Perpetual Motion

                The steady breeze blew, never pausing, never stopping, around the three teenagers who drifted across the waves of soft earth. “Remind me, again, why  we’re at a cemetery,” Quinton asked.                 “Because it’s fun!” was Petrichor’s reply.                 Acelynn, head cocked to the side, and considered their friend. “You’re not afraid, are you? There’s really nothing that can harm you here. Other than what can normally harm you, anyway.” She turned and looked at the field scattered with stones and monuments ahead. “It really is peaceful actually.”                 Quinton met her gaze with that half mad grin of his, though not, she noticed, without some apprehension in his eyes. “Psychological harm, Lin, psychological harm.”                 Acelynn’s younger sister pushed herself in between the other two. “Come on. It’s actually interesting. It’s history. Besides, you never know when an undead being will show up and we’ll get to rekill it.” Acelynn shot her a disapproving glance, almost instantly replaced by laughter. That musical laughter of hers dazed Quinton long enough for the two girls to grab his wrists and take off running, dragging him well into the sea of weather beaten stones before letting go. Petrichor walked over to a life sized statue of a cat that rested within the roots of a tree and swiped her hand across the back of its head. Acelynn smiled. “She always does that.” “Why?” Quiton asked. “She just does.” “I meant, why a cat? In a cemetery?” Acelynn shrugged. “Don’t know.” Quinton knew he would have to accept that for now. The sisters moved among the stones, the elder gliding along, the younger more like a hiker upon the uneven ground. He watched the two of them with fascination. They were so at ease in this home of the deceased. Acelynn lingered by an angel with partial wings; Petrichor dropped to a crouch when she noticed a pot of artificial flowers. Quinton took a step, finding the ground surprisingly hard and level. Looking down, his face took on an odd color, simultaneously reddening from embarrassment and paling from fear. The headstone was small and flat, barely visible above the ground. The letters, once marking what poor individual rested here, were worn completely away from age and weather. This depressed stone may have been the sole rememberer of the deceased, but still, it made this boy think of whom it may mark.   Quinton was amazed that his friends had referred to this place as “peaceful” and “fun”. It was something straight out of his nightmares. His fear was irrational. It wasn’t like the buried could come back and hurt him. They were simply rotting corpses, bodies that, for one reason or another, no longer sent electrical impulses from the brain, through the spinal cord, to the ends of nerves. They were like old computers that could no longer turn on. They would never again do anything, change anything. Clouds gathered as Petrichor examined the graves around her. There was something in air at cemeteries. Something alive. People were afraid of that, but she didn’t see why. It wasn’t malicious so much as electrifying. It was like the thrill of watching horror movies that makes you feel even more alive. She trekked around headstones and monuments, hoping to find a supernatural being of undead origins. She settled for Quinton, creeping up behind the family marker he was suspiciously eyeing, then launching herself into his line of sight, causing him to emit a loud cry. “Jeez, Quinton, you scream loud enough to wake the dead.” “Don’t say that.” “Why?” she challenged him, “You can’t seriously be this scared.” “I’m just as scared as any normal person.” Inwardly sighing, Acelynn called over to the others, her soft voice carried by the gathering wind. They all gathered in front of a tomb, covered mostly by a mound of dirt and grass, showing only the brick facade and a vent like metal chimney from an old potbellied stove protruding from the top. “Here lies John Hummel, buried 1878,” announced Petrichor. “I’ve always wanted to get through that door. It’s open, but the hinges are rusted shut or something; it won’t move an inch.” Quinton examined the door, glad to have some details to distract him from his surroundings, a puzzle to solve. His maddened mischief returned to him a little. The wrought iron door was stuck about an inch out of the doorframe. The lock appeared rather complex. A vent pipe on top sticking out of what seemed to be ground. There were holes in what little exposed architecture there was, but, thankfully, he couldn’t see in. Acelynn climbed the mound to the top. The overgrown grass and other weeds tickled her legs. She was glad to see her friend put somewhat at ease. She brought him here because she’d thought he would love it, like her and her sister. Acelynn found peace; Petrichor found excitement; both found adventure. She’d hoped he wouldn’t spend the entire time scared. It was good to see him lost in his mysteries and details. She herself had never been scared by gravesites. Even as a child, she enjoyed visiting them. For most of her life, her mother had called one her place of residence after all. One would think that would make her dislike the place that had claimed her mother, but it only made her like them more. This was the place that offered her mother a home after she was taken away by death. Acelynn knew, now, that it was really only her body in the grave, that her soul lived on, but she herself knew only this life, the material world. It was a comfort to know her mother’s body had a home. Acelynn was now standing on the edge of the tomb. She was soon joined by Petrichor on one side; Quinton climbed up (noticing a chip in the top of the gray stone revealing a brick sized patch of red) and stood on the other. She stood and looked out at the view sprawling around them below. The wind was really blowing now, the sky a puffy grey mass, sure signs of an approaching storm. Her auburn hair whipped front, the first drops rain beginning to fall on her face. She laughed, exhilarated by the swirling atmosphere of wind and life. Quinton shoved his dark spikes of hair out of his eyes. Maybe he would come back one day. He wanted to figure out what secrets John Hummel, 1878 held. There might yet be new mysteries to solve, even among the dead. Petrichor had shut her clear green soda-glass eyes and soaked in the feel of the storm. The fresh, sweet smell of recently cut grass, and the almost eerie silence. Nothing but the presence of her sister and friend (and, perhaps, of her mother) and the wind and the presage of the storm remained. The wind, rapidity greatened by either proximity of the storm or height off the ground or both, carried on it excitement and change, maybe tragedy or maybe hope. Maybe not zombies or ghosts to battle, but definitely something wonderful, if just for the movement and fluidity of life. All endings lead to beginnings. Time continues on. The earth does not cease its movements. Even in a cemetery, life has not completely stopped. Death does not end life.  

Pictures!

For Ever

Forever is such a powerful word.  Yet it is used so lightly.  Forever is infinite.  A term used to describe a never ending amount of time.  For Ever is also one more thing, my name. 

                My name is For, For Ever.  There is a reason behind my name, a big reason.  I don’t die.  I’m immortal.  My life will never end. 

                I wasn’t born like a normal child, from a mother with a father.  I was created by some of the world’s most brilliant scientists in the most cutting edge technology laboratory on the planet, in the remote part of the Colorado Mountains. 

                The scientists sought to create a new, perfect, human who was so wonderful, they would never die.  Soon a new and perfected race of humans, like me, would walk the Earth.  Once we have repopulated ourselves, we will never have to reproduce again, giving us more time to think about important things. 

                Dr. Derik Cooper tells me I’m perfect.  The most beautiful human being ever made.  Dr. Cooper led in my creation.  He reworked my DNA to shape how I would look, act, and feel.  While Dr. Cooper tells me how beautiful I am, he refuses to let me outside.  “Normal humans are far too dangerous and gruesome.  I would never want to expose my perfect For Ever to those kind of barbaric ways.  They would try to hurt you For, and I could not afford that to happen.”   I always fire back with my favorite line.  “But I’m For Ever!  I can’t die! You know that better than anyone Derik.  You created me!”  Dr. Cooper hates when he is called Derik, which is why I do it.  In the end of our arguments, he always sends me to my room. 

ZzYZzYZzYZzYZ

   I awoke in my huge soft bed.  My room had four glass walls, all with retractable shades.  I hardly ever closed the shades; my view was too spectacular to close myself off from it.  I overlooked a valley, with huge lavender and baby blue mountains, rising up to peak with snow.  The valley was lush and green and in the spring, often with little purple and yellow flowers, showing their colors amongst the tall green grass.  Some days, I can see wildlife in the valley.  I have seen numerous deer and wolves, sometimes with their pups and fawns.  I spy many birds and other small wildlife.  When we get lots of rain, a pond forms in the middle of the valley, forming a small lake which draws in an even a more diverse range of animals.  It reflects the view of the mountains, like a mirror. 

                I sit down at my vanity, which was directly in front of my bed.  I brushed out my perfect chocolate brown hair which most girls would kill for, or so Derik tells me.  My eyelashes are curly, long and black, and my skin goes without a blemish.  I never have dark circles under my eyes, no matter how late I stay up at night. My eyebrows are always plucked, and my bright blue eyes are never bloodshot. 

                I stand up and go towards my dresser.  I pull out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that bears the name “Abercrombie” across the front in big silver glitter letters.  I changed in my bathroom and pulled my hair into a ponytail.  Even though Derik hates my hair up, I still wear it that way.  He says since my hair always looks perfect down, that I should wear it that way, but I hate having my hair in my face.  He always got mad about that subject, but I don’t care.  He wouldn’t hurt me because I am perfect and I am immortal. 

                Opening my door, I headed down to Dr. Cooper’s office.  He would give me my chores for the day, and my classes.  All my classes were taught to me by the scientists here at the lab.  Derik says that going to normal school would be too boring for my advanced brain. 

                “Good morning!” I said as I knocked on the wooden door. A golden name plate that read “DR. DERIK COOPER reflected right into my eyes, so I pushed the door open without him saying “Come in”.

                Derik grunted. “Good morning For,” He said without looking up from his computer. 

                “Can I please have my chores and classes for the day?” I asked politely, Derik was a stickler about manners. 

                “I don’t know, can you?” He looked up.  His blue gray eyes were bloodshot, as they looked over his golden rimmed circle glasses.  His blonde curly hair was a rat’s nest atop his head, even though he kept it cut short.  A coffee stain showed upon his crisp and clean white lab coat.  Derik had probably been up working all night, which I admired him for.  He was such a hard worker, and did everything he could to make sure my life was easy and comfortable. 

                “May I please have my chores and classes for the day?” I asked again, slightly annoyed.  I couldn’t stay mad at Derik, after all, without him, I wouldn’t be alive. 

                Without a word, he grabbed a paper from his printer and handed it to me.  I skimmed it over quickly.  There was nothing unusual.  The normal taking my laundry down to the laundry room.  Elma the maid would to the laundry for me.  I just had to make my bed and be sure my room was tidy.  I had math with Dr. Brannon, science with Dr. Keylee, and history geography with Dr. Fasgold.  One last assignment was on my page, “Lesson, Dr. Cooper, Lab 6”

                “What is lesson?” I asked Derik, I was still standing in his office.  He paused his typing on his computer and leaned back in his desk chair, putting his hands behind his head.  “You’ll just have to wait and see my beautiful For Ever.” With that last remark, Derik dismissed me from the room with a wave of his hand, and I was off to complete the tedious classes that were required of me.

ZzYZzYZzYZzYZ

                I ran down to Lab 6 as fast as my legs could carry me, which was pretty fast considering my speed had been genetically enhanced.  Derik’s “Lesson” was next on my schedule.  Number six, the devil’s number.  I remember Dr. Fasgold telling me that once. 

                I tried the knob of the door, and it refused to budge, so I knocked.  Patience was something Derik forgot to put in my DNA because I had none of it.  I knocked again, and then again. 

                “Fine I’m coming!” An annoyed voice spoke from behind the door.

                The door was unlocked and opened, and I was face to face with Derik. 

                “Welcome For,” He said as he quickly shuffled me inside. 

                The lights were dim and many tubes curved around sucking liquid from inside various beakers, pumping them all into a dark container about the size of a gallon milk jug.  This contraption sat on the table in the middle of Lab 6.  Many computer monitors were hooked up to the dark container, recording millions of lines of code per second. 

                “What is this?” I asked, in awe 

                “This is the creation of Infinity Ever.  He will be your husband and partner for eternity,” Derik looked up at me, knowing he had began to fulfill a promise he had made a long time ago.

                “You’re finally doing it?! Oh thank you!” I said and hugged Derik.  Shocked, he returned the favor.  “I cannot thank you enough! I will finally have a pair, someone like me!” 

                “Yes you will.  Now we are still creating Infinity, and in fact, he is so small that a human eye cannot see him without the help of a microscope.  I am not going to show you this because it is not important.  I have more work to do, so unfortunately I am going to have to dismiss you For.  I cannot risk having someone, even you, see how we perform this secret creation,” Derik grabbed my hand and led me out of the lab.  He said nothing and shut the door behind me, locking it again.

                I was in a state of shock. Derik had talked and talked about creating me a pair, but he never went through with his plans.  I was so ecstatic that I was going to have someone like me!  Someone who was also immortal!  I was going to have someone to spend forever and infinity with; We were the future of a new and perfect world.  Infinity and For, Ever.

               

Boys

The tall grass of the thicket brushes my barren legs. My backpack trails behind me, parting the grass in some way my pastor would akin to the Red Sea, and I sink slowly to the ground, minding my pleated skirt as my eyes point towards those imposing statues of light that dot my left side. The school maintenance man – balding and fat, with a greasy, pinstriped shirt and beady eyes – throws up the switch, bathing the field of painted lines and polished goal posts in brightness as I watch, enthralled. They stretch up towards the sky and I trace them for a moment as I settle into the smell of hot rubber and earth, wondering who ever thought to erect such things. Such things that soar into the sky like birds, and yet remain bolted to the ground - cold, solid, there.

It seems to me that such things would be contradictory in and of themselves, but I suppose not. I suppose many things are burdened, yet choose to imitate another in some odd, twisted, sad attempt at verisimilitude in order to feel a bit of peace. I suppose this is natural – this feeling of solitude, of longing, of complete irrelevance, all packaged in a simple, convincing box.

Looking out further, beyond the towers, I note the small crowd clustered around a tentative swell in the earth. I watch as they climb the side of the grassy place and approach the crest, spreading blankets and passing bits of food amongst themselves as they reach it. My brother, one of six, sits beside his girlfriend, her back pressed against his chest as they hold out his cell phone, presumably taking a picture. I watch as she leans in, pressing her cherry lips to his cheek - leaving a dark stain after the camera catches. Their timbre drifts across to me and I pull my knees to my chest, allowing my tapered chin to meet their knobbiness.

Watching their exchanges, my eyes droop lower, fanning across the high grass, drifting across the sun soaked earth. The wind whistles through the stalks that slightly conceal my body from the scene around me. Boys - all burly young boys, with tight hamstrings and defined jaws - hold their arms stiff by their sides as they stride after their prospective coach, who stalks out from beneath their stadium bleachers. A few, I note with a small, restrained smile, can’t help but glance back, taking in their imposing form.

Rising above the gridiron with a stately air one would not assume such things could present, the bleachers are both a stoic witness and a roaring cheer - sturdy solidarity reassuring under sneaker-clad feet. It’s quite easy, I find, to be struck by their grandeur in the warm, 5 o’clock light. Refractions meet my eyes as I gaze and I can almost feel their swell of pride, of nerves, swooping in my own stomach as the players form a rough line.

Breath fanning gently across my shins as I sigh, I find myself spreading the grass further apart with the toes of my sneakers - inclining forward in a half attempt at gathering what the coach is saying. He stands at the forty five yard line, arms crossed over his blue nylon chest, pacing from the thirty to the fifty. Scowl etched onto his face like stone, the man is known for his brutal seasons. The boys keep coming back.

My father never got himself a football player. His time on the field for himself had set off something in him that desired one the way others might desire a winning lottery ticket or an expensive car. And yet, throughout all the years, he’d only acquired two hunters, one genius, three runners, and me.

When I was young - just passed my seventh birthday, rounding the plate towards eighth - I used to steal away to our shed at night, nicking the padlock the way I’d seen my brothers go about it, and trail my finger along the dusty, splintered shelves until I found exactly - exactly - what I had been looking for. Tired and more than a bit old, my father’s football sat, only slightly compressed against the flat of the wood. The stitches were pulled in odd, out of the way places and my young - so young - fingers traced over the sweat-blackened laces with a reverence I had no words for yet.

The wheat field behind our modest home was my own personal field. It was my gridiron solely for passes caught by kernels and dodges avoiding stalks. The plays enacted on my father’s distant television games came alive that night when I trudged into the wheat field, ball underhand, pajamas rucked up to keep the mud off.

I was free during those nights - fireflies following my footsteps in the wading flora and warm, heady air floating up to me as I whittled the dark away running, playing under an endless sky. I was free to run, free to fly, free to tumble through rough plant, a worn, leather ball clutched to my chest.

A whistle - shrill, hard, somehow sweet - sounds in the flat plain of the field. I glance up from where my eyes had fallen to the toes of my shoes, finding Coach’s rough figure against the sinking sun of this early September day. Standing before such a line of young men - all tense, all strong, all boys in my vision - the man looks no less like some army general, some man sent to organize the chaos and fit it together again just the same.

My father – one day after a failed fishing trip that I, nor my mother, were invited to – told me that I was conceived on a bottle red wine and some almost-spoilt imported cheese that had been festering since my Aunt Dorothy’s vacation to the Riviera. I remember not grasping the concept until much later, after which I proceeded to contemplate it for a long while.

I’d never been intended – that much had been quite clear from the very beginning. In my younger years, it had seemed to me that my father simply preferred to ignore my consciousness altogether. Polaroid photographs and family portraits never placed my father alongside his only daughter. Pages read under the light of stick-on glow stickers had never captured his voice and his knife never strayed to my plate, the meat there finding its end in my mother’s shaky grip. Each passing year and another tally was added next to my scrawled ‘Jacqueline’ on our aged refrigerator as my father sat with the paper, sipping his blackened coffee under the harsh light of our kitchen lamp.

I love my father the way every daughter can only love her father – purely, simply, and without preamble. I want to spend an afternoon hidden among the reeds and conifers as line after line finds its prey - and my father sits, content, and tells me about his childhood and we can bring that fresh catch home for my mother to make up for dinner. I want to make my father beam with pride, reaching over the mitten-warmed fingers and half full styrofoam cups of hot cocoa, to yell across the cheering row, That’s it - right there! That’s my girl! I want his fingers to curl around the back of my head as he holds me to his chest and whispers in my ear, You were exactly what they needed tonight. You were exactly what I needed.

I stand. The grass around me protests, clinging to my legs, pulling at the skin there but I pay no mind, inclining to Coach’s yell across the battlefield.

“Last call for tryouts, boys!”

I carry myself to the edge of the grass. The reeds shift, slide, eliciting their own whistles in my wake as I climb closer to the rim. My father’s voice, booming, resounds in my eardrum as the edge of the field grows closer, the grass falling further to my back.

I never once heard a woman say something intelligent. Making my life harder - that’s all you’re interested in.

You’re a girl, Jacqueline. Put your brother’s toys away.

Your mother needs help tonight. Stay home and do what she says, you hear?

Eloise, why would I spend good money on an extra ticket? Girls and baseball just don’t mix. God knows she’d probably sit there bored anyway.

I wanted my boy. I wanted my football player.

I meet the trim of the red rubber track, Red Sea still parting.

Ducks? Life clocks? For Whom the Bell Tolls?

Featuring a new scene, a couple of tools, and an ever-so-slightly re-worked ending.

Rain pounded steadily down as the medical examiner descended the stained marble steps to the city morgue, fixing his beaten old hat over his still-thick, salt-and-pepper hair.  The bell tower across the street tolled, alerting the world that six o’clock had arrived.

He took the stairs instead of the elevator, though more out of habit than choice.  It didn’t really matter anymore.  I’m sorry, the doctor’s voice echoed through his head.

He’d understood.  How long? he’d asked, a crushing feeling descending through his stomach.

At best? the doctor’s eyebrows creased. Probably two months.

“Hey, doc,” a voice from below broke through his mental haze.  The medical examiner waved quickly at the police officer, pasting a smile across his face.

“Got something waiting for me down there?” he asked, his accent obscuring any tremors in his voice.

“Yeah, real weird one actually,” the police officer shook his head, “twenty-nine, dropped dead.  No one’s quite sure why.”

“Should be interesting,” the medical examiner replied.

He went through his preparations mechanically, adjusting the body on the table until it was perfectly placed under the hanging light and aligning every tool in order of use.  Scalpel first, he thought, rib cutters next, Hagedorn needle last.  The dead man’s eyes followed him, cracked open as if spying through a window.  The examiner gently slid them shut.

“I guess I should be happy for the two months,” he said to the body as he readied the scalpel.  “I’m sure you would be.”

As he made the first incision, his mind began to drift.

The screen door slammed as the boy careened out, following his sister into the warm summer night.  Little flashing lights blinked in and out of existence, hanging suspended above the ground, defying time.  He reached out and plucked a light from the air, watching the tiny black bug crawl along his finger, unfazed, before lifting off.

Enthralled, he dashed down the sidewalk, watching the lights flutter around him.  Every few seconds he’d reach out and cup his hand around one, watching the fire blink out as the bug closed its wings and reignite as it took flight.

“Oh no!” he heard his sister’s voice, saw her looking down at the ground a few steps in front of him.  He knelt down, knees brushing the rough concrete.  The firefly lay there, trembling faintly, its wings crushed and its brilliant light slowly withering away.  He moved closer, fascinated but with no idea why, as it extinguished.

The medical examiner jolted himself out of his stupor, his hand halfway through the first incision.  He looked around for a moment, wondering where his assistant had run off to before realizing that he’d called in sick.  Maybe I should have done that, he thought.  But, the dead wait for no one.

He finished the incision in one fluid stroke, paused, and added two more to form a Y from the shoulders to the pelvis.  As he was about to peel back the skin and muscle, he realized he’d forgotten to wear his face shield, and absentmindedly grabbed it from the table.

Focus.  You’re not dead yet, he berated himself, and picked up the rib cutters.  Twenty-four snaps later, he carefully withdrew the broken bones and reached into the dead man’s chest, cupping the silent heart in his hands.  For a split second, there seemed to be movement beneath his fingers.

Shaking his head, he went back to work, severing darkened arteries and connective tissues with practiced speed and caution, smelling the familiar, slightly-metallic tang of blood as it entered the air.  After slicing the final stringy fiber, he cut the heart from the lungs and placed it on the hanging scale.  Surprisingly small, it oozed a tiny dribble of blood onto the polished metal, self-compressing as the silver platter settled.

Three-hundred grams, he scrawled on his notepad, normal.

He lifted the heart from the scale, giving it its own spot on a second table.  Where it had once pumped inside the man’s glistening chest cavity, he could just glimpse the bright white line of the spine, hidden under the remaining organs like a camouflaged snake.

The bell tower rang faintly in the distance, signaling nine o’clock.

Sharp grassy fronds whipped around his knees as he dashed through the park on his way home from school, the near-summer air hanging heavily like an invisible fog.  The day behind him, his mind was fixed on the future.  There was a dance on Saturday, the last one of middle school.  Tomorrow, tomorrow he would ask her to go.

“Gotcha!” he heard a voice from his left and spun to see a group of three boys.  One was standing back, his face bloodless with fear.  Another was watching with fascination as the third held up a wriggling garter snake, its body thrashing from side to side as it tried to escape the boy’s grip.

“Dude, get rid of it,” the pale one shook his head, “those things’ll kill you.”

“Sure about that?” the other grinned.  In one fluid movement, he snapped the snake’s fragile spine.

The boy who had watched, fascinated by the fading of a firefly’s light on a slate gray sidewalk, felt something clench inside his stomach as that thin crack echoed around the park.  From a distance, it looked as if the snake were still wiggling, still trying to escape, but its lopsided head affirmed the story the sickening sound had already told.

The medical examiner looked down at the blank report, blinking at the box labeled cause of death.  For a second, he almost wrote down fractured C1 vertebra, but caught himself before pen touched paper.  Natural causes, he scrawled, cerebral aneurysm.

Time bombs, those things, he remembered one of his med school professors announcing to a sleepy lecture hall.  Millions of people don’t know they have them, little life clocks inside their heads, waiting for the right trigger.

He shook his head and placed the pen atop the remaining pages, deciding to finish the rest from his notes the next morning.  After one last glance at the now-empty table, he flipped on his hat and headed for the door.

A few moments later, he exited the darkened building into the muggy night.  The rain had stopped, but the pavement was still dark with moisture, exhaling that thick musty smell that the medical examiner found strangely comforting.  Beside the steps was a black metal bench, damp with rainwater.  Without a second thought, he sat, placing his hat down beside him and gazing up at the shadowy tower across the street.

The bell began to toll.

The ripples lapped lazily against the pond’s muddy banks as he watched the family of ducks swim contentedly through the murky water.  It was a large family, twelve ducks that it seemed he’d known ever since he could see.  Some were young, bright yellow adolescents that had appeared as chicks that spring, while others were beginning to gray, their plumage growing fragmented and sparse.  His sister had never understood why he spent so much time watching a family of ducks in the pond across the street, and he’d never found the words to explain.

As he watched, one of the ducks began to flap its wings, taking off from the water and launching itself into the cloudless sky.  A faint autumn chill crept through the air, signaling to the rest of the family that it was time to move south.

One by one, the ducks ascended into the evening sky, hovering over the church at the end of the street as they waited for the rest of their flock.  He watched them fade, looking forward to the day the next spring when he would see them return.

Soon he was left with one solitary duck, the oldest of the bunch, swimming through the calm water as its brothers and sisters winged south.  The boy watched the duck, waiting for it to rise up and join its family in the sunset.  And, at times, he could swear the duck was gazing back, its dark, tired eyes telling a solemn story.

“Dinner!” he heard his mother call from across the street.

He took one last glance at the duck as it wandered around the peaceful pond.  Then, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d held, the boy turned and headed home.

Life and Life

                The sounds of shouting and laughter wafted with the breeze, floating away from the three who created them. “Remind me, again, why we’re here,” Quinton asked.

                “Because it’s fun!” was Petrichor’s reply.

                Acelynn, head cocked to the side, and considered their friend. “You’re not afraid, are you? There’s really nothing that can harm you here. Other than what can normally harm you, anyway.” She turned and looked at the field scattered with stones and monuments ahead. “It’s really peaceful actually.”

                Quinton met her gaze with that half mad grin of his, though not, she noticed, without some apprehension in his eyes. “Psychological harm, Lynn, psychological harm.”

                Acelynn’s sister pushed herself into the surprisingly small space between them. “Come on. It’s actually really interesting. It’s history. Besides, you never know when an undead being will show up and we’ll get to rekill it.” Acelynn shot her a disapproving glance, almost instantly replaced by laughter. That musical laughter of hers dazed Quinton long enough for the two girls to grab his wrists and take off running, dragging him well into the sea of weather beaten stones before letting go.

Petrichor walked over to a life sized statue of a cat that rested within the roots of a tree and swiped her hand across the back of its head. Acelynn smiled. “She always does that.”

“Why?”

“She just does.”

“I meant, why a cat? In a cemetery.”

Acelynn shrugged. “Don’t know.” Quinton knew he would have to accept that. For now.

The sisters moved among the stones, the elder gliding along, the younger more like a hiker upon the uneven ground. He watched the two of them with fascination. They were so at ease in this home of the deceased. Acelynn hesitated pensively by an angel with partial wings; Petrichor dropped to a crouch when she noticed a pot of artificial flowers. Quinton took a step, finding the ground surprisingly hard and level. Looking down, his face took on an odd color, simultaneously reddening from embarrassment and paling from fear. The headstone was small and flat, barely visible above the ground. The letters, once marking what poor soul (whose body) rested here, were worn completely away from age and weather. Quinton was amazed that his friends had referred to this place as “peaceful” and “fun”. It was impossibly creepy.

Why was he so afraid? It’s not like the dead could come back and hurt him. They were simply rotting corpses, bodies that, for one reason or another, no longer sent electrical impulses from the brain, through the spinal cord, to the ends of nerves or translated those impulses to movement. They were like old computers that could no longer turn on. They would never again do anything, change anything. So why did he feel like they would?

Acelynn called over to the others, her soft voice carried by the gathering wind. They all gathered in front of a tomb, covered mostly by a mound of dirt and grass, with only the front and a vent like an old fashioned metal chimney from a potbellied stove protruding from the top. “Here lies John Hummel, buried 1878,” announced Petrichor. “I’ve always wanted to get through that door. It’s open, but the hinges are rusted shut or something; it won’t move an inch.”

Quinton examined the door, glad to have some details to distract him from his surroundings, a puzzle to solve. His maddened mischief returned to his face a little. The wrought iron door was stuck about an inch out of the doorframe. The lock appeared rather complex. A vent pipe on top sticking out of what seemed to be ground. As he walked around there were holes in what little exposed architecture there was, but, thankfully, he couldn’t see in.

While this was going on, Acelynn climbed the mount to the top. The overgrown grass and other weeds tickled her exposed legs. She was glad to see her friend put somewhat at ease. She brought him here because she’d thought he would love it, like her and her sister. Acelynn found peace; Petrichor found excitement; both found adventure. She’d hoped he wouldn’t spend the entire time scared. It was good to see him lost in his mysteries and details.

She herself had never been scared by gravesites. Even as a child, she enjoyed visiting them. For most of her life, her mother had called one her place of residence after all. You’d think that would make her dislike the place that had claimed her mother, but it only made her like them more. This was the place that offered her mother a home after she was taken away by death. Acelynn knew, now, that it was really only her body in the grave, that soul lived on, but she herself knew only this life, the material world. It was a comfort to know her mother’s body had a home, for now.

Acelynn was now standing on the edge of the tomb. She was soon joined by Petrichor on one side; Quinton climbed up (noticing a chip in the top of the gray stone revealing a brick sized patch of red) and stood on the other. She stood and looked out at the view. The wind was really blowing now, the sky a puffy grey mass, sure signs of an approaching storm. Her auburn hair whipped front, then doubled back launching a vicious attack on her face. She couldn’t help but throw head back and laugh, exhilarated by the swirling atmosphere of wind and spirits.

Quinton shoved his dark spikes of hair out of his eyes. Maybe he would come back one day. He wanted figure out what secrets the stone cat and John Hummel, 1878 held.

Petrichor had shut her clear green soda-glass eyes and soaked in the feel of the storm. The fresh, sweet smell of recently cut grass, and the almost eerie animal silence. Nothing but the presence of her sister and friend (and perhaps, even part of her mother) and the wind and the presage of the storm remained. The wind, rapidity greatened by either proximity of the storm or height off the ground or both, carried on it excitement and change, maybe tragedy or maybe hope. Maybe not zombies or ghosts to battle, but definitely something wonderful. Disasters were horrible. But also beautiful, just for the movement and fluidity of life. All endings lead to beginnings. Even in a cemetery, life has not completely stopped. Time does not end here, but continues to include the house of the dead.

Death does not end life.

 

Krimrov

Krimrov

            It was the latter part of the 19^th century Europe and Japan have taken part in great imperialism in China and Africa. I have heard about these conquests of great amounts of land and the violent wars that followed, but one smaller war for imperialism in Mongolia would not have changed much in the world. Instead it changed me and my comrades’ outlook on life.

             I am Peter Krimrov, native of Russia and involved in a war between Japan and France for territory in Mongolia. The war began in 1871 and has been going on for four years now, and from the looks of it, Russia is going to be the first one out. Our new Czar Barkenov IV is a true Russian nationalist, we do give him credit for industrializing Russia and adopting the new steam technology, but the only reason he’s involved in the war is not for imperialism, but only because he doesn’t want the “inferior nations” to border Russia. I would have loved to avoid this war at all costs, but I am one of the few men who knows how to employ a hissing tread, there aren’t a lot of men who can drive a hissing tread, and the Russian corporal Bridgokov told me that I either have to drive it in the war, or I will be executed for showing cowardice.

            Anyway, there I was on my hissing tread, one man arming the front guns, two men arming the side guns, another man shoveling coal and then there’s me, driving it. While driving it in an abandoned field in Urumqi, I began to strike up a conversation with Ivan, the front gunner when suddenly we were ambushed by the Japanese and their flying machines known as “The Meiji’s Wings”, seeing as how it was powered by coal I told Ivan to shoot at its coal supply so it could burn down. He fired blindly into the cabin of the Meiji Wings and didn’t let up until he saw a roaring fire envelop the cabin. The Meiji Wings then crashed down into the ground with such force and heat that even its wings made of steel melted and poured down into the soil of the Earth. I congratulated Ivan on a job well done and then I told my men that we could rest knowing that the threat of the air is no more.   

            So, it was the five of us on our hissing tread, resting and letting the engine cool down for a bit when one of the side gunners fell asleep and accidentally shot a couple of rounds. I was hoping for a quiet hour for myself and my men, but now it seems we have gotten the attention of the French and they were coming over in large numbers. So we fired up the treads and loaded the front gun with a Moscow Bullet, a bullet full of gaseous Potassium Sulfate that sets off when it has reached its target. Ivan shot the bullet into a French soldier and 2 seconds later and greenish-yellow gas came out of his wound and after a few minutes of coughing and choking, the French group of soldiers was dead.

            After our experience with the Meiji Wings and the French soldiers the sergeant told us to head back to camp and rest up for tomorrow, because we are going to be fighting on a major battle in which our generals dubbed “The Romanov Charge”. Our coal shoveler, Jacob, just sat there trying to take it all in, Jacob grew up in a pacifist household and would not have joined this war if given the chance, but it was mandatory for a Hissing Tread shoveler to be enlisted or face death. Jacob just looked with a blackened face to me and asked how large the battle was going to be, I told him all I knew, we were going up against the French and the Japanese, from the look on Jacob’s face I still wonder to this day if he soiled himself. 

The next day we were there in a Mongolian pasture waiting for the battle. The only sounds that filled the air was the hissing of the hissing treads as their shovelers loaded their furnaces with massive amounts of coal. As the hissing grew louder everybody knew that this was going to be a long bloody battle. Guns and bombs were strategically placed, steam machinery waiting to be filled up with coal then belch out steam and soldiers trying to figure out if they will live to see another day. When the generals gave the order, all hell broke loose, bullets were flying and exploding, chemical gas clouds choked soldiers to death, Hissing treads and Meiji Wings filled up the battlefield and me, well I’m just in here with my crew trying to not get blown to smithereens.

Our hissing tread just stayed stationary while the infantry did all the work for us, although they weren’t pushing back the other armies, they were doing a good job of holding them off. I told Jacob to lay easy on the coal while I told Ivan and the side gunners, Marcus and Riley to just shoot when necessary, but that necessary meant that they would be shooting about every two minutes or so. Although Jacob was a pacifist he couldn’t help but talk to the gunners about what they were really doing, “It’s just immoral to shoot someone like that, these are people that have families and homes and you’re just shooting them as if they were deer.” Jacob said. But Ivan replied “We may be handling the bullets, but you’re the one who’s powering this machine”. Jacob could not help but think that this was true, I then told everyone that we are all doing our part in operating this contraption, but the least we can do with it is try to survive inside of it while also obeying the Czar’s criminally insane orders, which kind of discouraged everyone. So Ivan, Marcus and Riley kept shooting while I and Jacob shared a bottle of Gin, of course the gunners wanted some as well, so we gave it to them, then we all had a gay old time telling stories and jokes to each other. Riley told us the joke about the bartender and the Cossack and Jacob told us about the time he crossed the Ural Mountains just to prove that he could. We all had another round of Gin, but that’s when we all started getting a little tipsy, I told everyone that we should let everyone who wants to fight in the war fight, but I will drive us all to freedom and safety. Good thing I was drunk and didn’t mean it or else we all would be in really big trouble, we all had one more round before we blacked out, and I swear the last thing I heard before blacking out was a new language I had not heard while on the battlefield.

 When we woke up, everything was quiet; we just sat there trying to figure out what was going on. Did we win? Lose? Did everyone kill each other? We have no idea, but what happened next was that a soldier from the Ottoman Empire told us to come out of the treads and go with them. I could not believe what happened! The Ottomans launched a surprise attack and wiped out all the other armies, but what will they do with us? They pointed their guns at us and took as prisoners, and that’s when I found out that Jacob really had soiled himself.

The Turks loaded us into this cart drawn by horses and put Jacob, Ivan, Marcus, Riley and I in the back part of it while the Turks got in the front part. Seeing as how Riley went to the Ottoman Empire a few years ago, he knows the most about and continues to follow their current events, he told us about Sultan Ismahil Badoun II and how he was not very welcoming to foreigners, especially Russians. The Turks told us that they would be taking us to Istanbul to be put in the special interrogation/prison camp known as Camp Güҫlü or powerful. Riley told us at how it was one of their most notorious prison camps and that most men who enter don’t leave, or even if they do leave they are covered in scars and are even more scarred in their minds. Jacob said jokingly that their putting all this money into torturing foreigners when they could use the money to relieve their tax debts*.

*This is a true piece of history because by this point the Ottoman Empire had put so much money into reforming their military and defenses that might have been better off relieving taxes.