The military marched by, not neccesarrily proud, but in a somewhat straight line. The Commander watched grimly, remembering a time when people were good at their jobs.
In the far territories people protested unaware of most things they were trying to achieve, but with a nagging sense of right versus wrong. The news media was long gone, a corporate monopoly owned by five people and all sending on signals no one even used anymore. The country was desperate grasping at any semblance of its former self as it reached a peak anniversary. And the few other countries left in the shambles decided now would be a good time to reignite thousand year hatreds.

All of this while humanity burned the planet, leaving nothing left but scraps for future generations to fight over. It’s a wonder anyone was left after the fall. And yet here they were, holding onto grudges based on nothing but fear of things they didn’t understand.

Unless you knew the pathway it would be increasingly difficult to find your way home. The trees had grown so tall, the roads covered in darkness and debris. The landmarks of old, fallen , or rusted away. Nothing a marker for the senses, just desolation and windows into the old world.
There was a civilization here once, and there are signs it was grand. Full of art, and life, and purpose. But also of disparity, hatred and greed.
And like all worlds before, it fell in due time, to be consumed again by nature. 

Alone with its thoughts.

“How do we let them live like that?” Joqauin asked as he looked down on the Stone Prison of Madrid.
“They are alive aren’t they?” sneered the inspector. His casual cruelty was not a surprise to Joqauin but it didn’t soften the pain. These people had done nothing wrong, they just happened to be in the country when the world fell. Spain had done a decent job of surviving, their borders shrank and the population moved inwards towards the capital. Food systems had become rationed but the people mostly learned how to survive together. Except the foreigners wouldnt go home. After months of feeding them, the government decided to camp them here. In a long concrete airplane hangar. They had shelter, and running water. More then they would have at home (especially the Americans), but that was about all they were allowed. No jobs, no purpose. Some politicians had advocated for them to be a part of the society, to help rebuild but the xenophobes had triumphed. Now most Spaniards forgot they had been placed here. Easier to turn a blind eye, to let them rot in what in all regards was a life sentence prison.
As long as they had what they needed on the outside who would fight for these people?
Joqauin watched for years as a guard and each day was harder on him. But he was one man, one man who these same people would see as nothing more than their captor. And he had a family at home, a daughter three, who never knew the world before. Perhaps she would always look at her father with love and admiration. But if she ever saw his job, and these humans below, how could she ever respect him again?
Joqauin knew he should do something. 

He knew.

He knew. 

To lie in the fields without a worry,
To lament the bread on the floor as waste,
To sing out of joy, and not hunger.
The world is a place of wonder,
The world is a place of substance,
The world is a place of pain
A challenge for survival
A challenge of substance,
A challenge of language
And choosing the right words.
Because you can undo actions,
But never things spoken.

In the outer reaches of Nebraska, Jack trained with his long bow, pulling back releasing the quiver, over and over again. Sometimes he hit the target, but often he did not hit anything at all. He would need to get better at this in the near future. His father had tried teaching him but Jack was never a very good student. Last winter his father went out the door to the small wooden building they had called home and never returned. For the first couple of nights his mother said he would be back. Slowly her shoulders sunk as the realization set in that he would not. Jack didn’t know what to make of it. Had his father been injured in the winter wilds and froze to death? Or had he just abandoned them? Jack wasn’t sure and didn’t dwell on it for long. He knew now he had to figure out how to stock their reserves before the cold came again. The garden was pretty self sufficient, and his mother had already begun the canning process but they would need meat as well. So far Jack hadn’t been able to catch anything in the traps the family had spread across the woods. He would have to hunt to survive. So he pulled back the arrow once more, let fly. And missed again.

I hear voices all the time. My mother says to me that I can continue to grow as a person. She thought I would be a doctor, or a priest, something good, none of that happened.
My first girl Catherine says to me to stop drinking, to listen more. I wish i could shut out all the voices and the alcohol keeps the actual poisioned water from killing me.
My first pet Bernard barks at me in my dreams. Dreams of green fields and cotton candy sold at a county fair. Those lights were so bright.
I’ve been scavenging for so long I stopped worrying about what I ate. Id kill for cotton candy or anything filled with sugar. It’s all rotten now. All things perishable. Last week i found a twinkie, hidden behind a broken vending machine. My tongue long lost the taste for sweets, it tasted like pure nicotine. Felt the hair on my arms raise as it hit my mouth. I did not sleep well that night.
It’s been far too long since I saw another human, far too long since I touched anything but rust.

Why do I carry on?
Because I’m scared of the alternatives.

Excited to announce I have a short story Cackalacky Sun in the new anthology Summer Sucks by Alien Buddha Press out now. My story is loosely based on the Cherokee myth of U’tlun’ta’ or Spearfinger.
You can purchase a copy from Amazon here

The machine was so loud that they had sealed it inside a large metal silo. It helped for the village outside to deafen its constant rotations. Where it became a problem was for the maintenance crew who wore  many pieces of ear protection when entering the silo but still lost parts of their hearing upon entering. For this reason most of the technicians retired after forty. It was a most vital job for the community as the machine provided all the electricity for the town. It spun rapidly into the earth its large gears receiving power from the heat below.
For Oshie it was the job she had always wanted. Her father had been a siloman and even though she had to learn sign to communicate with him in later years it was a price worth paying. She did the job to honor him and everyone else who kept this community going long after the fall had wiped out so many towns like this one. Today’s task was not an easy one. The gears needed monthly oiling but with the constant spinning one had to be careful not to lose a finger or have the oil going into wrong spaces and destroy the machine. Oshie did her task carefully. She was always careful. 

After a few hours work she exited the Silo into the Manitoba air. She removed her safety goggles and the sun pierced her eyes. She raised her hand for cover and could seem Jim coming towards her then. His bearded smile a welcome respite. He hugged her close and she pushed back,
“Stop, I’m gross.” She said but he grabbed her and pulled her back to him.
“You’re my world saver. Like actually.” She took the embrace this time sinking into his earthen smells. She looked past his shoulder to the town they protected, a few children running free in the streets. Maybe Oshie and Jim would have a child one day. Maybe they would become a siloman. Or maybe by the time they got old, the Silo would no longer be needed. But for now she would continue to keep it running.
And her ears rang. But quiter each year. 

The chamber of the Earls was what could best be described as an old fast food restaurant. Many of the guards sat up high on the backs of what used to be dining room tables. In two plush chairs in the center sat Brick and Carter Earl, their captive audience waiting.
Brick wore a leather jacket with punk spikes, his pink mohawk matching the part. Carter was dressed in fine silk from head to toe, his black tie shiny as the metal serving bar behind him.
“State your name citizen,” came the call from one of the onlookers.
“Mike. Mike Childress.” Mike watched the two brothers as he spoke. Carter seemed disinterested. Brick stared intently at Mike when he spoke, his voice nasally and high.
“What can we do for you citizen?”
Mike didn’t consider himself a citizen of this strange world the Earls had made for themselves, but he knew Ellis needed help and he was going to try to get it.
“My son. Ellis. He needs medicine. He’s been sick for a while.”
Brick looked to his brother who waved his hand to continue.
“Medicine isn’t cheap. And important here,” as he waved to his group surrounding him.
“What skills do you have Mike? What did you do in the former?”
“I was a carpenter sir. I built cabinets.”
Brick looked to his brother who finally spoke, his voice low and stern.
“Could you build a barracks?, “ said Carter, looking out at the crowd gathered. “For our fine citizens?” They cheered at that.
Mike thought about it. He wasn’t sure he was up to the task but nodded anyway.
“With enough manpower and supplies, sure.” The crowd cheered again.
Brick came down from his pedestal then marched over to Mike.
“You will have what you need for your son. You will take it to him, with two of our men.” His breath stunk as he got closer to Mike his eyes wild but convincing.
“You will make sure your son is healed. We are not monsters. And then you shall return to repay your debt to the Earls, as a good citizen. Do you agree?”
Mike saw nothing but Ellis face in his mind as he nodded his commitment. A citizen of the Earls was born, and the crowd in the old fast food restaurant cheered. And Mikes life journey up to this point would pale in comparison.

The pain is his chest rose up quickly, just when he thought things were getting better.
Fooled again, nothing was better. When she talked the plans did not involve anyone but herself. He wondered if she heard herself? No mention of anyone else, no mention of things lined up in front of the world. The river rushed past them, and he thought perhaps he should just jump inside it.
The young boy took his hand then. A child he had raised as his own. A lie, but a worthy one. He would continue to get up, work, sometimes tirelessly, to make sure the young kid had a future worth looking towards. He gave himself small selfish things, but he needed those things to keep going.
He wanted a drink, his liver did not.
He wanted to scream, but the pain was so numb as it ate away at his insides.
No doctor to call on, no therapist to dive into. Alone in the world but he would do it with honor. A wicked recipe for life, but sometimes there were rainbows with dreams inside.
And a small childs hand, a love that couldn’t extinguish, to make a better future.