Superfortress

“It’s my duty, sir, yes, but what have they done?”

“They, Captain, are the supporters of our demise. They are the women who breed the soldiers. They are the children that grow up to be the scoundrels who kill our men. Don’t look at them as citizens, by God, that won’t do you any good. To you, they are specks of sand. They are ants on your picnic blanket. If you grant them a sliver of the same humanity you give to your local barber or bank teller, then you’re going to give your brain a helluva racking for nothing. These are not civilians, they are strategic targets whose destruction will lead us to victory. Their deaths will not affect you in the least bit, but you can sure as hell bet that those miserable yellow bastards will feel like we just took away every reason for them to keep fighting. Dehumanization. Demoralization. The assassination of the soul. That’s our job, Captain. First and foremost, five minutes from now, that’ll be your job. Do you copy?”

“I copy, sir.”

“Godspeed.”

The line goes dead as the buzzing syncs with the engines’ rumbling. I turn to my co-pilot, Roy. His head is sunk into his chest, eyes closed, lips moving without any accompanying sound. He’s praying. I should be too, but I reckon it’s a waste of time given our mission.

“Roy?”

Roy lifts his head with a turtle’s speed. We keep our eyes on the sky.

“Roy, will you be able to live with yourself after this? Are you going be able to sleep? Will you still smile at your wife and neighbors knowing what you’ve done? Will you be able to go back and tell your kids about this one day, saying you did it in the name of God and country?”

Roy looks out the window in front of him, scanning with his eyes the brightly-lit cirrus clouds. He’s waiting for an answer from a higher being so that he does not have to feel this mission’s morality is up to him.

“I can’t say I’m doing this to serve the Lord, only my country. There’s a big difference between what my country expects of me and what God expects of me. I just hope He understands that. I hope He understands that and forgives me for those compromises.”

They’re the words I needed to hear to silence my second-guessing, but they may just be a temporary mend to the major, perhaps irreparable, damage I’ll experience after the job is over. A job, that’s all it is. My mission is to exterminate a city full of ants. I’ll be a hero for it. Roy will get a medal of valor. Our bombardier will be on the front page of his hometown newspaper when he gets back to the States. All the kids will ask him what it was like to fly. He’ll tell them it was like being an angel up in that there clouds. What goddamn liars we’ll be.

“Roy? Roy, will everything be okay?”

“For country, we have to say it will be. Don’t let this be the end of your wits, all right? You can’t let this haunt you. You’ll have to live after this. Every generation suffers their own brand of sacrifice. This is ours.”

“For country?”

Roy turns to me and nods, understanding the bitterness of our particular pill. We’re in a Superfortress miles in the heavens, loaded with bombs so heavy that they make the miracle of flight all the more astounding. They’re specialized bombs for a specific target. Wooden homes, wooden buildings, and wooden bridges. Our bombardier Joey’s elsewhere in the plane peering down a scope from the 20th-century’s greatest creation onto a 19th century city of hundreds of thousands of ants. Our intent is clear: we will drop tons of incendiary explosives with the hopes of killing as many as possible. The resulting firestorm will whip through the city in a flurry of hell on earth. The winds will be ablaze and lash the bodies of every man, woman and child who dare be caught in it. These specks of sand will be pummeled into such fine grain ash that they will become part of the air that’s breathed. The Japanese will inhale their own people rather than bury them. Their capital, their empire, will cease to exist as anything but a smoke plume. This is the hardened mentality I have to trick myself into. I know Roy does the same. I can see the furrow of his brow begin to take shape as the thoughts strengthen his resolve. He forgets the psalms and Jesus’ teachings and remembers the repetitive drills and propaganda. If only Sunday school might’ve been more like the US Army Air Corps boot camp, the lessons learned may have kept him from taking off today.

“Don?”

“Yeah, Roy?”

“Those are people down there. No matter what the higher-ups tell us, even if it ends up making nights hard to sleep through, we can’t forget that those are human beings on the ground. God knows we’re going to kill every last one we can, because that’s our duty, but you sure as hell better ask God to forgive you for this. There’re things we do, Don, for our family’s sake, and others’ family’s sake, that the Bible don’t preach, but that doesn’t make it wholly wrong. You hear me? This is for everyone back home, so they can live safe, but goddamnit, we gotta do some real terrible, unthinkable things to ensure that safety. You gotta strike a balance between forgetting this day and remembering the lives of those you’re about to incinerate. And fuck no will my kids never hear about this day. Not from me anyhow. Now, we’re approaching. You gotta hit the button. Do you understand what I said, Don?”

“I got it, Roy.”

Roy put his hand out for me to grasp. I accepted it because I needed the human contact at the moment, and he knew I did.

“Hold on, keep your eyes forward, and let Joey give you the signal. It’s that easy, Don. We’ll be turning back in ten minutes.”

“Roy, what’s the difference between us and the people down there?”

Roy wasn’t smiling, but I could tell he thought his answer was a smart one.

“The military would say that those Japs are backwards and deserve what’s coming to them. That those slanty-eyed mongrels are two steps above dogs and just as ugly. Of course, that’s as bullshit as any other garbage they say to help us do what we do. The real answer is that there’s no real difference. Different culture, beliefs, looks, so on, but that could be applied to you and I just the same. They still got morals though, hearts, minds, and all that. Most of them live Christian lives under a different banner and a different God, but that don’t make them bad. Some of them did bad things that doomed the rest of them. Those bad seeds are why we’re here. We’re the men who gotta put a mortgage on our mental health, and leave our conscious on hold in order to deliver that doom.”

“It’s all fucked, Roy. FUBAR through and through.”

My headset buzzes back to life.

“Hey, Donny? Donny, you there?”

“Yeah, Joey. What do you got?”

“Target is spotted. Ready to deploy.”

“Thanks, Joey.”

The sound of electric haze returns as Joey disconnects.

“Joey gave you the signal, Don.”

I looked at Roy. A walking-talking contradiction that wasn’t even aware of it. He was a melting pot of military brainwashing, spiritual enlightenment, rational thought, and unreasonable reasoning. He was the perfect pilot. He should’ve been in my seat. He was too wrapped up in his conflicting morals and understandings in order to be affected emotionally by any of what was to come. He would look at the situation later from four different viewpoints, all his own, and not be fully leveled by the circumstances from any four. He was as inscrutable as our B-29 to everyone but me, and had the steel nerves to go through with such a mission; yet here I was, with my thumb unconsciously hovering over the red button.

“Don, when you push that button, you can’t undo it. The pushing of that button will result in the deaths of thousands who probably didn’t deserve this fate. But we can’t go back. It has to be done. For country, Don.”

At the sound of my name, my thumb made contact with the button and firmly pressed it down, triggering the release of the bomb hatch. The squealing of the scraping metal made me want to cry and punch Roy clean in his check for making me do it. The plane felt as light as a feather with the dropping of the incendiary bombs. I let go of the red button and Roy let go of my other hand. Joey’s electronic voice cackled in my ears.

“Bombs away. All on target. Let’s turn ‘er around.”

Roy still didn’t smile even at the news of the success. He stayed solemn, empathetic to the man who ultimately had to deploy death from above. I continued to look ahead as I banked left and a low, caustic rumbling became audible far below. That was the moment, if any, that I secured my ticket to Hell. The city would burn all night and entrap nearly a million people in wall of flames. Children would burn. Women would burn. Men would burn. Their flesh would melt and their bones would char. For country. For my family, I yelled at myself. For my family, for my country!

------------

My granddaughter would one day show me a photo of a mother who had attempted to carry her child away as the firebombing reached the residential areas. She had the child (determining whether it was boy or girl was impossible) firmly on her back as she raced through the narrow streets to find whatever safety there may be. Finding none, and surrounded by the scorching gusts and choking smoke, she collapsed with child in tow. They both died horrifically, becoming hardened and blackened statues by daytime. The child, still clung to its mother, eventually fell off. Much later, after the fires disappeared, a person snapped a picture of that mother and child. The mother’s back, where the child had been when the flames and smoke took their lives, was untouched by the fire’s charring effect, rather baring a toddler-shaped imprint of the child who now lay burnt beside her. I had never forgotten that raid on Tokyo, but I had been able to absolve the assumed details of what happened after I had pressed that red button. It wasn’t until she showed me that photo she found in a magazine that I recalled what Roy told me to always remember.

My granddaughter asked me if this is what I did in the war.

I looked at her and felt the tears filling up my eyes. They were the tears I wanted to cry the moment my stupid thumb hit that button and nothing could be taken back.

“Yes, I did. I did it for you, honey. I did it for you. I also did it for your father and your grandmother. I did it for myself and the guy next to me. I did it for everyone I knew and loved back home. I did it for our country, honey. And every day, I have to ask God to forgive me for doing it.”

I'll Meet You in Dreams

I'm in a place I've seen before. I've never been there, per se, but I have seen it. I think I'm in a level of a video game that I've played before, something like a World War II game. I'm walking along, carefully watching my feet, planting on foot in front of the other as if I'm doing a sobriety test.

You're there above me, to my right, walking along a ledge like a gymnast on the balance beam. Your hair is down, aside from a few hair clips, and the winds that come along blow it around and give you the aura of a goddess. As in most dreams, I don't know how I know things, I just know them. I'm taking you to the train station to see you off. This I know, though neither of us have made mention to it. The carnal thoughts in my mind begin to multiply, and I can barely hold back my feelings for you.

You begin asking me conditional questions, "Would you love me if..."

To each one I say, "Yes." To each "Yes" your smile grows brighter than all the sun's rays. I've never seen you smile that big in reality, and the sight causes me to freeze in my steps. You're so incredibly beautiful when you smile like that.

We turn the corner and find ourselves at platform where we must go our separate ways. You turn to me. The tension between us grows. Your face flushes. I look at your lips; a lighter shade of rose. I have so many things to say, but there's no need. We both know it's inevitable now. We know it's now or never. We move closer than ever.

Our lips, about to come together at last. My heart races, knowing it's you I'm about to feel. The first encounter is ever so brief, with my bottom lip brushing your top. We separate and look at each other in surprise. We've finally kissed. Now let's never stop. Let our next one last forever. My left hand find the bottom of your back, the right one finds your thigh.

This is the greatest feeling in my life. We're not thinking, we're just doing. That's how we know what is between is real. I make my way to your neck but then it strikes me: I can go no further. I must come to halt. You have to go and so do I. Our chins hover just above each other's shoulders. We must depart.

More than anything, I want to commit the greatest sin, to just to stay with you and touch my lips to your skin.

Instead, I smile at you in a reassuring way. At the very least, we've taken that next step, and for that I should be happier than any man alive. One last look into your eyes and I take my leave. As good as this dream is, I must go, I must go wake up. I leave you standing there, watching me walk away. We can't see each other now, but we both know we're smiling.

And then I wake up.
_______________________

I walk out of my room and into the kitchen, looking for a midday snack. Before I reach the fridge, I look out the back door and see you there. You've returned to me. I can't believe it, to be honest, and I just stare with a slack-jaw in your direction. You're shooting me that smile from that night at the train station. That smile breaks me from my spell. I rush to the door and jump outside to see you. You take a step forward and we meet. We embrace in a full body bind. I just keep thinking in my head, "I love you, I love you, I love you." I pull back so I can get a look at your face.

Though it's only been one day in between my dreams of seeing you, it's felt like ages. You're wearing those glasses that I adore, the ones that make you look devastingly brilliant, which you are.

You begin asking a thousand questions. I cock my head to the right as I listen to you, barely hearing the questions, but losing my breath at the soothing and comforting sound of hearing your voice again. I nod my head and recall saying, "Really?" to something you say. The only question I remember fully is when you ask if I saw you in the paper.

"I did. It was lovely."

This sudden surprise appearance has caught me off-guard, however, and I realize it's but a dream again. You're slipping away from me quickly. Your visage fades to white. I'm losing you again, with only a fleeting memory to take with me.

I love you dearly. Goodbye.

I've awoken.

Why Pittsburgh Always Loses - A Lesson

A boy and his father have just finished watching Game 2 between the Detroit Red Wings and the Pittsburgh Penguins. The boy, inquisitive, turns to his father.

"Dad, why are the Penguins losing all the time?"

The father smokes his fancy pipe for a moment before answering his young son's question.

"Well, son," the father begins, "For starters, the Penguins are captained by a preteen boy, not much older than yourself. That's Sidney Crosby, the little fella out there with the scruffy facial hair getting double-teamed all the time. See, our captain, Nick Lidstrom, is an experienced veteran who earned his captainship by playing for years as an intelligent defensemen and one of the best in the game, not because the NHL executives, especially Commissioner Bettman, hyped him beyond belief as being the poster child and future of the league when really Mr. Ovechkin of the Capitals is. Oh, also, Lidstrom's a future Hall of Famer."

"But their captain got a lot of points during the season. Why isn't he doing anything?"

"Good question. Easy answer. It's because he doesn't play Detroit 82 times a year, otherwise you wouldn't see those kinds of numbers. Also, Crosby isn't good enough to handle Detroit defense, which is widely-regarded as being the most efficient for nearly a decade now. Zetterberg and Lidstrom in particular make neutralizing Crosby look like a breeze."

"Neutralizing?"

"It means to make Crosby look like he's never played hockey against a professional team before."

"Oh...so that's why they're losing?"

"Oh no no no, buddy. There's a lot more."

"Like what?"

"The Penguins' leading scorer, Evgeni Malkin, is also the Hunchback of Notre Dame."

"Like in that Disney movie! He's Quasimoto!"

"Exactly. His face is grotesque, but because the Wings have been playing ugly mugs like him for so long, his face has no effect on them. During the regular season, defensemen would move out of his away to avoid looking at him, giving Quasimoto...er...Malkin, an open lane to score all the time. But our guys, like Zetterberg, aren't afraid of him, and will even fight him, like you saw at the end of the game."

"But Zetterberg was defending Ozzie after that bad guy knocked him down after the whistle. Why didn't Malkin like that?

"Because Malkin isn't a classy player, and he's upset that his team is doing so badly. You know how you get mad because you can't beat your video games and you slam your controller on the floor?"

"Yeah."

"That's why he got mad, because Detroit is like your video game, set on 'All-Star,' and Malkin and the Penguins aren't good enough to beat them, so they get mad and push and fight."

"So...the Penguins are losing because Crosby isn't experienced enough to lead his team, isn't good enough to beat Detroit's defense, and because Detroit isn't afraid of Malkin."

"That's right, and because Malkin doesn't have the discipline to control himself when his team is doing bad."

"Ok. What about their goalie? Why does he let in so many goals that Ozzie would stop?"

"That's another good question, pal. Marc-Andre Fleury is a good goalie, but he isn't a great goalie, and has a tendency to let in easy goals that even your mother could save with her Ove-Glove. He doesn't have the kind of mindset to get over those goals, so once he messes up, he keeps messing up. Oh, also Detroit's offense is relentless and has immense depth, meaning anybody on our team is a scoring threat. That means that Fleury never gets to rest and must always be afraid, which he is already."

"He's afraid?"

"Very. Remember last year when he fell coming out onto the ice?"

"Hahaha yeah! That was funny!"

"That's a tip-off to how anxious and nervous he was to play the Red Wings. A year later he's still afraid of us."

"Wow. Is that all?"

"They also have a player on their team named Satan. Which is spelled S-A-T-A-N, just like Satan. And what did we learn in church?"

"Satan never wins!"

"That's right! And neither does the team he plays on."

"Dad, what about Marian Hossa?"

"What about him, buddy?"

"Why did he leave to come play with us?"

"Well, a lot of folks say it was because he wanted to play with a team that had the best chance to win a Stanley Cup, which is partly true, but also because he realized all the stuff I just taught you right now. That with a little boy leading the team, a half-man half-Picasso painting leading in points, a sissy-pants-wetting goalie in net, and Satan on the ice, that Pittsburgh would never help him win a Cup. So he came to Detroit."

"Wow, Hossa's smart!"

"He sure is, son. That's why he's wearing the Red and White."

"Pittsburgh doesn't seem like they have a good chance to win this series, Dad."

"No chance to be honest. Wings in 5."

The father goes back to smoking his pipe and watching the post-game show, but the son has one more question.

"Dad, is Mickey Redmond crazy?"

The father puts his pipe back down.

"This is going to take a while, son. You might want to go get some ice cream."

"YAY!"

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.
____________________________________________

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]

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.

Snowfall

All he could do lately was stare. He would stare at walls, chairs, desks, basically anything inanimate. The past few days, however, consisted of him looking out the window. There had been snow, for quite a while now, and it was falling heavily. He watched it with an entranced gaze that he had only reserved for the objects in the room. This snow brought back something to him; some feelings that he thought had gone.

The man went by the name Cal Davies, and he had had the worst six weeks of his life. He had cut all contact with family and friends and moved out to a cabin in the woods that once belonged to a mentor of his. The woods provided further isolation for Cal, isolation that had already begun to settle in his mind. It had been exactly 42 days to the date that he drove his car off the road and into a deep ditch. His wife Jane had been in the passenger seat and suffered major head trauma, lapsing into a coma that she never came out of. Needless to say, Cal was devastated by this loss, as any loving husband would be. But he seemed to take it extremely hard, so much so that his family couldn't console him, he even stopped playing hockey at the local ice rink, and that's when he packed to move into the cabin.

For three weeks he had been living in the cabin, going out only for food at the supermarket. Other than that, he continued to stare. Nothing brought joy to him, and yet nothing brought tears either. He was a shell of his former self, wishing he could go back and feel whole again. It wasn't enough to say that Jane was the love of his life, for she was everything in his life. Cal worked at an industrial plant, a job he hated, but because it provided for them and he was skilled at welding, he held on to it. Jane, with her raven-black hair and endlessly blue eyes, made the world a brighter place than what Cal usually saw it as. But that light had flickered out, and Cal was left to live in darkness.

There was one small feat that Cal managed to accomplish in his days at the cabin. It was to write. On the computer, freehand, in his mind, he wrote and visualized stories and ideas. He wrote them for no one in particular and never planned for them to be seen by anyone anyway. But while his face remained stoic, his hands dispelled everything he felt into written words. Sometimes he would write all day, and over the course of the three weeks he must have accumulated 500 pages of stories, spanning every genre. What he took notice to was that he was a heavy user of metaphors, symbols, and foreshadowing, concepts that his mentor had stressed upon him to help his writing reach a higher level. Never had he written like this before. Never had he the time or resources. He had taken an indefinite time off work, leaving him to hold up in the cabin and write.

But the writings were a curse to him as well. While they brought a sort of relief, they brought back the memories also, especially the night of the accident. He regretted going out that night, especially in that weather. Freezing rain had started to pour as he and Jane left the Christmas party of a mutual friend. Neither had been drinking, merely enjoying themselves and talking it up with those they hadn't seen in some time. When the time came to go, the rain had begun and their friend, who was throwing the party, Jason, invited them to stay the night. Ever the polite-non-burdensome-people, Cal and Jane risked the roads and crossed their fingers.

They were 5 minutes in when the wipers stopped wiping, and that's when both their hearts started pounding. Furiously, and louder than the engine, their heartbeats raced. Jane pleading with Cal to at least stop for a while, but he refused, reminding her they were only going 25 miles per hour and the roads were familiar. Nevertheless, such slow speeds can still cause problems, no matter how often the roads have been safely traveled. A patch of ice can never be seen in time, even for those with working wipers. Cal's car hit it, and from there it never had a chance at recovery. They knew where they were going; the ditches were everywhere and absolutely unavoidable. In they went, passenger side first, and with that, Jane's head it the glass window and her neck underwent tremendous whiplash. Her seat belt didn't save her, and neither could Cal. She slipped in and never came out again. The doctors pronounced her dead three days later, the same day Cal was cleared to leave for his fractured hip and jaw.

The snow he was watching filled him with feeling, a sense of wonder, the first sense he had honestly felt in such a long time. It almost made him smile, but he still couldn't bring himself to that, he wouldn't allow himself to. So he took it upon himself to somehow preserve this, and so he went and slept, hoping that he could accumulate these feelings in him over time like the snow on the ground.

Just like that he awoke again and was watching the snow continue to fall, this time with a cup of coffee in hand. Cal reckoned he had been out for at least 5 hours, which was the usual for him these days. The snow was still falling at a steady pace and Cal could tell that this was the kind of snow he would have loved as a kid. The kind you could pack together so tightly that when you threw it, the kid it hit would not have been able to tell whether it was a snowball or a baseball. And how beautiful it fell, each flake being the size of a half-dollar, but each one being priceless to Cal. They seemed to heal him, an alternative medicine that simply needed to be looked upon to cure its patients. The outside lights from the cabin made the ground light up, and the falling snow seemed like little lit bulbs being slowly pulled down to Earth.

This inspired him to write again. He took a deep breath and almost smiled as his fountain pen touched the paper. It flowed forth the words he still couldn't say, this time in the form of a poem. He was trying to connect his wife's radiant white skin to that of the snow he watched. He saw the branches collecting snow and was reminded of how every flake would cling to his wife's hair, as if it were magnetically attracted. Cal wrote all this and more, working through the ache that began in his wrist and spread to his elbow. This poem was grand, consisting of seven pages and 23 stanzas, all of which were necessary and fully expressive. It took everything out of Cal to write it, leaving him drained and collapsed on the couch, falling asleep once again.

His acute hearing interrupted his sleep. A car had pulled up, an old one, or at least one in poor quality judging by the brakes. He shot out of the couch and put on his boots and jacket, whoever was here, Cal wanted to beat them to the door. This was still his isolated world, and he was going to keep it that way. No one knew he was here, Cal realized as his left boot finally slipped on. And it wasn't until his jacket was fully zipped did he recall that many horror movies went like this. The emotions of slight fear and certain paranoia had apparently come back to Cal.

He opened the door without bothering to look out the peephole and began walking to the car, which had it's windows bouncing the morning sun into Cal's eyes. All he could hear was a greeting, at once familiar and curious. It was one he had heard before, or something like it, but who's it was was still being blinded by the light. Cal shielded his eyes and saw a man of average height looking up at him, as Cal was six-foot-four-inches. This man was dressed quite out-of-date, yet very fashionable, with a fedora atop his head and a personally crafted suit fitting snugly to his body. A traditional gray overcoat draped over him like it was made in Heaven. The man was stunningly dressed and tailored to the stitch; he was a sight to behold in these lonely woods. The man greeted Cal once more, noticing that he had now gotten a good look at him.

"Good morning. Hope I didn't wake you."

Cal didn't bother returning the pleasantry, "Who are you?"

"Just a man in the woods. You?"

"Same. What's your business in the woods, mister?"

"I'm just here to see you, Cal."

Cal's posture and tone became more defensive by the second. He didn't know this man but the man knew him, that much was sure. Cal began scanning through his mind who this might be, and with his mental database coming up with nothing, he decided to take a crack at guessing.

"Did my family send you here? A friend maybe?"

"No, no, no. They don't have the slightest clue if you're even really alive at the moment."

"Well, it's been six weeks."

"It has, Cal. Mind if we talk inside?"

"Not until you tell me exactly who you are and what your business is here."

"I think that's best left to be discussed inside. I'd hate to ruin my suit out here in the snow telling you why I drove here today."

Cal stared long and hard at the man, having mastered the art over the weeks. He looked into the stranger's eyes, which were hazel and reassuring, and saw that no harm was going to be brought about by this man. His defensive posture broke down and his voice fell as well, leaving Cal to motion the man inside. Both walked in, with the stranger in the lead, observing every facet of the cabin. He slowly took off his overcoat as his eyes continued to sweep over the area. Cal closed the door behind them at the same time the man's eyes fell upon Cal's large mass of writings on his work desk. He didn't say anything about them, no comment made, he simply watched them with a hawk's glare as he removed his coat and threw it over his arm. Cal hadn't been paying attention, rather he went toward the kitchen area of the cabin and opened the refrigerator.

"Milk? Water?"

"Ah, no thanks, but thank you. Do you write a lot, Cal?" The man had finally taken his eyes off the papers and was staring at the floor.

Cal took his time before he answered this, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and considering why he was going to even talk to this man about his writings. Yet, he answered the man's questions without an air of sarcasm in his voice.

"Not much else to do out here."

"It is pretty lonely out here, yeah. A man can sure get a lot of thinking done."

"It's all I do. Think and write. Please take a seat..." Cal left the sentence open for the man to finish.

"Jack, and thank you very much."

The two men each took a seat, with Jack very calm in his seat on the couch and Cal leaning forward trying to get a read on the guy. Silence sat in the room with them for awhile, eventually leaving when Cal began to speak.

"I don't know how you found me, Jack, and I don't know how you know me, but I'll be honest with you, I'm getting a little edgy about you asking me such a question when I know next to nothing about you. So if you could please clear some of this up, I would much appreciate it."

Cal's words did not make Jack move any which way, the man still sat in that seat in a relaxed fashion, with the slightest smile since Mona Lisa on his face. When he answered, he didn't move anything but his mouth, his eyes stayed fixed and his body in place.

"Do you believe in God, Cal?"

"I used to," Cal answered quickly despite his surprise.

Jack's smile finally widened and showed some teeth, "It's a good thing he still believes in you then."

Cal didn't know what to make of this. He wanted to ask another question but he actually feared it being countered with another question such as that one. He tread carefully before he decided to question Jack from a different angle.

"Who are you? Beyond your name, who are you?"

"Truthfully?"

"I would hope so."

"I'm someone you won't believe at first, Cal, until I prove my claims. But before I prove anything, I suppose I must try and tell you."

"Please, do tell."

"You can see me in different ways, Cal. I'm your guardian angel, your regular angel, you're conscious, your subconscious, your inner voice, your voice of reason, I'm all of those, Cal, personified as the man sitting before you."

Cal was dumbfounded, but his face didn't show it. This man was crazy. Clearly, if nothing else, this man was insane. Still trying to figure out what the man was talking about, Cal spoke without thinking.

"Prove it."

"Cal, the last thing you thought before you're wife passed away was, and I quote, "God, you let this happen. You were stupid enough not to take me. You'd rather kill an innocent woman and let the man who caused her so much pain continue to live. I hate you. I hate for everything you've done." End quote."

Cal's eyes sparked, wide-eyed and beginning to sweat, Cal jumped out of his seat and began pacing around the room. This was something that was beyond his realm of comprehension, something that just didn't happen to people. He wanted to yell at the man. He wanted to scream for the man to get the hell out and stay away, but he couldn't bring himself to it. Every last one of his words was on hold as he cupped his mouth and began to have trouble breathing. All the while Jack sat calmly in his seat with a look of sincerity in his brown eyes. The man had leaned forward and looked down at the floor once more. Cal continued his labored breathing and stood frozen in his place, staring with absolute disbelief at this man who had come out of the woods and read his mind.

"I'm sorry, Cal. I shouldn't have, ahem; I should have started with something lighter, a happier memory. I apologize."

"Who are you?"

"I'm your guardi-"

"No! Don't you say that again. You are not...you can't be anything...no, no, no."

"Cal, please listen to me. What do you remember after the crash?"

"What?"

"Details, specifics, exact things. What cab did you take up here, what was the day when you arrived here, what brand of coffee did you drink last night?"

"What does it matter?"

"Try and just answer it as a normal question."

"I don't know."

"Anything? Not even the coffee?"

"No. Nothing."

Jack stood up and took a calculated step toward Cal, who was being struck with the thought that he couldn't recall any dates or names of anything at the moment. His mind was going through its database again, but everything was coming up empty, even the coffee. Jack lowered his tone and spoke each word with precision.

"Doesn't that strike you as odd? That in three weeks up here you can't recall the names or dates of one single thing?" Jack paused and took a breath before he continued on, "Can you even remember the name of the hospital your wife passed away in?"

This was like a dagger to Cal. He kept asking himself why he couldn't remember anything specific. Blanks were drawn on every fact, making it feel like a weight had crashed on his chest. Cal wanted this man out of his cabin immediately. Three weeks of solitude were starting to have positive effects on Cal; he was steadily recovering like the snow that continued to gradually fall. This man had come out of nowhere and was undoing everything in just minutes. Before Cal could yell out at Jack to leave his premises, the man asked another calm but pressing question.

"It's been snowing a lot, Cal. Haven't you been concerned in the least? Three days, now four, of this snow. You're looking at five feet soon enough. Without a shovel on you, I don't see how you're going to make you're way out either.

Cal deflected this as much he could, but even as he did, he began to wonder about the snow's accumulation for the first time, yet he gritted his teeth and made himself clear.

"Get out. Get out now."

"What do you hear when you dream, Cal?"

"Get out."

"Do you hear noises? Voices? Any sounds?"

"Get out!"

"Cal! What do you hear when you dream!?"

Jack's sudden intensity made Cal sit down in his seat. For the first time since he saw his wife in that passenger seat, slumped over, just before they both passed out, did he finally cry. Tears fell into his hands and flooded out in between his fingers. He could barely muster out his words as he wiped his nose and coughed.

"What do you want?"

Jack knelt in front of Cal and put his hand on his shoulder. It was warm, strangely warm, like a heat that he had not felt in the longest time. The tears stopped at an instant. Cal looked up with watery eyes at this man of great claims and many questions and waited for an answer.

"I'm here, Cal, to help you come to terms with something. But I can't help you do that unless you answer my questions honestly. Now, let's try this again. What do you hear when you dream?"

"I don't know. I, I, I hear my car running. It's all blurry, but I know, I know it's the night we're driving home from the party. I can't tell myself to slow down even though I'm trying to scream it out, you know? I want to wake up because I know how it's going to end, but I just can't wake up from it, and I'm stuck there watching it all again. And then I hear her. I hear her, Jane, she's, her voice is really quiet, like a whisper or something. This is after the crash. And I can't see anything really anymore, but I can hear her voice. She's probably asking me for help, but I can't do anything, I'm stuck where I am, and I just have to hear her saying my name. Then it all fades away. It's gone. And then I'm up and about again writing or watching snow."

"This is every night you sleep?"

"Every night for six weeks."

"You just hear Jane's voice?"

"Every night for six weeks. Saying my name."

"I need you to close your eyes and think hard, Cal. I need you to really try here. I need you to think of your dream. Are you slumped up against the door or away from it?"

"What do you mean?"

"In the ditch. What side is the car laying on?"

"The passenger side. My wife's dead because I slid into the ditch passenger side first."

"Close your eyes and think. In your dream, what way are you slumped over?"

Cal could do nothing immediately but stare in increased terror at the man. Finally, he slowly shut his eyes and his dream began replaying step-by-step. The broken wipers, the patch of ice, the skid, then Cal began slowing down the process, as if he had a remote control to the event. The car twirled around as if without care on the road, and into the ditch it went. Cal and Jane slammed around inside and both were partially knocked out. Cal's eyes opened and looked left; with full concentration he opened his eyes and saw Jane above him, ensnared in her seat belt, whispering his name through a bloody mouth. He saw long locks of hair streaming down toward him, just a foot from his face. Then with all energy spent, he laid his head back upon the cracked glass window of the driver's side door, through which he could see right in front of him nothing but cold, wet grass.

Cal slowly opened his eyes again to look at Jack. Profound realization was shown on his face. He was about to speak words that he had believed not to be true, that couldn't be true. How could they be true?

"I went in that ditch driver's side first."

"Would you like to know your last thought before going into the ditch? You thought, "It can't be her. I won't let her feel any pain." And then you came to a stop."

Silence returned. Cal stared. Jack looked at the floor once more.

"Where am I?" Cal asked unblinkingly.

Jack continued to look at the floor, not even able to hold his head up for his answer. "You've been in a coma, Cal. For the past six weeks. I'm sorry."

The answer, surprisingly, did not seem to faze Cal the least bit. In his mind, he was still able to piece together what was going on. One by one, they all fell into place.

"I can't remember anything because facts and stuff can never be recalled in dreams. And her voice, Jane's voice, that's her at my hospital bed, right? But what's the snow mean?

"The snow piling up outside means your time is nearing an end. Once you're enclosed, this, all this around you is over. That's why I'm here, Cal. To see you through it, I'll be here with you and take you once it's over."

"I'm not coming out of this."

"I'm sorry."

Cal turned to Jack, who finally looked back up. He felt it, he was full again, of all his emotions. He took a breath and it felt real within him. Most astonishing of all, he smiled. He smiled wide and forced his watery eyes to shed the last tears from him. Jack was honestly curious as to this and couldn't help but comment on it.

"You're smiling."

"Because," Cal began, "Because I know she's okay."

MERRY CHRISTMAS

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.

The Home Stretch

The blackness of the Michigan night did not stop Jason Einhorn from starting his car. The sound of the autumn wind did not slow down his speed. The jet lag did not make him weary and it sure would not be stopping him from getting home that night.

Jason Einhorn was a businessman, and a well-respected one at that. A mid-30 gentleman with hair that's color can only be compared to the black ink of a printer. This was hair that had had Jason's hand run through it many times lately, partially out of stress but mostly out of longing. He had been in New York City the past two months hawking his company's newest product, a plastic that is environmentally-safe and biodegradable. Although he was winning over clients left and right, the hotel he stayed in was no comfort to him. Despite it's placement on the 75th floor of one of the most elegant hotels in Manhattan, nothing compared to the sweet, warm feeling of being at home with his fiance, Natalie.

He had proposed to her six months ago, and a week before finding out about the trip. Expecting this news to be met with tears and anger, Jason was surprised to find that his soon-to-be wife was more than understanding.

"I'll be here when you come back," was all Natalie said as she grazed his cheek.

Jason took these words to New York with him, thinking them over as he looked at the skyline. Though they made him smile as well as tear up, he thought of Natalie often. She was his emotional parachute after his father died and he lost his job two years ago. Without her, Jason was certain, he would have fallen to depths he could not fathom. With Natalie's support and caring nature, Jason recovered from his sorrow and self-pity and found a job at H&U Inc., the aforementioned plastics company.

These days, his life was together. He had survived two months without the love of his life, and now all that stood between him and her were 20 miles of empty roads.

The country roads at night would pose an ominous threat to most city drivers, but Jason had taken this route hundreds of times. He knew the way from the airport to the house by heart: A left bank, a right, a straight shot, a hard right turn, then a final straight shot home. It was all a matter of keeping your eyes open for rogue deer, although most were asleep by now, and not becoming hypnotized by the driving.

Jason decided that he would throw the high-beams on, as there didn't appear to be any oncoming traffic as far as he could see. With the flip of the switch, his car emitted a power blast of light that shone on trees well over a mile away. Jason was occupied with his mind again, thinking of Natalie. He began thinking of what to do once they were together again. Whether to hug her tight, or kiss her straight off, or just lie down with her and stare into each other's eyes all night. He couldn't help but want to do all three.

He zoomed past a mile marker at 85 m.p.h., but Jason knew there were no cops patrolling these roads, and if he got caught, it was likely by someone he knew, and he could get away with it without a problem. He eased up as he reached his first mental checkpoint, the left bank. The high rock face on the right side of the road was awe-inspiring during the day, but at night, it proved to be nothing more than a wall that was partially lit up by car lights. With the left bank behind him, Jason kicked it up to 90, but then had to ease up once again as the right bank came along.

Then he hit the danger zone, the 10-mile straight shot. Jason knew many people, including his best buddy, Arnold, who had dozed off behind the wheel due to the sheer lack of will it took to drive. Arnold was lucky enough to hit a soft spot in a ditch and suffered only a cut on the head and a hefty mechanic's bill. Even though this was like a real-life PSA to Jason, he couldn't slow down now, not with Natalie so close. He began thinking about what her reaction would be when he returned. Would she just smile that smile that made him smile back or would she scream with glee at his grand return? Jason knew whatever she did, he would cry at it. He missed her so much he pressed the gas peddle unconsciously, boosting his speed to 95.

The positive aspect of this long stretch was that it gave those with good imaginations a chance to run wild. Jason took advantage of this opportunity and began planning his first outing with Natalie after he got back. He'd take her out to that Italian place they don't go to often enough, Patenero's, and she could get the most expensive wine on the menu. They would go for a stroll along the lake, and if it got cold, he'd have his jacket right there for her, and at a moment's notice, it would be draped over her shoulders along with his arm. They would drive home and smile at each other every five seconds and laugh every time they did it. Then they'd walk in the door of their home and...

A chill was sent through Jason. The shock from this sudden cold made his heart beat faster and he zipped up his coat a little bit. The heat was on, the windows were up, there should have been no reason for such a feeling. The thought of this made Jason a little edgy, as his attempts to continue thinking of his perfect date were stifled in trying to figure out where this chill came from. Jason was without an answer, but didn't mind suddenly as he realized the straight shot was coming to an end and the hard right bank was on its way. He quickly began applying pressure to the brake, going as slow as 55 before leveling off. He began prepping for the turn when he caught sight of a deer on the side of the road.

The deer, as the phrase applies here, was caught in his headlights of Jason's car. The eyes of this deer locked with Jason's, and from that point on, they could not be detached. Though well away from Jason, he could see the bright blue surrounding the shrinking pupils of the deer. They were majestic, as if looking into the face of God, Jason couldn't break away. His mind shut off and his breathing was at a standstill. He and the deer stood still in time, it seemed, while the whole world continued to go on. Without even knowing it, Jason's body was still driving the car and had successfully managed the turn and left the deer behind. All at once, Jason blinked rapidly and took in a deep, desperate breath, as if he had just been held underwater for a length of time. That chill from before was nothing to what he felt now. Jason was shivering uncontrollably, as if having taken a December dive in Superior. His hand, shaking with vigor, grabbed hold of the A/C knob and cranked it to its warmest settings. But before it could even kick in, the cold went away, as if a blanket of ice had been lifted from Jason's body.

Jason, for the first time in his life, was genuinely frightened. But even with all this going on in his head, he realized something else was wrong. He should be looking at a sign right now reading, "Welcome to Kulla, Michigan", the sign letting him now he was back home. Jason looked as far off into the distance as his eyes would let him, but all he could see was a straight road. Not the straight road he was accustomed to after making that turn, though. This one featured no signs on the side of the road or late night cafe lights shining in the distance. This road was similar to the one just taken by Jason, identical even. Jason couldn't accept that, it was impossible. He drove faster, as if frustrated by these occurrences. He was hitting 80 when his brights caught the glimpse of an oncoming turn, a hard right.

Jason hit the brakes with a force that jolted him forward a bit. When his speedometer read a steady 60, he let go of the brake. Then he felt the presence of the deer again, as if it were watching him intently from only inches away. His head kept facing forward, but his eyes looked left, searching for the deer. Sure enough, it was there again, caught in the bright lights he shone at it. The connection between their eyes was made again, leaving Jason speechless. He didn't think anymore in sentences when looking into the huge orbs of this creature, merely coming up with words in his mind. "Away", "can't", "turn", "cold", and "Natalie" were just some of the things his brain was able to produce. This animal, with it's gaze, was haunting to Jason. It was as if he were seeing a ghost. Again, his body made the turn while his mind was taken by the deer. And once out of sight of it, Jason gasped for air again, blinking over and over, but the regaining of control of his breathing came later than last time. Then the feeling of that descending chill from his skin to his bones came back, worse than before. It was subarctic in his car, he couldn't even move out of fear that his bones would snap like icicles.

But it all went away, just like before, and Jason regained heat. But as he basked in this momentary warmth, it occurred to him that he was back, back on the straight road. He slammed on the brakes with all his might until it finally came to a dead standstill. Was he going crazy? Hallucinating? Had he died and this was some sick dream of the dead? Jason went through these possibilities and ones even more insane until he couldn't think of any more. Curse words from A-Z flew out of Jason's mouth without any breaks in between. If he was crazy, he was about to make himself sane again, he decided. Jason was becoming frustrated, to the point where he was punching the steering wheel. A range of emotions were flooding Jason, and his predicament was sending him into a flurry. He hit the gas in his moment of rage and went head on. 10...40...80...110...Jason was hitting the breaking point of his car, as evidenced by the excessive rumbling. But he pressed on, the turn was right in sight.

Jason closed his eyes shut, to the point where it actually hurt, but he dared not open them, he didn't want to see that deer. He was legitimately afraid to see it again. There was no plan here, he just drove, fast and forward, into the trees he went. Like an explosion of light, Jason saw a flash of the deer in his mind. It was burned in there, seared in, and Jason felt a pain from it. He grabbed his forehead at the sharp blow to his head he felt from this vision, causing him to open his eyes as wide as possible. All he could see was a white light blinding him, and he prepared for the car to slam into something any second.

But the light faded, and he felt the ground moving beneath him. The familiarity of driving returned, but did not comfort him.

Miles and miles and miles of straight road lie ahead of him, and all there was left to do was cry.

Jason stopped the car and put his head on the wheel, defeated. All this had happened so fast, the strangeness of it all, that he was overwhelmed. What was going on? He couldn't even think at this point, he just let loose tear upon tear on the steering wheel, which dripped on his seat. He slammed his fist on the dashboard repeatedly, not stopping to notice he was beginning to bleed from it.

After what he believed to be half an hour, he looked up and out the window. The high beams, ever so brightly lit up the road he could not pass. After so much of it, Jason just stared, without emotion now, down the road. But deep in the recesses of his mind, Jason had a plan. It was primitive in it's scope, but it was all he could conjure up at the moment. So he unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the car, not bothering to even turn it off.

He walked. For the first mile, Jason trudged through the brisk night, with one single thought in his mind. But soon enough, he began to run down the road. Guided by the light he ran with all his remaining energy. His legs began to buckle, and his breath ran short, but he only pushed harder then. Tears ran down Jason's face from the cold, unforgiving wind sweeping across the road. Finally to the point of collapse, he dropped down to his knees, exhausted. And as he took deep breath after deep breath, spitting in between. This is when he finally noticed the blood pouring from his hand. It was then that he heard the clicks of footsteps nearing him as he laid helpless on the icy concrete.

Jason moved his head to get a view of what he already knew was there. The deer, in all its majesty, moved in on Jason, when the eyes met again.

Like ice water flowing through his veins, the eyes of the deer gave him a chilling pain that was absolute torture. Jason had nowhere to go, and yet he been so close to where had wanted to be. Again and again, so close, and having to face the pain of almost being with her, his love, Natalie, was worse than death. He couldn't speak, didn't dare try, and yet Jason was able to mouth the words he longed to scream, "Natalie...please."

At this, the pain left, and Jason could think once more. The presence of the deer was gone, no more eyes were being laid upon him, and best yet, he could breathe normally. But he felt that rumbling, that acceleration, of being back in the car, hitting top speeds. How did he...it was useless to think anymore. Jason hit the brakes and got out of the car again, but didn't bother walking or running, he just screamed. He screamed until his throat felt like it would rip, and he just yelled for her, his one and only love, Natalie. Over and over, he yelled her name. Through the voice cracks and burning tears, he yelled her name. He was trapped, alone, without her. But he couldn't do it forever, and he dropped down on his knees once more, in self defeat. He couldn't get back to her, even though she was so close, so damn close it made him want to throw himself in the woods and die there.

With his face in his hands, and knees on the ground, Jason cried. The thought of never seeing Natalie ever again, the meaning in his life, was too much to bear. He could only wish to hug Natalie and feel her warmth again. He begged to have her arms around him one more time, just one more time...

A soothing lamp light made Jason squint. A feeling of confusion swept over him, wondering where he was and how he got there. He jumped out of bed and threw himself toward the window, and suddenly back when he glimpsed what was outside it. Jason was looking over New York City's Times Square from his hotel room.

It was a dream....just a dream. No. A nightmare, the worst of his life. Jason rushed to the bathroom and ran his head over the cold water of the sink. It felt good, it felt real to him. He breathed a sigh of relief like no other and toweled off.

Natalie!

He grabbed his hotel phone and dialed with pianist-like precision. It rang, and it rang, and it rang. Click.

A smooth, comforting voice answered, "Hello?"

"Natalie?"

"Jason?"

...

"I love you."

"I love you too, honey. What is it?"

"I just needed to call and say that to you. Natalie, could you say what you told me before I left?"

"I'll be here when you come back."

"I love you, Natalie."

"I love you too, Jason. I'll see you tonight?"

"I'll be there. No matter what happens, I'll be there."

Click. Jason grabbed his briefcase and plane ticket, threw on his coat, and rushed out to catch the next plane out of New York to Michigan. He wouldn't be driving at night anytime soon.