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.

Unreasonable Demands

“No,” he said. “I won’t!” He took a deep breath. “And you can’t make me!” His mouth worked like he was chewing something unpleasant before he found more words. “It’s ludicrous to think that after all this time--no, after all we’ve been through, that I can--I can just say goodbye. You--you owe me--you owe me way more than that!” He panted. “No, but--no, it’s true--I know that I, I owe you--yes, I know! But after all--after all this time--”

He was shouting at his beard in the mirror.

It was a strong beard. Thick, not bushy and fading to wisps but instead compact, and still big. He had grown it in over a very long time, and tended it carefully. He protected it from shears and razors, and it protected him, too. It kept his face hidden. It kept him safe. It had also made him kind of crazy.

“Please,” he said,” Please stop--no, just stop saying that. You can’t--” He looked his beard in the face. The beard said nothing.

“Fine,” he said, tears dripping into his beard. “I’ll do it.” He lifted the razor, and hair began to fall.

She Said What?

Hush swept over the twenty people at the table. 38 eyes turned toward one pair, which flicked around the table, finding no friends. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry.” Her chair squealed against the floor as she pushed it back, and she walked out the back door. It closed on silence and light behind her, leaving her in silence and darkness.

She squatted on the stoop. Her fingers wished for a cigarette, and tears threatened from behind her eyes. Rocking back and forth comforted her a little. A little.

These people would never invite her back. That was good. Best, even. She didn’t want to see them again. Not when they’d remember this. Some of them knew her other friends. If she could wipe the house from the map, and everyone in it, with a tiny nuclear device maybe, she would. As it was, the word would spread like a disease. She was fucked. And she’d done it to herself.

She stood up. Her nervous hand flicked its imaginary cigarette over her shoulder toward the house. “Fuck it,” she said, and she walked into the night. Behind her, imaginary cinders lit imaginary gasoline, starting an imaginary inferno to light her way.