The Bomb
It was around 4 o'clock in the morning when the bomb went off. The winter air was icy, and as the people stepped outside in silent confoundedness, the soft hairs on their arms stood on end. Nobody saw the bomb drop from the plane's dark silhouette, an acid-black raindrop against the blue frown of the forested horizon. Nobody saw the pilot, whose soft gaze rested like snow on the fading stars of the morning; whose facial muscles sat in a constant state of lethargy, even as the blinding flash of resolution cracked like a lightening bolt in the reflection of the plane's windshield. But everyone heard it: the rumble in the distance that all at once sounded like the thunder of an impending storm, the whiz of a stone thrown too close to the skull, and the groan of a damaged tree as it slowly breaks away from its earthen seat to fall with heavy, quiet, finality.
The children gaped in amazement at the fire growing in the distance. A wide circle began to encompass the forest and the hills about 50 miles from the neighborhood. The parents gaped in stomach-wrenching horror. As fast as they witnessed one flick of a flame; a demonic tongue slithering up and reaching out toward them, they dug their fingernails into the arms and sides of their children, grabbed hair and pajamas in a flurry of panicked, distressed movements. And through narrow, vibrating tunnels of vision, they somehow managed to stumble down into their cellars and slam the doors with harrowing strength.
At around noon the next day, a few of the adults corralled the elusive, thrashing beast that was their courage and clambered like zombies from beneath their houses. They stood, eerily quiet and still behind their windows and front doors, reminding themselves to stop shivering and stand up straight. At first they noticed the gray, smoldering hole in the side of the hill from the night before; an enormous gravestone hideously scarring the face of their land. Then, as though caught on a breeze, their eyes rolled down toward the sea. Normally, there would reside a sparkling emptiness upon the waves, which retained in the minds of the neighborhood an inspiring and calming realm of safe non-happenings. But today, there in the harbor, sat five monolithic ships of war.
It was then that the adults realized they were waiting for someone else to tell them what to do, how to feel, how to protect their children from the imminent doom and themselves from the vast unknowingness that masked their minds like the smoke did the forest in the distance. This was the worst enemy they could ever imagine: a wordless, shapeless, horror invading every corner of their minds; the unknown enemy. The every enemy. After a moment, they retreated to their cellars like wounded animals to their chosen place of death.
After a time, long enough for the food to run out and stories to arise of soldiers dressed in black shooting anyone who tried to escape the area, there came a rain of fists upon the doors of the neighborhood. Muffled, genderless voices called out things like "food! the ships have food! we've got food!" The creatures that now inhabited the neighborhood, empty vessels robbed of their fervor and dreams by the rape of their perceived safety and contentedness, chose either to feast on the bread, fruit, and vegetables provided by the unseen enemy, or to remain in their cellars and stay in the mental cage provided by the unseen enemy.
No one escaped, and those who did not die from the poison succumbed to starvation.
The children gaped in amazement at the fire growing in the distance. A wide circle began to encompass the forest and the hills about 50 miles from the neighborhood. The parents gaped in stomach-wrenching horror. As fast as they witnessed one flick of a flame; a demonic tongue slithering up and reaching out toward them, they dug their fingernails into the arms and sides of their children, grabbed hair and pajamas in a flurry of panicked, distressed movements. And through narrow, vibrating tunnels of vision, they somehow managed to stumble down into their cellars and slam the doors with harrowing strength.
At around noon the next day, a few of the adults corralled the elusive, thrashing beast that was their courage and clambered like zombies from beneath their houses. They stood, eerily quiet and still behind their windows and front doors, reminding themselves to stop shivering and stand up straight. At first they noticed the gray, smoldering hole in the side of the hill from the night before; an enormous gravestone hideously scarring the face of their land. Then, as though caught on a breeze, their eyes rolled down toward the sea. Normally, there would reside a sparkling emptiness upon the waves, which retained in the minds of the neighborhood an inspiring and calming realm of safe non-happenings. But today, there in the harbor, sat five monolithic ships of war.
It was then that the adults realized they were waiting for someone else to tell them what to do, how to feel, how to protect their children from the imminent doom and themselves from the vast unknowingness that masked their minds like the smoke did the forest in the distance. This was the worst enemy they could ever imagine: a wordless, shapeless, horror invading every corner of their minds; the unknown enemy. The every enemy. After a moment, they retreated to their cellars like wounded animals to their chosen place of death.
After a time, long enough for the food to run out and stories to arise of soldiers dressed in black shooting anyone who tried to escape the area, there came a rain of fists upon the doors of the neighborhood. Muffled, genderless voices called out things like "food! the ships have food! we've got food!" The creatures that now inhabited the neighborhood, empty vessels robbed of their fervor and dreams by the rape of their perceived safety and contentedness, chose either to feast on the bread, fruit, and vegetables provided by the unseen enemy, or to remain in their cellars and stay in the mental cage provided by the unseen enemy.
No one escaped, and those who did not die from the poison succumbed to starvation.
Ebb and Sway
Before fifth period, Jack was at his locker. As he grabbed his gray sweater, Ms. Rhea came around the corner swiftly. Her shoulder-length dark hair was pulled up in a ponytail which swayed as she glided toward him. This particular corner of the school was empty at the moment except for the two of them.
“What are you doing tonight?” Ms. Rhea asked as she halted behind his locker’s door. She leaned against the adjacent lockers. He didn’t make eye contact with her. He pulled his sweater over his short blond hair. She peered around at him.
“Not sure. Why?” Her eyes fell downward. He closed his locker gently, and then turned to face her.
“I’m going out. Want to come?” As her eyes rose to his, a shimmer floated across them.
“Yeah.” He smiled, though he tried not to.
“What are you doing tonight?” Ms. Rhea asked as she halted behind his locker’s door. She leaned against the adjacent lockers. He didn’t make eye contact with her. He pulled his sweater over his short blond hair. She peered around at him.
“Not sure. Why?” Her eyes fell downward. He closed his locker gently, and then turned to face her.
“I’m going out. Want to come?” As her eyes rose to his, a shimmer floated across them.
“Yeah.” He smiled, though he tried not to.
___
“This is where I go,” Ms. Rhea said. Her voice was softer and thicker, he noticed.
They climbed the steps to the brick building. Colored lights swung through the doorway like flailing arms. The music thumped with his heart in his chest.
“When I need a break, you know? I think I need a break.” She was dressed differently than at school. She had more makeup around her eyes and wore jeans, a baggy cotton v-neck, and a tight leather jacket. He hadn’t noticed how thin she was until now, with her collar bones jutting out across the open neck of the shirt like a rail. He nodded.
“This is my friend,” she said to the bouncer who stood outside of the club. Jack watched her as she leaned toward the bouncer and put her hand on his shoulder. He was tall and thin with tattoos on his neck and forearms.
“Alright.” The bouncer gave Jack a stern look, but let the minor pass. Ms. Rhea took Jack’s hand. He could not feel his heart in his chest anymore. His ribs straddled a hollow cavern, vibrating with the music. His fingers began to sting and go numb.
“Don’t worry, Jack.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I can tell.”
“No, you can’t.” She wrapped her thin arms around his shoulders as they ebbed into the rippling crowd. He could feel her wedding band; the cold, sharp sting of gold on the back of his neck. Beams of black, red, and green covered their faces like neon war-paint. He smiled again, though he tried hard not to.
“I first started coming here when Peter and I got engaged. I hate traps.” She had to yell for him to hear. The two of them began to pulsate in unison with the crowd. They became anemones undulating in a sea of brightly colored bodies. Her eyes dodged his.
“Why?” He asked, though he didn’t want to know.
“I don’t need anybody. I don’t need a man to complete my life or to take care of me.”
“Then why did you get engaged?”
“Why does anyone get engaged? People get engaged. That’s life, you can’t fight it.”
“What about love?”
“Love is the biggest trap.” She drew closer to him. She was a few inches taller than him. She was so close he could feel her breath between them like a phantom.
___
“Come on,” she whispered. They were outside behind the club. He laughed, despite trying to hold it in. She held out her hand to him and he took it. She lit a cigarette, cupping the lighter as though it were a baby bird. The air was warm. She leaned back on the brick wall and sucked in a plume of smoke. He stood facing her and rubbed his eyes. The sky was masked by dark blue clouds.
“Love isn’t a trap,” he said hoarsely.
“Shut up,” she said, blowing smoke in his face. He winced.
“Let’s get untrapped.” She threw her cigarette onto the pavement, crushing it with her heel. Her thin fingers hooked something in her jeans pocket. She revealed to him two perfectly round, white pills.
“No, thanks,” he said, reaching his hand out to take one.
___
Her bedroom smelled faintly of flowers.
“Do you feel trapped now?” Jack inquired softly, touching her hair. The moonlight drew powdery-white ghosts on their shoulders. Her face was shrouded in shadows.
“No.”
“Good."
She began to cry.
