of my Lucky Charms and I left the pool of milk alone because the green four leaf clover marshmallows had turned it a fungus color.

A knock.

“I can only the answer the door if my mom’s here” I shouted from atop the mahogany stools in our kitchen. Which was the truth.

“But I’m not a stranger,” the voice cooed back.

My eyes sprung open, inflating like the helium balloons floating down the Macy’s day parade. I knew that voice. I swear I knew that voice. Or at least, I used to know it. But now this voice was the memory of a distant dream, having finally faded, forced to the farthest crevice of my mind, forgotten.

When I opened the door, slowly, fearfully, it was not the man I had watched in the black and white pictures on our crumbling antenna TV. No, those men seemed fearless. Those men had broad shoulders, shaved heads as smooth as our marble countertop, faces animated by the promise of justice, hands bigger than my head that gripped unsympathetic rifles used for eliminating the enemy. But this man was not that image, not the image of America. He did not exude pride for his country. He did not epitomize bravery. This man was too plain. He was old. The wrinkling bags under his eyes reminded me of the creases in my sheets after a nap. Scars zigzagged across his face, forming letters and then words, and finally telling entire stories of death and defeat from cheek to cheek. His eyes used to be a piercing blue, a happy blue. Now his eyes had dulled to a grey, the happiness buried with the foreign schoolboys he had shot.

“Dad.” was all my meager voice could produce in response to this stranger. Even that felt forced.

My mom and dad feigned happiness, artificial at best. It was what they did so as not to worry me. But I could see through it. Dad slept on the couch. Mom went out at midnight. My dad traded the actual war for a war on his wife. He must have forgotten his sense of humor while he was there too because when I asked, “So, how’s the food taste over there?” he just gaped at me, those grey eyes of his becoming dark pools of disappointment.

The day I woke up alone was the day Joe Campbell told me my parents had gone to the brick building 22 blocks away. He said that’s where all the men in white coats worked. It was only 8 am so I trotted back to my room and slipped back under the Star Wars covers. I heard the door creak open but I shut my eyes tightly and forced myself to sleep.

The day I woke up alone was the day I stepped out onto our porch and saw what happened. It was the day my dad dove headfirst into our empty pool. It was the day his blood formed tormented shapes as it trickled down the drain. But heroes don’t kill themselves.         

The Candle

            The blackout occurred around 7 o’clock. We had just finished our takeout pizza and retreated to our individual rooms for, seemingly, the rest of the night. I cautiously stepped out to the living room, widening my eyes in hopes of spontaneously becoming nocturnal. A flicker of light appeared down the hall and out came Mother handling a candle as if it were a newborn. She appeared different. The ominous glow danced across her slightly aged face flirting with every perfection and imperfection. The flame and wick sparkled in her eye as she set the candle down on the coffee table. A sphere of light illuminated the room protecting us from the darkness.

            Down the hall, clumsy footsteps fought their way to the living room. In tripped Father and Sister. They both let out a sigh of relief and then collapsed on the couch around the candle.

“Well this sucks,” said Dad while subconsciously attempting to power on the TV.

 “I know, I was in the middle of the new gossip girl” Sister replied.

            Then I noticed my mom digging in a cabinet and coming out with a few more candles and a weirdly bound book. She lit the candles strategically around the furniture. Plopping down in the middle of the couch, between Sister and Father, she waved me to come sit down. I sat and peaked over to see what the book contained. It was a photo album. I saw a tired and weary version of my mother grasping my fathers hand tightly as they both held their newborn daughter and then their son on the next page. I was taken back to a series of birthdays and holidays with the family. Seeing members that felt long gone and familiar faces from our youth sparked our memories and the stories began. We used a candle as one would a flashlight at a campfire and took turns storytelling.

            The light-bearer chose the topic. As we made our revolutions, the light appeared to get brighter and brighter. Our memories fueled the candle. We dove deeper into each story. Its ominous glow transformed into a blinding light. Suddenly, a “pop” occurred and the flame flickered. Shortly after, the TV turned on and the lamps lit up all around the house. Sister, checking her phone, rushed into her room to watch some show. Dad’s subconscious acted up as he began flipping through the channels.

              The photo album slowly closed. I looked at Mother’s face and the sparkle was gone. Forcing a smile, she walked over and returned the weirdly bound book to the cabinet. She appeared different yet again. An accepting sadness swept over her face the way the glow from the flame did before. She protected us from the darkness, but who will protect us from the light? Asking herself this very same question, she walked over to the coffee table, calmly leaned over, and blew out the candle.

The City that Could Never Be

            Paradisus was a fast paced and lively city. It was a little bit run down in areas, but that was to be expected, and the citizens didn’t mind too much. Sleek glass skyscrapers with dazzling silver frames towered over relative shantytowns, though there was no real poverty. Paradisus lacked any government structure, and that’s just what the residents wanted.

            Members of such society, or lack there of, were of a select group: smart, ambitious, curious, and most of all independent. Kinks in the system such as income disparity and criminal activity were quickly ironed out early on in the city’s founding. Those with financial ambition made their way to the top without pushing anybody down, while others lived carefree with little in the way of assets. It was a unique combination of cooperation and initiative that kept the metropolis alive. On a typical day, an outsider might not even notice a contrast to other municipalities, barring limitless opportunities and freedom from judgment found only in Paradisus. It was a near-perfect, lawless utopia. The only fear was that someday it would end.

            No one dreaded that inevitable day more than Peter. Peter moved from Cleveland two years with romantic ideas about total control over his own life. In his “past-life”, as Paradistians frequently made reference to, was fairly regimented, with weekend visits to his parents house in the suburbs, and a 9 to 5 job that failed to captivate. He now lives in Paradisus, surrounded by acquaintances, friends, and even a wife, though none share any particular obligations to him, or he to they. Peter has a very youthful face, with charming eyes, however he is always searching for something, never contented. Beyond this, not much more can be said about the man, as he frequently changes in both appearance and mindset. He has tried nearly every role he can conceive, from businessman to scavenger to chess player. The freedom to rationalize any decision was overwhelmingly tempting to him.

            Peter has never perfected, or even respectably preformed any role he took on. He wares many hats, but none of them well, simply because he has not been forced to keep true to anything. No one in Paradisus really did find passion in any one thing, but unlike everyone else, this greatly bothered Peter.

            In late fall, Peter took to tending houses in exchange for small provisions. He worked primarily for a well kept professional who required only basic household chores. The work became cathartic for him, a nice break from the exhilarating lives that filled every other day of his existence. He wanted more, and when the man he worked for moved on to something else, Peter found a new employer, this time a couple. They required more, manual labor, roof repairs and electrical wiring. Peter’s duties escalated, and soon he was helping several dozen families with a wide range of tasks. His life was just as varied and aimless as before, but now with an element of control. He had become a virtual slave to the town, and he could not be more pleased. Any fear about losing the precious anarchical community had escaped his mind. Peter became truly happy again for the first time since he left his hometown, however his actions were starting to cause problems for others.

His willingness to be used created uproar, as the previously driven individuals became exploitative and lazy. Peter had begun to suck away the ambition so prevalent in the city by offering to do other’s work for them. His desire for boundaries spread, and as some followed in Peter’s footsteps, the people became polarized into separate camps. Dependency bread malice and vice versa. Peter left Paradisus shortly after, finding it unique no longer. Freedom consumed itself, forcing inhabitants to implement more traditional institutions. The city did not plunge into chaos with a fury of rioting and warfare. It just ceased to be different, left with few indications of its past or that unfortunate soul.

The Thoughts of a Scared Man

William sits down on the dark couch. Poof. The air streams out until the cushions sit flat and lifeless like slices of burnt toast.  He wiggles uncomfortably making the leather squeak as he moves. Then comes the silence. Tori sits next to him, her heart beating, afraid of what he might say. “So…how are you?” “Oh, I’m…I’m fine. Just fine” she replies, lying right through her teeth.” What  is he supposed to say now? She just sits there, sitting as still as ever, making him grow more uncomfortable by the minute. This is horrible. How could he look into her deep brown eyes, her soft and gentle face and tell her? It would be like hitting a puppy. Her eyes would well up with tears, her brow would furrow into wrinkled lines on her forehead, aging her instantaneously like she were shriveling up and dying.

            He takes long, slow, deep breaths, filling up his lungs until they hold too much air and he can’t take in any more. He is killing the time, trying to avoid the emanating despair that will soon wash over the woman sitting next to him. She begins to shake uncontrollably: small little shivers. Adrenaline is now pumping through her, she can’t just sit there; she has to do something. “Just tell me already! Tell me you don’t care! Tell me you’re leaving! Just go! GO!” Tori is now standing, her chest heaving with sobs. She collapses onto the floor.

            William slides off the couch and lifts up her head. He puts both of his hands on either side of her face and kisses her softly on the cheek. She glances at him, unable to make full eye contact and wipes her face. She sits up, leaning against the couch. He copies her motions and after a minute he gets up. Brushing off his pants, he turns to walk away. He takes three steps forward and stops. This is it. This is the last of it all. He looks back at her, just a bundle on the floor. Turning back around, he takes those final steps to the door, turns the knob and pushes. He steps over the threshold and feels light as air. The sun is shining and there is a cool breeze running across his face, waking up his senses. He smiles to himself.

The Tempest Inside

The glass had clouded over the years, darkening to a translucence that tempered the scene outside, but for the patrons of the Ayers Café on 44^th street, the storm seething just on the other side was still clearly visible. Raindrops swirled in confusion, each bouncing off street signs and bicycle chains in perpetual fear of losing themselves to the chaos. They coalesced into unrecognizable shapes, attempting to console each other in their misery, but quickly broke alliances, speeding off into the darkness, powered by the sheer madness of their primal energy. One shape did not fade however; it swelled and intensified until the shadow became a girl, bursting through the door in a sudden moment of clarity amid the mayhem. Wet and dripping, Jessica Colletti was born from the tempest.

She let out a slow breath, listening to the sound of it whistling through her teeth. The howling wind outside was replaced by soft, simple music that drifted through the room on a gently bobbing cork in a tub now leisurely draining the rain collected during the storm. Jessica stumbled over to a chair and slumped down into it. Her long dark hair stuck to her face and her clothes fell askew, but she allowed herself to be enveloped by the warmth of the place, sipping coffee brought to her and nibbling on a small sandwich.

Around her, people laughed and talked about petty matters: the outcome of a football game, wedding plans for a young couple, the advantages of adhering to a steady diet of iced coffee and sudoku. Patrons came and went, not noticing the storm or simply not caring.

A hint of a smile flashed across her face. Maybe, she thought, this could last. Maybe there’s something here, something that could save me. There was something about that café, the cracks in the tile, the white swirls the light brown of the baristas’ aprons, the toddlers giggling into their sweaters. They were breaches in the cacophony of her mind. They were hope. They were silence.

            Abruptly, a bottle broke. Someone shouted. She heard the muffled thud of a clenched fist to the solar plexus. Jessica’s eyes dilated and her breath snagged on a coat hook. She turned around to see two grown men brawling in front of everyone, but no one was doing anything to stop it. The other customers could only look on, too stunned to act, like small children watching parents quarrel late at night. One of the children began to cry, screaming uncontrollably, and some of the employees snapped back to reality, suddenly spurred to action by the bawling children. They scurried frantically, worker ants answering the call of the nest, doing something, anything, everything to remove the disturbance. They rushed from every nook and cranny, every crack in the tile, and Jessica screamed as she felt them crawling up her legs. But her cries only swirled into the coffee-colored chaos, unheard and unnoticed by anyone else.

            And the storm broke free. A volley of wind and rain shot through the windows, shattering glass like puzzle pieces thrown on the floor. It jumped into the room, hurtling towards Jessica with an unmistakable purpose. She twisted around desperately, bolting away from the door, but the wind wrapped around her and wrenched her backwards, through the maze of tables and chairs, out the window and back into the night, returning her to the nightmare of her mind.

            The doctors tried to help her, gave her pills and a diagnosis, told her she had paranoid schizophrenia, told her they understood her, told her they could save her. But no one could save Jessica Colletti, for the storm still seethed inside her. If you looked close, you could see it in her eyes. No matter how hard she fought it, no matter where she hid, the tempest always followed, always raged, right on the other side of the window.

The Telling

"Because you are going away to attend the college at Harvard they tell me," she said. "So I don't imagine you will ever come back here and settle down as a country lawyer in a little town like Jefferson since Northern people have already seen to it that there is little left in the South for a young man. So maybe you will enter the literary profession as so many Southern gentlemen and gentlewomen too are doing now and maybe some day you will remember this and write about it. You will be married then I expect and perhaps your wife will want a new gown or a new chair for the house and you can write this and submit it to the magazines. Perhaps you will even remember kindly then the old woman who made you spend a whole afternoon sitting indoors and listening while she talked about people and events you were fortunate enough to escape yourself when you wanted to be out among young friends of your own age."

    "Yessum," Quentin said. Only she dont mean that he thought. It's because she wants it told. It was still early then. He had yet in his pocket the note which he had received by the hand of a small negro boy just before noon, asking him to call and see her-the quaint, stiffly formal request which was actually a summons, out of another world almost-the queer archaic sheet of ancient good notepaper written over with the neat faded cramped script which, due to his astonishment at the request from a woman three times his age and whom he had known all his life without having exchanged a hundred words with her or perhaps to the fact that he was only twenty years old, he did not recognise as revealing a character cold, implacable, and even ruthless. He obeyed it immediately after the noon meal, walking the half mile between his home and hers through the dry dusty heat of early September and so into the house (it too somehow smaller than its actual size-it was of two storeys-unpainted and a little shabby, yet with an air, a quality of grim endurance as though like her it had been created to fit into and complement a world in all ways a little smaller than the one in which it found itself) where in the gloom of the shuttered hallway whose air was even hotter than outside, as if there were prisoned in it like in a tomb all the suspiration of slow heat-laden time which had recurred during the forty-three years, the small figure in black which did not even rustle, the wan triangle of lace at wrists and throat, the dim face looking at him with an expression speculative, urgent, and intent, waited to invite him in.

    It's because she wants it told he thought so that people whom she will never see and whose names she will never hear and who have never heard her name nor seen her face will read it and know at last why God let us lose the War: that only through the blood of our men and the tears of our women could He stay this demon and efface his name and lineage from the earth. 


(An excerpt from William Faulkner's Absolom! Absolom! 1936)

Thin

And a homeless hungry man, driving the roads with his wife beside him and his thin children in the back seat, could look at the fallow fields which might produce food but not profit and that man could know how a fallow field is a sin and the unused land a crime against the thin children.  An such a man drove along the roads and knew temptation at every filed, and knew the lust to take these fields and make them grow strength for his children and a little comfort for his wife.  The temptation was before him always.  The fields goaded him, and the company ditches with good water flowing were a goad to him.
And in the south he saw the golden oranges hanging on the trees, the little golden oranges on the dark green trees; and guards with shotguns patrolling the lines so a man might not pick an orange for a thin child, oranges to be dumped if the price was low.
He drove his old car into a town.  He scoured the farms for work.  Where can we sleep the night?
Well, there’s a Hooverville on the edge of the river.  There’s a whole raft of Okies there.
He drove his old car to Hooverville.  He never asked again, for there was a Hooverville on the edge of every town.
The rag town lay close to water; and the houses were tents, and weed-thatched enclosures, paper houses, a great junk pile.  The man drove his family in and became a citizen of Hooverville--always they were called Hooverville.  The man put up his own tent as near to water as he could get; or if he had no tent, he went to the city dump and brought back cartons and built a house of corrugated paper.  And when the rains came the house melted and washed away.  He settled in Hooverville and he scoured the countryside for work, and the little money he had went for gasoline to look for work.  In the evening the men gathered and talked of the land they had seen.
There’s thirty thousan’ acres, out west of here.  Layin’ there.  Jesus, what I could do with that, with five acres of that!  Why, hell, I’d have ever’thing to eat.
Notice one thing?  They ain’t no vegetables not chickens not pigs at the farms.  They raise one thing--cotton, say, or peaches, or lettuce.  ‘Nother place’ll be all chickens.  They buy the stuff they could raise in the dooryard.
Jesus, what I could do with a couple pigs!
Well, it ain’t yourn, an’ it ain’t gonna be yourn.
What we gonna do?  The kids can’t grow up this way.





(an excerpt from Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck)