Napoleon in Winter

(Translated from Ausguste D'Obriot's classic memoirs of serving Emperor Bonaparte in the Napoleonic Wars, "Fuck Russia, Let Us Go Home: The Harrowing Memoirs of a Soldier, Adviser, and Man.")

Chapter 34 - General Ronaldo Rojita

It was a thought that came to my mind incessantly these days. A feeling of jubilation and near ecstasy. An invincibility that could be touched by none. I was a part in the single greatest empire in the Age of Man. My Lord was named Napoleon, and I was his humble servant. For I existed as one of his trusted military advisers and at any given moment I could be found sitting in on meetings, figuring out logistics, drawing up battle strategies to defeat entire nations, and having arguments about the morality of shooting women in the streets of Berlin.

However, most of the time I was in the corner fixing up a pot of coffee and cutting a pan of brownies into perfect circles at My Lord's request.

Today I was doing just these things while no more than ten feet from me, another conversation was being had between My Lord and various field commanders. The only one I knew was a Michel Ney, an ambitious dolt with a penchant for gambling and extravagant fornication. He was widely hailed for his bravery in the field, but this was only due to his stupidity in not seeing the dangers of which he faced in battle, but the only one who knew this was I. Being the loyal man that I was to My Lord, I dared not second guess him for having an empty-minded fellow in his inner circle. So there Ney continued to sit in his comfortable wooden chair, smoking away at his mahogany pipe, listening to My Lord. On this particular occasion, My Lord had gathered his trusted group to divulge a brazen new plot to expand the Empire.

"I am absolutely steadfast in this plan, gentlemen," My Lord spoke, "I envision a French Empire extending across the Channel and establishing a firm tricolor flag into English soil. I have amassed a formidable army of nearly 700,000 ready to set sail from the city of Calais and I am personally prepared to die in my effort to take that island. I have been planning this launch for close to 4 years now and my will to see it through shall not and cannot be broken. We march in ten days."

I took a moment away from brownie cutting to turn around and partake in the field commanders' reactions to this proposition. They all reared back in their seats from hearing the scope of this wild and crazy plan. A bearded gentleman was so astonished by this strategy that he vomited on the floor, which I dutifully began to clean up. I was startled into a brief hesitation as I caught sight of Monsieur Ney, who, rather than arching back in astonishment, leaned in and halted his pipe smoking. It was clear this fellow of mouse-like intelligence was intrigued by this daring, and if I may be so bold to say, sexy idea of My Lord. Ney began to speak in what started as a whisper, but steadily grew into a normal tone.

"This approach you have formulated is positively brilliant, if not unheard of and perchance suicidal. It would be thick-witted of me to contemplate that an extraordinary individual such as you would take us this far toward a beacon of victory and suddenly steer us off course into complete oblivion." He looked to the fellow commanders around him, "Meanwhile, you skittish knaves appear ill at heart at the mere thought of an assault on the English. And you, General Blousseau, vomit in front of our Emperor at the proposal of his idea? You make me want to throw up."

He then spit at the General, who was quietly crying in shame.

"I am for, and always will be for, my Emperor and the masterful thoughts his mind brings to us."

Confident in the persuasion of his rant, the simpleton Ney leaned back into a normal posture and began to once more smoke his pipe, despite having run out of tobacco. I went back to my brownies, trying to act just as confident as Ney, hoping My Lord would notice me and maybe even compliment my new shoes I had made to impress him. He did not; instead he kept his eyes firmly on that fool Ney and began to commend him for backing his plan with such conviction.

"Ah, Commander Ney, I expected nothing less than your eloquent words to so fully support my proposition. I thank you."

Eloquent? From that moronic meatbag? He could barely string a sentence together. Not that I was jealous.

"However," My Lord continued, "To better explain how we plan to achieve this objective, I have used my many resources to bring an outside field tactician of high reputation with us today. Men, I give you General Ronaldo Rojita."

This, I must tell you now, was something never before done. My Lord depended mainly on himself or his inner circle of commanders when formulating plots. I had never heard of this General Rojita and could not understand why My Lord, the greatest mind in military affairs, would need to bring in someone, let alone an "outsider," to help explain his vision. Perhaps he was having inner doubts that he was keeping from his field commanders or possibly that he was suffering a mental strain from his constant paranoia. Perhaps My Lord had finally reached the point where his ambitions and reality could no longer coexist, as his hopes and dreams had outstretched what could be reasonably accomplished, just as I expected would happen and had been anticipating for a year now.

Or perhaps he was just in need of love. A love that was right in front of him making brownies.

Anyway, the door to the room flung open to reveal a giant rather than the man we had all expected. He stood at least two meters tall and looked as if he could pummel anybody in the room to within a centimeter of their lives. He flourished a well-groomed moustache and had piercing steel eyes that made me yelp silently to myself from across the room. He walked stiffly to My Lord's side, which I'm sure My Lord did not appreciate, as General Rojita dwarfed him in comparison. And yet, while the field commanders, except for that feeble-brained Ney, cowered in their seats, My Lord seemed practically giddy at this goliath's arrival. I turned to watch the action unfold.

"Isn't he a mighty brute?" My Lord exclaimed with glee.

The giant ape gave a deep, hearty laugh, "I wouldn't hurt a fly, I promise. Unless the Emperor here ordered me to!"

Having traveled all across Europe by My Lord's side, I immediately recognized his accent as being German.

"Now, I am but a modest man from Mexico, but believe me, I will devote my heart and soul to helping lead this Empire to new and grander heights. That is why I have been asked by our dear Emperor Napoleon to speak to you of his plan for invading England."

"Ahem," the idiot Ney interrupted, "I think we all understand the plan quite clearly, and we certainly do not need a grotesque beast such as yourself telling us what the situation is. Commander Vomit Stains over here probably understood it better than all of us."

Still more quiet blubbering from the bearded regurgitator.

Rojita looked infuriated by the comments and was ready to attack, but My Lord put his hand on Rojita’s chest to stop him, then seemed to press the palm of his hand firmly into him, and began slowly and subtly rubbing his pectorals. Not that I noticed.

"Rojita, please," he said calmly before turning his attention to Ney, "Commander Ney, you know I value your opinion, but when I met Rojita at...a treaty signing last month, I saw in this modern day Hercules a man that we needed with us."

That nitwit Ney retorted, "But surely not for him educate us on something we already understand. If that, then why not have him tell to us how a rifle works, or how to eat a potato? I do not see his purpose."

"Actually," Rojita began, regaining his composure, "I wanted to speak to you, Emperor, in private about this matter, but I believe that with this dissention coming at me so unexpectedly, I feel I must present it to you now."

My Lord nodded for him to do so. Rojita turned to the commanders and proceeded to unapologetically tear apart My Lord's brilliantly conceived scheme.

"I think the plan to attack England is honestly a crock; a gross mistake that would leave the French army beleaguered and weakened to the point where neighboring countries could swoop in and recapture their lands. The Empire, I fear, will be faced with mortal danger if this English invasion is put into action. In all due respect, Emperor, your country does not have the naval capacity for the amount of men you wish to send across the Channel, let alone the logistical elements."

My Lord was stunned, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, like turtles poking their heads out from their shells to investigate the surroundings. I wish I could have hug-, er, brought him some of his favorite peppermint tea right then.

"And the people of England, whom I have consulted for and advised in the past, have an army of massive proportions and possess a determination that cannot be broken by any means. They could simultaneously engage with both the United States and still be able to contend with anything we throw their way. They are fighters to the point where I think they all must have some Latin blood in them," he smiled thinly, before returning to a serious demeanor, "So this is why I bring you to my proposal. I suggest we launch those men stationed in Calais eastward bound into the land of Emperor Alexander. I speak of Russia, gentlemen, the unconquered land of Peter the Great."

This venture put forth by Rojita was as grand and spectacular as his colossal frame, and had the similar effect of unnerving My Lord's men at the table. I saw for the first time a slight hint of terror from that fool Ney. He coughed upon hearing the large beast's proposal and his face drooped as the words soaked in and fermented within his mind. My Lord looked incredibly displeased, and understandably so. His idea for an invasion of England had just been disrespectfully tossed aside by the very man whom he had spoken so highly of moments ago. My Lord stood before his entire group of field commanders undoubtedly humiliated and unquestionably aggravated. And yet, he did not slap Rojita with his horse-riding gloves, as was his modus operandi upon being personally insulted. No, instead, he slowly turned his head to Rojita, and while doing so, made a queer transition in facial expression. All of a sudden he looked content. My Lord proceeded to reach up and place a hand on the monolithic man's shoulder in a reassuring manner, patting it and smiling. The way he used to act towards me in our better days when we frolicked through battlefields and played leapfrog until the sun fell beneath the horizon. Not that I miss them.

"Do you see, gentlemen?" My Lord spoke in a polite tone that felt a tad bit forced, "I brought General Rojita here because he is a man of ideas. He heard my plan and saw the pitfalls that could have meant utter defeat for us. All of you, even Ney, blindly followed my proposition without even considering the dangers and flaws that it clearly had. This was a test in which you all failed. Rojita, my friend, I shall put you second-in-command in the push for Russia."

Ney, the current second-in-command and first-in-jackassery, shot up from his seat, "My Lord, I must protest this grievously unfair decision! For this entire campaign I have stood by you steadfast, not in blindness but through reason! I have considered thoughtfully every maneuver and deployment you have made, every choice and decision that you have promulgated. I have exerted myself and spent untold hours reviewing your plans because I wanted to make sure I was not going into the heart of a battle with my eyes closed and hands tied behind my back! You charge me with blind faith in regards to your orders? To that, I say, 'Non!' This heap of trash has unmistakably brainwashed you through devious means, and I wish you to see through that. Stick with your plan, sir, to England! It is our only way!"

The suddenly impassioned Ney stood there, fists digging into the table as he leaned toward My Lord. Never before had such an outburst come from the normally even-tempered Ney, and the rarity of this occurrence was not lost on the field commanders or My Lord himself. I wanted to say something during that heated moment of contention. The feeling built up in me like a long held love for an unattainable person of power. I could not believe it at the time, but, I actually wanted to stand up for Ney. While being the most offensively ignorant man I had ever had the displeasure of knowing, he was nonetheless as fierce an advocate of My Lord as I was. Meanwhile, this Rojita had obviously taken advantage of My Lord's weakened mental state caused by his increased paranoia and self-doubt, and was now acting like vile snake speaking poison into My Lord's ear. My opinion being as valued as it was to My Lord, I knew I was faced with the daunting task of giving my endorsement to one of these men. This entrusted position meant I was essentially sealing the fate of the Empire with my choice.

At that historical place in time, I put down my brownie tray, stepped forward and spoke in defense of Commander Michel Ney.

"My Lord, I think-"

"SHUT UP! Real men are talking!" My Lord screamed back at me.

I followed the order and walked back to my brownie tray with quiet dignity. Despite this little scene, I forgave him instantly, and continued working. My tears silently dripped one by one into my perfectly cut brownies. Wiping away these tiny beads of emotion, I centered my attention back upon the confrontation behind me. I could tell that Rojita and Ney were having a stare down even without turning my head toward them. The animosity between the two was at a fever pitch and the tension caused my heart to pound in a positively mad fashion.

"Well, My Lord," Ney blabbered, "Where are we to send the Grande Armée? North toward victory or east toward annihilation?"

"Remember, My Lord," Rojita said in a seductive sounding purr, "When we met...at that treaty signing? Every day will feel that glorious if you allow us to go east. Let us go to Russia."

I peaked over my shoulder back toward the action, and saw Rojita hunched over, with half of his face practically in My Lord's ear. I knew at that moment that Rojita had won the battle, for My Lord could never resist the feel of a moustache on the side of his face. The nincompoop Ney had never lost a field battle, but in this tent on this late autumn day, he had finally tasted the bitterness of defeat. My Lord sided with the enormous hunk of meat that was Rojita. Our fate was sealed. To Russia we would go.

"I'm sorry, Michel. Will you stand by as third-in-command?" My Lord asked.

Ney, embarrassed and dishonored, replied, "As long as you require my services, My Lord, I shall stand by you."

Meanwhile, at the table, the whiskered vomiteer held up is hand, "M-M-My Lord, I was third..." then proceeded to gag on his words and throw up into his lap. His tears that followed would fall into a disgusting puddle that I would later mop up.

Rojita all the while appeared thoroughly pleased. Within just a few moments he had discredited an Emperor's military strategy, proposed his own wildly dangerous scheme, and won that Emperor over with that plan, all the while making an utter fool of the previous second-in-command. A good day by any man’s standards. My Lord stood up to leave and as custom, the rest of us stood at attention until he exited through the slit in the tent. The field commanders shuffled out of the tent next into the growingly chilly air. Ney stayed behind and asked General Rojita if he could have a moment of his time in private. He generously obliged and Ney spoke in a low and inquisitive voice, putting aside his distaste and hatred for the General for the time being in order to understand the man’s motives. While this rendezvous took place, I poured cups of coffee for no one in particular.

"General, I have been by the Emperor's side for nearly four years now and know the ins and outs of military strategy and the likes. England seems like such a prime opportunity and obvious next step for the Empire while Russia is but a flight-of-fancy at this stage. Not to offend, but why are you pushing so hard for a risky Russia-bound strategy?"

"Between you and me, my friend," he said, leaning in to tell a secret, "For the snow."

I halted what I was doing, in disbelief of what I might have just heard. I was unsure of what he meant, and to be honest, quite puzzled if he had meant what I thought he meant.

Ney inquired, "Snow?"

"My friend, I have lived 30 of my years in the city of Tijuana. Never have we experienced a true snowfall before, and my journeys to England and Germany and such have all come during the peak summer months. But Russia, this is an opportunity to actually see real snow in substantial amounts, especially with winter arriving in a matter of weeks. We'll make snowballs and snow angels. I have heard of such people to have made men of snow. Can you believe that? I can't pass it up."

"So this whole strategy was conceived solely for you to see snow?"

"Truthfully, I do not even have a strategy. I am not even a General. Now this is just between you and me, amigo. Understood?"

I turned to them, slack-jawed and bug-eyed, and saw Rojita making Ney very aware of his ability to potentially obliterate him into ash. The former second-in-command nodded his head and I prayed in my mind that Rojita would not snap his bones then and there. Seeing that he had made his point, The Mexican exited with haste out of the tent and left Ney and I, shivering in fear and in a dilemma. Our Emperor had been duped by a swindler and fallen under his spell, leaving us at the mercy of whatever this Rojita fellow wanted to do with the Empire. And he had just made his intentions quite clear.

We were going to Russia for the snow.
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ADDITIONAL HISTORICAL FACTS

-After Napoleon’s final defeat at The Battle of Waterloo, Auguste D’Obriot wrote a short poem about the loss, which also incorporated his complex feelings for the Emperor. The poem would later be found and turned into the 1974 worldwide hit song “Waterloo” by the Swedish pop quartet ABBA. [Source: The New American High School Textbook: AP World History, 15th Edition]

-General Blousseau’s rare condition of Acute Regurgitation Syndrome was not properly diagnosed until after his death. During his life, many around him thought he was just a huge coward, even by French standards. [Source: You Ruined My Carpet! A Biography of General Marc-Alain Blousseau]

-Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte did not meet General Ronaldo Rojita at a treaty signing, but rather in a bathroom in Lyons, France. [Source: The Autobiography of Ronaldo Rojita, Volume Seven]

-The Grand Armée would later be decimated by the unforgiving Russian winter, and Napoleon would retreat in defeat and humiliation. Napoleon fired Rojita shortly thereafter and reinstated Commander Michel Ney as second-in-command. Napoleon then gave permission to Ney to punch Rojita in the testicles as an apology for not listening to him. [Source: Fuck Russia, Let Us Go Home: The Harrowing Memoirs of a Soldier, Adviser, and Man, Chapter 46]

-Many military historians and professionally educated guessers have come to a consensus that if Napoleon’s army had been sent to England, they would have overtaken the country after a lengthy war and ultimately renamed it “Muppet Treasure Island.” [Source: The 1996 Barcelona Historical-Guesser Conference]

'Me Blog Pretty One Day' Presents: Charles Feutz's "The Moment"

Even after the end of my competitive swimming career, I can still clearly remember the first time I broke the two minute mark in my 200 yard freestyle event. The two minute mark is something akin to running a 4 minute mile. The 200 freestyle is a very tough event requiring a swimmer to have both a large amount of endurance as well as speed. I trained incredibly hard to reach this milestone and it will be an event not soon forgotten.

The crowd was already at a fever pitch. The first event, the 200 medley relay had just ended in a close race. My team won, but barely. I could still see my teammate Jeremy's arm as it stretched out the last two inches to touch out the other team for first place. The crowd went wild screaming and chanting “Eagles! Eagles!” It would be a hard performance to follow. Pushing the roaring fans and foes out of my head, I went through my usual pre-race regimen. I rolled my neck around like a top, wincing slightly as the sharp staccato of my vertebrae loosened. I took a deep breath, inhaling the sharp smell and bitter taste of the highly chlorinated pool air. The noise from the crowd disappeared as I relaxed further into my swimming mode. Next, I slapped my thighs to warm up my tightening muscles. The noise of this reverberated in my mind, like a thunderous drumbeat in an otherwise peaceful place. The echo from the sound died away and was replaced by a pulsing beat from the music I had stored away for these moments. This time, Chris Cornell and Audioslave pounded my ears with 'Like a Stone.' My body synced with the rhythm of the song and I heard the referee speak the only words that broke my pre-swim trance.

“Swimmers step up.”

I casually took the small leap up onto the top of our starting blocks, looking down into the waters of the fourth lane; my lane. I pushed my goggles over my eyes as tight as they would go and took my stance.

“Take your mark.”

These next words almost scared me into the pool. My heart was beating intensely, desperately, trying to escape my chest. My mind no longer streamed music into my conscience; in its place came thoughts of how fast I would have to swim, how tired I would be at the end, how fast my competition was, what would it be like to lose this race, and scariest of all, what would the crowd think if I lost? All of this and more assaulted my resolve in the final seconds before the start. Then, the electronic beeper went off. I leapt for my life off of the blocks. One thought finally settled in my head in the instant before I hit the water, ‘I'm in this to win.’

For what seemed like an eternity, I soared through the air, inching my way towards the calm surface of the pool. Out of personal habit, I closed my eyes just before impacting with the surface. Everything switched back to real time after I entered the water, and my thoughts once again turned hectic. The first thought was of relief as my goggles sealed correctly and were repelling the torrent of water rushing past my face. This relentless passing of water mirrored the passing of my thoughts. Flicking in and out of focus were thoughts such as, “where was the competition, where was my teammate, how fast should I start out, when should I push for the win, when should I hang back, and when will my opponent push?” While my mind raced, my body had already set its own pace, cruising on auto-pilot, and sustaining itself through pure instinct. This only lasted until I actually think about the fact that I'm swimming. The instant that happened, all the information from my body rushed into thought. My arms pulled the crisp, cool water with easy, clean and long strokes. My legs pounded with the previous rhythm of 'Like a Stone,' but with their own adaptation to fall in line with my arms. My lungs expanded and contracted explosively as they struggled to keep my body supplied with the oxygen to function.

I reached the half-way point of my race when everything shifted into overdrive. I always strategized to push out the second half of the race harder than the first half, so as to account for my level of fatigue. I allowed myself to check the position of the rest of the swimmers in the pool as I made my flip turn. I turned head over heels, scanning the rapidly spinning pool to find myself almost two body lengths ahead of the entire field. I never allowed myself to use the extra space to slack off on my pace, so I pushed my body further. I willed my arms to pull faster, to pull stronger, to make a cleaner stroke, all while increasing the tempo of my already speeding legs. I forced my lungs to expand larger and larger to take in as much oxygen as they could. My body protested. My arms; instead of staying strong, began to turn to rubber. My legs, instead of speeding up, stiffened and seemed to drag through more water than what they should be kicking. My lungs seemed to catch fire in my chest and didn't seem to be taking in any of the lifeblood my body needed. All this only made me want to stress my body further than what seemed healthy. I wanted to push my limits so far they would have to call professional help to get me out of the pool after I finished. I wanted to push myself and beat my body down to nothing so in the end, I could emerge on top. So I did. My arms pulled harder, faster, cleaner. My legs kicked faster. My lungs ballooned to the point where it felt like everything else was getting shoved aside to make room. My mind shut down from the stress, and did what I needed it to; motivate me. My song came back ten times louder, drowning out all other noise as I made my last turn to finish the race. One small thought briefly passed through the beats of the music. I thought that I had never felt so good, that I had never felt so happy, so content, so…relaxed, as I did swimming that race. Before I knew it, I was stretching out the last inches, pushing that one last time to the wall. My hand slammed into it with a force I don't think I could ever match again. Exhausted, I turned to look at the timing system placed high on the wall on the opposite side of the pool. I'll never forget what I saw.

Lane 4, first place. Time: 1:59.3.

I think that if I had had the energy I would have yelled in victory, maybe fisted the air with a triumphant arm, but the only thing I could think of was holding onto the wall so I wouldn't sink to the bottom of the pool. Luckily, my teammates rushed over to my lane, and did the yelling for me, though I didn't hear it for the first few seconds over the pounding of my heartbeat. The beating soon subsided and the noise of the pool area crashed into my ears. I heard my comrades congratulating me, the crowd cheering and chanting, and just barely above the din, the noise of the other swimmers finally finishing. I noticed then that I had finished almost half of a pool length ahead of everyone else. That brought out my first reaction. I pushed off the wall and threw both of my fists into the air, yelling triumphantly. The referee signaled for the swimmers to warm-down to the other side of the pool. I sighed and laid my head back into the water, once again silencing the world around me, entering back into my own state of nirvana. My mind had only one thing in it; one minute fifty-nine point three seconds. It was the first time I could remember any swimmer I knew of breaking the two minute mark. I almost couldn't believe what I had done. But at the same time, I knew I had done it because there was no way I could ever feel this tired and broken from swimming in a dream. I was brought back to my senses when my head gently bumped into the wall at the far end of the pool. My team was waiting there, and they refused to let me get out of the pool under my own power. I was dragged, almost brutally, from the water and discarded on the deck, all to my pleasure. Everyone congratulated me once more and turned their attention to next race at hand. After all, I wasn't the only Thurston swimmer that got in the pool. I stood on wobbly legs and drudged my beaten body to the stands to earn more praise from my friends and fans, but most importantly from my parents. I told my dad that I had finally done it. He looked at me, smiled, gave me a hug and told me he was proud of me, and that everyone was proud of me.

I hope this memory never fades from my mind, even as age takes its toll on me later in life. The emotional rollercoaster that I experienced swimming that race, the reactions of everyone around me, and my own pride is something I cannot imagine not sharing with my children, and hopefully grandchildren. I understand now that one must break one's own boundaries mentally and physically to truly feel most alive.

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.]
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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.
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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.

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.

Playing God

Since God has existed, there have been those jealous souls who have wanted to be Him. I, admittedly, am no exception. Let's be serious, the job is glamorous and it certainly has its perks. Unlimited power? Check. Flowing beard/robe? Check. Ability to cure cancer? Check*. With all this working for Him, who wouldn't be a tad bit envious? The answer, of course, is everybody. Which is pretty ironic because envy is a deadly sin and therefore an automatic disqualification for deism. Not being envious, just curious*, I shall fill the shoes of a God with a universe to create.

*He's saving it for the right time.

*Curiousity being an automatic disqualification of life for cats.

(God-Up)

So, if I was God, and starting from scratch, I wouldn't begin with such a grandiose display as "Let there be light!" Instead, I would just give Myself* night vision and work My magic in the darkness. Although I'd have to invent darkness first. How do you create darkness? That's a pretty good question to ask college students tripping on LSD. I'll have to remember that. Sorry, Gods digress too. Anyway, by working in the dark with night vision, when I finally did invent light, there would be something to actually show off. I bet it was pretty embarrassing for First God when all he illuminated was a barren rock of a planet*.

*Myself being capitalized because I am God, of course.

*That planet being called, as Samuel L. Jackson dubbed it, "Erf"

By the way, it's hard to emphasize My great importance and Godliness in the first person, but I am in fact capitalizing "I" as I go, even more so than usual. I call it a Holy Capitalization, so just be aware of that.

Getting back on track, the first thing I would do is create the Garden of Eden*, because I feel that First God got that idea right the first time. But I would save a shitload of time and just go into the future and get a list of all the world's animals and plants and recreate them in the past. Except I'd have to invent the future first. And how does one invent the future and have all those animals and plants there to take them back into the past if one has not created them yet? Damn. Okay, okay, I will just create paradoxes, but allow Myself to break them. I can do that because I'm who? God, that's fuckin' who.

*Garden of Eden would be renamed "Pepsi Presents: Eden".

Alright, so now I got Eden set up in all its paradisaical beauty plus I'm ahead of schedule. Now what? Oh! Those humans need creating, right. So obviously the first man would be in My image, because who the hell else's image is he going to be based off of? On second thought, Brad Pitt would be a good basis for My first man. Back to the future it is. Now that that is taken care of and I have an Adam of My own, I must bear upon him a name that evokes wonder, strength, and wisdom. And so I shall name him Superman*. The guy needs a gal though, and I'm pretty tired from this world creation gig already. What would First God do? Uh...oh, right! He pulled that chick out from Adam's rib or something. Dang, I worked way too hard chiseling those abs of his to have them ruined by a scar. I'll just have her come out an orifice of his.

*Latin for "Truth, Justice, and The American Way".

Eden, done. Humans, made. Next on the agenda is finding a place for those souls who have passed away. Heaven, as made by First God, was a cloudy little village community, very suitable for the pious crowd. I'm more about vitality, I'd make Heaven a giant hotel party in a 1,000-story shimmering tower. It would have pools that always have just the right amount of chlorine not to burn your eyes out and there would be a view of the ocean from every room. Seems Superman is the first to arrive, something about uncontrollable bleeding from his rectum.

Moving on, I would make Purgatory the lobby, where the concierge is a complete asshole and won't tell you where you're room number is.

"I vill be vith in you just a moment, sir," he will always reply*.

*Spoken with a heavy German accent.

Hell, I would probably keep Hell mostly the same. Caves, seven levels, The Devil, pitchforks and brimstone, it would all be there except everything in it would all be low lit. There's nothing worse than trying to work in the dark, and that would really get the point across to those who art wick'd that they truly are in Hell. Also, I would make the The Devil have a greater affinity for random raping.

Son of a bitch! I've been so busy making that afterlife that I forgot the...what's between before and after? The nowlife, yeah, I've been neglecting the nowlife. Huh, apparently they're trying to talk to Me. They're on their hands and knees, hands clasped, look like they're begging. It's faint though.

"Please, no, don't let Vesuvius erup...oh no!"

This is simple, I'll have their begs transferred into e-mail form, like in Bruce Almighty. Great movie, a little on the preachy side though. Boy, they sure are talking to Me a lot. Arguing too. Will someone please inform me as to what the fuck Judaism is? Who started that? Why wasn't I told? Well, I'll make sure to make those "followers" miserable. I would not give them cookies in the Afterlife Hotel. Didn't First God have a messiah at about this point from some lady he knocked up? There he* is, and there is his mom. I don't remember hooking up with her when I visited the Human's land on Whataday*. Hmm, I really don't want to share the glory but...he would lighten up my inbox and he is My son*. I bet if he got martyred, like, half of My current followers would start begging to him. Alright, I'll set the cards in motion. I hate following in the footsteps of First God so much at this point. It seems He knew what He was doing the first time around. This Jesus fellow gets the brunt end no matter who's God, I guess.

*Jesus remains uncapitalized in pronoun form because he forgot to take out the trash at the time of this writing.

*Whataday = Saturday.

*Lab results pending.

This is looking good. Rome is controlling things very well, technology is advancing, what's next? I should have paid attention in History class, but I got to go use the Bill*. Okay, I'm bac- Whoa! What happened to Rome? Why is everything so dark? F! Those idiots down there screwed things up. How am I supposed to run things when these idiots can't even hold down the fort for a bathroom break? Jesus, watch over things for Me. I'm taking a vacation.

*Bill is derived from Bill Norman, the first guy who called me a "douchebag". Therefore I named the bathroom in his honor. God had a similar story concerning the originating of the term "the John".

...

Ugh...fine, I'll come back. Let's see what's going on. Year 2021? How long was I gone? I guess it's like the old saying goes, time flies when you're on Al-Galactogine IV*. What's the situation? I need a closer look. Hmm, "America" seems to be all over the map and that boot-shaped land appears to be, yeah, it's on fire. Okay, Brazil looks...wait, didn't there use to be trees there? And why are people wearing shorts and tees in Siberia? Weird. WHOA! What was that explosion? Jesus, I thought you were keeping a tab on what was going on? Playing video games? I don't want to hear it. I want you to get back down there and sort things out. No "buts", mister. Get down there and save my work. And we're gonna have a talk about that hair when you get back too.

*Al-Galactogine IV = Mercury.

I don't think I can do this anymore, being a God is rough.

(UnGod)

Well, from what I can report, playing God has its pros and cons. Pro, ability to do anything. Cons, constant vigilance of creations and son is unappreciative of Father's accomplishments. And this whole experience just left me with more questions than answers. Who created me? Why do people beg to my giant hotel in the sky? Why does Jay-Z* reference me so much? After some thinking, I think it is best that I leave it all up to First God to handle. Although, if I could ask for one favor, I would ask of Him to give my grandmother a long and healthy life. Because, to be honest, I don't plan on moving out of her basement anytime soon.

*AKA Jigga, Jigga Man, Jay Hova, Hova, Hov, and Young Hova.