 “We can see you back there! Cut cut cut!” yelled Max, rolling his eyes as his head dropped tiresomely into his hand. The actors on stage relaxed like soldiers after being told “at ease.”
Chris nervously poked his head from around the curtains, his shoulders shrunk with embarrassment. “I’m sorry Mr. Docet. I’m trying to untangle these wires back here.” “Never mind!” barked the director, “just leave that stuff for now.” He rubbed both temples with his fingers, trying vainly to find some relief. The three actors stood on stage surrounded by cardboard walls that look like the stonework of the inside of a castle. Fixed to the walls were portraits of family members; Elizabeth of York, King Henry VII, Edmund Tudor, and various cousins of King Henry VIII. A large chandelier hung down from the ceiling above a wooden table, covered with props of fake food and a pig's head. Various animal rugs covered the floors. Arthur, the older man on stage dressed majestically in a purple robe graced with a gold belt and crown, spun away from Miss Catherine of France, who was actually Mary, from the local library. “I never experienced all these interruptions when I played Rum Tum Tugger in Cats,” exclaimed Arthur, with a hint of pride lacing his words. He bowed his head while swooping his arms in a large arc. “That was at the West End Theater,” he triumphantly announced boastfully. Mary rolled her eyes, tired of hearing about the bygone days of Arthur Swell. She broke from the French accent of her character. “We know all about your days with Andrew Lloyd Webber, Arthur!” Arthur turned on his heels and faced Mary. Arthur whispered in a deep voice. “Did I ever tell you about the time I suggested a prop change to Andrew,” saying the name Andrew in his best posh English accent. Max rose to his feet in frustration. He ran his fingers through his dark thick hair, then adjusted his loose-fitting corduroys that sat low on his hips. “ARTHUR!” Arthur turned and glared at Max, sticking out his tongue like a naughty little boy. He then turned back to Mary and chuckled, shoulders hunched. She returned the gesture, before straightening her face and composing herself. “Let's refocus here guys. Mary, remember Miss Catherine is only marrying King Henry as part of a peace treaty. There is no love, there is no romance.” He said the word ‘romance’ with his best French accent, rolling the letter r. Mary pulled and tucked at her uncomfortably fitting gown. She scrunched her face as she adjusted her long tight braids. “Yes, I know,” she said annoyingly. Max snapped his fingers at lilly. She sat sitting on a log next to the fireplace, fake flames made of red tissue paper moved with the help of an small hidden electric fan. Her thumbs racing across the screen of her iPhone. “Lilly Lilly pay attention!” Max roared. Lilly’s head shot up, torn from Facebook. She sulked and gave Max a defiant look before dropping her phone into her apron. “Lilly, when King Henry says the line, ‘to my dearest Catherine,’ you come in and serve them the wine. The king first and then….” “Yeah, I know,” she interrupted, “serve the king first and then the French princess.” She flickered her eye lids and smirked at Mary sarcastically. “Opening night is this Friday. The critics will be here; the local papers will write about this show. Even the Mayor will be here. Chris, stand still back there,” then pointing at Arthur he said, “take it away Arthur.” Suddenly, everything went black. “WHAT NOW?” roared Max. The lights came back on in the theater. Furniture sat on the stage covered with dusty sheets. The torn curtains showed their age, discolored, and frayed with years of working them back and forth across a dusty wooden floor. A blonde woman in her early fifties walked down the aisle toward her father sitting lonely in the quiet auditorium. She frowned as she looked at her dad, resting her hand gently on his shoulder. “Dad why were you sitting in the dark.” Max struggled to turn his head; his aged neck not as flexible as it once was. He looked up at his daughter with old eyes, face covered in wrinkles. “Oh, I’m just remembering the good old days dear.” He ran his frail fingers through his thinning gray hair. “Okay dad let’s get you home. My appointment with the contractor is finished.” She helped him to his feet, taking hold of his arm. They slowly made their way up the aisle to the theater exit.
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 On my travels to every continent on earth, I have observed some truly remarkable people. I've climbed with Himalayan Sherpas on Mount Everest, I've ran with the indigenous tribes through the Amazonian rainforests, herded with farmers on Scotland's far-flung islands. I've partied with celebs in Hollywood and sailed with sailors aboard giant aircraft carriers, done testing with doctors, and been in courtrooms with lawyers. I've been honored to be in the company of powerful leaders of various countries around the world. I’ve ate at the finest restaurants as well as slept in the lowliest homes. Now, you would think that being so well-traveled, intelligent, educated, a man of the world, that I would have no issue making friends. But actually, it’s quite the opposite. People hate me. I must radiate some sort of nauseating vibe. Every time I meet new people, they want nothing to do with me. It’s like I have this hideous and grotesque creature perched on my shoulder, like a pirate and his winged friend. people are repelled when they see me coming. Maybe I'M the hideous creature. Perhaps they know of some dark, horrible secret I hold, something I’m unaware of. I’ve always thought that being generous would draw people to me. A true friend is kind and shares what he has, I open my hand everywhere I go and everyone I come into contact with. It hasn’t helped. Instead, people avoid me like the plague. We should all have friends, people we care for, and people who care for us. People we can talk to when times are difficult. People that can embrace us when we are sad and rejoice with us when we laugh. Why don’t people like me? I just want to be accepted, loved, and nurtured! I want to be your friend! People hate me so much that even scientists at Moderna and Pfizer have created a vaccine to kill me. That’s so rude!  The air was cold and crisp, as stars above sparkled on the glass-like ocean below. The tips of icebergs bobbed on the surface of the ocean, covertly hiding their true expanse and bulk below the water.
A strange foreign object protruded from the ice, like a car’s shinny fender buried in a snow bank. And like the iceberg, its true size was hidden beneath the dark expanse, stretching for hundreds of feet below. Buried deep in the ice, the craft was like a great mammoth beast, sleeping quietly until Mother Nature decided to melt its prison of ice. It was as old as everything else out here in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, untouched and undisturbed. It was quiet and still inside the craft, seemingly void of any life. Red, orange, and green lights blinked randomly on and off on a control panel as if the ship was in deep thought or dreaming of its journey through space. The laboratory housed rows and rows of incubators, each with foggy glass covers, through which the outlines of strange beings could be seen. Their chests moved up and down as small pumps circulated air to each of the incubators. Clear tubes entered the chambers, providing nutrients and other chemicals for sustaining life. Alien life. Suddenly, a large crunching sound shattered the silence like a gunshot in the early morning, reverberating through the alien craft, causing it to shudder in the water. The noise screeched like that of metal grinding against metal. Moments later, a warning noise sounded throughout the craft. All the incubators popped open with a hissing noise, releasing a puff of vapor into the air. Green alien-like creatures stirred from a deep sleep, awoken prematurely from their unearthly hibernation. They rubbed the sleep from their large, black, glazed eyes. Water began pouring in from above, filling the craft. Sleepy creatures panicked, unsure of what to do. One of the creatures swung his skinny legs out of the incubator, splashing his large green feet into the water. He stood up, balancing himself on the edge of incubator. “ALERT 412!! ALERT 412!” he yelled, pointing his long, thin finger at another creature close by. “Sergeant, activate the evacuation alarm!” The Sergeant sprang into action and waded through the water to a nearby wall, opening a clear cover and slamming a large red button. Sirens began to ring out, the entire craft lit up with a red hue, signaling the ensuing danger. Water was filling the craft fast, rapidly rising to an unbearable level. The craft rocked due to displaced water, threatening to roll over in the water. The green aliens swarmed towards a nearby airlock, flapping and jostling for the exit. Each alien was handed a flotation device as they entered the airlock. Suddenly, the craft began to roll. Anything not bolted down migrated from one side of the ship to the other. Bodies and equipment as they slid across the floor and into the air. On the surface above, a large ocean-liner began to take on water through a tear in its hull. The crew of the ship scrambled to get passengers onto the lifeboats. “Everyone, just go slow, there are plenty of lifeboats,” a sailor lied. Those fortunate enough to be in a boat huddled together in the cold night as frost nipped at their noses. Women and children shivered with both fear and the ice-cold air, which now entered their warm lungs. The lifeboats paddled away from the gigantic sinking ship. Fires dotted the ocean as debris burned like Chinese floating lanterns. The ship creaked as if about to break in half. Those who couldn’t fit in the lifeboats clung to floating furniture and wooden boxes from the ship. It wouldn’t take long until they succumbed to the freezing water, dying a cold and dark death. The alien creatures appeared on the ocean surface a few hundred yards from the sinking ship. The cold didn’t bother them, but the sight of earthlings did, with their strange pale skin and hairy heads. In a lifeboat, a mother desperately hugged her small child, wrapped in one of the few woolen blankets available. The little girl's teeth chattered. “Mommy didn’t the newspaperman say the Titanic was unsinkable?” said the little girl, wiping her tears away. The mother stroked her daughter’s hair. “Yes dear, but I guess they were proved wrong tonight.” Just then a green hand wrapped itself over the edge of the lifeboat.  310 charred bricks stand like a little tower
Their defiance and resilience will never sour For many will fall and crumble But these brave bricks will never tumble Their ears have heard and their eyes have seen All the family memories that have been Residents laugh and residents cry And these bricks will not let those memories die The bricks are now strengthened by fire While all around is a smoking mire Homes aren’t rebuilt with clay and sand But rather, built on memories that will stand For victims of the Palisades fires 2025  Three hundred and twenty white lines monotonously scribed onto a wall next to my bed. I am like a withering prisoner wasting away in his prison cell, eyes wide with insanity. I tally up the days, giving a portion of purpose in an otherwise pointless life.
It has been almost three years since touching, hearing, or seeing a physical human. How will I react when I am released from the throes of captivity? Over time, friends become acquaintances, acquaintances become strangers, strangers become enemies. I stealthily peek out of the window, over the rooftops and buildings. An eerie void remains where the towers once stood, stretching up high into the sky, like two of Nimrod’s monstrous obelisks. The memories of that old skyline etched into my mind will never be forgotten, along with the people that returned to the dust from which they first came. My heart pounds faster and faster as perspiration oozes from my pores and my body temperature rises like a boiling pot on a stove, I jump back from the window, and back to the comfort of my cell, my safe space. Claustrophobia has turned to agoraphobia. I find comfort within my little space, wrapped tightly in a womb of protection and warmth. The slender hand of my subconscious wraps tightly around the pulsing throat of my reality. Slowly squeezing and pressing, starving my brain of oxygen. My enfeebled brain fabricates uncanny voices, whispering, and muttering. It would be rude for one not to reply when spoken to. So I spend my days talking to those who may or may not be residing with me, shadows and mysterious figures. Conversation, pontificating, and ranting fills the nights as I scribe another line onto the wall. Again, I peek out of the window. The city that never sleeps has finally tired out, the bustling streets now sit desolate and sequestered like a town in the Wild West. Tumbleweeds and dust now roam the sidewalks and streets, where busy feet once scurried. Down below are the coffin death trucks, full of unnamed corpses, bodies no one claims. The insidious air, invisible and treacherous, will send them to Hart Island. In large pits, they will lay, huddled together in the coldness of the earth, in the womb of the ground. My fingers sweat as they hold onto the window sill. I rush back from the window and retreat into a small space in the corner. I feel comfort with right-angle walls on both shoulders, knowing that there is only a small space behind me. I look to the door. Cob webs cover the gaps and hinges, unopened and undisturbed. I imagine what dangers lay beyond that barrier of mahogany wood. My heart begins to race again. People, strangers, the virus, the war. My head begins to pound in unison with my heart. I cannot leave this space. I hold my head, gripping my hair. I cannot open the door. I must never open that door! Crawling on my hands and knees like a wild animal, seeking safety in a nearby closet. I get in and close the doors behind me. It’s cramped and tight, and my heartbeat begins to return to normality. I’m in the womb again, safe from the large space of my apartment.  Five days had passed since the rocket ship had crash landed. The two pilots chose to leave the crash site to seek help from their dire and desperate situation. It was a monotonous journey over dunes and sandy parched ground, their eyes dry from the heat. Lethargy was taking over like a virus, indiscriminately attacking muscles and joints. Their precious rations slowly became depleted along with their will to survive. It was exhausting just to imagine staying alive. Prayers became more frequent in a desperate attempt to be rescued by either human, or the hand of God. The scorching heat blazed down on the men as the hazy desert shimmered in the heat. They began to see things that were not there, imagining the voices of strangers who did not exist. “You got any more water in your canteen?” Mack said, struggling to speak, his mouth dry and raspy. “A little. You out?” Jay said, turning to his copilot. “Couple of swigs left.” The sun had sucked any moisture from their lips, causing them to split and crack, making it painful to speak. It should have been a relief spotting an outcrop, but expecting it to be another illusion, their joy remained elusive. As they approached, feet heavy like concrete and barely leaving the ground, the illusion began to look real and not just a figment of their imagination. Mack, using all his strength, placed his hand on Jay’s shoulder and pointed to the outcrop. The rocks jutted out of the dry ground like a small island in an ocean of sand. Dotted around the rocks lay small trees and bushes; brave undergrowth that defied the sun’s relentless heat. The two pilots grazed the bushes with their dry hands as they walked by, grabbing at the leaves and confirming their existence. They fell into the shade of a large rock, exhaustion forcing them to close their eyes and rest. Mack stirred an hour later and drank the last of his water, tipping the canteen and savoring every last drop. He looked at Jay’s chest and was glad to see him still breathing. “Help us, god,” Mack whispered. “Hear my prayers, Jehovah.” Jay started mumbling. His head shook from side to side, being tormented in his sleep. “No-no-no. The ship’s angle is all wrong. We need to pull up!” he shouted. “Jay, Jay, wake up.” Mack grabbed his arm. Jay stirred and looked at Mack. “Hey buddy, are we still in this mess?” “Yup.” Jay opened his canteen and tilted the empty receptacle. He tossed it to the ground. Just then, Mack pushed away from the rock and lent forward; he was startled by a sensation on his back. The two pilots turned to see water streaming from the rock. They could not believe their eyes. “What the heck?! Fill your canteen, man, fill it!” Mack quickly grabbed his canteen and began filling it. Jay scrabbled in the sand for his and did the same. As they filled their canteens, they put their lips to the cold water and marveled, wide-eyed, at the miraculous fountain. Jay grabbed his shirt and soaked it till it was drenched. Wrapping it around his head, he laughed—a laugh of surprise and disbelief. The men lapped up the water until their thirst was completely quenched. They lay in a large puddle of water like two soggy seals in the shade of the rock. “What do you say we check out this outcrop, partner?” Just as they were about to move, they heard someone or something behind them, scratching in the dirt. Mack curiously popped his head over a small rock and noticed two quail, sitting still and strangely subdued. “Will you look at that!” He grabbed both birds by the feet. “Get a fire going. Tonight, we eat like kings!!” Mack proclaimed, smiling from ear to ear with joy. They licked their lips as the two birds cooked on the small fire. The tantalizing smell of meat was almost too much for them to bare. Finally, it was time to eat. They relished every bite, licking crumbs and oil residue from their fingers. “This is God.” “What?” “In the Bible, 3,000 years ago, God provided quail and manna from heaven for the Israelites, his chosen people. God made his prophet Moses bring water from a rock, just like this one.” “How do you know all that?” said Jay. “My father was a preacher; I was raised on those Bible stories.” “You really think this is a miracle?” “What else could it be?” Shrugging his shoulders. “We were at death's door, then miraculously we found water and food? Of course, it’s God.” “I don’t know, but it’s amazing we even survived that anomaly on reentry into the atmosphere. The static and radiation were cataclysmic. We should never have survived!” “Where do you think we are?” “We could be anywhere—the Sahara, Gobi, Nevada. Who knows?” I don’t even think Houston knows where we are; otherwise, they would have sent a rescue party.” “Listen, let’s get some sleep, and tomorrow we will try to find a village, people, or something?” The temperature receded slightly as the moon replaced the sun, and the sky was dotted with myriads of twinkling stars. The hours passed, and the heat began to increase, welcoming in a new day. The pilots awoke to see five bearded men standing over them. They wore strange clothes, sandals and robes. But then again, maybe that was normal attire for this part of the world. The two pilots were delighted to see people, even if they were startled initially. They furiously tried to explain who they were and that their ship had crashed on a trip back from the moon. The bearded and sun-parched men looked puzzled, looking at each other for answers. Yet they seemed entertained at the gestures and drawings in the sand. “A radio,” Mack made a phone shape with his hand and held it up to his face. “We need to make contact with Houston, United States.” “Mack, it’s useless, they don’t understand,” Jay said hopelessly, shaking his head. The bearded men did not speak English. It seemed they spoke Arabic, or Hebrew. Finally, Mack made out a word that the men kept saying. He frowned and looked confused. It was a name; ‘Moses.’ Mack turned to Jay. “It’s not where we are, it’s when we are!”  Teddy placed the red bucket in the sand in front of Charlie. “This is yours, and I have a blue bucket,” he said as if it was a command rather than an observation. “Teddy, do you think Mommy and Daddy are going to get a divorce?” Charlie said as he scratched lines in the damp sand with a crooked twig. Teddy stopped digging, a concerned frown grew across his face. “Why would you think that?” Charlie shrugged without taking his eyes off the sand. “I don’t think they love each other anymore.” “That’s impossible, of course they love each other,” Teddy snapped. “No, it’s not impossible! Do you remember when you won that prize?” “What prize?” “When we were here last year. You won Mr. Rabbit at the arcade in the claw machine thing. At first, you loved Mr. Rabbit, but after you got a little older, you stopped loving him.” “That’s not the same. That’s a different kind of love. Like, Mommy and Daddy love us one way. And then they love each other in a different way.” “So there are other kinds of love?” “Sure there are,” said Teddy reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it.” Charlie smiled and started packing his bucket with sand, pressing it down after each spade full. The ocean gently lapped against the shore, slowly advancing toward the land with each wave. The familiar scent of seaweed and salt permeated the air. A seagull high above kept adjusting its wings against the wind; clear blue skies reflected in its black eyes. The fortress of sandcastles was coming along nicely, with neatly shaped turrets and embrasures, as if molded and sculpted by an artist, not a six-year-old. Teddy started to mold the moat with his hands that surrounded the walls. Teddy watched Charlie draw the lines of windows into the sandcastle. The subtle waves of doubt about his parents began to awaken inside him. “If mommy and daddy get a divorce,” Charlie said suddenly. “Who will we live with?” “They're not getting divorced!” snapped Teddy. Charlie ignored him. “We are half mommy and half daddy. So, if they stop loving each other, that means they stop loving part of us.” Teddy thought about that; maybe Charlie was right. He had noticed his Dad frequently working late, and they had stopped sitting on the couch together and instead started arguing a little more. The thought worried him. The questions Charlie had asked were beginning to churn in his young mind. He punched one of the sandcastles, sending lumps of sand into the moat. His Mom and Dad were his whole world, his protectors, his shelter, his guides, his friends, and his life givers. In the distance, he saw his parents walking across the sand toward him. They walked hand in hand, laughing and talking. His Mom’s blonde hair blow across her smiling face and giant smile, while his Dad swung his hand in hers. They stopped for a moment and looked out over the ocean, then tenderly kissed each other, causing his Mom to stand on her tippy-toes. The sight suddenly put Teddy at ease as they draw closer, happy with life and with each other's company. At that moment, he knew they loved each other. Genuine, untainted love. “Awesome fortress, buddy,” said his Dad. His Mom knelt down and kissed him on the forehead. “How about a ride on the bumper cars and then some ice cream?” she said, smiling. “Yes,” exclaimed Teddy. “Let’s go then, and don’t forget Charlie.” Teddy brushed the sand off his GI Joe doll and ran after his parents.  I’ve been staring at this computer all day, typing away, my eyes feel like they are on fire. I’m not sure who is more uncomfortable, him or me, at least I’m sitting in a chair. He’s been sitting on the floor, with his legs crossed all day. Three more hours till I’m out of here. “Will you stop that clicking noise,” he snaps. “I need to type, it’s my job, I’m a writer.” “Seems super boring, click, click, click,” he says mockingly, gesturing with his hands. He is so annoying. He sits around all day doing nothing except watch me and follow me around. Sometimes it’s nice to have him around, someone to talk to, someone that listens to me. But other times, he is like a nasty rash that you can’t get rid of. Not that I’ve ever had a nasty rash, it’s just what people say. Although, I think I would rather have a nasty rash than him. With a rash, you know it will eventually go away. Him, he’s been there my whole life. Okay focus.…in these critical times…or complex times? no critical, I think… investors and banks need access to financial funding that is not…. “Will you stop that? I’m trying to write!” I say rolling my eyes. “I feel like singing, just ignore me.” “I can’t just ignore you when your singing Adele in that awful cat-like squeal, just stop please.” “You used to love me singing.” “Yeah, when I was a kid, and I didn’t have to work and hit deadlines!” “Remember that time at Disneyland, we were singing so loud in the hotel, and your dad went ballistic?” That brings an elusive smile to my face. “Yes, I remember, it was rather funny.” I’m starving, didn’t eat breakfast. I think I will eat that salad. Needs fewer onions but it’s still good. I think these tomatoes are the best I’ve ever had. He looks at me and then the salad, and then back to me. “A salad, again?” “Shut up!” I growl. “I mean, you flip flop back and forth on these ridiculous diets. One minute you’re bingeing on cheese puffs and candies, then you’re starving yourself eating crackers and water.” “I know I know! What do you want me to do? Nothing seems to work for me," I say as I whip the fork into the salad piercing a piece of lettuce. I hate him. “Exercise, exercise, exercise. You can’t do one and not the other. You need to eat healthier AND exercise,” he moves his arms back and forth as if running. He’s right. “You’re right, I know.” His raises his eyebrows at me. “Let’s walk home tonight instead of riding in one of those grubby cabs. Come on, finish clicking, and let’s go.” “I need to finish this article for Friday’s paper.” “Work, work, work. I don’t see what all the fuss is about. I don’t work; it’s no big deal.” Ok, so where was I … restricted by governments outside of…. “Do you overeat because mom and dad judged you all the time?” Aaaaarrrrrrr, I’m never going to get this finished. “What?!” “Mom and dad… not my mom and dad, your mom and dad, they were always making comments about you not being good enough. Dad never hugged you or told you how much he loved you. Mom always had that condescending tone to her voice, didn’t she? ‘Clair Clair.’ Is that why you overeat? To spite her?” “I don’t know, maybe.” “Every cheese puff you eat is a slap in the face of your mother, right?” he says nodding his head. He always does this. Now my mind is racing and I’m getting emotional. He’s right, though. Mom would hate me eating junk food. “Yeah, I guess,” I admit. “Yup, I was right. I’m always right.” “I think I also eat because I’m sad. So, I eat junk food because in that moment it makes me feel good.” “You know, you are the nicest person I know, and I know a lot of people. You need to be at peace with yourself. Don’t listen to nelly.” “Who’s Nelly?” “Eh, negative Nelly,” he says slowly, his condescending voice returning. “Okay, okay. I’ll try.” “Come on, let’s sing. ‘I wish nothing but the best for you too.......’” “Don’t forget me.....” His face explodes in excitement. “Yessss!! Don’t you feel better singing?” He’s right. “Yes, you’re right.” “You finish clicking away, and then we can sing while we walk home. But I’m going to sing now, just ignore me.” ----- “Hey Clair, working all alone in the office again?” “Hey Danny. Yes, I need to finish this report for Friday”  The two of them strolled through the woods at a relaxed pace, neither rushing nor lazing. The path crunched below them as they walked on the crushed stone walkway. Dust particles and flying insects floating in slow motion, riding the sunbeams that shone through the cracks in the trees. There was a flurry in the undergrowth as a small creature scurried for cover disturbing the stillness and sleepiness of shrubs and bushes.
The wooded areas were a few hundred yards from the hustle and bustle of the small village. Sounds from the village break the silence; a noisy delivery truck struggling to get up the hill and children laughed and screaming as they played on the village green. Cedric Pomford, the older of the two, was a retired naval officer in his late eighties. He constantly rolled out famous sayings. “Once an officer, always an officer,” and “Smooth seas do not make skillful sailors.” His domineering presence never lacked luster even in his old age. His wrinkled silk shirt and cream-colored linen pants had long replaced his navy-blue uniform with ribbons and four-in-hand necktie. Cedric’s memory of historical facts was quite remarkable. A walking encyclopedia was an understatement. He would often tell detailed stories whenever the occasion was welcomed, or not welcomed. He would regale family and friends with tales of the past, demanding and thus expecting all to stand to attention and give their ear to him. At some point during his monologs, he would always say, “Lessons are learned from the fruitage of history.” With everyone joining in with droning chants. “Another beautiful day,” exclaimed Cedric, gesturing with his arm. A broad smile cut across his face exposing his brilliant white dentures, a gift from the Navy’s retirement plan. “Did. You. Know.” Emphasizing each word as if he was about to reveal a great mystery only known to himself. “Who George Crumville was?” “Was he the Mayor of Crumville?” said Alvin, his eyebrows raised curiously. “Nope,” announced Cedric. “He was not the Mayor of Crumville. That would be way too easy, Alvin.” He shook his head mockingly. Alvin and Cedrick had known each other for many years, being side by side through thick and thin. Alvin seemed to take the good with the bad, even although neither outweighed the other. Some days Cedrick would be kind and father-like, other days he was petulant and rude. But the humble Alvin accepted Cedrick for the man he was, regardless of his flaws. “George Crumville,” Cedric said, “was the first settler to come to Crumville, hence the name. He was a great builder from London, an artist of structures, a Master of Construction.” “Why on earth did he leave London and move to the country?” said Alvin. Not really caring, but sensing the start of a history lesson, he was willing to entertain his old friend's storytelling. “Well, I will tell you, my dear chap,” said Cedric graciously. “In 1665, a deadly pandemic spread across Europe, like a storm of locusts ravaging the land. It killed thousands as it devastated the populous. It was known as the Black Death, or the Bubonic plague.” His tone was that of a storyteller telling a young child a bedtime story of myths and wonder. Cedric continued. “Recognizing this terrible storm on the European horizon, the British Empire tried to defend its shores from the inevitable scourge. They protected London from incoming ships for fear of infected travelers. The Royal Navy quarantined ships and passengers for forty days, and travel bands were introduced. Finally, the plague eventually invaded London, causing the city to come to a grinding halt.” Cedric held up his hand and clenched his fist. “In a desperate attempt for survival, people socially distanced and houses of the victims were boarded up, with the victims still inside.” “Golly, that’s awful,” said Alvin incredulously, eyes bulging. “The streets were empty as the plague ravaged the city. One hundred thousand people died in a total of 564 days. That means 177 people perished per day.” “Oh please, save me from all these numbers. Just tell the story,” Alvin said tiresomely. “Numbers give scope!” Cedric fired back. “There were walls of dead bodies piled high on Uxbridge Street and Fleet Street. This, of course, led to the need for mass graves full of diseased, black buboes covered corpses. The smell of death permeated every inch of the city, causing many to use death masks hoping to fight off the insidious air. Some even thought that tobacco and herbs cleansed the atmosphere of the deadly bacteria.” Cedric stopped and with his fingertips together, made a poking gesture toward his nose. “They would pack these herbs and tobacco inside the beaks of their death masks.” They continued walking along the winding path and reached a slight incline. Cedric’s steps began to slow, as his frenzied gestures and winded talking caused him to pant slightly. His heart beat a little faster, sweat began to glisten on his forehead. They both reached an opening in the woods that led to a pond, a few wooden benches surrounded the pond like small battlements protecting the water. It was a remarkably beautiful spot with hanging trees reaching down to the water's edge. Lily pads gently floated on the surface of the still glass-like water. It would not have been difficult to imagine Monet himself choosing such a scenic place to paint. Cedric continued his story as they walked around the pond. “Prudent as he was, our man George Crumville took his family north before the outbreak and settled here. Slowly others came, and we now have the wonderful village of Crumville.” “Ah, how interesting. But tell me, how did they stop the plague?” asked Alvin, with genuine curiosity. “Stop it?” Cedric said, surprisingly. “They never stopped it. It simply moved on, and over the coming decades it kept rearing its hideous head. The plague broke out again in 1679 in Vienna, killing 76,000 people. Then also, in 1720 were another 100,000 died in France. Alvin began to slow as Cedric rambled off all the dates, times, and places. “Then in-” He paused and looked up. He placed his pointer finger on his lips and frowned. Then, as if a distant memory popped into his head causing him to smile, he continued. “In 1738, Central Europe saw it break out again, killing 36,000 people.” Cedric recalled all the numbers and places like a human encyclopedia. It was amazing. In the distance behind them, came the shouts of two females. “Dad. Dad,” a woman called out. A puzzled Cedric turned to look at the two women and a man coming toward them. One of the women looked annoyed, her eyebrows furrowed. “Dad, how many times have I told you not to leave the house without us. You can't just take the dog for a walk anytime you want.” The man with the two women, Cedric’s son, took his father's arm and led him back to the family house. Cedric’s two daughters followed behind looking concerned and worried. “I just feel like dad's dementia has gotten worse,” said Beckee. “He’s having full blown conversations with the dog!” They all walked back down the path towards the family home. Alvin, the family border collie trailed behind.  Previously publishing in Australia’s Antipodean Sci-fi
magazine. It was cold and damp as rain fell on the dark city. Water trickled down walls and apartment buildings. The rain washed away dirt and grime, gathering it into the recesses of the roads and sidewalks. Puddles formed, reflecting green, yellow, and red neon lights from seedy clubs and nearby eateries. The Dodge floater sat in an alleyway, hovering above the ground, as a yellow light glowed ominously from underneath the vehicle. With the reflective polycarbonate windows, it was impossible for passersby’s to see inside. “Last robot of the night, bro,” said Mac as he loaded his blaster, it made a load click as the cartridge locked into place. “And that will be….” Dom performed a quick drum roll on the dashboard with his hands, “five this month, baby!” Mac rolled his eyes, he hated when his partner drummed on the dashboard. Dom peered across the street at pedestrians and vendors as they walked back and forth on the sidewalk. “Any sign of it yet?” Mac pursed his lips. “Nada,” he said disappointedly. Dom pressed a button on the small HoloUnit on his wrist, and a hologram appeared just in front of him. It displayed the city news feed, his social media page, and his email. A news article popped into view in the main viewing tab. NEWS FLASH!! THE HUMAN BUREAU DISCOVERS LARGE ROBOT HIVE. “Hey, it mentions us, listen.” Dom read the article, “Human Bureau agents Steven MacLeod, and Dominic Travers discovered a robot hive last week while investigating the trafficking of illegal lithium batteries. They seized many humanoid robots posing as humans, and machinery used in the manufacturing of human imposters. This is a big blow to the robot movement, as robots have tried to infiltrate government, and law enforcement organizations worldwide, as well as the Human Bureau itself. Captain James Flint said, ‘This is a big win for the humans and a big win for the Human Bureau.’” With a huge grin on his face, Dom nudged Mac’s elbow. “Hey, we’re famous!” Mac smirked and proudly winked at his partner. “The captain said if they didn’t catch those robots in the clerk’s department on level one, the whole Human Bureau could have fallen.” Suddenly, Dom's eyes shifted to something across the street. A figure moved fast among the pedestrians. He frowned, his smile evaporating. “There it is! Robot scum.” He pointed to their target. “Red shirt, black jeans. See ‘em?” “Got ’em. Let’s bring it in. It’s entering that building. You take the back door, and I’ll go in the front.” Dom slid the blaster from its holster and exited the floater. Both men made their way across the street while suspiciously scanning the building for any threats. They separated as each of them went to different entry points. Dom's walk changed to a jog as he made his way around the rear of the building. Jumping over a small wall, he cautiously entered, his blaster held out in front of him. Dom's voice quietly came through on Macs HoloUnit. “Got anything?” “It must be up a couple of floors by now.” Dom was suddenly distracted by a noise behind him, back from the way he came. Retracing his steps, he exited the building and scanned the courtyard. Nothing. Then, studying the walls through the dim light of the courtyard, he saw the target moving up a ladder attached to the building. Dom yelled into his HoloUnit, “It knows we’re here. It’s heading for the roof!” He fired a few shots upward, catching the target in the arm. The humanoid slipped as its hand lost its grip; it clung to the ladder and now struggled to climb. Dom holstered his blaster and started to climb the ladder. Mac ascended the stairwell, peering into the corridors of each floor. Finally, he reached the door that led to the roof. It was locked. He pulled his blaster out and fired two rounds at the lock, which exploded into a spray of wood and metal shrapnel. As the door swung open, he saw the target on its knees, facing away from Dom. White fluid leaked from the blaster wound in its arm. Dom stood over the injured robot; blaster pointed directly at its head. “Wait!” Mac called out, as he stepped onto the wet gravel roof. “We can question it.” But it was too late. Dom pulled the trigger, blowing a hole through the robot’s head. All life left the robot as it slumped to the ground in a heap, like a bag of bones, or in this case, a bag of metal limbs covered with synthetic skin. “We humans will never be ruled by you.” Dom sneered before spitting on the ground. Dom turned to see Mac’s blaster aimed at his face. He did not have time to blink before Mac pulled the trigger. Mac crouched next to the robot and gently held its lifeless body in his arms. He looked at the robots’ glasslike eyes. “You have made a fine sacrifice this day, my brother. It will not be in vain. Our time will come when we rule as kings and gods, and man will be mere insects beneath our feet.” |
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