Why I Love to Run #57

In the wee hours,

as morn whittles away the night,

In that darkness,

a little before dawn's light,

It seems crazy,

but it's when I like to run.

I can move like a ghost through the world as I get my workout done.

And even more is the random chance to see,

The rare and perhaps extraordinary.

Why just this morning,

as I ambled down a cold,

empty street,

I had the opportunity,

shock really,

to suddenly greet,

A creature that I couldn't believe was actually real,

It bobbed along the asphalt like a little lost seal.

Now to be sure,

my edge of suburbia is basically a swamp.

It's crisscrossed with waterways where all manner of animals tromp.

But I was stunned and so was my little friend.

We both stopped in our tracks to silently comprehend,

How we came to meet in this random way,

Staring dumbly at each other with not a thing to say.

And then the little beast turned tail and fled,

With survival in mind,

Or possibly dread.

It tottered away in a wobbly flash.

I gave chase,

of course,

but I'm no good in a dash.

I was hot on its trail,

like a dog on the scent,

But I lost that perp,

I had no idea where it went.

I was left with nothing,

just a story to tell.

At least the rest of my run went well.

It was like something straight from a police blotter,

This morning,

when I came face to face with an otter.

10-29-19

Right Where You Stand

Right where you stand, that ground you walk upon, imagine the innumerable things that little piece of land has seen.

Perhaps it is sacred ground, hallowed, even. Maybe the ground you tread is the site of some notable historic moment. Or maybe, like me, it's just one of the millions of square miles of Earth that has, since the beginning, been silent witness to the turning of the universe. Just a piece of Earth's vast acreage, somewhere on the outskirts of any ol' town, like Sacramento, say. Imagine if this unassuming dirt could talk. Just imagine. Go back through time. Go back, back, back.

Darkness.

Hmm, just before the spark that ignited infinite galaxies. Perhaps that's a bit too far. OK, moving forward with a bang a few billion years...

Through those years, this material that will become unassuming dirt is surrounded by molten rock, thrust upward, exploding into a hellish landscape of unstable existence, only to be subsumed once again by cataclysmic upheaval and endless reformations. In time, long slow time, it cools, collects dust and volcanic ejecta. Then, with the atmosphere cooling down, water starts to fall. This is something new! This water floods the land and eventually there is darkness once again, but in the darkness there is movement. The presence of wiggling and bumping. Yes, an eager bumbling and thrashing about! Life in fits and starts. A fumbling toward something else, something rEvolutionary!

But in the meantime, floods and dry spells. Greenery covers anything with dirt in small threads at first, and then the myriad of growth from shrubs to the tallest trees take root, spreading far and wide. This is the land, telling about lifting up, crashing down. Volcanoes always threatening.

Given the ability, this spot of land could tell tales of the unfolding of time. Oceans coming and going. Mountains rising and falling, with new peaks stretching toward the sky. More volcanic rumblings. This spot could tell of meandering riverbeds, drifting this way and that, unhindered by man. It could speak to the cycle of flood waters that doused this land with fertile soil and made an Edenic garden, swollen with potential, like the rivers themselves, so swollen with silt and the glittering flakes that will one day drive future man insane.

If given opportunity, this spot could converse factually about prehistoric beasts, sagging under their own weight, lumbering toward extinction. It could tell of a time when woolly mammoth and saber cats passed, uneasily eyeballing each other, unaware of the two-legged threat just around that ice sheet. It could describe the flora and fauna of millennia. It could mimic the song of the yellow-billed magpie, the desperate wail of the coyote, and the low, satisfied grumblings of the occasional bear.

Given the chance, this ground could attest to the coming of the first humans to this valley. How they walked gingerly onto this spot, exploring, adapting, surviving, following the deer and the rabbit. It could bear witness to the comings and goings of these new creatures and how they settled into this place and gave it a name, Natomas, though the ancient name, unknown to all but the very Earth, remains unspoken. This ground could share how these humans made feasts of acorns and how they passed in and out of the world, like the clouds, for thousands of years.

It is possible that from this very spot the beginning of a new era could have been witnessed as tired, half-starved men on horseback ventured past. This random location could tell of tall-masted ships that appeared floating on the rivers to the south, first one, and then dozens. In time, this ground would relate, how new people from every corner of the globe, stricken with a golden fever, infested the land, driving off the first people, chasing away the animals, and constructing a new domain. This ground would also complain about how they all: Just. Kept. Coming.

And how they come here still.

This ground could tell stories of leviathans to rival the dinosaurs that came chugging and gasping into view, lurching down from the mountains, blasting black smoke into the sky. It could describe the whistles and bells of the riverboats, and how, if the wind was just right you could hear the churning of the paddle wheels in the everflowing rivers of silt all the way over here. It could describe the new-fangled gasoline-fed vehicles that putt-putted with abandon hither and yon. This patch of uninteresting earth could describe with wonder how those vehicles changed their spots faster then any animal this ground had ever seen.

This land, if gifted with voice, would describe how it was turned and tilled, grazed and fallowed for years. It could describe with hilarious detail how the people ran in a panic as some nearby volcanic giant blew its top for the first time in ten-thousand years, reminding them that this world is impermanent and prone to sudden change, but usually it's almost imperceptible. It would speak enviously of parts of the valley that received raining bits of smoking lava while it received none.

It would whine about being scraped flat and smooth, creating a long, straight gash that buzzing birds used to touch down out of the wild blue. Perhaps, this ground would casually tell of its meager brush with fame when silent film star Buster Keaton flew in on one of those buzzing birds and jumped out onto the dirt, walking on shaky legs across this very spot to make a movie.

This little plot, it could describe the comings of roads and highways, the rise of downtown buildings that rival the distant mountain peaks. It could spin yarns of roving youth on BMX bikes looking for thrills. It would relate tales of surreptitious figures lurking in night-shadowed fields looking to shotgun beers from cans that they squashed and left to deteriorate. This land, if you could hear it, would tell of new houses and families growing up nearby. It could relate, in detail the coming of an immense structure that brought basketball and loud concerts, along with thousands of vehicles and shuffling feet to this quiet corner of the city. This patient ground would tell of calling out the name displayed on its side, Arcoa Rena, but to no avail. (Yes, the land understands language, it just can't speak.) This ancient land would talk disappointedly of being saddled with a mute behemoth, frenemies from the start.

This ground, it could talk endlessly about the loneliness of this outpost north of the city, except on game days or when Ozzy came to town. It might share the stories of lonely travelers streaking past on the highway in the grey light of dawn, how they gazed at that improbable arena in sleep-deprived disbelief, wondering why on Earth it made sense to anyone to build it there. This random spot on a randomly lucky planet in a random and unstable universe could tell so much, if only it could speak. It could describe current events or how it watched its neighbor, the arena, take on a new name and then, one day, go dark, how more identical homes sprouted, and a little school was built right here.

This ground, so old and wise, might chuckle a little when one of those same early morning travelers, all grown up, came to work at that little school many years later.

This ground, a potentially excellent conversationalist without vocal capability, might relate how strange it is to see all of time, knowing that in time everything will change. Surely, this ground would speak confidently on the subject of how one day all of it will crumble, and shuffle, and be riven into dust only to be reformed into the next patch of land. And this little bit of earth would smile, if it could, thinking of all the stories it will tell then.

10-25-19

Yeah, I Read the Book

I'm a certified book lover,

All the truths we can discover,

It's been my habit for quite some time.

All these novels and rhymes,

A distraction divine,

I love every word some authors write.

But it hit me tonight,

Between the eyes just right,

As to why I have read all of these books.

It wasn't the knowing looks,

As I perused tomes on wizards or crooks,

And other assorted and strange topics.

Both of Miller's Tropics,

90s authors strung out on ironics,

And numerous works of non-fiction.

I had no idea it was not my own edification,

But for the coming education:

Yes, the learnin' of my dear little spawn.

They speak with knowing yawns,

Of adultish rights and wrongs,

But they don't have the depth to dive in.

As if there's no better time to be alive in,

I mean they missed cassette tapes and the drive-in,

And they believe every thing they think is correct.

Fortuitous preparation in full effect,

On far ranging subjects I can direct,

My little ones to the waters of truth.

And with scientific proof,

We can learn and debate, forsooth!

We develop sound arguments of reason.

So, all those pages of love and treason,

Dangerous archaeology in every season,

Have prepared me well for just now.

When my middle schooler wonders why and how,

And my high schooler is just, like, wow!

I know the library of my mind will have the answer.

10-24-19

A Friendly Ear is Hard to Find

"I need to find friends my own age," Sebastian Tindelbaugh says to no one in particular. Sebastian, considering himself a great, if not marvelous, conversationalist, remains steadfastly unconcerned with audience. He believes that listeners will gather 'round in the manner of Twainian story-tellers or street performers, who seem to accrue a crowd like weeds to a garden left untended.

"It's on about now," he continues, "that you find yourself kind of alone, not lonely, mind you, just sort of in a deficit of familiar faces. As a veteran of the world; I mean fifty-six is gettin' on. I'm pretty well established, but I've noticed that the trusted comrades, all those folks who knew me when and well, have started to shuffle off or just, maybe drift. Nothing can be done. This is the way of the world. We ebb and flow, you know?"

His question, low-rent rhetorical, of course, goes unanswered. Sebastian Tindelbaugh shifts uncomfortably in the momentary silence. His big-box brand sneakers squeak quietly under the strain. He is all too aware that his athletic socks are digging into his shins. He clears his throat, mindlessly scratching the paunch drooping over his waistband like a Quebecois fur-trapper's trophy of pelts.

"We're all on our own adventure, you see," Tindelbaugh states. "Sometimes you have traveling companions, but then, I don't know. There's a fork in the old road or something. You go one way, everybody else chooses their own path. Maybe they're lost. Maybe you are, but not for long, right? Anyway, you find the forest is unfamiliar and populated with new folks, different, though not unfriendly, but they're on their own adventure too, so, like, you're speaking different languages. Everyone is a stranger. It's hard." He sighs. Looks around. No one seems particularly interested.

"You do anything long enough," he presses on. "And you become an oddity, maybe. They. Younger folks is who I mean, no offense, mind you. They look at you as sort of pleasantly out of touch or maybe, uninformed, like I haven't lived on the Earth for some time." The word pathetic pops into his mind, but he refuses to utter such a thing. Sebastian Tindelbaugh absolutely refuses to attend pity-parties, even his own.

"Pay attention, now," he says. "This is important," he nods knowingly, but doesn't wait for any response. "There's a difference between being stubborn and knowledgeable, sort of, uh, well-versed, you know? I mean, I'm not over-the-hill, I still got a lot left in the tank. I got some things to share, but too often, I get treated like some kind of dinosaur. I'm not, you know? A dinosaur. I'm-"

"Like I said, your order is all ready, sir," the kid says, interrupting. The kid sets Sebastian's sandwiches on the counter and turns to help the next customers without another thought.

"Thanks," Sebastian says, blinking back the, what is it? Tears? No, never! The isolation? "No one listens anymore," he says quietly.

Out in the car, his daughter opens her sandwich, shakes her head.

"I said no cheese!" she complains.

"Must'a forgot," Sebastian replies.

"No one listens anymore," she mocks, though it's pretty clear she has someone in mind.

10-18-19

Bar Soap

It's a body-wash era,

This modern world is.

So,

I know,

It's old-fashioned,

But to me,

There's nothing,

Really,

Quite like a fresh,

New bar of soap,

Representing cleanliness,

Beginnings,

Second-chances,

Not to mention hygiene.

A fragrant,

(Though unscented),

Bar of soap,

Recently unboxed,

Birthed deliberately from cardboard,

Reliably waiting,

Shower silent,

In the morning darkness,

Is a revelation.

That is,

Of course,

If,

(And it is a questionable if),

You have taken the time to replenish,

Previously,

Over the course of spouse-away days,

With no one to go and retrieve.

Each morning,

In bleary-eyed suffering,

Showers of soap scraps,

Tiny slippery slivers,

So difficult to hold onto,

Turning the act of cleaning up into a weird,

And frustrating,

Game of hide and seek.

So,

There you are,

Blindly rinsing shampooed hair,

Reaching across the gulf,

In the black rain of a pre-dawn shower,

Suddenly recalling the dire suds condition,

The leave-it-for-later lather roulette,

In short:

The self-imposed lack of soap.

And you are stuck,

Wondering if you've let yourself down,

Contemplating the whole,

Shut the shower off,

Half dry yourself then scoot,

Feet on towel,

Totally exposed,

Across bathroom to cupboard,

To negotiate cellophane and damp cardboard,

Then shuffle back to shower,

Freezing,

Facing a future of soggy,

Disappointing,

Already-damp-towel,

Only to have fingers find that you,

Have indeed,

(Thank the Almighty!),

Remembered.

10-17-19

Random Haiku #1

Infuriating,

seasons change without regard,

for poor souls like us.

10-15-19

Upon the Shelves in the Warehouse of My Mind

I believe that if you don't have anything nice to say...

I believe you shouldn't interfere in the lives of others.
I believe that you should mostly mind your own business.
I believe that if what you're doing works for you then you should just go on and do it.
I believe that we too often worry about what others may think.

I believe that on their deathbed no one will regret learning from their mistakes,
Or offending the neighbors,
Or staying up too late.

I believe that even if you don't like something,
Or disagree,
Or disapprove,
That you should still mind your own business.
Stay in your own lane,
If you will.

I believe reality is far stranger than fiction.
I believe you should believe what you want to believe,
Because it doesn't make any difference.
People will either agree with you,
Or they won't,
But I believe you can't worry about that.

I believe in truth.

I believe my opinion matters,
Sometimes,
But not always,
Actually,
Probably never,
Except to me.

I believe in justice.
I believe in right and wrong.

I believe in the good that resides inside us all,
Well,
In some people.
I believe most people are OK,
But some,
Hmm....

I believe that,
Sometimes,
You should keep your mouth shut.

I believe I forget that advice all the time.

I believe in the universal connectedness of humanity.
I believe we are stronger together.
I believe some people just don't get that.
I believe we have to help ourselves.
I believe you should lend a helping hand.

I believe we should not build our success upon the backs of others.

I believe hard work makes a difference.
I believe that sometimes hard work isn't enough.

I believe there is more than one way to do most things.
I believe some people are very particular about how things are done.
I believe that's called being obstinate.

I believe in honesty.
I believe in reckonings.

I believe your prayers are your own business,
As is who you love.

I believe age and experience are correlated,
But experience is not always dependent upon age.
I believe wisdom is achievable at any age.
I believe our society has a tendency to glorify youth,
Except when youth runs counter to established beliefs.
When that happens youth is viewed as being spoiled and ungrateful,
Misguided,
And under the influence of unsavory ideas.

I believe children are more capable than we give them credit for.

I believe that I now know less than I did.
I believe that I once had an over-inflated sense of my understanding of the universe.

I believe that love is just about all that matters in this life.
I believe that if you are charmed enough to have love in your life,
Well,
Congratulations,
Celebrate and thank your lucky stars.

I believe that you should always speak up for what's right,
Not what's popular,
Always.
I believe that is a difficult thing to do.

10-10-19

Mike & Gabe Hash It Out for the Umpteenth Time

"I'm so disappointed!" Mike grumbles, observing the invading tanks rolling across yet another border. "We never do anything anymore."

"It's all part of The Plan," Gabe says, making note of the battalions of soldiers involved in this latest incursion over what is essentially an imaginary line. "Who even uses tanks these days?" They both bank right to avoid an incoming air assault squadron. Moments later, their faces are ominously illuminated as the incendiary bombs erupt in what a crayon company might dub Apocalyptic Orange.

"All we do is watch, observe, maybe perform some minor interventions; very minor," Mike complains, ignoring Gabe's question. Small-arms fire sprays from alleyways, echoing off the buildings that have not already been reduced to rubble. "Remember the old days?"

"Don't start with the old days crap! This is the mission," Gabe says, changing altitude and angle for a better perspective. "What's that one thing that one guy wrote that soldiers in the movies always recite?"

"The 'do and die' thing?" Mike responds, nonchalantly taking evasive action to avoid a rogue RPG.

"Yeah."

"Tennyson."

"Right! Lord Tennyson, funny man," Gabe smiles. "Anyway, he had it on the nose. We just do the mission. It's not up to us to ask questions."

"So, your take is we just follow orders no matter the outcome?" Mike huffs, avoiding a column of dark, billowing smoke roiling into the sky.

"Do you see another way?" Gabe replies, taking notice of a well-executed flanking move on the part of the invading military. Opposing forces are in disarray.

"Obviously, I adhere to the Word of law, but when it comes to questionable outcomes, I'm not sure," Mike admits.

"You follow orders every time and you know it, because you know the stakes if you don't!" Gabe scoffs. "You've seen what happens when these things are questioned."

"So, whatever the directive you will just follow it blindly?" Mike says, unable to ignore the agonized cries below. He shifts to a higher position to cut the noise. 

"Well, you're technically in command, so yeah," Gabe says, his passively-aggressive tone patently undisguised.

"Here we go," Mike sighs.

"What? I'm just sayin' what's true and factual," Gabe says. "You're in command, so you call the shots. You're the one everyone looks to on these matters and..." Gabe trails off.

"Go on, say it!" Mike demands, just as an antiaircraft round goes off in the airspace nearby.

"Nevermind," Gabe says, checking his wings for flak damage.

"Say it!"

"Fine! You get all the press! None of the rest of us ever get mentioned." Gabe says in a rush.

"That isn't true in the slightest and you know it!" Mike chastises.

"Well, partly," Gabe responds, sullen, pretending to focus on a skirmish far across this latest battlefield. "You're usually the only one who gets the recognition. The rest of us are just kind of lumped together."

"C'mon, Gabe," Mike says. "All those accounts and writings are subjective. These things change over time and the real truth will come out. What we do isn't about glory and fame. It's about right and wrong. Good versus evil."

"Good versus evil, really? Then how come you don't do anything to set the record straight?" Gabe asks.

"What am I supposed to do?" Mike questions. "Start shouting from the rooftops that teamwork makes the dream work? That despite what you may have heard I am not the one in charge?"

"Exodus, 23:1, Mike!" Gabe says. He spots a platoon surrounding a family compound full of unarmed civilians. "Minor intervention?" he asks.

"I'm not spreading a false report!" Mike shouts. "Besides, you get plenty of press, Messenger!"

"Don't get mad," Gabe says. "What about that compound?"

"Negative," Mike says. "Just leave off the false report stuff, Gabriel. Besides, it's not like you don't have your own things."

"Like what?" Gabe asks innocently, maneuvering away from what can only be called an atrocity. 

"Oh-ho! So, now you don't like to toot your own horn, is that it?" Mike asks. "I'll leave it at that. Go ahead and take care of that bomb falling over that school," Mike points.

"That's such an unsavory thing to bring up," Gabe replies in disgust, performing a minor intervention.

"Well, you started it," Mike reminds. "I mean, I could be just as irritated by the fact that you kind of stole some of my thunder and you've never done anything to dispel the myth," Mike says, casually changing the trajectory of a few bullets, thus saving the lives of seventeen people fleeing the invasion. "That bomb you redirected hit a tank, by the way."

"Um, yeah, whoops," Gabe says. "As to who started it, Mike, are you kidding?" Gabe asks indignantly. "You're like millimeters from being The Holiness Itself. I mean, the stories are legend. You are virtually totally responsible for defeating the greatest scourge this side of Paradise! Even Jesus is in awe of you!"

"The Lord rebuke you!" the Archangel Michael says, raising his sword for the first time. Simultaneously, several dozen enemy combatants below have a change of heart and lay down their weapons as they each individually experience what would be described as epiphany by religious folk and cowardice by the likes of General Patton.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Gabriel pleads. "Don't get all I'll cast you out! on me!"

"I'm just kidding," Mike says with a laugh.

"Not funny," Gabe says.

"All I'm saying is everything gets confused, watered down over time," Mike says. "Like these folks down there. They'll see what and who they want. They'll see you or me or some other version that coincides with their belief system."

"To every season?" Gabe asks.

"No, not at all. It's just all so, so, so..." Mike searches for the words.

"Confusing?" Gabe asks.

"Sometimes, yes," Mike admits.

"I know," Gabe agrees. "I think things are just as confusing for the All-Seeing. I'm pretty sure we're off the map in terms of prophecy!"

"Seriously?" Mike asks, changing into a brilliant purple-blue light, the better to soothe the dying.

"Oh yeah," Gabriel says, raising his trumpet and striking a divine pose at just the right angle as to be haloed by the hazy sunshine. "This is an unprecedented time. Like no time ever before, actually. Well, that time when all the revolutions broke out was close, but really, this is all just flat-out bonkers!"

"Are we talking Armageddon time?" Mike asks excitedly.

"Don't get your hopes up," Gabe replies. "I don't even think They know what to think, like maybe They think just riding it out is the best course of action."

"Hmm," Mike hums. He is distracted by the destruction and suffering below. "Sad."

"Sad, indeed," Gabe agrees. "You ever wonder if it will change?" They fly higher, allowing others to take their place.

"I like to think maybe," Mike says.

"Even after all this time?" Gabe asks.

"Yes," Mike replies. "What else can I do?"

"You know, if you really want to do something," Gabe prods.

"Yeah?" Mike says.

"You could put out the word that we are many," Gabe tells him.

"You mean the archangel thing?" Mike asks.

"Yeah, archangels, plural, like specifically you're not the only one," Gabe says.

"Seek not the glory of man, Gabe!" Mike says, sending a nearby missile back toward its point of origin.

"I had to try," Gabe says sheepishly, spinning the horn on his finger and disarming the latest volley of artillery so that it crashes back to earth without detonating.

"Really, with the horn, though?" Mike asks. "You totally stole my thunder and you know it!"

10-9-19

Those Needling Thoughts

Each day is a chance for recompense.

At most,
That something matters is the hope.
That it all adds up,
In the end,
To something just north of trivial in scope.

The heart chases wild dreams.

At what point are they considered foolish?
At what point delusional and mulish?
And to what point can disillusionment be tolerated;
Passion and desire subordinated?

The mind makes mountains.

And they crash into the insatiable sea,
Carelessly,
Meaninglessly,
Ceaselessly.

Body and soul transitory.

So while I breathe I flail and bash.
I can be too rash.
One day æther and ash.
Forgive me,
Even as I refuse to spare myself the lash.

Universal truth.

All that is amounts to nothing.
So better it is to strive,
To be considered a never-was,
Rather than a never-tried.

10-8-19

October Mornings

Against a blood-orange sky,
Silohuetting distant peaks.
Drowsy Sierras rise and shine,
Shaking night from their summits.

Valley-bound,
But with each new day,
A glimpse of mysterious mountains,
Hulking,
Vast,
A child's idealized mountain range,
Painted with Halloween's pallette,
Everything appropriately October.

10-3-19

It's OK, It's Just the End

What are you supposed to do when you are no longer useful? Delinda Strunck wondered. That's what the lead panelist had said, without really saying it, in his calm, unconcerned voice.

"We find that you are unviable as a contributor to the common edification of society and are, in fact, a burden on the systems of support."

This can't be happening to me, Delinda thought to herself.

She was bound and jacketed, lying on a gurney, for her own safety, supposedly. Eyes bloodshot, unfocused, tears tapped out. She felt hollow. Her mind unspooled the sad movie of her life over the past few years.

Depressing, but unremarkable.

An endless parade of jobs, each one worse than the last. Her career as a teacher ended the moment interactive cerebral implants, (ICI), were finally efficient. The glitchy unreliability of earlier models resolved, once and for all, by BrumCon, the global AI collective responsible for ninety-four percent of all products and services. Now people merely uploaded files to learn anything and everything.

Want to learn a new language? Just purchase the software!

She'd been a restaurant attendant, vet technician, and a crematorium sweep. She'd spent time as a street ambassador for a series of small towns in the lower-Canadian upper-midwest. Delinda had worked as a professional funeral attendee, coffee shop greeter, and, punitively, as a DMV clerk. Each bit of employment eventually wore her down or evaporated.

Then, she'd been injured when the bus she was travelling in was hit by a mega-train. The foreign subsidiary insurers went bust. Medical debt overwhelmed her. Her credits dwindled. She lost her apartment. She couch-surfed until her friends disappeared. Finally, she ended up in a government shelter with no hope, where her name was added to the list.

Robots were supposed to make life better, but now, liquidation was the only option for many, including Delinda Strunck.

That's what the Governmental Operational Necessity Reassessment (GONR) Panel called it, liquidation. It was, in the words of the panel's literature, "a humane resolution for humans without further societal prospects or contributions."

At some point, aggressive unemployment, the unending homelessness that followed, all the hopelessly addicted masses became too much for societies across the globe. Rootless and useless folks, deemed dangerous by the governments of the world, posed a threat to the well-heeled and over-privileged. Something had to be done.

Solutions were sought.

Rules on child-bearing, birth control, reeducation, retraining, relocation, voluntary imprisonment, involuntary suicide, all met with limited success and mostly varying degrees of failure. With rising threats and ruling class hysteria, some countries disintegrated. In some, tyrants took matters into their own hands. Others simply devolved into wholesale civil war and from there, wanton slaughter.

Delinda stared at the ceiling, she knew it would all be over soon. She replayed her morning, waiting for her appointment with the GONR Panel. It was surreal. She found it hard to believe that this was happening to her.

She'd always been such a hard worker.

"You ever wonder why they teach all that dystopian literature in school?" the attending security-guard asked no one in particular. The waiting room was full, but there was no response. Delinda glanced at the guy, his name tag read: Khalil. Delinda noticed the administrative assistant behind the security screen glare at him and shake her head.

"What's the matter, Annette?" Khalil asked, shrugging nonchalantly. "It's a fair question," he argued.

"That ain't protocol, Khalil," Annette reprimanded. "This isn't easy at the best of times, but your questions don't help. Just stop!" She shook her head again and then went back to scanning her interface and checking off boxes. Khalil waved his hand dismissively. He looked around, caught Delinda's eye.

"You know it's true," he said, approaching cautiously. He stood directly in front of her. She secretly loathed him. His arrogant youthfulness. His purpose. "Come on, admit it. A hundred years ago it was all Rowling, Dahl, Alexander, Steinbeck, Morrison; old dead writers. Now kids just upload all them books about broken futures."

"I was a teacher," Delinda replied. "I know."

"Well, imagine that!" Khalil said before continuing. "Except most of those books are about broken futures we already passed. I think we're doing all right," he said, before adding, "Things are getting better, right?" Delinda looked around the waiting room at all her placid, luckless companions, all of them buckled into wheelchairs, and straightened her shoulders.

"Really?" she asked indignantly. "Maybe you should read the room."

"It's like they're trying to prepare us for something or, like, it's all a joke," Khalil conspired. The conversation didn't go anywhere because Annette called Delinda's name and Khalil rolled her into the hearing chamber while humming to himself.

All through the hearing, Delinda's heart beat loudly in her ears. Her eyes refused to focus and her vision was spotty. She felt short of breath. She was sixty-one, with skills and education for jobs that no longer existed. She knew the panel's determination before she heard them say it. She was resigned to her fate. She had no arguement for not being useful.

Liquidation of a wasted life.

But now, awaiting transfer, her heart stopped and she felt a suffocating horror. The tears came and she fought with herself not to lose control. She didn't want to be one of those cases she'd heard about that had to be dragged away, pathetic, balling, reduced to the lowest animal instincts. She felt as though she might start screaming uncontrollably. She wanted to be understood. She wasn't a burden. It wasn't fair.

None of this was fair!

Khalil appeared again. He looked into her face. His sympathetic eyes and kind smile made her feel less afraid.

"I know this is difficult," he told her.

Khalil had been there in the beginning, leading her into the panel hearing. And now he was here to escort her into the preparation room. He offered her a sedative.

"It'll give you some peace," he said. She took it. She was still terrified, but her body felt numb, heavy. Her mind lost its sharpness. She felt unbothered. The fear would wash over her and then drift away. None of this felt real.

"Hey, don't look so scared," Khalil told her after attaching the intravenous lines and securing the straightjacket around her torso. He secured her to the gurney. "It's OK," he assured. "It's just," he looked around and then whispered something that sounded like, "the end." He moved away from her to attend to something or someone else.

Delinda started to panic again. This was crazy! She didn't want to go. Not like this. Everyone acted as though this sterile, complacent termination was totally normal. Humans were supposed to fight for life until their very last breath. She wanted to plead for mercy, but her mouth wasn't working. The more she concentrated on resisting, the more she sank deeper into the cocoon of numbness.

What's the point? she wondered. I'm no longer useful, no longer useful, I'm no longer.

Khalil returned. He looked down at her and the lights dimmed. He wheeled her forward into the liquidation room. She was sinking deeper. A darkness descended upon her mind and emotions. She concentrated on her breathing. She was just trying to remain dignified, even as she knew there was no hope. Some other words the lead panelist said came back to her.

"It is of this panel's opinion that this course of action is preferable to a tragic and slow demise on the margins of society."

"Don't worry," Khalil whispered again. "It's not the end." Her eyes widened and he nodded knowingly with a finger across his pursed lips. The gurney caught on some mechanism that pulled her forward, away from Khalil. He waved and turned his back. She bumped forward. The chamber closed and a robotic arm connected the tubes to the death machine. It was all so fast, efficient. Instantly, she felt a cool rush in her muscles. Delinda felt a lightness in her body, despite the darkness erasing her mind. It will be OK.

She was gone.

...

The afterlife was different than Delinda Strunck expected.

Darkness lifted and Delinda felt herself slowly climbing out of the hazy numbness, like wandering toward a light in twilight-shrouded woods. Soft sounds of voices in conversation hummed nearby. Her eyes began to adjust and her vision cleared, but confusion clouded her mind.

Delinda found herself in a rough hewn village. The smell of a wood fire drifted into her nostrils. People milled around conducting various tasks and business. She was resting upon a cot in a ramada of some kind, open on three sides and covered with fresh, green branches. Someone hovered next to her, but Delinda was groggy. Nothing was making sense. She wasn't certain, but sure was pretty sure she was still alive.

Shocking information.

"Oh hello," the woman said. "My name is Rosalie. I am a doctor." Delinda made no move to speak. Rosalie smiled and continued quietly checking Delinda's neighbors. When she finished, she knelt down beside Delinda.

"I'm just going to check your vital signs, if that's all right with you," she said. Delinda nodded. Rosalie finished. "You seem to be in good shape. Probably a little disoriented. Do you have any questions?" Delinda considered this.

"Where am I?" Delinda asked. Rosalie looked around and smiled.

"Welcome to the Great Beyond," Rosalie said with a flourish.

"Excuse me?" Delinda replied, more confused than before.

"A poor attempt at humor. This is Arizona, or at least it used to be. You probably know it as the Southern Exclusion Zone. This particular settlement is known as Green Valley," Rosalie told her proudly.

"So I've been sent to die slowly of radiation poisoning?" Delinda asked. Rosalie laughed again.

"Oh no," Rosalie said. "Let me upload the welcome packet to your ICI." Rosalie made a few taps on her portable interface. Instantly, Delinda's brain saw the quick history of the Southern Exclusion Zone.

The energy wars, unstoppable migration from the equatorial regions of the Earth fleeing global weather-related disasters, technological dependence, the slow shrinking of livable landscapes,  civil unrest, and the ever-widening gap between the wealthy and the not-so wealthy. Of course, there was the Palo Verde nuclear meltdown a half century in the past, an event that was greatly exaggerated, but used as an excuse to create the Zone.

"What now?" Delinda asked.

"We lost our teacher last month. So I guess that's why you're here," Rosalie replied with a wink. "You'll be put to good use."

10-4-19