Tag: Short Story

And we’re back! Short Story: The Governors of the Universe

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Thank you to everyone for waiting patiently for the next story, and sorry it’s a little late today. Enjoy!

The Governors of the Universe

Part One

In the midst of the cold blackness of space, beyond quasars, pulsars, and novae left behind from the poignant Big Bang, stands the Blue Sphere. Half illuminated at all times by its massive star, and with it’s orbit elliptical, and fused with a rotation all its own. Its axes, tilted twenty-odd degrees, shift ever slowly over aeons while its poles magnetically transfer by micrometers with each rotation.

Known to it’s inhabitants as Earth, the planet stands as a silhouetted, blue marble, suspended almost majestically in space. It is the third in-line from its mother-star, eighth in planetary order, and the only inhabitable by its unique form of life.

It seems, one day, hundreds of millions of years ago, life crawled from its seas to stand upon bi-pedal vestiges to harness the land around itself. Shortly after, the warring began. This planet, billions of years in the making, and having graced its inhabitants with a stellar dust all its own, motioned to them. The wars ceased abruptly, though for only a short time. The inhabitants looked skyward, to the stars. They built ships– large and sluggish though they were– and sent them high. Leaving their planet behind, albeit briefly, they stepped forth into the machinations of a cosmic infinity to place their feet firmly upon their revolving satellite.

Too shortly these few men, as they call themselves, left their satellite and returned to their Earth. For a short period, these strange creatures, infatuated as they were with the skies, launched innumerable artificial satellites. Though none were so magnificent as that of their planet’s own, natural one, they had looked deeper into the recesses of nothingness than any of their world’s other inhabitants. For what must have been, even to them, the briefest of periods, they built more machines to thrust themselves upon the blackness; more machines still to rest there outside their fragile atmosphere, and look further from themselves.

Then came a period where, one-by-one, they felt fulfilled in the minute faculty of what they had seen, accomplished. One by one, their eyes turned once more upon their lands. One-by-one, they resumed the in-fighting and warring among themselves. And one by one, and little by little, the artificial satellites filled the skies with nary a “man” to be found. With each new satellite, another was abandoned to the cosmos. Litter and debris filled the orbit of that once majestic blue marble.

So here we sit. The first regiment and invading party of– what to them– is an invisible civilization waiting for their ascension beyond pettiness of their own differences. Their wasting of time and littering of space have angered our leaders. The Federation that would have welcomed them with open arms, now only wishes destruction upon them, and so has thrust my Company and I marble-ward. No doubt our weapons and tactics will be merciless to them. Some will attempt surrender: they will be equally as crushed beneath our might. Once more, My company and I will wipe from the universe, this galaxy, and existence, another of the seemingly infinite plagues.

For you see, there is an unending supply of pests such as these. They are allowed to mature, for either way they stay contained, until they look heavenward. Following there first forays into the inter-spatial voids, they are kept under close watch– For it is much easier to exterminate the hive, than it is to hunt pests individually. This is what my Company and I are; Galactic Exterminators, for someone must keep in check that which is as hell-bound, destructive, and wasteful, as these beings.

With knowledge comes responsibility, and all pests follow the same course in their leanings. Once their flights of fancy begin, it is only a short time before again they look downward, resuming their transgressions, eschewing the responsibility of evolving, maturing, through what they have learned and seen. If the universe is to stay at peace, such aggression must be stamped out at its source. So we will drift down into their atmosphere, lay waste to their settlements where millions dwell in frenzy. We will destroy them en-masse, push them back from the brinks and into the recesses of their habitat. And when it is through, never again will they be capable of mounting ventures outward.

For this is what we do, my Company and I. We are exterminators, carefully keeping in check the parasites that emerge in the universe. We leave civilizations in ruin, imparting to them the utmost profitable of all lessons: Humility.

The signal resounds that their atmosphere has been breached. We shall take our positions upon the ship’s weapons, and above their greatest masses, commence the slaughter. And Slaughter we will, my Company and I.

Part Two

They came with disinterest, indifferent to all but wiping us from the Earth, in their ship and on a sunny day. Strolling through Central Park, I found myself caught in the fervor of natural beauty around me, unaware of the news that their ship had descended with a fierce predilection. We learned all too soon what I had missed.

They began with the largest cities, laid waste to them one-by-one with terrible weapons like something out of Wells. Invisible heat-rays burst forth with unimaginable speed, left swaths of destruction in their path. I have a mind to say, perhaps Wells saw forward to our own time, or rather was thrust into it by his machine. In either case, his vision was near complete. Though they did not come in tripods, nor cylinders, nor so far as we know, from Mars; the destruction was total all the same. So far as we know, they did not show themselves– that is, there is no account beyond that of the ship.

In itself, it was truly a spectacular sight, if not the most violent and frightening one I might ever lay eyes upon. Wide as a city, tall as Everest, it stretched star-ward with reckless abandon; constructed of several sections, and obliquely spherical. Though we never truly saw its topmost sections, I am inclined to believe it was merely a space-fairing bubble of some strange viscous material. Within, its commander stood, pridefully gazing at the wonton destruction reigned forth. Its lowest sections housed Wells’ heat weapon, though it was far superior to what he had envisioned. Where his Martians held it in their tripod’s arms, our invaders’ weapon encompassed the whole of the bottom of their ship.

They struck without mercy, unhindered by our greatest feats of modern life. They came fast to their position, halted long enough to charge and fire their weapon. From all directions, the heat emitted in a massive dose akin to that of a Sun. It laid waste to cities in mere seconds, sweltering miles of their outskirts.

When I first heard of the attack, I immediately removed myself from New York. The radios were filled with reports from all over China, Russia, and Europe. The attacks, only seconds long, bore a heat and destructive force that has caused a global rise in temperature. It has since thrown our environment into chaos. The invaders hovered overhead for a brief moment, long enough to target their foul weapons (or perhaps, long enough for those below to recognize their defeat), fire, and disappear.

We attempted defense once our eradication was evident. Like Wells’ English cities, we laid massive guns in hiding. Though in the years passed since War of the Worlds, our defensive technology has grown by bounds, still our weapons were useless. Bullets rebounded from the ship like rubber off steel skin. Bombers dropped the highest yields of explosives ever concocted upon the ship’s exterior, yet no damage was done. The ship’s materials, we knew, were immensely strong. Perhaps for a dual purpose: both intergalactic space flight, and defense. I believe, though I can not be sure, that the ship eventually left our atmosphere in the same pristine condition it had entered.

As the beast descended swiftly upon Canada to work its way downward, hope for humanity was lost. True though it was, that many minor cities still remained, there was already unanimous agreement that the human race could never recover. Billions had already been wiped from existence in a small matter of hours; their fates predetermined by a higher intelligence within the ship’s theoretical, viscous bubble, extinguished amid the most formulaic indifference man has seen.

Some argued rigorously– until their own demise– that these invaders were intelligently-minded. Enough even, to recognize a surrender if one were presented. Conversely, others cried to repent, for this was His work; an apparition of a modernized horsemen for our own bemusement. In equal parts they were struck down without regard.

I, for one see it for what it is: we have been systematically eliminated as a species. For what could naturally occur in that short chaos that would so fully hide massive numbers– allow us to survive, rebuild? Nothing. That they knew. They were exterminating us. Our species and its greatest endeavors were as pests to them. They moved swiftly from one nest to another to eliminate our largest swarms before targeting the left-overs.

And that they did. Only mere hours after the attacks began, the largest cities upon Earth had been utterly destroyed. Yet unsatisfied, these intergalactic exterminators reversed their movements, started to lay waste to every remaining city. Attempts were made to contact them. Scientists and mathematicians, soldiers and politicians, radio astronomers, even HAM radio enthusiasts, searched dutifully for the cosmic frequency to raise the white flag. Until their final moments, they fought with valiance. In the dejection afterward, true white flags rose by the thousands. Every Human, feeling threatened, stopped amid the confusion to cast out their pride and surrender without contemplation. Still the invaders plundered us; cosmic bullies in our own yard.

When it was over, the few left were driven into hiding under the ground, and back in caves like the pests we were seen as, treated like. New-found humility has ebbed its way through the survivors; if, in fact there are any. There can be no doubt of it either way. No man, woman, nor child, no matter their arrogance, could miss the point of this event. Though I may be the only human left, and have been wandering for days, I know it to be true. How many days? I cannot count. I have succumbed every night to utter exhaustion, suffered by an insurmountable hunger. In the rising global temperature, I am quite literally dying of thirst, but have yet to come across a clean stream of water– though I would take a dirty one at that.

My bones and muscles grow weak, weary. I fear the end may come before I find another living soul. In a day, our species has been targeted, attacked, left to whither and die painfully. Futile attempts will be made, I’m sure, to rekindle the flame of our species. It is doubtless our numbers will increase to sustainable once more. At that, should we venture anywhere into the near, observable space beyond our great, Blue Marble, we shall likely be smote down once more.

I will attempt to recollect more soon, but am too weary now and require rest. The next days shall be spent in search of food and water. Perhaps the futile nature of pests is among us. We push ourselves so futilely to live on in caves, beneath rocks, and underground in search of simple sustenance. All the while we crave to preserve ourselves, persevere for some primal reason unknown to us. I for one, believe that was the reason for the attack– though belief now seems superfluous. We took more than we gave and someone took notice. The notion of our species as a parasite is not new, and with this development in our history, it is safe to say it is correct enough.

Perhaps, on a rock somewhere in space, or in the great void between rocks, rests a civilization that is always watching. They observe growth until critical mass is reached, then send their envoy to teach the pests of humility by swatting them back from the brinks. When they are done, those left, too fearful of retribution, reconcile themselves to a better way or none. For they are the Invaders, the Galactic Exterminators, and the Governors of the Universe.

Short Story: The Fee

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

The Fee

Dan stepped up to the shop-window of Midtown hardware store to stare at the white sign posted there. Its black lettering read out “Hunting Licenses, Inquire Within.” The few passersby that trudged along the damp street seemed not to notice his hesitation, but he glanced this way and that, fearful of suspicion on him.

Midtown was small, enough that Dan’s wife would learn he’d bought the license if the wrong people saw him now. Once a rest-stop for the nearby lumber-industry truckers, Midtown had grown in recent years, but still adhered to an almost, “old-west” mentality– especially when it came to gossip. Dan’s wife wasn’t a gossiper, but all her friends were. And she did, in fact, have a mean right hook– especially when drinking.

In a place like Midtown, drink was the national pass-time.

It wasn’t that Anna was mean, at least that wasn’t her intention. But she’d grown-up with seven brothers, all boxers and loggers. What was a girl to do but learn to fight, survive? Unfortunately for Dan, her softness for creatures of all kinds never extended to him– especially when drunk.

He heaved a heavy sigh. He had to do it, save the last scrap of his manhood, his dignity. She could “lecture” him all she wanted, but he was going to do it. He would hunt, and he would kill– if only to feel like a man, and if only for one moment in his entire life.

His shoulders slumped as he cast strained glances up and down Main-street’s antiquated storefronts. The haze of drizzle made good cover from any distant on-lookers, no-one close enough to have seen his face yet.

He steeled his nerves, “Now or never.”

With one, smooth motion, he side-stepped for the door and pushed it open.

The hardware store’s bell clanged before the few, meager aisles that comprised its center. Racks of hand-tools, power tools, and all manner of screws, bolts, and other assorted fasteners filled the place. Even still, everything was for small repairs, Dan’d had to special-order everything when he rebuilt the roof. Anna was never so energetic as when lecturing him then. “It’s too expensive!” “Can’t ya’ fix it yerself?” But Midtown was a stop on a road, never meant to house more than it had. Everything had to be special-ordered, even the water was piped in from the logging-camp’s rivers– at a high premium, too.

Dan chose the center aisle, rubbernecked his way along it to the rear of the store. He liked the center aisle, the far end-caps had the clearance section; mostly old things that had never sold. The items themselves were never quite as useful as he’d hoped, but even Anna couldn’t argue about a solid deal. Today though, he ambled right past them, straight to the “sporting goods” counter.

He chuckled to himself; sporting goods? It was never more than a few, old, double-barrel twelve-gauges used to keep the bears out of the trash cans. You could still smell their fresh powder on Monday morning after being used all weekend. On any normal day, Dan would’ve never considered purchasing one; they were too expensive– marked up, they called it– and Anna’d have his head for wasting the money. But today, he stopped at the counter and stared up.

The withered walnut was near-on the same hue as the old steel, but even a fool knew these guns still held their lead. They could scare off a grizzly with their bark, and if you got real lucky, might even take one down. They were perfect.

He leaned over the counter, glanced up and down the back of the store. The “ring bell for service” sign was faded, tattered, laminated to the top of the glass counter above all the ammunition, and right below an old bell.

Dan stiffened his neck, puffed out his chest, and slapped a hand down on the bell. It clanged with a higher tone than the door’s, rang twice as long in Dan’s ears. Shuffled steps of the ancient Jack Rower, one of the first to settle Midtown, and the hardware store’s owner, made their slow scuffs toward the back wall.

Jack was hunched, or so they called it, and he supported himself along the back wall, all the way to the counter’s edge. A cleared spot in the “merchandise” had been rubbed black and yellow from the corner of the store to the gun rack; the testament to Jack’s ever-present posture.

“Ah, Danny boy,” Jack said as his hands shifted from the wall to the counter. He groped along it to stand in front of Dan, “How ‘ya been?”

“Alright, Jack. Alright.” Dan said, his shoulders slumping once more.

“How’s life with the wife?” He asked with his trademark, gravel throat.

“Same as usual, Jack.”

“Well, ‘ya know what they say; you can’t win ’em all.” He chuckled himself into a coughing fit. It took a moment to recover, “Ah hell, so what can I do ‘ya for?”

Dan’s head made a small tilt sideways, “You still sell those licenses?”

Jack’s face scrunched together like a sad, old bulldog, “Sure, sure. Just sold a pair last week to Rick ‘n his wife. Some kinda’ feud ’bout who’d get the bigger kill. Guess they’d decided to settle it the ol’ fashioned way– money where the mouth is and all that.”

Dan nodded, he knew Rick and his wife, Laura. She was what they called a home-wrecker; a big-city word for whore. By the time she married she’d gone through just about every man but Jack, Rick, and himself. Jack was too old even then, and Dan’d been married too long, but damned if Rick didn’t shack up with her anyhow. Dan’d see her car most nights off route-seventy-one, at the big truck stop with the franchise restaurant in it. Whether hooking or waitressing, she was usually working over time.

“Guess ol’ Rick finally called her bluff, eh?” Dan said. Jack just nodded.

There was a moment where their eyes met, and something between them seemed to be understood without words. That was one of the nice things about Jack, he’d been ’round so long he didn’t need words sometimes. Dan wanted to be like that some day, but it wouldn’t be today. Today, he was buying a license.

“Well Jack, the sign says “inquire within,” and I’m inquirin’,” Dan said.

The sad bulldog face scrunched even further, almost to a point where Jack’s eyes no longer showed through. It bobbed up and down in a nod.

“Well, you know the rules then,” Jack replied as his eyes reappeared. “Gov’ment says you get one a year, you bag any more’n that you get the big house.”

“One’s all I need, Jack,” Dan said.

He just wanted to feel like a man, if only for once in his entire life.

The small bobs began again, then broke off as Jack spoke, “Fee’s five hundred dollars ‘nless you want one’a these boomers you been eyin’.”

“Can I borrow it from ‘ya?”

Jack’s mouth half-lifted, “For ‘n extra, hundred, so long’s you get it back to me after the hunt.”

“Six hundred square then,” Dan said, reaching into his pocket.

He counted out five hundreds, then an extra for the gun, most of it in fives and tens. It’d taken him years to save up the money, but he wasn’t sad to see it go in the least. He’d feel like a man for once in his life, and no amount of money’d ever be too much for that. Anna could lecture him all she wanted, but he was going to hunt.

Jack slid a bright, white piece of paper across the counter filled with a bunch of blank lines and a government seal in the corner.

“Fill this’n out, ‘n I’ll print the license,” Jack said.

Dan took his time, made his writing real neat. In his little way, he wanted the government to know he’d be a man, even if only for a moment. When he was finished, he gave a scrawl of cursive at the bottom while an old printer groaned and squeaked a harsh, mechanical cacophony. It was music to Dan’s ears.

Jack slid one of the shotguns out of the rack, set it on the counter with careful hands. He reached through the open-back and pulled out a box of twelve-gauge shells, set it aside.

He gave Dan a stern look, “Now you ain’t never been huntin’ before, so I’ll tell you somethin’ my wife told me– god rest her soul.” Dan listened, he knew this was important, and listening to other men about hunting was a man thing to do. Jack eyed him, “Show ’em no fear, but you show ’em respect. They’re prey, ‘n you’re the hunter. It’s about respect, ‘n if you ain’t huntin’ with honor, you might as well not be huntin’ at all.”

Dan’s mouth stiffened, he gave a nod. He understood honor, and he wouldn’t be the tarnish on a steel tradition.

Jack added, “You lock eyes with ’em, ‘n you tell ’em without words that you’re the hunter, ‘n you’re givin’ em a chance to escape. ‘N you do, Danny. Don’t you ever take that away from your prey– that’s the respect part.”

Dan understood.

As he exited the shop, he no longer feared being seen, but just as well the rain had picked up, and the sky’d darkened. It was a good day for hunting.

He followed the sidewalk to his rusted-out pick-up, climbed inside, and set the gun on the seat beside his license. He was nearly there. He’d didn’t care about the limit, bagging one was all he needed, all he wanted. He thirsted for it all the way home; he’d clean-up first, then he’d show Anna he was a man by hunting.

He was so focused he didn’t even notice Carl in his shiny SUV cruiser sitting at the top of the hill. He blew right past him at near-sixty, gave himself a start when Carl’s lights and sirens blared after him. He pulled to the right like he’d been told, and Carl– recognizing the truck– sauntered straight up to the window without a care in the world. He hitched up his pants, and leaned against the truck while Dan rolled down the window.

Carl pinched his trooper-hat upward with a pair of fingers, “Dan-boy? That’chu? What’chu thinkin’ goin’ so fast down this road in the rain? You coulda’ been kill’t.”

“Suppose I wasn’t Carl. Damned if I’m not a little off today,” Dan admitted.

“Uh-huh.” Carl gave a shifty look through the truck’s cab, “That one’a Jack’s ‘ol boomers in there?”

“Yes’sir,” Dan handed over the license. “Picked me up a license too. Goin’ huntin’ today.”

Carl’s hat sank back to his head with a few nods. He read over the license, “Jack give ya’ the rundown?”

“You bet.”

Carl squinted an eye sideways, “You sure ’bout that, Dan?”

“Look ’em in the eye.”

Carl gave another nod, handed the license back, “Well good huntin’ then, Dan-boy, ‘n slow ‘er down.”

“Will do, Carl.” Dan said, his arm making fast circles to roll up the window.

He watched Carl turn around behind him and disappear up the hill, then pulled away.

The rest of the ride home was usual, and Dan kept a close eye on his speed. The hills rose and fell and the truck groaned and wheezed, but he made it to his muddy driveway in the forest without any complication. When the truck came to a stop next to Anna’s old Bronco, he left the shotgun inside and hurried in with muddy boots to get cleaned up. Anna was boozed out and focused on the television, didn’t even notice him walking in. It was fine by him, she’d know soon enough.

He cleaned himself and shaved up in front of the medicine cabinet, and when it was time, he put on his best pair of camouflage pants and his cleanest, brown shirt. He made his presence known in the living room with a rap on the wall.

“Anna, honey, I got somethin’ to show ya out in the truck,” he said, perking up her ears.

“What is it, ‘nother limp dick? Already got one’a those, ‘n I don’t wanna’ see it anyhow.”

“I think you’ll like this,” he said.

He knew she wouldn’t, even before she grumbled up off the couch and followed him with begrudging mumbles. She griped about the rain wetting her house shoes, and the way the roof repairs looked, and the way the old log-cabin seemed to slump like Dan’s shoulders. Dan didn’t mind, he led the way to the truck, threw open the door, and fished for the license on the seat. She stopped short, nearly hit by the door, and growled booze-stench at the air.

He handed over the license, “I got me one.”

Her eyes took a moment to focus on the words, as Dan leaned back into the truck. He fished for the box of shells, snatched two out. The words took shape in Anna’s in mind as her face tumbled toward rage. He straightened from the truck, shotgun and shells in either hand, and shouldered the door shut.

Anna’s eyes flitted across the license again and again, fury rising behind them. Dan broke the barrel of the boomer, dropped the shells in, then snapped them back together. He held the shotgun in one hand, pinched the license in another, and slid it away from Anna. He shoved into a pocket with a step back.

Her eyes lingered on nothingness for a moment, rage building like a steam-whistle ready to scream. They rose up at Dan’s eyes beyond the raised barrel of the shotgun.

Old Jack’s words were in his head now; “You lock eyes with ’em, ‘n you tell ’em without words that you’re the hunter, ‘n you’re givin’ em a chance to escape. ‘N you do, Danny.”

Anna’s hands fell, clenched into fists.

“Don’t you ever take that away from your prey– that’s the respect part.”

Her body poised to attack.

“…you get one a year…”

She shrieked something so high it made Dan’s ears hurt.

“One’s all I need…”

He felt the double-hammers go down under his thumb, waited just long enough to see the start of Anna’s lunge.

The squeeze of both triggers at-once nearly broke his shoulder, but it was enough.

He’d given her the chance, and she’d seen it. Anna’d seen the hunter offer his prey an out, but choose to fight. In that moment, Dan was a man– if only for that moment.

Something no-one’d ever told Dan about hunting was not to pull both triggers at once. His shoulder sure did hurt, and digging the grave didn’t make it any better. It hurt so much, he’d even have to wait to build her a cross. No matter, tomorrow morning he’d go to pick up some nails and return Jack’s boomer.

He’d paid his fee, and if only for a moment, he got to feel like a man and hunt.

Short Story: The Box

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

The Box

“What’s in the box?” A young man asked, taking a seat on the far side of a mahogany desk.

“What, this box?” An old man asked of the container atop the desk.

It was barely the size of an egg-crate, longer, thinner, and constructed of heavy wood. Along its sides was a Native American motif reminiscent of days long-past. Its gold trim shined reflections of low-light sconces in the walls, through a room half-in shadow.

“Oh come now old man, don’t play your games,” the young man chided. He relaxed in his seat, lit a cigarette, continued with a plume of smoke, “It’s an innocent question.”

The old man’s cheeks dimpled with a smile. His brows, thick and protruding like some ancient, oriental master, curled upward with the corners of his eyes.

The old man stepped up behind the desk to lean over the box with an angled finger, “It does seem an innocent question, does it not? Ah, but curiosity did kill the cat, did it not?”

The young man snorted with a closed mouth, billowed plumes of heady smoke from his nostrils, “You’ve completed the transformation, old man, you’re officially an old kook.”

The old kook smiled again, straightened. He stepped ’round the desk, his fingertips traced his path along its glossed mahogany, but came to rest as he leaned against its far side with the box at his left. He crossed his arms.

With the tone of a lecturer, he began, “I can not tell you what is in this box, my young friend, I can merely show you. In order to do so however, I must arouse within you, a long-dormant perspective. Perhaps you will indulge me?”

He raised an eyebrow. The young man nodded once with a squinted eye as his pungent cigarette came to a rest on the arm of the chair. The old kook gave a chuckle, paced back behind the desk, and sat to lean over the box. The young man’s eyes followed, fell downward only to focus on the box.

The kook’s nimble finger-tips danced upon the box’s edges to afflict the young man’s fixed-gaze. He drifted into story, “Many years ago, before the darkness set in, and before the world was cold and dead, there was a light that many called upon to brighten their day. And long before greed, corruption, or malevolence, there was a radiance that shined forth from within. This illuminating presence was the counter-weight of what has overtaken the world now. It was all that has been misplaced. Where did it go? Truthfully? Where it went. Before though, it simply was.”

The young man’s eyes darted from the box long enough to convey their bemusement, but he remained silent. The old man’s face sank with the sadness of a life lost to hardship, watched the other’s eyes return to the box.

He sighed, “However, that radiance no longer is.” His hands animated his speech, “It broke down somewhere ‘long the side of the road, no longer able to match the progress of humanity. Or more aptly perhaps, was drowned in a sea of cold materialism, wracked with guilt and laden to the ocean-floor by pocketfuls of currency. It was suffocated by the evil and darkness, and chaotic destruction of the world that bore it upon its shoulders.”

The young man’s brow rose as his cigarette flared. Its ash grew longer, but the hand that held it did not stir. The old man had long since slipped away into recollection, his eyes no longer focused on the man before him. It was just as well; the young man was transfixed by the box, its vibrant trim a twinkle in his eyes.

The old man’s hands made a gathering motion, as if to some lost deity, “Oh, there are those who believe this is metaphor; a symbol of mankind’s loss for one another. Even as you sit there, young man, you deny that I speak truth. This is the darkness– the mistrust caused by the decline in our civilization. And though you recognize this truth, it angers you that I might incline you to be incorrect, or deceptive– that I might wound your honor or pride by shouting out, “He lies, that whipper-snapper! Like a dust-covered rug beneath a shaggy dog’s haunches!” It forces you into mental parry, your defenses ready to charge, attack, sick, seize, maim, kill. It wounds you deeper than you admit, to me or yourself.”

The old man’s hands moved faster, his finger stabbed upward in passion, “Yet never once, does your rational mind take control, seize you by the neck. Never once does logic charge your irrational side, maim, and kill it dead in the hopes of resolving things peacefully on the outside.”

The young man gave him a precocious, as if annoyed by the intrusion to his admiration of the box, “And why is that, old kook?”

The old man’s hands fell with a tired breath. His tone turned distant, “Your mind, personality, emotions; these things have been taught– indoctrinated, if you will– to seek out what is best for you from all sides. Those you love, those you hate, those who were told to instruct you, and those who only spoke for a moment to you; they all steered you toward the best course for yourself, and yourself alone. Never once did they expect you to desire what was best for all, because not one of them desired it themselves.”

The young man’s face formed a question as if to ask “So, what,” but his eyes were enthralled by the box.

The old man ignored it, “They instruct as instructed; to desire things for oneself only. You were instructed as they were, and as those before them were. And so it has been for many, many, long generations.”

He sank back with a moment of silence, as if waiting to bridge a mental gap. The young man simply watched the box, his mind reeling at its closed lid, while nicotine stained his fingers and the chair’s armrest.

When the old man began again, he was even quieter, more reserved, “Slowly, the darkness worked its way forward– Poison trickling through a vine, wilting all that lay before it, and corrupting those that drank of its nectar until, finally, it was all that remained. The vine now, long dried and crunched to dust upon the path of progress, exists only as a figment of memory.”

The old man let his fingers rest once-more upon the top-edges of the box. The young man’s brow showed a moment of irritation that was alleviated by the kook’s next words.

“Now, is where this comes into play.”

The old man’s finger-tips slid along the box’s forward edges to meet behind it. They interlocked with one another, settled atop the desk. The young man’s curiosity piqued, he sat forward in anticipation paying no mind to the cigarette ash that shattered and drifted to the floor.

The old man, wishing to tease his victim further, explained with a languid tone, “Young man, once there was a story, many thousands of years ago– far older even than this old man before you, of a similar box. Its contents were known to all through the words of their God– a father in his own right. He gave the box to his daughter and cautioned never to open it. Of course as youth might, she disobeyed, and once opened, from this box sprang forth all the evils and darkness in the world. She soon closed it with regret.”

He swallowed, watched the young man’s enthralled eyes; they barely moved, focused on the sole thought of what might be inside. He knew his voice was but whispers on the wind in a mind of thoughts that had no place for him.

Even so, he would still be heard, “Having released the evils wrought upon the world, and knowing their effect, many said that what was to come from that box would have truly been the worst. I assure you though, there are no evils in this box.” The young man’s eyes darted to him. He blinked slowly with a single, shake of his head, “No, in that way it is even more precious. It, my young friend, must be opened to be understood. For this box contains the antithesis to all of those dark things.”

The box slid to the edge of the desk with a nudge. The young man, at the edge of his seat, stumbled to reach. He took a deep breath, recollected himself, his mind taken by the vast riches that might be inside. He exhaled, heart racing, and place his hands on either side of the lid in ceremony. His eyes reeled with giddy at what might be inside.

He lifted the lid slowly at first, not daring to peer in until its innards were fully exposed. He felt the lid meet the final resistance that stayed it, tilted his head downward to take in his prize.

The box, in all of its form and glory, was empty. A defeated glance met the old man, but his eyes were soft with warmth and compassion, “That antithesis, my young friend, is hope.”

Bonus story: Pompeii

~ S.M. Nolan ~ 5 Comments

Pompeii

 

To my friend and confidant,

It is in the first months of our new ruler Titus that I relay to you the events of the past days.

A preface then, for the annals of history. In this era, the great ruler Vespasian, whom gave to us the beloved Colosseum, and waged relentless war on Jerusalem, now rests at peace. His son Titus, whom led the great campaign, sits ably upon his father’s former-throne; the first such monarch for our great land. However, I digress, for there is a much more sorrowful, earth-shattering matter– in the most literal of senses– that I must convey.

As you may recall from our discussion several nights past, I had theorized on a principle of scientific-mathematics. Perhaps speculated is the more apropos term. We ruminated on the true effect of those fateful, “earth shakings” some fifteen years ago. Thus we proclaimed, however humorously over our pipes, that these and the recent tremors of the earth were related. As this was your final night in the villa, you thenceforth left with fortune, avoiding the coming onslaught.

I must go into greater detail by returning my thoughts to an earlier time. In doing so perhaps I may better explain my meanings. You remember, of course, that we spoke of the quaking experienced for they days whilst you were within the villa. We also spoke heavily on the false beliefs of the townsfolk that giants had returned once again– awoken from their slumber, as it were. We furthered conversed on the topic of the aristocracy, ourselves included, whom regarded the phenomena as a mild nuisance. Finally, we settled matters of reconstruction over a pipe, in which you wished me good fortune in the villa’s restoration. As an overseer of the great ville of Pompeii, I set to work immediately. As it were, however, disaster loomed.

I will relay, in best of detail as I can, the events of the wrathful days succeeding your departure:

After exchanging formal pleasantries and seeing you out, I returned to rest myself heartily for the tasks of the next days. I awoke with an early sun the next morning, as is an honorable man’s time. The dawn was quiet, more-so than I have heard in many, many years. I remarked to myself on the subject, gathered my thoughts and materials for the day, and made for Council with excellent time. I made preparations for my presentation, then with readiness, spoke to the Council of amendments to the ville. With a hearty welcome, they approved my plans, and adjourned. I thanked them as they filed from those opulent halls, and left hastily with them.

On my way toward the harbor, the great mountain loomed over me as I strolled, but I thought only of the preparations to be made. Then, the eerie silence I spoke of before, overtook me. It was then, as the great God in the sky that shines its warmth upon us was just overhead, that the ground shuddered once more. In the past it has been but a triviality. On this day though, the earth trembled as if up-heaved in a fit. I was knocked to the ground, helpless. My scrolls spilled about. I righted myself while the ground pitched and rolled as though I stood on the deck of some seaward-ship amid a terrible storm. It was then that a sound by the rivers of hell emitted from that great, distant mound that reached skyward.

I stood terrified upon the earth that rose and rolled beneath me. I gazed outward at the great mound, saw nothing. I was unsure what had transpired, but time would reveal that the great tragedy had yet to unfold. Though I was fearful of what might happen next, the earth stilled. Silence befell the ville.

I hastened to my dwelling, passing confused peasants and passersby. Each wore more confusion or concern than the last. When thenceforth I reached my door, I entered and cast my belongings on a table to clutch my pipe. I set myself at the table, hoping to recollect my nerves. Only after ruminating on the events and consuming a bottle of wine, did the vile feeling begin to churn within my soul.

I set to work on my reconstruction prints hoping my wits would return, and after a fashion, I heard passersby speak bits beyond my windows. I pieced together more of the events presently unfolding.

It was said that great plumes of steam rose from the sea beyond the harbor. With concern and curiosity abundant, I laid my plans at rest and rushed for the harbor in defiance of that slow, ethereal churning. It was then that I saw the steam; it rose heaven-ward from a boiling ocean. I swear by the Gods I saw the water froth above a rising darkness beneath the surface. The sea became shallower, lighter; as though its floor rose with each passing moment.

Then, an approximation of seven hours after my fall, and the first tremblings of the day, a second, great explosion shook the earth. This time it was as frightening as any could see. A cloud of smoke and steam rose high into the air and unfurled outward and upward, like the limbs of some great pine. It blended darkness with light, emanated steadily outward as I gaped in horror, frozen in time.

I chanced a look seaward, aghast. Ships burned while their men rushed to put fires out. Others forced their sails upward, fiercely attempted escape. They fought vainly against wind that prevailed at their bows, and forced them further inland.

Driven by the wind, the cloud widened. My wits returned, forced me ’round on-heels, and back toward my dwelling. Glowing embers, and heavy, fiery stones rained upon the ville with the wrath of the Gods’ spite. I rushed to collect my things but ash filled my lungs. My bosom heaved and I heard strikes upon the thatched roof. A glance out my window revealed the ash piling atop the people still frozen in terror. I grabbed what I could, and fled to await an end to the uproar.

The next bits are vague. I remember little. As my feet quickened the rest of me from town, the peasants and passersby I’d encountered before remained motionless. Frightened, they stood open-mouthed. I rushed past with nary a word nor thought but to continue forward. I must have run farther and faster than even the greatest of Olympians.

I made my way toward Napolis, barely passing much further from the villa’s out-lands, before I collapsed in exhaustion. As fortune had it, I was happened upon by a traveler with horse and cart bound for Napolis. He pressed upon me the privilege of transport which I graciously accepted. Weary and frightened, I relayed the events that had unfolded. The traveler, floored by my recollections, told me he had seen the great cloud rise, and had hoped to find all fleeing as I had. We saw nary another soul until we reached the borders of Napolis.

We made our way through Napolis where I met with a learned council whom took me in for an evening. I slept without rest, and awoke earlier than usual. I stepped outside to feel the earth shake violently once more. It lasted mere moments, but felt as though days passed.

My eyes hastened to the direction of the villa: smoke darkened the sky. I hurried to higher elevations for a better view, and as I neared the top of a hill, a terrible sight greeted me. Great, darkened swaths of smoke had been joined by plumes white and red. The villa burned out of control!

I stared outward with more remorse for having fled so hastily than as I have ever felt. The earth trembled once more and again I was toppled, but scrambled up with it still trembling beneath me. It was then that I saw a monstrosity the Earth had created.

In the far off reaches of the sea was a spectacle I feel words might never do justice to; a wall composed thoroughly of water, and taller than that of the beloved Colosseum or any structure I may recall, headed inland from the harbor.

A messenger appeared beside me upon the hill and spoke, but his words were silence to me. I was taken by fear and awe. When he turned to follow my gaze, his face took on the same vacancy of mine. In a moment, the wall was gone. The small plumes of smoke near the harbor, which I supposed were ships, were snuffed out, drowned. The messenger, lost for words, mirrored my silent sentiments.

When the shock had worn off, he relayed word from the ville’s Council that a great, failed exodus had been attempted. Those that remained now surmised that those who had remained through the night were lost. Panic and sorrow were rampant among the survivors. The ships and harbor had burned as I had presumed, and the winds, fires, and clouds of smoke and ash had most escape.

It is now in my conclusion that I tell you I fear for the worst of our small ville. It is now days past, and the refugees of Pompeii wander aimlessly among its ruined outskirts. The town and its inhabitants are buried beneath earthen-ash. Its council, or what remains, is confounded at what to do. We’ve called a meeting in the noon to plan a reconstruction, but it is suggested that we rebuild at a further location, away from the great evil of Vesuvius. Perhaps when the time is right, it will swallow us all whole, but for now I only wish to apprise you of the events that have unfolded.

An acquaintance in time,

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