The Weather Outside

It was a typical cold night on Christmas Eve in Blueswell, Montana as the small town of five thousand laid cozy in their beds, fast asleep and blissfully unaware of the frigid winds battering their houses outside. Alex and Rachel Renton, a young married couple of only five years were snuggled up in their room on the top floor of their home, quietly discussing at what time they should head downstairs to place their daughter's presents from "Santa" under the tree. A blue-eyed wonder and gifted with beautiful curly brunette locks, their daughter, Julia, had been given the best features of both her parents. At the moment, she was down the hall and wide awake in her princess-themed room, afflicted with the common insomnia found in all young children the night before Christmas. She wondered if Santa had gotten her letter about the dollhouse she wanted and whether he had had time to buy it on Amazon. Julia was clearly a child of the 21st century, and while some things about Christmas had changed since her parents were young, she still had the same excitement about the holiday that they had. Finally, she became too tired and slowly drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

Two thousand miles away, a button was pushed.

At a quarter past seven the next morning, Julia's eyes winced. A crack of light had broken through her curtain, a sunny signal to let her know it was time to wake up. It took her a minute at first to comprehend what was so special about the day she was waking up to, but once she did, her whole body shot out of her bed in one great leap. She opened the door to the hallway and ran to her parents' room as fast as a four-year old girl can possibly go on Christmas morning. Young Julia bounced through the doorway and over to her mother's side of the bed, standing just inches from her face. At this noise, Rachel had awoken and was now looking at her little girl through bleary eyes. Even with such blurry vision, she could see the sheer happiness and anticipation of Julia's face, causing her to smile in motherly delight.

"Shall I wake up daddy?" Rachel asked her daughter.

Julia naturally nodded her head with exuberance.

Rachel rolled the top half of her body over and gave her husband a light shake, but with enough force to get his attention. Alex made a noise of recognition but remained motionless. He let out a low moan before finding his voice.

"Do I have to get up?"

Rachel's smile became wider. She and Alex had planned this little routine the night before. Rachel turned to her daughter again and told her, "Julia, remind daddy why we have to get up so early."

"Daddy, we have to get up because it's Christmas!" Julia said in a voice dying from anxiousness.

Alex suddenly shot out of bed as quickly as Julia had and turned to his daughter, "It's Christmas?! Well why didn't you say so? Let's go!"

Julia, having been granted permission to run downstairs to the living room where the Christmas tree stood, shot out of the room with the utmost haste. Alex, with a mile-wide grin to match Rachel's, put his hands on his hips and looked at his wife.

"That went just as planned," He noted in accomplishment. "You ready?"

They threw on their respective robes and headed downstairs to meet their daughter, who was sitting at the base of the tree, fascinated beyond words at all the presents. The heap of gifts that surrounded the evergreen resembled a fortress' wall and it would surely take an eager person to plow through. Luckily, Julia was more than prepared to assume the task. With her parents settled on the couch behind her, she turned her head to them one final time to make sure it was okay to start.

"Merry Christmas, honey," Rachel said, beaming with pride.

"Merry Christmas, mommy," returned Julia.

Over the course of about forty-five minutes, the room was met with high-pitched squeals, screams, yells, and at least one shriek. Joy filled the place to capacity and Julia performed at least seven victory laps around the room upon seeing her dollhouse for the first time. By the end, a total of fourteen gifts had been torn open, leaving behind a wrapping paper massacre that layered half the carpet. Every toy that Julia had asked for had been delivered on, thanks to her parents and a little help from Ol' Saint Nick. While Julia occupied herself with her new teddy bear, Alex and Rachel took their turn and exchanged gifts with each other. Alex pointed out a small box for Rachel to retrieve, amid the still impressive pile of presents.

"Now, just a forewarning, that thing you have in your hand is very, very, very awesome."

"I'll be the decider of that," Rachel says playfully.

She opens her gift in a far more refined manner than her daughter, revealing what looks to be a case containing jewelry. She looks at Alex with an expression of astonishment, not able to believe that he purchased her dream present.

"It's not..."

"Oh, it so is."

Rachel opens the box to see a glimmering piece of gold jewelry before her. It's a necklace with a sapphire encrusted pendent; very similar to the one Rachel's grandmother wore before she passed away. Rachel slips it over her head, lifting her chestnut hair over the necklace so it can properly lay in place around her is neck. She is left speechless by this and can only hug her husband in response. After letting go, Rachel comes back to her senses and points to Alex's gifts under the tree.

Knowing Alex, rather than splurge all her resources into one big gift, she has showered him with a grand assortment of presents: stacks of DVDs, books galore, and numerous electronic gadgets of seemingly pointless invention. All of these added up to a very pleased Alex. Brimming with happiness, he turns to where his daughter was playing to ask if she had a good Christmas this year, but does not find her there to answer back.

"Julia?"

Alex and Rachel both begin calling their daughter's name, wondering how she so swiftly snuck away. Julia calls back from the dining room.

"Mommy, daddy, come look!"

Her parents look at one another in puzzlement before going to investigate. When they enter the room, they see their daughter staring out their large bay window to the view outside, or at least, what is partially blocking the view outside.

Snow. Over a foot of it.

The sight of it has caught Alex and Rachel off-guard, and for a moment they just looked at and admired the snow with the same whimsy as their little girl. Rachel was first to comment on this unexpected event.

"I didn't know we were supposed to have snow."

"We weren't. The weatherman said clear skies through Sunday," Alex mentioned.

"Well, at least that means we'll be having a white Christmas."

"Just like the ones I use to know," Alex begins to sing in his best Bing Crosby impression.

The two parents hug each other and laugh, instantly forgetting about the unanticipated snowfall. Julia continues looking out the window in complete awe. Although still very young, she knows this is a lot of snow, even for a Montana Christmas. Something about it has her transfixed. Eventually, Rachel calls her to the kitchen for some breakfast before Alex's parents come over, and the little girl races off to fill her belly.

A lever was pulled.

At the kitchen table, the Renton family enjoys a nice, simple meal of oatmeal with brown sugar and some fresh toast. Rachel and Julia talk about Julia's presents and what the plans for the day are. Alex, meanwhile, has kept quiet, eating his oatmeal and thinking to himself. His mind has gone back to the snow. While dismissing it just a few minutes ago, he has begun to reconsider this freak occurrence. He cannot remember the last time the weather had been predicted so incorrectly, recalling that even the website he checked last night informed him that the forecast for the day would be sunny but windy. Instead of a sun shining down upon the town, snowflakes were falling in great amount. When he fell asleep last night, Alex had seen not a trace of snow on the ground nor was a cloud in the sky to indicate some was on its way. Nine hours later, he was greeted to the sight of what appeared to be fourteen inches of snow on the ground and growing. The more he thought about it, the less this situation sat well with him, but he was unsure of whether to express this concern explicitly with his wife. Alex decided to bring the topic up again carefully.

"You know, I hope my parents can make it here alright with all this snow on the ground.”

Rachel, unworried, offered a calming reminder, "I'm sure the snowplows are out there clearing the roads as we speak. Plus, your brother Jeff is driving them, so they'll be coming in that mammoth truck of his. Plus they only live half an hour away. That reminds me though, what time are they supposed to come over?"

"Hm, they said they would be leaving at nine, so they should be here around nine-thirty, nine forty-five."

"I should start cleaning this place up then."

With that, Rachel left the table to begin over-excessive preparations for her in-laws, leaving Alex and Julia at the kitchen table.

"So honey, do you have a name for your bear yet?"

Rather than answering the question straight away, Julia took her time, choosing this to be the moment where she christened her dear new friend with a proper title. A light bulb went off in her mind, and in a ‘stroke of brilliance’ tone, believing to be the first to be so clever to name a teddy bear this, she exclaims, "Barry!" Alex smiles at his daughter with the pride Rachel felt earlier.

"Daddy, can we go outside before grandma and grandpa come over?" Julia begs more than asks.

"You want to play in all that snow, don't you?" Alex asks his daughter in light-hearted inquisitiveness.

Julia grins and nods her head excitedly. This liveliness breaks down the worries about the snow that Alex is harboring, at least temporarily. He tells Julia to go to her room to get dressed and she scampers off with same untamed giddiness she has had since she woke up. He grabs all the bowls and utensils off the table and takes them to the sink before looking out a nearby window. He swears that it has begun to snow harder.

A dial was turned.

Outside, Julia has donned herself, with the help of her father, in the finest clothing accessories for snow playing weather, in all pink of course. She is sporting gloves, boots, a hat, scarf, coat, three layers of shirts, snow pants, and a nice warm pair of wool socks with princesses on them. As Julia hops around the snow, sinking to the bottom every now and then, Alex shovels what he can off of the back deck. He takes a break for a moment and looks up above, squinting and covering his eyes from the relentless heavy snowflakes. Alex sees a normal gray sky above him, the type accustomed to delivering such a snowstorm, but as he looks further in the distance, he sees a wall of menacing blackness approaching. These appear to be clouds more familiar with violent thunderstorms than with a pleasant wintery dumping of snow. Despite the fear this creates in him, he does not call Julia in. They have only been outside for ten minutes and he does not want to spoil her fun so soon, especially on Christmas. Alex goes back to shoveling and tries to put the dark clouds out of his mind, but he can't help but think to himself that those clouds will be on them very soon.

In the meantime, Julia has dressed herself in a nice sweater and jeans and frantically works to straighten everything she sees and gives a quick dusting to all the tables in the house. She is the embodiment of controlled chaos and her determined path of obsessive perfection is disturbed only by a phone call. Checking to see the caller I.D., Rachel recognizes the number as coming from Alex's mother's cell phone.

Rachel answers in an attempt at casual jolliness."Hey, Martha! On your way?"

"Rachel? Rachel, we’re sorry, but we may not make it to your guys' house today," Martha replies with an air of confusion.

"Not make it? Wha-why not? Was the snow that bad over there?" Her jolliness has quickly faded into panic.

"What? No, Claremont only got a couple inches," Martha says, in reference to the town 25 miles away where her and Alex's father live. "Why? How much have you gotten?"

"Well we must have at least seventeen inches on the ground by now. It's practically up to Julia's stomach. You're in Jeff's truck, aren't you? Shouldn't you be able to get through this?"

"Oh sure, Jeffy's truck can fly through this snow better than the cities' snowplows, but that's not the point."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the road into Blueswell is blocked off."

"By snow?"

"No, no, no, by men."

"What?"

"There's some roadblock set up here with some soldiers patrolling around, they're not letting anybody through. Are you sure there hasn't been some sort of accident in town?"

"I've had the television running in the background all morning and they haven't said a word about any accident. No breaking news or anything."

"Oh, well, it must be bad whatever it is. Rachel dear, could you put Alex on the phone, please?"

"Sure, one minute. He's outside with Julia."

Rachel, after talking to Alex's mother, has been thrown into a state of worry. Her mind is racing, thinking of the possibilities for why there would be soldiers blocking the road into the town. Before she knows it, she stops at the sliding glass door to the deck and takes a breath to calm herself before opening it. Gaining enough nerve, she slides the door open and gets Alex's attention.

"What's up?" Alex asks as he walks over to her.

Rachel covers the mouthpiece of the phone, "It's your mother. She says she won't be able to make it today."

"What? Why?"

"She says there are soldiers patrolling a roadblock into town and they're not letting any cars in," she informs him, beginning to lose her nerve.

"Soldiers? The nearest base isn't for hundreds of miles. Why would there be-"

"I don't know," Rachel says, cutting him off, "just talk to her."

Alex sees the alarm in his wife's eyes and takes off a glove to grab the phone. He has a paranoid inkling of an idea of why the soldiers might be blocking the road, but it would only open a host of unanswerable questions. He hopes his mother can clear things up.

"Hey, mom."

"Hello, sweetie."

"So what's going on over there? There's a roadblock with some soldiers?"

"Mhm. We're about four cars from it. Looks to me that they have some makeshift wooden fence set up with barbed wire wrapped around it. Why in the dickens would they be doing such a thing, and on Christmas no less?"

"I don't know, mom. Do you think you can try calling one of the guards over? Maybe they can explain what's going on."

"Are you sure there hasn't been a gas leak or something over there?"

"Yeah, we would've been alerted and there would probably be people telling us to leave. Just call someone over and ask what's going on."

"Ok, just a minute."

Alex stays on, listening to his mother's voice on the other line as she talks away from the phone.

"Excuse me! Excuse me! Sir, could you come here, please?" Alex listens to silence for a moment as his mother waits for an approaching soldier. He hears her voice again, "Merry Christmas, sir. Um, could you tell us what's going on here?"

Faintly, Alex can hear the voice of the soldier, "No, ma'am, I'm not authorized to do so."

"Please, we're on our way into Blueswell to see our son and daughter-in-law and our little grandchild. I'm on the phone with my son right now trying to explain why we can’t get in."

"You're on the phone with him right now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but I'm going to need to confiscate that phone."

"Pardon me?"

"Could you please hand over your cell phone and any others you have in the car?"

"But I need it to-"

"Ma'am, I'm going to need that right now."

A rustling noise is heard on the other line. Alex could only assume that a struggle for the phone is taking place. His mother's voice is heard again, far fainter than before.

"Alex, tell Julia 'Merry Chri-'"

The line dies immediately afterward.

Alex's heart pounds away inside his chest. He doesn't put the phone down right away, not believing what he has just heard. As the sound of a dial tone fills his one ear, Rachel's voice comes into the other. She has been standing in the doorway, watching Alex on the phone and trying to gauge his reactions for an idea of what could be going on. She sees his jaw clenched and eyes unblinking and knows something bad has just happened. All this while, young Julia continues to play in the snow, completely enjoying her Christmas, unaware of the circumstances.

"Alex...Alex...what's wrong? What did she say?"

He still doesn't answer at first, he just stares straightforward, thinking of what could explain all of this. Finally, he hangs up the phone and readjusts his gaze onto his wife.

"A soldier took her phone. He took it right from her. I don't-...something's wrong. Something bad is happening here."

"Like what?"

"I think we should stay inside."

An order is given.

Instantly after Alex comes to this logical conclusion, a flash of light from the sky catches their attention. While distracted by the phone call, the gray sky that had once been overhead has since been replaced by the threatening dark clouds. They swirl about, looking like a devious life-form plotting a plan of havoc from high above. The flash even stops the festive Julia in her tracks. The whole family looks around at the clouds, waiting.

Then, a loud, earth-shaking explosion of thunder roars to life, the sound ripping through the atmosphere. Julia quickly comes running to her father, who picks her up and holds her in a firm grip. The wind begins to intensify and the snow starts falling in sheets rather than flakes. All visibility is lost.

"We need to go inside now," He yells to Rachel over the howl of the wind.

The family rushes through the doorway and into the dining room. Rachel slams the door shut, locks it, and pulls the curtains over it, not wanting to even see outside. Alex looks at his daughter and sees pure terror. Julia’s bottom lip is quivering and she continues looking at where the door is covered by the curtain. He knows he needs to talk to Rachel and figure out what to do, but he also realizes he can't do so with Julia in the room. Alex doesn’t want her scared anymore than she is. He puts her down and goes onto one knee so he’s eye-to-eye with her.

"Honey, could you go upstairs for awhile so I can talk to mommy?"

Julia doesn't respond, the lightning strike has frightened her into stunned silence.

"Honey? Honey, I need you to go play in your room for just a few minutes. You can take Barry with you and talk with him while mommy and I talk. How does that sound?"

Julia looks at her father on and off, not able to keep eye contact. Despite this, she obliges and leaves the room. Alex and Rachel listen to her footsteps as she goes up the stairs and into her room. Once they cease, they begin talking in fast paced whispering voices.

"Alex, what the hell is happening out there? Lightning in winter? While it's snowing? None of this makes sense. It doesn't take a meteorologist to know that."

"I have no clue. You're right, this doesn't make sense. But Rachel, soldiers? Roadblocks?" Alex then asks himself in complete bafflement, "What is going on?"

"What do you think we should do?"

Alex begins pacing around the room, trying with all his mental might to apply reason and logic to this development. Unfortunately, he draws a blank. He looks at his wife, not having any idea what do except shrug his shoulders and stand there in defeat.

An hour or so had passed and the thunderstorm was roaring with the same fury as when the family ran inside. By this point, the family had split up into their rooms upstairs, Julia remaining in hers, as asked, and Alex and Rachel feverishly debating in their room behind a closed door. Alex was still unable to come up with a viable plan. He desperately wanted to leave the house, but knew this was a complete impossibility. His backup idea was simply to hope that the storm soon stopped, but Rachel continued to tell him how unacceptable both of his ideas were. She was primarily focused on the other aspects of the situation, particularly the lightning and the soldiers’ presence at the edge of town. Lightning during winter was a complete phenomenon, she knew that, and as her husband mentioned, the nearest military base was so far away and their appearance during this event was disturbingly mysterious. She could not put the pieces together, they just did not fit in her mind and Alex could not provide her any answers.

Before long, they found themselves sitting on their bed, leaning against each other and sadly resorting to Alex’s backup plan. They held their hands together and hoped that this weather, so isolated and vicious, would just go away. Rachel rubbed the piece of sapphire on her necklace, in some belief that it would provide the answers they wished for or that it would bring them some luck. As they sat upon their bed, contemplating their future and trying to understand the situation they were in, a new noise caught their attention. It was a lengthy, droning sound coming from above their heads that Alex identified as a major problem.

“The roof is giving way.”

“Are you sure?”

Alex nods, “You hear that creaking? That’s the sound of the roof bending under the weight of the snow. This is very bad, Rachel.”

Alex’s mind hit overdrive as this new threat presented itself to them. He stood up and stared at the wall in front of him. Rachel looked to him to figure out what to do.

"All I can think to do is prepare for it to get worse. This snow out there is coming down harder than I've ever seen before.” Alex walks over to their window and points outside to accentuate his point, “That is an inch-a-minute snowfall out there. I think we just need to take Julia, grab some blankets and that inflatable bed and go to the basement."

"The basement? You think we’ll be safe there?”

"Rach, if this snow keeps piling on at this rate, the roof will not be able to hold up much longer. Listen, I can't explain the lightning or the soldiers, and I don’t even want to know about that. What I know is that if it continues snowing like this, the weight of it will break this roof down and the basement is are best shot at surviving when that happens."

More flashes of lightning pierce through the windows and into the house, accompanied by growls of thunder that get louder each time. Within hours, a white Christmas has turned into a dire emergency. Another ominous creak comes from the ceiling and sends adrenaline into Alex and Rachel. They know there isn’t much time. Alex gives his orders once more; emphasizing the seriousness and the immediacy of the danger they’re in.

"Get the blanket and bed out of the closet and head downstairs as fast as you can. Try to find some things to start a fire because we might be down there a while. Grab some books, papers, whatever, and just toss them into the trash can down there. I'll get Julia.”

Rachel rushes toward the closet near the front door downstairs and Alex runs down to the end of the hall to get his daughter. As he reaches her bedroom door, he stops and listens. Over his head, the ceiling is giving off another foreboding creaking, warning Alex that he needs to hurry. He enters, seeing Julia sitting on her bed and hugging her bear in complete fear while staring out her window. Alex doesn't bother to look in that direction, rather keeping his focus on his daughter as he slowly approaches her. He wants to keep calm so she stays calm. He walks over to her side and sits next to her on her bed. All the while knowing that the roof is threatening to cave in, Alex takes a moment to just silently sit with Julia. He tries to downplay the severity of the situation.

"It's snowing pretty hard out there, huh?"

She doesn't say anything. It’s almost as if she can see through his patronization.

"So mommy and I were thinking of sitting around a fire for awhile until grandma and grandpa show up. We'll be down in the basement where there are no windows." The ceiling creaks again, louder. "You can just look at the fire instead and watch it hop all around. I think Barry would want to see how nice our basement is, huh? Oh, we'll be so warm too after being outside all that time. What do you think, honey? Want to go downstairs with mommy and daddy?"

Julia doesn't say a word, but does look up at her father. Then she looks back toward the window and asks, "When will it stop, daddy?"

Alex hesitates. Instead of repeating his condescending “daddy voice,” he tells her honestly, "I don't know."

Julia looks up at him again and smiles, saying coolly, "Ok. Let's go.”

Accomplished but still not wanting to show distress, he grabs his daughter's hand and they walk out of the room together as another creak bids them farewell. Before leaving the room, Alex takes one peak out the window and sees the snow falling at such great speed outside that the window looks entirely white. They walk down the hall and back down the stairs, hand in hand, taking their time. As they reach the bottom, the creaking turns to cracking, but this doesn't cause Alex to walk faster or tell his daughter to hurry up. As the two reach the door to the basement, Alex hears pieces of the ceiling starting to fall to the floor. He taps Julia on the back with his hand to tell her to head on down as he starts to shut the door behind them. He thinks to himself that this may be the last time he uses it. The sound of a roof beginning to fully collapse under the weight of tons of snow is heard just as the door clicks shut.

Two thousand miles away, handshakes are given and smiles are found all around on men in well-tailored suits and military attire. The system is turned off for now. The soldiers are recalled. The test was a success.

Hours later, on an inflatable bed, not too far from a trashcan fire on its last legs, lay three warm bodies. The fire nearby is all that illuminates the room, with darkness taking the prominent role throughout the rest of it. As the mother sleeps with her child, the father cannot find rest, instead watching his family sleep with his piercing blue eyes. His daughter is clutching her new stuffed bear, her tiny chest steadily moving up and down, giving the father a sense of relief. His wife keeps her close, not wanting her baby to be anywhere but in her arms. He wonders if they will all survive the night to see the day after Christmas. He hopes to God that the snow has stopped and that all will be well in short time. He has placed a radio close to the bed, but it has been emitting nothing but static for the past hour, unable to receive a transmission from its location. He lies on the bed and prays hard, hoping for that radio to talk to him.

Soon, a voice is heard. An announcer comes to life on the device, readying his audience for the next song. An old tune begins playing, known by generations and heard by millions. In this town, however, only the man in the basement is left to hear it. He moves slowly over to the radio to hear it better. He hopes the song will bring him comfort.

"Oh the weather outside is frightful,
But the fire is so delightful,
And since we've no place to go,
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!"

The man turns the radio off, holding back tears. He moves closer to his family and holds them tight. Their natural warmth is all that remains as the fire quietly dies.

Search crews are on their way.

The Goddess That I Know

If your smile didn't win me over
it would have been your eyes
they're emerald gems
a field of clovers
you're a goddess in disguise

You are perfect in creation
And sculpted without a flaw
Your presence
Brings me elation
Cannot help but inspire awe

But as gorgeous as you are to me
Your true beauty lies inside
A gentle heart
A stunning mind
And an innocence that never died

Don’t lose these things, dear goddess
They make you who you are
A brilliant light
In a dark abyss
A lovely shining star

Life is a long day’s journey into night
But I know you’ll make it through
You’ll do great things
Make all the wrongs right
I hope to be there when you do

Years Ago and Yesterday

[Author's Note: Sometimes I am lucky enough to remember my dreams. On even rarer occasions, I remember dreams that stick with me for a long time and cause me to reflect on things. These are two such rare dreams that I have written in stream-of-consciousness style (which seems to work best with dreams). Also, the main title signifies the time in between the two dreams I had. Please also note, some artistic liberties have been made to make these dreams comprehensible to everyone other than me.]
_____________________________________


Civil War

War
To dream of a war, signifies disorder and chaos in your waking life. You are experiencing some internal conflict or emotional struggle. You are feeling torn. The dream could also indicate that you are being overly aggressive or that you are not being assertive enough. On a more direct level, the dream could be reflection of current wars around the world.

I found myself in a forest I had never been to and did not recognize in the least bit. It was lush, with the greenest grass I had ever seen and trees that looked to be in full bloom. Everything pointed to a beautiful sunny summer day, except the weather, which had an early spring briskness to it. As I looked down, I saw a gun in my hands, fully automatic and recently fired, smoke gushing from the tip. My clothes were camouflaged and my feet heavy from the boots they were occupying. A helmet gripped my skull tight and backpack straps tore into my shoulders. I was at war in an unknown land for reasons I did not know. But nevertheless I marched on.

I wasn’t alone. Others were around me in identical uniforms and scanning the trees for what could be considered an attack. I did not know who my enemies were in this case and so I had no reason to look around for any. I looked ahead to where a clearing in the thick forest greenery allowed me to see blue skies as far as I could see. From what I could tell, I was trekking through a paradise, somewhere that had yet to be touched by the horrors of war. I knew, though I didn’t know how I knew, that I would be one of the last to see this place as it is. Soon, perhaps moments from now, bombs would rip apart the trees, fire scorch all the life seen and unseen from this land, and blood soak into the loamy soil beneath me.

I turned around and saw two familiar faces. Friends of mine, Justin and Steve, were marching behind me, with fear clearly etched into their expressions. They knew why we were here and what was on the horizon. Everything I did not know, they knew. Whatever they knew was frightening them greatly and began giving me second thoughts about this path we were on. Then I heard the sound of tides, an ocean’s tides. That’s when I saw it.

A mile or more away, leaning to its left and crumbling away, was the Statue of Liberty. From where I was, it looked to be washed up on the shore, weakly standing in the sand of the beach. We all saw it and froze. So we were still in America. I had a feeling this is where we were, but I had ignored it. At this point we had entered a clearing in the forest, as long and wide as two football fields. I asked myself how such a clearing existed naturally, but before I could even think of the possibilities, shots were fired upon us and explosions erupted, its smoke blocking the view of the statue.

I ran toward the trees, adrenaline rushing through my body at incredible speed. I was transforming quickly. Where before I had been an unknowledgeable man lost in the woods, it wasn’t long before I was turning into a soldier. Tactics and strategy flooded my brain. Flanking maneuvers, playing dead, taking cover, running around the attack and hitting them from behind, smoke grenades, crawling through mud, climbing walls, hand-to-hand combat, Krav Maga, disarming the enemy and slashing his throat, a kamikaze last resort rush. Anything militaristic that might help in any way was racking my brain. Popping up and going away as soon as it came. I ended up running to a corner of the clearing, finally stopping when I came to a rock wall that prevented any further movement. I turned and saw my enemy for the first time.

They were just like me. They looked American, which is why I didn’t shoot at first. I could hear some yelling from these people, telling the soldiers on my side, “Drop the gun! Put it down!” before firing away. Americans fighting Americans? I was fighting a civil war. This Eden-like land was going to be torn apart by brothers. We the people were going to kill each other. The realization of the war I was in brought me to a standstill yet again. Why was I here? What brought us all here? What could have possibly torn us apart to lead to this?

And it was in my paralyzed state that a soldier running by saw me and turned, raising his gun but not shooting. He saw me with my gun to my side and surely saw that my face was saying, telling him, screaming, “What the fuck are we doing here?” He still had his gun raised, but no bullets flew into my chest. His face, as I saw, was beginning to emulate mine. Maybe things didn’t have to happen like this, friend. We had both realized the pointlessness of all this, even if we didn’t fully understand it all. Oh well.

A loud crack broke my thousand-yard stare. The soldier in front of my fell like a dead weight to the ground, eyes glazing over and lifeless, blood draining from his helmet and soaking into the earth. In a second, a life was ended. Running over the dead body were Justin and Steve, with both their guns smoking. They smiled, expecting me to smile back in relief for what they did. I responded back with a slight shake of the head as I dropped my gun. They ignored my reaction and turned back to the clearing, firing off rounds that made my ears ring. I took my backpack off. I don’t need this. I take a pistol from my side holster and point it to my right, not bothering to even look at my target. I fire its bullets off as fast as my finger can pull the trigger, and soon enough two men are dead from my random shots and my clip is empty. Oh well.

Bombs dropped more heavily now. The ground rumbled and shook. My ears rang louder, especially the right one. I took my helmet off. I walked through the clearing of the once beautiful forest unscathed. The sun touched my blonde hair. I smiled. I wanted to see the Statue of Liberty. I never got to see it before. I wanted to feel it, take it all in. A civil war was not going to stop my pursuit of her, especially not a pointless war. One that destroyed such an awe-inspiring place as this, one fought between brothers on their homeland. Voices from behind me were calling my name for help now. Oh well.

I decided to give one last look to the battlefield, where a heavenly land had once been now existed Hell. I gave a quick turn just in time to see the point of a bullet drill its metal body straight into my brain. The world went dark and quiet after that.
_____________________________________

Borderland

Crowd
To dream that you are in or part of a crowd, signifies that you need to make some space for yourself. You need solitude to reflect on a situation at hand and recharge your energy. Consider also the familiar phrase of "going along with the crowd" which implies conformity and lack of individuality.


It’s around dusk when I find myself enveloped in a massive crowd of people. They’re all travelers, like me, looking for a better life. But we’re not traveling at the moment, because are undesignated leader is addressing us. I don’t know whether I can’t hear him because of the murmuring of the crowd or because I really don’t care. Either way, his words are lost upon me, except for the last few. He’s a tall man, balding, and dressed in the way you would imagine a hiker to be clothed. I look at him and he’s wrapping up his speech dramatically, “It’s time to move…see you in two days.”

Where will he see us in two days? Where are we going? Why am I following this crowd? It’s not even a crowd; it’s a horde, better yet, a pack. We are a pack of humans crossing through a sparse forest. The trees are far apart from one another and their dead needles have covered the ground. We’re in the southwest, I can feel it. The landscape doesn’t match it completely, but the sun’s setting colors hint at it and my mind is saying it over and over. The pack is huge, the largest gathering ever on the move at once. Alexander the Great never commanded such numbers, nor Napoleon, and while we may move peacefully, not even Martin Luther King’s March on Washington is comparable to our movement. We are a herd heading for better pastures. I seemed to have agreed to these people wherever it is we go.

I don’t know these people and they don’t know me, and I’d like to keep it that way. Soon, shades of purple and red fall upon us as the dusk throws out its last beautiful waning colors before it’s snuffed out. We move on, over hills, through trees, as one giant mass of humanity. I can no longer follow, I can’t bear to follow all these others and not know my destination. I can’t. Enough is enough! I begin running, unlike anyone else around me, trying to reach the front of this pack. I pass thousands of people along the way, not looking at any of them since they’re not worth my time. Wherever we’re going, I’m going to get there in less than two days. I want to know our destination before everyone gets there, like I’m seeing our future through self-motivation. I never tire from my endless running, never stopping to catch my breath or to take note of how the sun has fallen along with the temperature. I just run.

I run until I finally reach the front of the pack and am a fair distance from the rest. I run until I see lights in the distance. I see neon lights on signs and lights coming from hotels and offices. We’ve come to a city. Is this our city of salvation? It doesn’t feel that way. I stand at the edge of a cliff looking at the city far away and down below. I look straight down then right back away. It’s a long way down. Not only that, but it’s a long enough drop to let you think about how painful it’s going to be when you land in a horrible heap of blood and bones. Those are the worst cliffs. As I look at the city in the distance, I see a giant store below, with its familiar logo lit up in the night sky. Something’s different, though. It’s not in the language I speak. We must have come to the border of our nation and we are now looking at someone else’s land. This is what everyone is moving toward? These are our better pastures? We’re fleeing our home! Giving up! No one in the pack says a thing.

Yet, this is not a pack, this is an exodus. The group is catching up to me and they don’t seem to want to stop. They’re an immovable object looking to knock me over that cliff with the rest of them. This is what I get for wanting to see where we were all going? I see our future and am still forced to experience it anyway? There’s no way out. I’m going to go over that deep, deep cliff with the rest. The moon is out now. As they near me, I finally see these people who make up the exodus. They’re mothers with their children, men of every race, all with the same defeated look upon them. Hopeless. I don’t even bother to tell them of their impending doom, knowing the futility of it. I begin running toward them, determined with every damn breath I take to overcome their numbers, to push through and escape my fate. I cross through a few and force my way through others, but eventually it’s too much.

I, the short-termed seer of this exodus’ future, cannot free myself from them. I’m stuck in the group, unable to move a limb, sucked up like dirt into a vacuum. This is what everyone and everything is moving towards, something I just can’t fight. It’s inevitable. I move with the crowd; against my will ‘til the end.

And over the cliff I go.

Patience

I had thought looking into the past brought nothing but pain.
But then I looked past that one day
And found the past wasn't all the same.
At last, I found happiness and laughter.
Now I am, for the time, at peace with the matter.

I'm reinvigorated with the idea
That something was and always will be there.
I still care.
Our connection is unbreakable;
Something we will forever share.

I was myself to you, not a character in a play.
That’s the person I want to be
All the time, everyday
I love being myself with you.
With no one else can I be that way.

Patience will be my virtue.
Because I know deep in my heart,
No matter how far apart,
You’ll always be a part of me.
Something I knew from the very start.

Between My Car and Your House

I found out that I’m not as confident as I had thought
It was a feeling I had but also a feeling I fought
And between my car and your house I was caught
Your love had been my goal, all I sought
But all my efforts failed that night, came to naught

Later I said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you”
But by then it was too late
You were in love with someone new
Call it bad luck or call it fate
I haven’t a clue
And that’s what I hate

Am I meant for you and you for me?
Did I ruin the chance for that to be?
At this point I honestly do not know
But I just can’t bear to let you go
And not so easy are you to forget
So I refuse to stop, to never quit

Something keeps me from saying goodbye

The fact that, to me, you are perfect
This and the possibility that you feel the same
Are the things that I suspect
Keep me from losing hope and fuel the flame
To my burning love

I love you true and pure
And to be with you would be the cure
To all the ills in my life
To think that one day you could be my wife
What a wonderful thought and wishful thinking
And yet it’s just a dream, and leaves my heart sinking

So I can go on trying to explain
But what I want to say is really simple and plain
I’ll shout it to you in the pouring rain
If that’s what you’re into
That you’re beautiful in so many ways I cannot count
And make me laugh with jokes of an endless amount

I want to be with you forever
Because my chances of meeting someone better
Are next to never.

You're Not My Type At All

I walk in through the gates
And in the corner of my eye
I spot the full-on beauty that makes me feel alive
You're the reason I'm at this party, love
Why else would I be here?
I'm not the drinking-type
But you are, aren't you, my dear?

You're a model with a smoking habit
But I don't care
'Cause I long to taste those luscious lips
And run my fingers through your hair
But don't get me wrong
I'm not pure lust
It's just, It's just, It's ju-u-u-ust...

I find you to be one-of-a-kind.
Smoke away, drink away, I don't mind
You're not my type at all
But I can put that all behind
For one ni-i-i-i-ght
For one night

You light up a cig during our conversation
And you go on and on and on
As if I'm actually listenin'
Here I am lost in your eyes
Emerald are they?
Well what a pleasant surprise
'Cause so are mine

I'm kidding, love, please sit down
I heard every word you said
Even with this loudness all around
Let's move to a spot all our own
A place where I can hear ya
And we can be alo-o-o-one

I find you to be one-of-a-kind.
Smoke away, drink away, I don't mind
You're not my type at all
But I can put that all behind
For one ni-i-i-i-ght
For one night

There's more to you, in't there?
Than just your good looks
You're a bonafide reader
Who digs her nose in books
So you've got the total package then
The beauty and the brains
That's the ticket it is
You've set my heart in fla-a-a-ames

Thoughts

What happens if something unconstitutional happens during a boxing match? What would the court case be called? Is it considered a rematch?

---------

I'm tempted to go into a furniture store and paint arrows on the seats of all the stools. I guarantee 75% of the people who use those stools will sit in the same direction of the arrow. The other 25%? Douchebags.

---------

I've determined the two worst situations to get fancy and shit in a baseball game. Close your eyes with me and picture this situation. Game 7. World Series. Bottom of the ninth with two outs. The bases are loaded and the count on the batter is full. The other team is up by one run and just needs to get this one out to win it all. The pitcher is trying to catch his breath, not let the pressure get to him. He winds up and unleashes a wicked fastball. The batter, seeing everything in slow motion, cracks the ball. It's a grounder though, a sharp one, right to the shortstop. He gobbles it up and sets his sights on first base and is about to throw it. This is where things get interesting. This shortstop, he's been prepping something special. He's been working on it for months now. He's thinking to himself, "This is it. This is the moment to use it."

He cocks back his arm, "I'm gonna end the World Series with a knuckleball."

And so he tosses it. This fluttering ball, unmoving as it flies through the air toward the first baseman, is about to make history. The wind catches it and it begins to duck and dodge like Tyson. The first baseman is baffled as the ball hits the ground and takes a wild hop past him. He runs after it, but it's too late. Two runs cross the plate and the game's over. The shortstop's team loses. The home crowd booes like crazy, his teammates are running at him, but he's all smiles.

"You see that thing move?!"

The other situation is basically the same but instead of the shortstop, it's the centerfielder, and instead of a knuckleball throw, it's a behind the back catch.

---------

I don't think there has ever been a Neo-Nazi protest at an Adam Sandler movie. I think he's noticed too. Look at his past couple movies. The guy made "I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry"! He was a Gay Jewish man in that one. Next one? You "Don't Mess With The Zohan". Even the title is taunting these skinheads now. In that movie he was a Super Jew. The guy's throwing softballs at this point. Watch, his next film is gonna be called "Fuck Hitler".

---------

We all remember shortly after Hurrican Katrina, Kanye West told the world that "George Bush Doesn't Care About Black People." Everyone lost their minds when he said that, but not me. Everyone just misunderstood what he meant. I think what Kanye meant to say was that George Bush doesn't care for Black People. You know, how, like, I don't care for broccoli. It's not that he hates them, he's just not a big fan. Bush doesn't have anything against them necessarily, he's just indifferent toward them. Katrina hits New Orleans and he just lets the city sit there for awhile, I do the same thing with the vegetables on my plate. No big deal.

---------

So what's the deal with bees? Do you think they have any sort of thought process? Do you think they know that when they sting you they're gonna die soon after? Personally, I don't think they do. I mean, put yourself in the mind of a bee... You're flying around, just doing your bee thing, and some six year-old punk tries swattin' you down. You have one of two options; you can fly away and try to get out with as little damage as possible or you can just say, "Fuck it, I might escape with little or no harm, but I'm just gonna go ahead and sting em' just to irritate them." Now see, if they know that they're going to die post-sting and they also know they could potentially escape the situation without any harm, this is the single most spiteful creature on the face of the earth. "Swat at me, asshole? I'm gonna sting ya! I don't care if I die! As long as give you a brief second of uncomfortability, it'll all be worth it." What we're looking at here is the essentially the inspiration for the Japanese kamikazees. But we will never really know for sure, it's just another one of nature's mysteries.

Hulk

Let's talk about superheroes for a moment shall we? Okay, there are things when I'm reading comic books or watching superhero movies that I can put out of my head to help enjoy it. I know that science does not necessarily have to be accurate. Collateral damage need not be taken into account. Logic in general is basically pointless. But no matter how hard I try there is one aspect that continues to gnaw away at me. It may be to many of you the most mundane aspect about these fantastic beings with even more fantastic powers.

Their names. One in particular really get at me.

The Incredible Hulk. I personally just find this completely redundant. Does it need to be said that the Hulk is incredible? Isn't it somewhat obvious that this juiced-up version of the Jolly Green Giant is a little more than average? I mean, this guy can run faster than my Volvo can go on the highway, he can jump higher than a Cirque Du Soleil performer on pogo-stilts, and he can effortlessly lift my entire office building. I don't get the point of that added title. Unless...unless there are other Hulks. Hulks of varying incredibility. Maybe out there, far and away from the heroics of the Incredible Hulk is another Hulk who perhaps isn't as interesting. Sure he's still green, and definitely still mean, but maybe he also has to work two jobs to support his family and he's still strapped for cash, getting bitched out by his wife every night for crashing through the front of the house again. And maybe he's inadequate in bed too. He's the Mediocre Hulk. Ok, now with that other Hulk in existence, I can understand why they would need to label the other one as incredible. It's all in the name of avoiding confusion.

"Hey, were we just saved by that Hulk I always see unloading flat-screen TVs by the hundreds at Best Buy?"

"No, you're thinking of the Mediocre Hulk. The Incredible Hulk was the one who stopped the meteorite from smashing us all to bits."

But to my knowledge, there is no Mediocre Hulk. I don't honestly know what the creators of these iconic heroes were thinking. "Incredible," is a word that is not needed to describe a superhero, it's basically implied. I don't call my friend Jim, "The Balding Jim." You see him, you see he's bald, it's obvious. With The Hulk, you see him, you see he's clearly incredible and it too is obvious. Unless there's a Mediocre Hulk out there somewhere working for tips at a car wash, then we don't need to get specific. We can just call him the Hulk.

So let it be known, future comic book creators, if I catch a new comic out there called, "The Heroic Sharkman" or some shit like that, then I'm gonna have to kick someone's ass.

The Randoms

For about 4 months I fell into a doozy of a writer's drought. It wasn't necessarily that I had no ideas during that time, it's simply that I had no time to translate my ideas. My head was so focused on other things during that time that even when time was given to me in abundance, I couldn't properly write like I had in the fall and winter. Near the end of my drought, however, I did begin to write some things and the ideas I had held in my mind began to take shape. The words spilled forth, the images splashed around in my head again. I could see my characters and settings once more, and finally I was heading toward a path to recovery. I wrote two short writings (Protocol and Oilists) right before I wrote At A Standstill and I decided to post them here. Look at these not as my best efforts, please. These two writings were merely creative methods for me to try and break free of my slump. These are almost like warm-ups, with At A Standstill being the primetime performance. So, if you find these to be weak, I probably agree with you, they're uneven and not fully thought out, but they are also glimpses into what a struggling writer is thinking.

Enjoy.

Protocol

I had been told by a nameless man in a well-tailored suit to "expect anything" and to "Shoot first. Ask never." The man made it clear that certain things happened here that no one could know of. It was bound to be exciting work. I had been working for three years now and knew the ins and outs of the entire 3,000 acres. I knew the building's layout like the back of my hand and the open fields surrounding it were like my backyard. The road that led to the place was not on any map that could be bought and no satellite in the sky could spot it. The property was owned by blacked-out names on pieces of paper that could not be traced. Everything that went on here was paid in money that came from nowhere and yet came in endless amounts. I received a paycheck every two weeks, but even after three years, I wasn't exactly sure who paid me, and I never asked. I knew scientists worked here, but I also knew they didn't work on behalf of any corporations. I was a soldier like the other guards here, but none of us wore medals, pins, or badges, and we were surely never awarded any. Nametags were not needed. Clearances were issued through barcodes tattooed on our forearms and through biometric scans. We had full permission to shoot intruders without fear of repercussions. My existence here was a trick of the mind, the fields did not exist, and the buildings were mere illusions. Even the air that we breathed here was just a figment of our imagination.

I got the call just as the moon reappeared from behind the clouds. The illuminated crescent lit up the grounds of the compound and distracted me from answering my walkie-talkie. I finally broke free of the hypnotizing beauty of the landscape and took the call.

"Lieutenant," it was the voice of my Captain, "We have a Red Alert."

I immediately took the safety off my gun.

A Red Alert could mean one of three things. It could be that a toxin had been released and evacuation measures were being taken. This seemed unlikely, seeing as none of the soldier's had gas masks on. Two, an animal test subject had broken free of the scientist's control. This was not the case as the building is constructed to resemble a maze and would take the most brilliant chimp hours to escape. Therefore, the soldiers would still be inside, checking the corridors and air vents. Process of elimination meant only one thing, there was a test subject on the loose, but this one was more like us.

The floodlights from the building shone down on the grass and did away with the stranglehold the moonlight had on the field. The spotlights from the watchtowers clicked on and swept across the ground like a painter's brush. Men with automatic rifles charged out of the many exits of the building and formed strategic patterns to move around in. I stayed a lone wolf, my rank giving me the choice to do so. If I chose, I could have taken control of one of the small groups now making a diamond-shape and giving each other hand signals.

A shot rang out from over my left shoulder, slightly startling me. A second shot came soon after, and then my walkie-talkie came to life.

"This is Tower 7. Target sighted heading to the Northeast corner. Repeat. Northeast corner."

Without hesitation I made a break for that direction, running as fast as I could while being weighed down by my boots and gear. Up ahead of me was a two-man team. One was crouched while the guy behind him was looking all around, walking upright with his weapon clenched close to him. I had never seen these two before in my life, but for all I knew they could have been working here longer than I had.

I went down on one knee for a moment, gathering my strength and catching my breath. I was about to radio the tower that had spotted the target when suddenly the two-man team came under attack. I fell to my stomach and aimed my gun, ready to shoot at their attacker. But peering down my gun's sights at the men some fifty yards away, I couldn't see what had ambushed them. All I could hear was the sound of punching and kicking, and the resulting painful cries from the soldiers as they continued to be violently beaten. I decided to flip open the LCD-screen attachment on my rifle, a special accessory that allowed be to see heat sources. Through my infrared view of the scene, there was definitely a third person there, thrashing away at the men with its own fists and soon with the men’s' own guns. By now they were surely dead, but the figure continued crashing down blow after blow upon the soldiers with the butt of the stolen gun. I looked away for a split-second in an attempt to contact the watchtowers as to the thing's position, but by the time I looked back, it had fled the scene. All that remained were two immobile lumps on the ground, slowly growing from red to yellow on my heat-sensing screen.

A rush of questions came to my mind about this thing, but I needed to focus on killing it first.

I stood up quickly and scanned the grounds through my infrared screen when I caught the figure heading for the forest surrounding the property. It was unimaginably fast and becoming a smaller and smaller target for me to hit. Finger on the trigger, I popped off two shots, both of them hitting the thing in the back. A guttural scream was unleashed from its direction, leaving me temporarily paralyzed, and staring off into the darkness. On the screen this thing lit up a glowing bright red, but with my God-given vision I just couldn't spot it. And that noise it made, that noise was animalistic.

I couldn't tell if the shots had stopped the figure or not, as there was no sign of it left on the infrared. I unclipped my walkie-talkie and radioed in backup to my location. It wasn't more than a second after my call ended that I was struck in the chest with the force of a full-speed truck.

My mind yelled out in pain, but with the wind knocked out of me, my mouth couldn't relay the message. My senses were assaulted from all directions. My ears heard nothing but a high-pitched ringing, my eyes seeing stars and blurred images of the moon above me, and the taste of blood flooded my mouth. The jarring impact had to have come from the thing I had shot. Within seconds the figure had raced over to me and drilled me. I managed to get up one one knee and noticed my left arm was a little limp. It had been knocked straight out of its socket, dislocated and useless to me now. I spit a mouthful of blood out and tried to regain my vision, intensely looking all around me for this thing. I clutched my rifle in my one working hand and hoisted it up high enough so that I could see through the screen. I jerked about in every direction with the gun shaking in my weakened arm. It didn't matter; I could see the figure now with my own eyes. It was on its hands and knees no more that 20 feet away, gasping for breath.

I finally dropped my rifle, both because I had become too weak to hold it any longer and because what I saw. It was a man, no doubt, but only pieces of him. I could see in the bright moonlight a part of his right arm, his upper thigh, his feet, and half his face, but no more. This was a man as disconnected to himself as my arm was to my shoulder. Protocol told me that the instant I had the opportunity to complete my objective, I had to take it. In this case, it meant killing this thing before me. I unlatched the sidearm from my hip holster and took aim, but I hesitated. I never hesitated, but this man kept me from doing my job. He looked at me with his half face, full of anger and pain. He was an experiment, obviously. He could have easily been a soldier from here who happened to draw a short straw as much as a captured enemy. Of the few things I knew, I knew the scientists here didn't discriminate on whom they tested on.

What was I supposed to do?

That was a question I hadn’t asked myself in years. I was expected to know answers. This was unacceptable of me and I knew it, and yet I stood still. I wanted to know more about this man. What had happened to him? Was he a part of some research into invisibility? Clearly they had partly succeeded.

"What are you?" I asked, still aimed right at where this man's chest would be.
He looked at me, unblinking, with a steely glare. He strained to speak, but he managed to deliver a haunting reality to me.

"I was just like you."

I heard approaching men on their way. To be found next to this man with him still breathing would have meant my immediate dismissal or worse. So I shot him. I killed him right there, without remorse, just as I was supposed to. No bullets remained in my pistol when I was done.

The soldiers arrived and questioned what had happened. I calmly explained what had gone on, and told them I would have a full report on the situation in the morning if they had any more questions. I walked away, leaving them to clean up the mess.
Just another day at work.

Oilists

I'm going to be honest with you; I don't like the titles and cutesy names thrown at me. I'm not a propagandist, I'm not a spin doctor, and I'm sure as hell not a liar. If I could choose a name for what I do, I would call myself an Executive Truth Argumentarian. But seeing as how that doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, the press tends to label me with those other words. My job is vital, like a spinal cord or a carotid artery. In the past they used the title Press Secretary, but today it is officially designated by The Government as “Press Liaison,” which, as fancy and fabulous as it sounds, isn't for the faint of heart.

Lucky for me, I'm living in a world at peace with itself. Neighbors love thy neighbors and everyone's got a chicken in their coop and a car in their garage. The poor saps before me in this role have dealt with famines, holocausts (nuclear, racial, and environmental), and political corruption. They've been turned into human dartboards by reporters, throwing pointed question after question at them, demanding to know how Situation A is going to be solved while Situation B is still going on, and little do they know Situation C is about to rear its ugly head. But me, well, I have not had to deal with any of that.

Like I said, we are living in the closest thing to perfection that this planet has ever seen. We haven't had a war in 30 years, unemployment is something from the previous generation, and money is plentiful. We've transcended capitalism, democracy, and equality in the process. You can ask me how the hell we got to this point, but I won't have an answer for you, and I promise, it'll be the only time you'll catch me without an answer to something.

We live in peace, harmony, and tranquility. Marked only by the occasional terrorist bombing.

It's nothing, really. It's like the hiccups, it pops up out of nowhere, annoys you for a short while, but then it goes away and you get on with your visit to the mall. I've managed to live with it, and as is my job, I've made the public live with it. It's an inconvenience at worst. This being the only "danger" in our world, I can focus my full attention on it, and make it seem as if it about as big a deal as a car crash. It happens, a loved one dies, and we move on with our lives. This is my job; I see the bad shit going on and make it palatable for the people at home watching the nightly news.

If it weren't for me, my countrymen would be living in a state of constant fear. But thanks to my careful wording and comforting attitude, I've allowed Mom and Pop to take their kids to the playground and worry as much about a terrorist strike as they would a lightning strike on a sunny afternoon.

However, some have claimed I'm a liar. That I look at an occurrence like last week's train station bombing and say, "shit happens." These people don't know that I anguish over every life lost in these incidents; I just manage to get myself together during the press conferences and deliver my briefing. They say I'm disregarding the threats around every corner, but you know, it's almost as if my critics want to be in fear around the clock. They want their kids to be afraid. They want little Johnny and Susie to know that the train station bombing killed 45 people. But real numbers scare people. I can tell the truth to the public just as easily by saying, "a number of our countrymen and women were struck today in an unfortunate event." Where's the lie in my words? Is that event not unfortunate? My critics wish us to live in fear while I try to lead the people to realize that life is good. We are safe.

These terrorists though, I'll admit, are craftier and more dangerous than in the past. These aren't Russian Separatists, or Islamic Jihadists, or any kind of Neo Nazi. Laugh as you might, these are people dedicated to a dying resource. They're fighting for survival in a match that's already declared them the loser. They will die out eventually, but until then we have to endure the chaos they cause.

These men and women are labeled as "Oilists," dedicated to the near-dead resource until they die. As the rest of the world developed, and breakthroughs in technology led us into a world of solar-powered transport and various other "near-to-naught" emissions machines, these people stuck to their guns. There's not much nuance to them, in the beginning they'd strike wind turbines, "green" factories and buildings, and anything else they considered anti-oil. Soon they moved smaller. Striking the cars of average countrymen, and it was then that panic spread. Anyone with a carbon-conscious possession could be struck. Their history is really as pointless as their existence, so I'd prefer not to discuss them much more.

All that needs to be said is that they are striking still, striking often, and striking hard. But thanks to my work and the work of The Agency, we've calmed the public down and are working on tearing down this fledgling organization. Scientists have told me that they've pegged the last drops of oil to be consumed within three years. In my relaying words to the public, I've assured them that, "The end is on the horizon and coming fast. In a world free of Oilists, true peace on earth can finally be achieved." They gobbled it up. Fear had been quelled for another day and millions of lives were able to continue uninterrupted. They didn't need to know Oilists had blown up an ethanol plant and killed 103 that day, what good would it do? My job had been done.
________________________________________________________________________

He had written his last will and testament the night before. He knew what his mission was. He knew it was more important than any before and that his one act would change the direction of the way people perceived him and those like him.
Today, he would change the world.

He walked through the terminal with stoic confidence. He had mastered an emotionless face over the past months and it was all being put to the test at the moment. He wanted to sweat, and they knew he wanted to sweat, so they developed an intricate cooling system around his body. Small tubes of chilled water ran all around him under his clothes, ensuring his body temperature remained at 98.6 degrees. They knew he was afraid, but there was nothing they could do about that but promise him that what he would do was for the greater good. His monumental feat would open the eyes of everyone, and that this is what they had all been working for.

He got through security easier than expected. Screenings were minimal in this day and age, and this proved to be incremental in the mission. He smiled as he past the attractive security guard. He didn't look like what she was looking for. Which was exactly why he was chosen.

For too long they had been stereotyped, but now they would use that preconceived perception against them. Their cause was as strong as ever, and as distorted as ever. He could remember the beginning, he was there, the historical moment it began, and it amazed him how far they had come. That warehouse where he stood along with hundreds of others, cheering, chanting, and yelling. Calls to "Never Fall" nearly blew the roof off the place. He had sworn an oath to himself to follow this noble effort wherever it took him, and after 10 years it landed him in the largest airport in the world, carrying a backpack full of ammonium-nitrate fertilizer and diesel fuel canisters.

He and his fellow activists had been in a long battle that had led to the death of many friends of his. He shook each one off and carried on, knowing that the cause was bigger than one man. Except in this case. His enemies reigned supreme, they created laws and enforced them, they made executive decisions, and they ruled over him and all his countrymen. He and his like-minded thinkers fought The Government with every breath they took. He hated them because he knew what they did, what they were doing now, and the unimaginable things they would do if he were to fail. They had waged deception upon his fellow citizens constantly and had been for years. They gave them freedom in exchange for ignorance. Peace for obedience. What was worst, in his mind, was that all the others knew it, but they just kept their mouths shut and lived. The press had never backed down, but knowing they were harmless against them, The Government continued to humor them.

He wanted to change that. He fought the increasing propaganda to "Buy Green, Buy Wind, Buy Solar." He saw irony in the fact that these were all things that were free to all, but that The Government had seemingly gained a monopoly on the environment. Other countries followed suit. The remaining oil empires eventually lit their reserves aflame and watched an end of an era go up in a thick black cloud.

He couldn't let this happen. Governments around the globe were gaining money in unthinkable quantities, establishing laws that ruled out any chance of competition. They controlled the land in a new way now. They called themselves democracies, but were slowly trying to eek out competitors everywhere, aiming to become a company running a country. The one chance to set things back to normal was to get oil back in the picture. While everyone had wind and sun, oil existed in finite amounts. When some have and others have-not, competition ensues.

This is how the Oilists began.

He could never explain it well enough in words. The concepts involved were complex, and this issue was very difficult to understand. When discussing it, he boiled it down to this, that the governments had become monopolies thanks to alternative fuel profits and were cracking down on any sort of competition whatsoever when it came to the business. His organization fought for capitalism, and believed that the resource of oil would reignite the lost economic approach. To do so, alt-fuel sources all over the world would need to be struck. Air travel, factories, fill-up stations, and even the cars of average countrymen. There would be massive casualties, innocent people would die, as they had in the past, but they would get over it when they realized they had been freed from such an oppressive system.

He was the catalyst.

He would set the world on fire.

The plan was set up so that everyone involved would know when each bomb went off. When he started it all, the next guy would set his off at his location, and then the next and on and on until the fuse burnt out. It would be a chain reaction of terror. He hated to use or even think of that word when he considered the plan, but he knew fear would beget results. The result would be change.

He saw the departure gate thirty yards ahead and knew he was at the threshold, the point where nothing could stop him. This fact brought a smile to his face, especially when he heard men far behind him begin to yell. They screamed in panic and with a strain to their voice. They knew who was and what he was going to do, but it was too late. He turned around to look at the men as he continued to walk to the gate, the smile still prominent on his face. He walked on, past the woman asking for his ticket, and onto the plane. The plane, clean burning and environmentally friendly, was a prime symbol of The Government's stranglehold on energy and power.

This symbol was now at his mercy.
_______________________________________________________________________

The news came on at 6 o'clock on the dot. The screen clicked to life and the blurry image of the anchor and his desk slowly faded into a crystal clear picture. The newsman, usually composed and objective, was in obvious disbelief. His hand on his sweating brow, he couldn't bear to look at the camera right away. He shook his head, barely able to comprehend what he was being TelePrompTed to say. The news had come so sudden, with such shock to him, that it forced away any ability to keep himself together. He finally moved his hand over his mouth and stared at the camera. He was trying hard to get to the point. He knew his audience was waiting with bated breath and tears in their eyes for him to say it. They needed official word. They needed to hear it from someone they still trusted. The newsman had to tell them. Moving his hand away so he could speak, he brought himself to announce the news.

"Ladies and Gentlemen at home and around the world, good evening. I'm here tonight to bring you news that I myself have trouble believing could ever happen. At exactly 5 this afternoon, a plane in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia was blown up in what is almost unanimously believed to be a bombing by the terrorist group The Oilists. 130 are believed to be dead. Reports coming in have not given us any hope for survivors. This started a chain reaction of epic proportions. Around the world, locations were struck, places seen as symbols of hope and the future for us as a human race. Massive truck bombs and various other devices leveled alternative fuel plants in the United States. Wind farms were systematically destroyed in Australia's Outback. The solar fields of Egypt were blown to bits, beyond repair. Worst of all, in mine and many others' eyes, were the attacks today on the things that help transport us, the things that we take for granted. Aside from the plane bombing in Riyadh, 46 other planes were bombed in countries all across the globe. Freeways from Los Angeles to Hong Kong were reduced to ash as either planted explosives or car bombs mixed in with traffic blew up thousands of cars. Planes fell out of the sky today as mid-flight detonations turned them into freefalling firebombs. No estimations have been made yet since the worldwide chaos ended, or hopefully ended, approximately half an hour ago. Deaths could range from 50,000 to 100,000 killed in total. Staggering figures that just buckle your knees and makes you wonder 'why?'"

"The Oilists website has been all but wiped clean for the time being. A simple banner remains, reading, 'Today We Changed The World.'"

At A Standstill

The town dies around midnight. Everyone is in their homes and off the road, beginning to wind down from their day. The traffic lights give orders to no one as the streets lay silent. The world is at peace.

Rick Lahser, however, is restless.

He's alone in his car on a dark side street. His eyes are fixated on a house to the left. His heart is racing. He can't keep his eyes off it. The house is taunting Rick, with its porch lights on and its thin, airy drapes, daring him to come over. But he remains in his seat, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel while his right leg jitters up and down anxiously. The song playing on his CD happens to sync with his situation, asking him, "Oh well, whatcha waiting for?" He looks at his stereo and cracks a small smile at the coincidence. Normally he would take this as a sign, as a means to get out of the car and follow through with his plan. He doesn't, though. Rick continues to think to himself that someone from inside will see him and ruin everything. He's unwilling to take the risk that the Rick of old would have done in a heartbeat. This new Rick is wary, more cautious, less willing to put it on the line and go for it.

So he starts up his car and leaves.

Angry with himself, he curses under his breath, shaking his head at his inability to act. He turns onto the main road and flies down it, trying to release his aggression in some way. At a stoplight, he puts his head on the wheel and thinks of the all the possible ramifications of this inaction. Every possible and far-reaching possibility floods into his mind, each one hurting more than the last. He blew it and he knew it.

He looks at the passenger seat and sees the envelope. Inside it contained a letter saying everything he couldn't. It was meant to be a love note to his friend whom he had harbored a crush for over 3 months now. Rather than taped to her door, it sat there mocking Rick. He couldn't look at it any longer, for it made his stomach turn. He stared up at the light, now green, and he hit the gas.

Her name was Michelle.

He had been so calculated around her in his last year of high school. Every interaction with her was carefully plotted out in advance. His conversations with her were so intricately prepared that they could have been scripted. This was just how he went about courting someone. He couldn't be blamed for not being himself, even though he seemed to try and plan every situation with Michelle to make himself come off as a great guy. This was just Rick's way of flirting with a woman. He had been the same way with the woman he fell for before, but after she rejected him, it sent Rick into a season-long depression. He thought he was fully recovered, but it was apparent that he was still hesitant when it came to expressing himself. While inside he saw himself as chivalric, quixotic, and romantic, he knew that tonight he failed to live up to any of those qualities. His love for Michelle would remain a fact known only to him for another lonely night.

Rick pulled into the nearby gas station to buy some comfort food, namely a Yoo-Hoo and a Twix bar. There were no customers, not much as surprise at 1am. Rick, knowing the exact layout of the store from hundreds of visits, quickly had his supplies in hand and waited at the counter for the attendant to show up. A minute passed without any movement from the back room. Rick looked around for something saying, "Back in 5" or "Closed," something he may have missed, but from what he could see, there was no sign of any sort. He rang the small bell lying on the table, but with another minute having passed, Rick gave up. He left his money on the table and a note listing what he purchased for the attendant to see whenever they decided to get back to work.

Rick got in his car and was hit with a very odd feeling, a sense that something very bad was about to happen. From the spot where his car was parked, he thought it might have been the sudden fear of a carjacking. His nerves got to him as he started up his car and peeled out of the gas station lot as quickly as he could. He shot down the street on his way home, having told his father he was only going to the gas station. He had made no mention of any side trip.

Pulling into the driveway, Rick didn't immediately leave the vehicle. Instead, he once again sat, staring ahead, thinking of what this missed opportunity would cost him. She'd find someone else, surely a guy unworthy in Rick's eyes, she'd move away to her college, her and Rick would stay in contact for a few months, but after that it would be all over. He wished that she, along with many others from his high school class, wouldn't go anywhere, that everybody would just stay put. He had so many chances in his senior year to tell her how he felt, but he had just let his insecurities get to him. And again tonight the demons from his past had stopped him from following through, leaving him sitting in his car wishing he hadn't been a coward for that one moment.

Rick turned off the car and grabbed his stuff, pocketing the envelope and heading into the house only to be pounced on by his dog, Mike. He brought his candy and drink into the living room to finish watching the baseball game, and where his father was reading the newspaper. It was a game on the West Coast, so although it was closing in on a quarter after one, it was still the bottom of the sixth. The game had been paused, apparently, thanks to the magic of Tivo.

"That's alright, you didn't need to pause the game for me," Rick said to his father.

He snagged the remote and hit 'Play.' The screen stayed still. He let out a sigh, thinking the television was messed up just months after they had bought it. He looked at the screen and kept hitting the button, hoping it would just start up again randomly. As he squinted at the screen, he noticed something. The image showed the pitcher having thrown the ball and the batter was still in his pre-swing stance. The umpire was still leaning on the catcher, having not made the call yet. The ball, however, lay on the ground just in front of the catcher. It was as if the batter, catcher and umpire had not even realized the ball had been thrown.

"You see this, Dad? Dad?"

Rick's father continued reading the paper, not acknowledging his question or Mike as he jumped into his lap.

"Dad?"

Rick was use to his father becoming so involved in the newspaper that he wouldn't respond right away, but this was out of the ordinary. Rick went and looked over the paper to see his father with an unblinking face, not looking at Rick, just solely concentrated on the paper. Rick shook his father's shoulder, but without a reaction. He was warm too, as if he had a fever. He was still breathing as well, but it was shallow.

"Mike, stay here."

Rick ran to his mother's room, where she was sleeping, and turned on the lights. He shook her, but she too was unresponsive. He was then hit with the fact that his normally light sleeping mother did not even awake to the lights turning on, this usually being enough stimulus for her to shoot out of bed. He continued to shake her, now more vigorously and with worry in his eyes. Still nothing. He noticed something odd; she too was extremely warm. She looked completely normal, but obviously she wasn’t right. Staying by her side, Rick took out his cell phone and called his friend Ken.

He quietly whispered to the phone, telling Ken to pick up. When the voicemail answered, Rick began to panic. If the normally technophile Ken wasn't answering, something was definitely wrong.

"Hey Ken, I need you to call me back, alright? S-Something's wrong. See ya."

Rick went down his contact list and spent 15 minutes trying to reach anyone he could, but every call ended up reaching the voicemail rather than the person. He paced back and forth from the bedroom to the living room, checking on his parents, who were still unable or unwilling to move, he wasn't sure. He finally hit a point of extreme anxiety and dialed 9-1-1 for the first time in his life. It just rang and rang, without an answer. He threw his phone on the couch and picked up the television remote again, turning on the cable news in a desperate attempt to see if this was happening elsewhere. When he switched over, he found the anchors to be frozen in mid-conversation with each other, not moving an inch. He went up a channel and found nothing but the same, with the political pundit looking at the screen, mouth half open and eyes in mid-blink.

Something was definitely wrong.

Though a normally smart and logical thinker, Rick felt vulnerable and afraid, as he couldn't find grounds for this event. He had seen enough thrillers and horror movies to think about toxins and viruses as being the cause, but quickly dismissed those as unlikely. Rick, without knowing the cause for this occurrence, certainly couldn't come up with a solution. For no reason other than to have it and feel an ounce safer, he sought out his father's gun from his sock drawer. As he was rummaging through the socks, he decided he was going to drive over to his friend Quentin's house. He didn't know Quentin's number so he wasn't able to call him. He only lived a block away and figured it was worth a shot. With gun already in hand, he swiped his keys off the kitchen table and got back in his car.

This whole deal was still so sudden and so strange to Rick that his head was still having trouble wrapping around it. He tried breaking down everything, trying to look at this as logically as possible. His mom and dad were immobile. They were very warm. None of his friends, and not even the cops for that matter, was answering their phones. The electricity was fine. The televisions worked, but the game and the news were frozen. Both of those are shown live, meaning that this same thing was happening in those studios and on the West Coast. This wasn’t isolated case, but why was he ok? Thinking over all of this, the well-read and educated Rick still could not come to any conclusions about what had happened. Something this widespread seemed to have taken placed instantly. Again, why was he the exception to this?

He continued to pour over the details as he pulled up to Quentin's house. Just half an hour ago, everyone was fine; he was leaving his house and saying goodbye to his responsive father, on his way to Michelle's house. Now things were different. Why?
As he walked up to the door, he saw lights were on inside and noise was coming from inside. Voices. He knocked repeatedly, calling for Quentin, but no one answered. He jiggled the doorknob, and it obliged, having been left unlocked, allowing Rick inside. Upon his entrance, he saw that the voices were coming from the old sitcom playing on television. Moving further into the house, he saw Quentin in the hallway, leaning up against the wall, looking at his cell phone.

"Quen? Hey, buddy, you hear me?"

Nothing. Rick swore over and over, frustrated and nervous. Everyone was at a standstill. There was no logic behind this, no reason, and yet, it was happening right before his eyes. Rick looked at the clock in Quentin's dining room. It read 1:34 in the morning, with the second hand slowly making it's way around. The clock ticked on, but everyone seemed to be stuck in time. It still didn't make any sense to him. He put his head up against the wall, gently bumping his father's pistol on the back of his head, trying to knock some answers out.

Suddenly, with a roar, a car raced down the street at high speeds. Rick turned his head and ran outside, feeling the adrenaline kicking in. When he reached the sidewalk, he looked both ways and spotted the vehicle at the end of the street, nearing the main road.

Rick hopped back in his car and went into hot pursuit of this other driver. Someone was certainly up and moving other than Rick, probably in a panic and looking for answers. He needed to catch up to them. As he reached the main road, he pulled out into the middle lane and stopped. Putting the car in park, Rick got out and surveyed the area. He listened intently, but could no longer hear the growl that other engine made. Neither direction featured a car or any evidence one had been on it. Again, all Rick could do was let out frustrated obscenities.

He knew sitting around waiting was worthless, he had to continue moving, looking for someone that might have survived whatever had gotten hold of the rest. So he drove at a snail's pace, down the main road, scanning over every square foot for movement of any sort. Another fact popped into his head as he drove; Mike was unaffected. He was still in good spirits and had the same yippy personality as before. Maybe only humans were affected, Rick thought. Just another piece to a puzzle he couldn't solve.

Flashing headlights caught Rick's attention, shining brightly in his rear view mirror. He instantly hit the brakes and stopped the car, getting out, but not forgetting the gun. He put it in the back of his waistband and waited for the car to reach him. After a few seconds, it got within a distance that Rick could make it out. Coming toward him was a truck that looked fairly new and sped at him at a brisk pace. He began to wave his arms over his head, trying to get the driver's attention and for him to stop. The driver, however, seemed to have no thought of slowing down for Rick. The truck continued to speed toward him, who quickly realized that this vehicle was stopping for no one. Rick dove out of the way and watched from the ground as the dark blue behemoth smashed into his car, disabling both.

He couldn’t believe what he had just seen. Rick sat there, breathing heavily and unable to figure out just what had happened. This driver had tried to kill him. He had to do something; he couldn’t just lie there forever.

Absolutely frightened, Rick pulled out the pistol and moved slowly toward the truck. While he had the poise of a veteran police officer approaching a dangerous room, Rick had never shot a real gun, and only had television and the movies to go off of in terms of handling and shooting. He grabbed the truck driver's door handle with one hand, making sure to keep the gun in the other and trained on the door. He took a breath and ripped the door open.

The car was empty.

Rick was left speechless. He didn't know what to think anymore. He felt helpless at this point, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. It was as if Rod Serling was suddenly dictating his life and that he was in store for something even worse. No, there was one person he could go to, he thought, one who felt an obligation to protect. Michelle.

Now without a car, he had to walk the five blocks to her house. Rick moved with a purpose, still listening and looking in every direction, hoping to catch something in the distance or in the corner of his eye that might hint that someone else was out there. All he heard was the slight breeze touching upon the summer leaves. Their rustling usually calmed Rick, but now it only gave him chills. The darkness seemed pervasive, stretching into every corner, the light from the corner stores and gas stations fighting it as best they could. Nothing on this familiar road felt soothing to him anymore. Where had that truck come from? And the other that raced down the street? Rick was not a man who usually cried. He had worked hard over the years to create a happy and humorous persona that kept his darker emotions at bay. But now, in the middle of the street, he wanted to cry harder than he had in a long time. And yet still, he resisted. Crying meant giving up and he refused to stop. Although he was faced with a seemingly impossible situation, he had to cope with it. So he walked on.

He saw her street in sight when he heard another car engine come to life. It snarled like a beast and then kicked into gear. Rick just knew that it was coming toward him. He ran now, at a full sprint, down Michelle's street. Her home wasn't far off the main road and he reached it in mere seconds, pounding on the door the moment he reached it, screaming her name and hoping someone would open it. The noise from the far off car grew louder, closing in on Rick. He was burdened with more questions. Why was it coming for him? And why did he know that it was? He didn't care at that point. He looked at his pistol in his hand and then at the window next to the door. He cautiously shot the window three times, shattering the glass and allowing for a way in.

Rick kicked the remaining shards and ran as fast as his legs would allow him throughout the house. He saw what was probably Michelle's father lying on the couch, staring at the TV, motionless. He found the stairs leading to the second floor and charged up them two at a time. Pictures of Michelle at every stage of her life adorned the walls in the home, things he would likely take time to look at if this were a casual visit. This was a rescue mission, though, and Rick knew Michelle had to be close. He ran to the end of the hallway, now sweating buckets, and turned right to see a room decorated in posters of rock bands and movie stars. This had to be Michelle's room.

For all the rushing he did, when Rick found her room, he felt as if he could no longer move. He didn't want to see what was likely in that room. This was the room of the girl he had been idolizing for months, building her up in his mind to be the perfect woman for him. But he knew when he stepped a foot in there that he would find that same woman frozen in place like all the others. But he knew he had to do it. This time the past and his fears couldn't stop him. He took a step.

Rick turned left and saw her, beautiful as always, but just as he expected, unmoved. She was sitting there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, huddled up in a ball on her bed, watching the small TV in her room. She was watching the exact same game he had been. For some reason that tore him up and nearly brought those tears out. Still, he held on and moved closer to her. Rick knelt on one knee in front of her. For a brief time, he just stayed where he was and looked at her. He had never taken the time to really do so. She really was gorgeous even without makeup, just naturally amazing. Finally, he cleared his throat and tried whatever he could to "awake" her.

"Hey. Hey, Michelle. It's Rick."

He stopped. He felt stupid doing this. Could she even hear him? Did it matter?

"It's Rick. I'm here for you. You know, I don't know if you can here any of what I'm saying, but something's happened. No one's moving out there. Nobody. And I-I don't know what to do. I just thought, you know, I'd come here. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Rick paused, gathering himself.

"But obviously, you're not. I'm sorry. I don't why I am. I just feel like I failed you somehow. I was outside your house earlier, actually, I came to drop this off."

Rick took the letter out of his pocket and showed it to the unresponsive Michelle.

"It's, uh, it says everything I've wanted to say to you for so long. I couldn't do it though; I just got too afraid and left. I love you, Michelle. That's what it basically says. Everything about you just blows me away. And now, here you are like the rest out there. I messed up."

A car door slammed outside. Rick looked out the bedroom window to see the interior lights from a sedan slowly going off, but he couldn’t see anyone. He closed the blinds and shut the door to the room then went back to Michelle, picking up where he left off, this time with a more Rick-like humor and nostalgia in his voice.

“You remember back in middle school, when we had science together, when we first met? That day I accidentally knocked your stuff on the ground? I actually, uh, did it on purpose to get you to notice me. Ha, and all those times I teased you, you know it was just because I liked you. But after that last year in middle school, things between us just kind of went away. They were dormant for a long time. But this year, you made me fall for you again, and I don't want to let that pass me by. I want you to wake up, Michelle. I just want you to wake up so bad. I love you; I can't have you be like this. Wake up. Come on, Michelle. Come on. Come on. Michelle! Michelle! Wake up!”

Rick shot a bullet past her ear, trying whatever came to his mind to wake her.

"Damnit, please, come on and wake up. Everything will be alright, just move. Move, move, move, just a little bit. Please."

Rick rested his head on the edge of her bed, exhausted and out of ideas.
A sharp banging began at the bedroom door, causing Rick to jump. The whole door seemed to shake, with the fragile hinges threatening to break at each hit. Rick aimed the pistol at the point where the intruder’s chest or head might be when the door broke. He knew that door was going to fail, and that he had to protect himself and Michelle from whatever was on the other side. Now he was feeling it. Chivalric. Quixotic. Romantic. Death itself could have been knocking on that door, but Rick would have stayed right where he was.

The cause of all this didn't want anyone to move. Rick was going to follow suit.

A final thunderous bash blasted the door into pieces, causing Rick to shield his face with his free arm. He regained his composure and waited for the invader to reveal itself. But as he continued to wait, holding the gun with a rock hard grip, he wondered if anything was going to appear.

Within the course of half an hour his world had come crashing to an end. Nobody, including the person he cared so deeply for, could as much as bat an eye. An invisible force had destroyed the door and driverless cars had pursued him. Why? Rick didn't know. These events defied logic. Was this an act of God? Was He trying to show Rick the impact if someone doesn't make a move, and just using it on a large scale to illustrate it? Anything seemed possible now, but right now Rick didn't care. He was with Michelle, and whatever happened, he would stay with her. Rick decided to sit up and park himself next to Michelle, putting an arm around her and resting his head on her warm shoulder. The gun still tightly clenched in his hand.

Rick stayed there, motionless with his love, the clock in her room continuing to tick on.

Day broke hours later to a world that refused to wake up. One man could still move, but he rejected to do so. Rick Lahser stayed awake throughout that night, gun trained on a quiet but ominous doorway. The woman next to him, Michelle, remained huddled up, eyes glued to a frozen TV screen. Neither would move for hours. Birds would sing that day and the sun would still shine, but nothing else would be the same for Rick. His focus on that empty space in the wall was so intense he began to have tunnel vision. He saw nothing else. He even missed Michelle blink.