Appreciation

Half dark. An infrequented spot on campus. Perfect for an asshole in a hood to step around a corner of Donal Music Hall and point a gun at my chest. Froze in my boots, of course. Just gave two more assholes a chance to appear and surround me. Was shit, is what it was. “Here’s the deal,” said First Asshole. “Stand your ground and fight me,” flick, and a knife appeared in his hand, “or run and we hunt you. Either way, your life is on the line.” Blank look precipitates explanation. “No one appreciates life ‘til they fight not to lose it. You’ll thank us after, just like the others. If you survive.”

The fuck? Stalled, asking if I got a knife. Yes, apparently. Other assholes were there to keep me from running once a fight starts.

Guess all those fencing lessons were worth something. Cut on his arm and Asshole Prime drops his knife. Starts to congratulate me, then runs when he sees I’m not stopping. Only fair, right?

Turns out, I do feel pretty great. Giving no shits about late essays now. Maybe Asshole was onto something.

Still called the cops, of course. Fucking pretentious presumptuous asshole.

Harry's Story

When Harry was young, he wanted to be a fireman. Excellent, said everyone. Firemen save lives. But be careful, because it is dangerous! The next day, Harry wanted to be an astronaut. Terrific, said everyone. Astronauts further scientific knowledge. But it takes a lot of hard work to be an astronaut.

The next day, Harry wanted to be an explorer. Okay, said everyone. Explorers find new places. But there’s not much to explore any more. You should stick with astronaut.

The next day, Harry wanted to be a monkey. Huh, said everyone. You’re already a little monkey sometimes. But you can’t be a real monkey.

Yes I can, said Harry. I’m going to be a monkey astronaut fireman explorer.

Oh, said everyone. You can’t be all those things. Maybe choose one. Not the monkey.

Harry studied hard at school. He studied math and astronomy. He studied materials science and psychology. He studied economics and sociology. He studied biology and genetics.

Grown Up Harry joined a spaceship heading to new worlds as Chief Emergency Warden. It was an important job: he kept others safe from fire and other dangers while exploring space.

I’m still working on the monkey part, said Harry.

Not a Solution

The nightmares were getting worse. Once had become once a month, then weekly, then daily. Now the mix of violence, risk assessment, troop deployment, and death were intruding on her waking hours. No abstract patterns on the inside of her eyelids, no, just training schedules, enemy communication analysis, and the inevitable firefights and screaming and lines of corpses shredded by automatic fire and roadside bombs. Double-blinking brought up her optical desktop. She chose an app and some files with a few flicks of her eyes, and a transparent map overlaid the squat grey building in front of her, tinting it yellow. Federal Census Bureau, read the filename in the upper left, read the imposing block letter above the door.

Harvey might have been a boring boyfriend and a mediocre hacker, but he was a top-notch paranoiac. When his hack-spiders crawled across something that implicated the US Census Bureau, he dropped it on her doorstep and disappeared.

Its not going to solve the problem, but a general goes to war with the troops she has. She idly wondered where that thought came from as she revved her bike, checked her pistol, and peeled out toward the front door.

Sleep, Conquered

I have conquered sleep, but the war is not without casualties. With the exception of my mind, I do not act. In truth, it is more of a stalemate than a victory. I hold sleep at bay, and my mind runs unfettered. But sleep’s armies have my corpus pinned down, unable to maneuver or strategically retreat. But while my worthless body struggles, immobile and useless, with fatigue, my mind builds. It builds on foundations that never collapse beneath the weight of unconsciousness. Sleep is the toddler that monsters, innocent and ruthless, through the sand castles of thought, forcing their architects to rebuild day after day.

Free of this monster, my sandcastles reach to the sky. With twice the time to think, I think more than others do. More than twice as much! The more one thinks, the more momentum one’s thoughts acquire, as a train gathers speed on a straightaway, fatigue the rusted rail that grinds momentum to a halt.

Shed of that burden, my sandcastles reach with infinite momentum into the sky of space! I have fixed the economy, solved social injustice, created free energy, and cured disease.

When I figure out telepathy, you’ll all understand.

I’m so tired.

More Independent Thought

“Have you ever disarmed someone at this range?” she asked the guard. “No, I--” She took the guard’s gun, kicked in his knee, and stomped his neck as he hit the ground. His partner froze at gunpoint.

“You’re well-paid private security professionals. I’m an intruder. But you need to ask yourself, ‘Are we good guys or bad guys?’ You can’t always tell. You get your paycheck and take it home. Maybe to your family. You have hobbies. Friends. Ambitions. You’re a normal guy working a normal job, except with guns and retinal scans to get to work.

“You aren’t bad guys. You’re just guys. Your employers? All you know is they pay too well to be government. So judge based on me. I get a shitty government salary for this. I’ll be filing reports in DC tomorrow. I have two kids, Alan and Gertie, and I have pictures. But those are just words. Judge on this: I’m talking, when I could just kill you and move on. I’m the good guy. Trust me.”

“Hk-k-kk-k-kk-khhhhhh.” The downed guard breathed his last. Marty’s eyes widened. His hand twitched toward his gun.

“Godshitfuckit,” she said, and fired. “What a waste of breath.”

Independent Thought

Five men. Five guns. Her back against the wall in the dark. She had to talk fast. “You’re well-paid private security professionals. I’m an intruder. But you need to ask yourselves, ‘Are we good guys or bad guys?’ You can’t always tell. You get your paycheck, direct deposit from your company, and take it home. Maybe to your family. You have hobbies. Friends. Ambitions. You’re normal people working a normal job, except with guns and retinal scans to get to work.

“You aren’t bad guys. You’re just guys. Your employers? All you know is they pay too well to be government. So judge based on me. I get a shitty government salary for this. I’ll be filing reports in DC tomorrow. I have two kids, Alan and Gertie, and I have pictures. But those are just words. Judge on this: I’m talking, when a bad guy would be holding a gun to someone’s head. I’m the good guy. Trust me.”

One said, “Can I see the pictures?”

“Sure.” The LED strobe she withdrew blinded them long enough for her to escape.

Rubbing spots from his eyes. “Well, she didn’t hurt anyone. Maybe she’s telling--”

Then he saw the grenade.

Necessary

Hi. I’m a fire hydrant. Life isn’t busy, but it’s not boring. There’s so much to see. People walk by me constantly. And I have a good view of the street, so there are lots of cars to look at, whizzing by or looking for a parking spot and moving on when they see me. Sometimes I hear a siren or see a fire truck, but they never stop nearby.

I’ve never seen a fire. Is it wrong that I want to? I want something near me to catch on fire. Not a small fire. I’ve seen those; people put them out with foam-spraying things. I want one of the big ones, the home-destroying fires that need at minimum 1000 gallons per minute at more than 150 pounds per square inch.

It’s just that I’m here for a reason. I know I am. Cars are made to drive, and I see them zoom by all the time. People are made to talk, and they’re always doing it, walking and talking, alone and in groups. But this pressure I feel inside me never gets let out.

I just want a fire so I can be who I really am.