The Game

(Heaven. Can be vague or specific. REAGAN wanders in and finds WASHINGTON waiting for him.)

REAGAN

You’re not St. Peter.

WASHINGTON

Indeed, I get that a lot.

REAGAN

There weren’t any pearly gates, either.

WASHINGTON

Heaven has no need for walls.

REAGAN

I never liked them much anyway.

WASHINGTON

Do you have to settle in much?

REAGAN

I don’t think so. I’ve been a bit muddled. Nancy isn’t here, is she?

WASHINGTON

Not yet. But there is much that can be done in the meantime.

REAGAN

I’m sorry. I should introduce myself. Ronald Reagan.

WASHINGTON

George Washington.

REAGAN

So what can we do? Watch history unfold? Meet with family and historical figures ?

WASHINGTON

Well, you see, it is Wednesday.

REAGAN

Can I see Jesus?

WASHINGTON

He is a busy man, you know. Plenty of people to welcome. There is a war on, after all. He sees everyone on Sunday, but as I mentioned, it’s Wednesday.

REAGAN

What happens on Wednesdays?

WASHINGTON

Myself and the other former Presidents are known to gather for a game of baseball.

Listen here, idea garden.

You are a place where things grow.

You probably knew that you were a host for bacteria and such, but you’re a host for ideas, too.

The idea of art (or perhaps the idea of dicking around on the internet) brought you here and hopefully won’t lead you away. It uses reflections of your life to keep you coming back and keep itself alive. There are a thousand kinds of art, but that’s evolution for you. They’ll live, one way or another, ’cause your mind is a fertile habitat.

The idea of love takes longer to get its roots in, but they go deep. If you feel it, someone else does too, and that’s how it lives. Hatred works the same way – once it gets its roots into your mind you almost can’t help spreading it, and that’s how it lives.

Littler ideas evolve, too, spreading more quickly in between the roots. The idea of a vacation, of tonight’s dinner, of sleep, all perennials.

There’s hardly a you – there’s just the soil in which these ideas grow, which might be better for some ideas than for others. Your life is their fight for survival. The best ones will win, as in all evolution. You think you’re an individual, think you have free wil, but that’s an idea too, isn’t it.

Donne

(John Donne sits at first, staring at the floor. His third sister, as well as his father, are now dead. There are four graves visible onstage. Death is in the background. She steps across, kisses her hand, and places a kiss on each stone in turn.)

Death – Elizabeth Donne. Mary Donne. Catherine Donne. John Donne Senior.

John – At least I don’t have as much sibling rivalry to worry about.

Death – It’s true.

John – And they’ve gone on to their eternal reward. Right?

Death – You’ll see.

John – I’m next?

Death – No. But someday.

John – What about my mother?

Death – Someday.

John – My father and my sisters are in heaven. My mother will, someday. And I, God willing.

Death – The question left to you is what you will do now. With your time. You see things clearer than most.

Bad Moon Rising

Most people seemed to agree that it was in bad taste.

The president of the Mid-rim Union still gave a speech honoring Captain McLaughlin for his heroic success, but it was much shorter than everyone expected, and his heart wasn’t in it. There were protests at the speech – one famously declaring that McLaughlin ought to be tossed back to Earth if that’s what he thought of it.

The refugees were  a bit more positive. The Imam of the Arabian League declared a Jihad against him, because Mecca and Medinah both had to be uprooted (and not without significant damage to both), but thye had been saved, along with pretty much every inhabitant, so it ended up being mostly a Jihad of grumbling. And nobody else had anything bad to say, or they kept it to themselves.

The military gave him a medal. He saved billions of lives, after all, and his tactic of using the moon’s changing gravity to slingshot the rescue ships was nothing short of brilliant. He did his duty as an officer, and was entitled to eccentricity.

There was a definite casualty, though. From the moment the moon hit Africa, shattering the tectonic plates and ending the world, and Captain McLaughlin began to sing, the song could never be the same again.

Turn Faire

“Hail,” said the man at the front gate, wearing bell-bottoms and a jean jacket.

“That’s completely inaccurate,” whispered Jennis as they approached. “‘Hail’ was middle ages. At the turn they would have said ‘hi’ or ‘what’s up’.”

Dannica smiled at the man, flashing hima glimpse of her petticoat, and he smiled. “Nobody’s perfect. And if they were they’d be boring.”

“They could stand to be a little closer.”

“You promised me that you’d try to have fun.” Dannica navigated around a ring where Reagan and Obama impersonators were boxing. “And I’m not going to let you get away without it.”

Jennis sighed. “Fine. I’ll have fun. But I won’t enjoy it.”

They wandered down the main drag, Dannica dragging Jennis into half a dozen shops selling everything from period firearms and costumes to tiny vials of petroleum.

“It’s not supposed to be accurate. It’s supposed to evoke the mood of the Turn. Expansion, discovery, spirituality. They get the gist of it.”

Jennis picked up a holograph that had fallen from Dannica’s bag and replaced it. “No, they get the good side. People forget that there were diseases then, that there was no core mind or that the galaxy was far off.”

“Maybe.” Dannica slurped the last of her soda and took a bite of authentic roasted chicken. “I just think it’s fun. And I think you still owe me a smile or something.”

Dannica wandered off to the live TV performance, leaving Jennis to loiter around the shops. She wandered through a display of historical holographs, grateful that they at least couldn’t be screwed up, then noticed that the presidential inaugurations from 2020 on were all mislabeled. She sighed and walked out.

“What kind of costume is that?” A boy lying on the ground atop a blanket gestured at her skirt-pants. “It looks like period 2490s.”

“Well then it’s more accurate than everyone else’s.”

“I can’t really argue. I mean mine are period from this morning but I don’t think that counts.”

“Nope.” Jennis started to walk away.

“Who dragged you out here?”

Jennis turned and stood awkwardly. “A friend. Loves lost causes. What are you doing?”

“Sunbathing. They thought it would make your skin darker. It doesn’t work but it’s nice anyway.”

“It works by ultraviolet skin damage.”

“I know. I turned my nanites off but still nothing.”

Jennis sat down. “It takes a while, I think.”

“Oh.”

“And it really does cause skin damage.”

The boy shrugged. “That’s as authentic as I can get. Taking a risk. We don’t have too many risks left these days.”

“We don’t, do we.”

“I’ve got some room on the blanket here.”

Jennis smiled, and only later remembered to hope that Dannica hadn’t seen it.

Collector

The overpass at 38th had fallen, so he decided to start searching there. It was mostly highrise residential, which made him nervous – he’d seen what it looked like when they fell – but he went, pedaling around the skeletons of cars.

There weren’t any big-box stores, but after a few blocks he stumbled upon a pedestrian mall. He stepped off of his bike, weaving it around the scattered bones. The stores were mostly kitschy touristy stuff. Motheaten Denver T-shirts, trendy bars, a cheese shop that he could smell from thirty feet away. Even when the cheese had been good, Elaine would never have set foot there. ‘I might catch tourist. It’s airborne.’ He chuckled.

There was a crunch as he ran over a metatarsal, and the nearby skull seemed to chide him. ‘I apologize.’ He was sorry, but there were billions of them. Not much he could do.

Three blocks down there was a local bookstore. The sign had rusted into oblivion, but there were some ragged specimes in the shop window. A bell rang as he walked in, and several raccoons scattered from the checkout when he walked in. They’d attached a metal bell to the door with a chain. Craftsmanship. It would last. Well, longer than the others.

Most of the books were starting to mildenw. The ceiling in one corner had fallen in, and the weather had not been kind. It didn’t matter. He might try to salvage one or two, but the Santa Fe house had plenty of books.

The DVD selection was still intact, though. Much of it was behind glass, which had somehow survived the fall and everything since. He set his bike down and picked up his ball-peen, eagerly scanning the shelves.

And there it was. Flying Circus volume seventeen. Finally. He smashed the glass and reached in gingerly, extracting the case. The plastic wrap was still there. Perfect.

Elaine would have said he was wasting his time with stupid shit. She’d get her chance, someday, when the judgment that fell on the rest of the human race fell on him too. But who knew when that would be.

Until then, he could wait.

Lines written upon nodding off during a web training at work

I wonder if my sleep hasn’t been delivered by mistake.

If somewhere in Eastern Europe a man whose name sounds like mine is tossing and turning, wondering how it can be that after such an exhausting day he’s still staring at the shadows playing on his ceiling.

Or if somewhere in India an old woman has started from sleep, a dream about digital asset management already fading from her mind.

And perhaps Morpheus, with a million and a half people left to see this hour, is glancing for a second time at his list. Aw fuck, he says, facepalming.

Inherit the Earth

Bill – Anna, you want some wine?

Anna – No thanks.

Cat – You haven’t fed me.

Anna – Hush.

Dog – They have too fed you.

Cat – Not enough.

Anna – Can we talk?

Bill – Sure. We can always talk.

Anna – Actually maybe I do want some wine.

Bill – Okay. (He gets her some wine)

Anna – So I’ve been thinking.

Bill – You tend to.

Anna – I’m gonna be thirty-three in a couple months.

Bill – This is about babies.

Anna – Yeah.

Dog – You aren’t going to get any more food.

Cat – Persistent shows of disappointment will get you everywhere.

Dog – Then how come you’re so much smaller than me?

Cat – Cause if they’d bought a smaller dog I would have eaten it.

Your existence

Your existence was 100 million to one against, if you want to get technical and count sperm. For that matter, so were your mother’s and your father’s. The further back in time you go, the more your chance of existence approaches zero. By the civil war you’re infintesimal. If Abe had kept shaving your great-etc-grandpa never would have grown that beard that your great-etc-grandma liked, and your great (-1) grandparents would not have been. It only gets worse. By the middle ages your life is like the fine china at the top of a stack of a hundred plates held by a maid who might cough because she’s got the black death. Before that there are centuries where nobody knows what anyone was doing, but they somehow managed to do the right people.

Mathematically speaking, you pretty much don’t exist. You’re one out of a near infinite number of possibilities and for each one of you there are billions of nonexistent people. All of them have either more or less to complain about than you, depending on how you look at it.

Shakespeare: Zombie

When from my grave I find myself arising,

My flesh decay’d, my voice a mindless groan,

And realize no dish of man’s devising

Can sate the hunger gnawing at my bones,

Then to your lovely skull my gaze does slide,

As I do think, while yet my mind remains,

That outward show reflects the truth inside,

And so your face must hide your perfect brains.

Yet without brains your grace would turn to jelly,

Your beauty would be dulled, your wit repressed,

And though your mind would surely fill my belly,

‘Twould leave a gaping void within my chest.

So though my hunger pains me, I am true.

I cannot have my love and eat her too.