Lifting the Veil

I sprint through a paradise in disguise.
The vegetation is truly lush, perfect
For quiet admiration, but here I rush.

Threatening are the above skies.
Clouds swirl and forebode, intimidate
My senses as they swell; ready to explode.

My breathless running brings a burn to my thighs.
The soft ground flattened by my pounding strides, blinding
Pain cuts into me and attacks my insides.

The sting takes away the vision from my eyes.
But still on I go with all remaining might, undeterred
By these limitations that have cost me my sight.

Slowing down would be my certain demise.
The storm roars to life with thunderous barks, danger
On the rise, circling me like hungry sharks.

Rain hammers down, the downpour grows in size.
I pray for shelter before the lightning arrives, striking
Me by surprise like a million white-hot knives.

This is the Seventh Circle with the Garden as its guise.
I feel its wrath as I continue to run, begging
For its end and to again feel the warm embracing sun

The winds come to life as I whisper my goodbyes.
I fall down to my hands and knees, seeing
Now that eating from the Trees was not so wise.

End my Agony

Frustrating woman, you really confuse me
Your words and actions constantly lose me
I’m like Sherlock Holmes
And you’re my unsolvable mystery.

You have left me positively perplexed
Unable to sleep and thoroughly vexed
Wanting to punch walls and wondering,
“Why the fuck does this have to be so complex?”

You’re oh so flirty but I still don’t know your intent
Even after all our discussions and messages we’ve sent
You have to tell me who you see me as
Am I a Superman or just another Clark Kent?

Not knowing the answer, I’m left uncertain in the dark
Waiting for the flame to ignite, because there’s already a spark

Yet, for the time being at least, you’ve gone and chosen him
I doubt he means anything to you, but I’ll go out on a limb
And guess that you’ve chosen this guy for some specific reason
Whatever the hell it is, it leaves me feeling downright grim.

But damn it all, you’re still the most incredible woman I know
You’re prettier than Portman with a mind more beautiful than Crowe
And as much as I should cut my losses
I know
You’re the one for me and I just can’t let you go.

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]

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

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

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

“Swimmers step up.”

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

“Take your mark.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Weather Outside

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

Two thousand miles away, a button was pushed.

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

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

Julia naturally nodded her head with exuberance.

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

"Do I have to get up?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Merry Christmas, mommy," returned Julia.

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

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

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

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

"It's not..."

"Oh, it so is."

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

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

"Julia?"

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

"Mommy, daddy, come look!"

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

Snow. Over a foot of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A lever was pulled.

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

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

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

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

"I should start cleaning this place up then."

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

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

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

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

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

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

A dial was turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

"By snow?"

"No, no, no, by men."

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What? Why?"

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

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

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

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

"Hey, mom."

"Hello, sweetie."

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

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

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

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

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

"Ok, just a minute."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

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

"Pardon me?"

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

"But I need it to-"

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

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

"Alex, tell Julia 'Merry Chri-'"

The line dies immediately afterward.

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

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

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

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

"Like what?"

"I think we should stay inside."

An order is given.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you think we should do?"

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

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

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

“The roof is giving way.”

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Search crews are on their way.

The Goddess That I Know

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

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

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

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

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

Years Ago and Yesterday

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


Civil War

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Borderland

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

And over the cliff I go.