I read a sci/fi piece this morning which was written by a sweet spirited young woman who lives in France with her husband and contributes to the Ditalinipress blog. In it she describes perfectly the transformation of a boy from citizen to soldier. It moved me. Actually, it broke my heart. Eva has allowed me to quote her paragraph in my own blog.
"After two years of training in weaponry, stamina, and strategy, he was sent to the Empire's mutable Eastern borders and in time, he found that he liked the life of a soldier. He felt elemental and strong. He knew war had always been and always would be and he formed an idea that he and the other soldiers were conduits for the gods, and he was to allow the inevitable, warring passions of Earth to work through him for the greatest outcome of all. Whenever he felt like he couldn't take another step, or felt dizzy with hunger, he'd say: Stay empty, empty, its an honor to host this transfiguring force."
Most of my children, including my daughters, have served in the military at one time or another. Thankfully, none saw combat, but they were trained by the "Gods of War", better known as our governments, to become soldiers. Trained, as Eva explains, to be "conduits for the Gods........to allow the inevitable warring passions of Earth to work through (them) for the greatest outcome of all."
Is it just me, or does anyone else see the sadness, the wrongness of all this? Past, present or futuristic sci/fi, nothing seems to change. The Gods of War remain. However, we have the right, to turn our backs on them, to refuse to worship and offer up our children on their alters of sacrifice. May the better angels within us deny them their deity and keep our children filled with the strength of wisdom and peace.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Staying/ A Short Story
It's midnight and she sits alone in the nursery. The child within her rests high, pressing against her lungs and making breathing difficult. The oak rocker allows her to lean back and expand her lungs more easily. She gazes at the crib and imagines it one month from now filled with precious life. She has spent months sanding the crib and repainting it until it shines like new, perfectly restored with the love she has poured into it. Everything is ready. Everything is perfect, or nearly everything. The fully loaded twelve gauge shotgun lays across her thighs just beneath her swollen stomach. She rocks slowly, cradling the unborn child and the weapon.
He'd missed dinner again and he hadn't called. She'd waited, knowing it was payday and that the chances of his getting home on time were slim. He would cash his check at the bar, lose track of time, and stumble home sometime after dark. But it was midnight and she also knew that he'd left the bar at ten, because she had called. He was with someone again. She could even guess who it was. At the company picnic just the week before, she had seen the glances , heard the whispers, of the people around her. She'd noticed a young red head stealing glances at her husband. She knew, he was with her now. He'd come home smelling of whiskey and perfume.
Not this time, she thinks. Not ever again. She'd kill him first. She rocks slowly and stares at the empty crib and then down at the shotgun. She caresses the cold steel, allowing her anger to build. She will finish this once and for all.
Suddenly her body spasms and her eyes fly open. She has fallen asleep and been jerked awake by that feeling of falling that she experienced more and more frequently as her muscles strained under the added weight of the baby. The clock glows 3:30. He isn't coming home this time. Her body is stiff and aching as she rises from the chair. The fight has been wrung from her. The anger replaced with despair and fatigue.
She unloads the shotgun, and locks it back in the gun case. Standing in the doorway of the nursery, she takes in what once seemed to be a promise of happiness and new life, and allows the tears to fall. She turns then and begins to put a new plan into action. Pulling a suitcase from the closet, she fills it with whatever she needs to begin the journey to a new life for herself and her baby. When she is finished she lays down on the bed, fully clothed, and allows sleep to overtake her once again.
Just before dawn, he slips into bed beside her. The stink of whiskey and sex awakens her. Swallowing the bile that rises in her throat, she waits until his breathing becomes more regular and he falls into a deep drunken slumber. Rising quickly and quietly she, pulls the packed suitcase from its hiding place beneath the bed and heads confidently out the back door to the car, shutting out the pain and disappointment which has been her life with him.
She runs to the car, but before she can open the trunk, she stops and stares in disbelief . The suitcase falls from her hand and she drops to her knees. The car. What has he done to the car? The side is scratched and caved in from the door to the rear bumper. The back tire is flat. He has run it off the side of the road in a drunken stupor and made her escape impossible. No. He could not do this. She would not let him. Not this time.
Running back to the bedroom she begins to shake him awake, screaming hysterically. "Get up! Get up you bastard. You mother fucking bastard! You get up and fix that flat tire. Do it now! Right fucking now!"
Her screams penetrate his drunkenness. He senses the insanity within the words, feels the spit hit his face and manages to sit up in the bed. This time he's gone too far. He's pushed her over an edge he had not known was there. Fending off her frantic blows, he rises slowly from the bed.
"Get your ass out there now" She screams. He struggles to his feet and heads obediently outside to the car while she trails him cursing and screaming. Without a word, he fixes the flat and puts her suitcase in the trunk. He doesn't want to lose her. Doesn't want to lose the baby he's fathered. But he knows nothing he says now can stop her . He watches her climb into the drivers seat and slam the door. As she peels out of the drive in reverse, he simply turns and walks silently back into the house. This cannot be undone.
She is alone now behind the wheel of a car going ....where? Does it matter? So long as it is away from him and the betrayal and cruelty which has been her life until this moment. But where? Her mother would never take her in. How far will a high school education take her and her child? Where will her baby lay its head every night? Certainly not in the crib which she has prepared. Who will care for her child while she works every day? Even though he is cruel and does not come home at night to her, does it matter? She has a child to raise now. Someone to love and nurture. Who can do this better than her, and how can she do it without him?
She slows the car to a stop, taking a tissue from the glove box to wipe her tears. She takes a deep breath, turns the car around, and heads back toward the house. Back to him, to security. How important can love be when one has a baby to care for? She will make this work, somehow.
He hears the car in the drive. Listens for the door and her footsteps in the hall. Through the haze of alcohol, he smiles. She will stay. For now, she will stay.
He'd missed dinner again and he hadn't called. She'd waited, knowing it was payday and that the chances of his getting home on time were slim. He would cash his check at the bar, lose track of time, and stumble home sometime after dark. But it was midnight and she also knew that he'd left the bar at ten, because she had called. He was with someone again. She could even guess who it was. At the company picnic just the week before, she had seen the glances , heard the whispers, of the people around her. She'd noticed a young red head stealing glances at her husband. She knew, he was with her now. He'd come home smelling of whiskey and perfume.
Not this time, she thinks. Not ever again. She'd kill him first. She rocks slowly and stares at the empty crib and then down at the shotgun. She caresses the cold steel, allowing her anger to build. She will finish this once and for all.
Suddenly her body spasms and her eyes fly open. She has fallen asleep and been jerked awake by that feeling of falling that she experienced more and more frequently as her muscles strained under the added weight of the baby. The clock glows 3:30. He isn't coming home this time. Her body is stiff and aching as she rises from the chair. The fight has been wrung from her. The anger replaced with despair and fatigue.
She unloads the shotgun, and locks it back in the gun case. Standing in the doorway of the nursery, she takes in what once seemed to be a promise of happiness and new life, and allows the tears to fall. She turns then and begins to put a new plan into action. Pulling a suitcase from the closet, she fills it with whatever she needs to begin the journey to a new life for herself and her baby. When she is finished she lays down on the bed, fully clothed, and allows sleep to overtake her once again.
Just before dawn, he slips into bed beside her. The stink of whiskey and sex awakens her. Swallowing the bile that rises in her throat, she waits until his breathing becomes more regular and he falls into a deep drunken slumber. Rising quickly and quietly she, pulls the packed suitcase from its hiding place beneath the bed and heads confidently out the back door to the car, shutting out the pain and disappointment which has been her life with him.
She runs to the car, but before she can open the trunk, she stops and stares in disbelief . The suitcase falls from her hand and she drops to her knees. The car. What has he done to the car? The side is scratched and caved in from the door to the rear bumper. The back tire is flat. He has run it off the side of the road in a drunken stupor and made her escape impossible. No. He could not do this. She would not let him. Not this time.
Running back to the bedroom she begins to shake him awake, screaming hysterically. "Get up! Get up you bastard. You mother fucking bastard! You get up and fix that flat tire. Do it now! Right fucking now!"
Her screams penetrate his drunkenness. He senses the insanity within the words, feels the spit hit his face and manages to sit up in the bed. This time he's gone too far. He's pushed her over an edge he had not known was there. Fending off her frantic blows, he rises slowly from the bed.
"Get your ass out there now" She screams. He struggles to his feet and heads obediently outside to the car while she trails him cursing and screaming. Without a word, he fixes the flat and puts her suitcase in the trunk. He doesn't want to lose her. Doesn't want to lose the baby he's fathered. But he knows nothing he says now can stop her . He watches her climb into the drivers seat and slam the door. As she peels out of the drive in reverse, he simply turns and walks silently back into the house. This cannot be undone.
She is alone now behind the wheel of a car going ....where? Does it matter? So long as it is away from him and the betrayal and cruelty which has been her life until this moment. But where? Her mother would never take her in. How far will a high school education take her and her child? Where will her baby lay its head every night? Certainly not in the crib which she has prepared. Who will care for her child while she works every day? Even though he is cruel and does not come home at night to her, does it matter? She has a child to raise now. Someone to love and nurture. Who can do this better than her, and how can she do it without him?
She slows the car to a stop, taking a tissue from the glove box to wipe her tears. She takes a deep breath, turns the car around, and heads back toward the house. Back to him, to security. How important can love be when one has a baby to care for? She will make this work, somehow.
He hears the car in the drive. Listens for the door and her footsteps in the hall. Through the haze of alcohol, he smiles. She will stay. For now, she will stay.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
SCI/FI Project
This was the November writing assignment for DP. A scifi/fantasty post. I used an old post in which I had described my daughter Sarah's bouts with night terrors when she was six years old. I had entitled the short piece "Night Terrors" I took that brief description and attempted to turn it into a sci/fi piece. Not sure how successful I've been, but just the memory of her night terrors still stands my hair on end.
Night Terrors
Heart stopping screams awaken me as she cries out once again from her bedroom down the hall. She is caught between sleeping and waking, unable to make the transition safely. Another night terror.
I rush to her side, seeing her as always, bolt upright, eyes wide open, saliva running from her lips; in mid scream. I try to hold her, comfort and waken her, but she stares at me and whispers, "SHHH. He'll hear you".
I rush to her side, seeing her as always, bolt upright, eyes wide open, saliva running from her lips; in mid scream. I try to hold her, comfort and waken her, but she stares at me and whispers, "SHHH. He'll hear you".
I do not touch her. Do not speak. The hair on my arms and neck stands on end, because I do not know who "He" is and am afraid that she may be right. Perhaps he really is in the room with us watching and waiting. And so, I sit beside her silently trapped in this night terror with her. Wondering if we will ever be free from it, If we will ever feel safe again.
It's been three months since she's slept through the night in peace. I thought at first it was just normal childhood nightmares and they would pass, but I see now that such optimism was foolish. He is in her mind now and uses her to hear what goes on around her, just as he uses all of the children now. She knows he is there and fights to keep her secrets from him.
We were so naive to give our children over to this invasive terror. But those who tried to warn us were labeled conspiracy theory alarmists. They spoke of side effects, lack of testing, hasty production and over zealous scientists. We listened instead to the government and the media as they flashed headlines of pandemic, death, and the most at risk population, our precious children. We led them as lambs to the slaughter, thinking we were providing safety and protection. We parents didn't participate. There was a shortage of supplies, we were told, and so we bore the risk of infection ourselves in order to provide for our offspring. What parent wouldn't make such a sacrifice? But now, too late we have discovered it was the children who were lain on the alter not us.
Is he really here with us now in the darkness? Or has her mind been tricked into this constant state of terror? Either way, we remain together locked in this nightmare, unable to undo what has been done. And I think to myself, it was just a vaccine, a simple vaccine.
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