Spiritually Aware

A cattail waved in the wind, between a ditch and a green pasture. A cow lay nearby, occasionally craning her neck to eat a delicious plant.

“It’s a shame,” said the spirit of the cattail, “that the humans aren’t in touch with their spiritual sides. The way they used to be.”

“Do you really think so,” said the spirit of the cow.

“Oh, yeah,” said the cattail. “They’re all about the physical these days. No spirituality left.”

“Is that really so bad?”

“If they were more spiritually aware, we could tell them so much. Share our wisdom, y’know?” The cattail swayed in the breeze.

The cow chewed on its cud, and its spirit spoke around the mess. “So, you think the humans really need the wisdom of how to stand in the mud and bend in the breeze?”

“Oh, like you could do better.” The cattail quivered. “Standing around and eating whatever thing you can reach.”

“They already mess with everything. You really want to see what they do when they’re spiritually aware?”

“How long’ve you been around, Cow?”

“Eleven thousand years or so.”

“Well I’ve been around way longer, so-”

The cow craned her neck, and ate the cattail.

That's My Car

“Stop,” I shouted, “Stop!” And my car stopped, less because I was shouting than because I ran out in front of it before it could turn right on red.

“Hey,” the lady driving rolled down the window, “what’re you doing, you crazy bitch? Get outta the road!”

I slammed my hands down on the hood of the car. “What’m I doing? What’re you doing? This is my goddamn car!”

Pause. “Like hell it is, this is my car!” I couldn’t believe it. I come back from a three-mile run to see my car leaving the parking lot, and she insists that it’s hers.

Cars behind her started honking, and people gathered on the sidewalks around us. Someone walked out to me. “C’mon, lady, ain’t safe in the road.”

“She’s stealing my car,” I shouted, and shook him off. “It’s my car,” she shouted, “No, it’s not!” I screamed back. “Look, I have the key,” I pulled it out. “Where’s your key?”

I screamed that a few times as somebody pulled me aside. Tires squealed as the lady gunned it to get out of there. I almost ran after her. Instead I started asking after a cell. I needed a ride.

The Smell of Pine

The woods smelled of pine as I ran through them. The smell took me back to young days, exploring days, to sun-specked forest floor, soft with needles. But today smelled of pine and rain. My path was marked with gravel that hurt my feet, and strewn with small branches blown down by the storm.

Only moonlight lit the path, and that barely enough to save my neck. Every scrape on my hands and knees had been a close call. The storm that had given me the smell of pine had cut the power, killing the searchlights and the electric fence, and so now I ran.

Until that moment, I’d thought the baying of hounds to be an overblown turn of phrase, but when I heard them I thought my heart had stopped. It hadn’t; just my breath. I made myself breathe, breathe and run, before my body remembered just how weak I was.

Was I running in a straight line or in circles? Toward safety or danger? I had no idea. But I would run, despite the gravel, the scrapes, the gasping lungs. Better than waiting for the hounds at my heels.

At least I had the smell of pine.

Mara Whately, Or Current Resident

“Here about the room?” asked Mara.

“I’m looking for a new place to stay,” said the man. He sounded tired, or in withdrawal. Mara’d put one hand on the bat behind the door the moment she’d seen him. He looked like he’d been living in his car: rumpled cheap suit, five o’clock shadow from a couple weeks ago, and bags under his… his eyes.

Without thinking, she avoided eye contact.

But she needed the money. She released the bat and led him into the house. “Let me show you the room. It’s cozy. I wouldn’t figure it for… someone like you.”

“I’m looking to make a change,” he said. “My place isn’t welcoming any longer.” He looked at Mara. “You look comfortable.”

“I like it here.” Her smile came and went in a blink. “Rent’s two-fifty, includes utilities and laundry.” Pause. “You going to look at the room?”

“Looks fine,” he said, staring at her.

She didn’t need the money that badly. “Great. Come back tomorrow for the lease.”

“I’ll take it now,” he said.

“Tomorrow, Mr….”

“Abaddon,” he said. “Look into my eyes. Look!”

She did. She screamed. He screamed. Then she said, “I think I’ll like it here.”

Another First Time

Breathe out. Squeeze the trigger. A green hole appears in the figure in the scope. Time to move. When I get back to base, I’ll celebrate my hundredth kill. One less greenblood, one step closer to Earth’s freedom. Hooray.

Settling into my waiting routine in an empty warehouse when three greenies ‘ported in. The Cherenkov shine gave me enough warning to drop a grenade and roll out the window. I counted those as fifty-three, -four, and -five, not that I went back to check.

Thirteen was after the Battle of Brooklyn, that fiasco. Was fleeing, separated from the rest, when I found a greenie climbing out of a dead power suit. Tackled the fucker and beat its head against the ground until green brains came out.

Sergeant gave me a rifle and pointed at the greenie in the cell. Shoot, she said, get a feel for killing. Okay, done. That was number two.

The first time I killed, it was a knife. Just me and the target, no ceremony, just in the neck and out, and blood on the ground. Moments later, the ships appeared above our cities. No ceremony, just lasers.

God damn, what a time to be alive.

Thought It'd Be Easy

I thought it’d be easy to be a superhero. Find out you’re super strong, super tough, and bam! You’re a superhero. At least, I thought so.

But I can’t fly, and I’m not super fast. It turns out bad guys don’t just fall into your lap. They don’t just run up and start fights, and I’m never in the right place when bad things happen.

I walked through dangerous neighborhoods for a while. I stopped doing that when I yelled at a mugger to stop, and he stabbed the victim before he ran. I tried to stop the bleeding, but it just went everywhere and… I couldn’t. I didn’t go back.

Thought maybe I could join the police, do some of their really dangerous stuff. Get some of their folks off the line of fire, y’know? But I wasn’t any good. I kept failing their tests. I wasn’t any good at crisis situations, kept losing points on reckless endangering. They gave me extra chances, probably because-

Oh. That’s lunch break over. Demo’s not bad work, y’know? The pay is good. And hey, I don’t need a hard hat. They make me wear one, though. Good luck with your news story.

My First Time

The first time I died, I forgot what had happened. Trauma, I guess. I just woke up on the slab in the morgue, and freaked out because I was stuck in a coffin-sized box with zero light. I pounded and screamed, but it must’ve been the middle of the night, because no one heard me. I beat the inside of that box until my fists were blue. At some point, I think I passed out.

Woke up when I heard noise, and I yelled until they pulled me out. That was a freakin’ awkward conversation. Me and the morgue lady were both yelling, asking questions that no one answered. Eventually we both threatened to call the police, but she actually had a phone, so she won that race.

When the cops showed, they straightened things out. First time they’ve ever been useful, in my book. Morgue lady wanted to book me for B&E on federal property, but the cops had me on file as dead by a mugging the night before. Stabbed through the heart, even. Checked the toe tag and everything.

If I hadn’t died again a week later, I might’ve gone on thinking it was a fluke.