5/16/19

GAZE
By Joseph J. Patchen


Nature is talented with her pallets and paints. Guided by God’s vision and blessing she is dynamic in both style and execution. No matter the canvas she is able to translate a design that is fitting for the world below.

Through the expanding universe she busies herself with decoration and utility while God allows an occasional intertwining.

Gashes of moonlight cut broad and bright patterns on the dark green wet grass below. Blocks, blotches and slivers, some stoic and still; others are thin and they flicker and dance when passed by the long cool breeze.

Extremely bright is the light, almost blinding due to the source’s dangerously close position to the world below it now besieged in sight. The craters and caverns appear as large as one’s hands and almost as easy to grasp.

The moon itself seems almost the same size as its dark counterpart and about to swallow it.

This is a novelty for a world normally cloaked in the dark. Light is not needed here; the life forms that have evolved so to accommodate and thrive in the black.

She is about seven or eight years old; the petite young girl with three long thick braids cascading off the mop of blonde hair capping her head. And her three doe like brown eyes are now viewing this spectacle on her world and the world above with wonder.

Skipping and hopping she comes into our view to stop and be bathed in one of the greater slices nature has given her so she can find a better view of the otherworldly yellow and blood red sphere.

She is mesmerized by its magnificence. She is stunned at its beauty. She is still and silent, almost in a trance as she looks over the craters and mounds that are precisely sketched by nature’s bare hands.

“Patty! Patty!” The voice is playful and male without force but yet full of love.

“Yes Daddy.” She replies as she shakes off her view to look in the direction of the voice some seventy five feet away.

“Come in to the observatory I want to show you something and we are getting ready to go home.”

One last pause and the look of awe finds itself replaced by a bright broad smile as the child turns away to run as children do to the huge building that crowns one of the largest mountains in this region.

Once inside her eyes have to adjust for a moment to the darkness of a hollow laboratory and the hive of scientists accomplishing their work. Her father, a rather tall man even for this world, some eleven or twelve feet tall, opens his arms and scoops up his child who giggles as if she were tickled.

Eyes to eyes, smile to smile, father and daughter share that basic and simple gaze recognizable universes over.

“Patty my darling would you like to look through the telescope?”

“Oh my Daddy would I!” Squirming in her father’s arms the child is placed on her feet and in one motion scampers toward the giant lens awaiting her. Squinting two eyes she focuses with her left and gazes through with an expression of her amazement in silence.

“Honey, those are the towers we placed on the dark side. They have been there for as long as anyone here can remember.”

“Did you build them Daddy?” She never breaks her gaze.

“No honey but Daddy uses them in his work. You see they have been monitoring and recording all the activity on the rock on which they have been placed as well as on its companion world below.”

“Is that the one where they have two eyes?”

“Yes my dear, that little inferior marble in the galaxy next to us.”

“Daddy…” Lifting her gaze from the telescope Patty has the look and sound of disappointment with her father.

“I know dear, but you have seen the transmissions and after all they only possess two eyes. They require light. They are, by and large, afraid of the dark. They are mercurial and ill mannered. They are quick tempered and prone to violence. They eat their own. Every time they make an advance in art or technology they take two to three steps back because of their politics.

“It’s the ‘new moon phase’ on their planet and that’s when we do our maintenance by simply removing our apparatus and the rock it’s attached to. They are none the wiser so please forgive me dear daughter but they are not very bright.”

“And they are soon to be not very alive.” Joining them is a new voice, an elderly voice of a man some seven plus feet himself; grey and wrinkled, but whose voice is still strong as if he was ninety years younger.

He is the project manager. There is no sadness in his voice; it is cold and calculated with well reasoned logic. “I know they have become pets to some of the staff but the committee has pulled the plug. They are not very interesting. They are mostly argumentative and yes, I agree with the statement: dumb.”

“So what happens?” Patty is distressed. This is too much for a child to comprehend.

The grandfatherly man lowers himself to one knee and takes the child’s hand. With a smile his words are soft as he gazes into her eyes, eyes that are starting to tear.

“Dear Patty we shouldn’t form attachments to inferior beings. It always leads to sorrow and pain, both wasted emotions. We are going to keep their moon. We will crash it in one of our deserts converting it to a mountain range. As for the people of earth they will be plunged into darkness where they will not work together but will panic and turn on one another. In a year or so there may be survivors, but honey all is okay, don’t cry it’s just business.”


- - -

5/3/18

A Beautiful Husk
By Joseph J. Patchen


The silence is beautiful. All around me this silence, this emptiness, surrounding and swallowing me in this vast expansive space, is utterly intoxicating.

It is beautiful; for my heart not to see any more loss; for my mind, to rest. All my weary senses are intrigued as to the prospects; anything to fill the emptiness I am inside.

Forget all the circumstances that have sucked the very life from me up to this moment. Forget this is the aftermath of brutality on brutality with the ritual bloodletting of one race against another. Forget that I am floating free in a derelict fighter, damaged by hate and envy.

Two worlds are dead tonight. Two worlds have sacrificed their futures for this; for this serenity where no one else is available to die in the next hour. Yes, this silence, this emptiness, is so beautiful and hypnotic.

These far away stars are jewels, spread apart so wide with a vast darkness in between. I am in need to find the perfect one. I desire an isolated one. True those stars may be worlds worn by their own conflicts and worn down by their own wasteful people yet I salivate at the prospects.

I can’t stay here, not in this metal and glass coffin. I need them; I need to wear a very last pearl.
My body spasms, cramped without having any real movement for some time as does my mind from the constant rigors of war.

As the last of my kind I need to find a suitable one; a new home that can only provide sustenance and sleep. I need sleep. I need rest. I need simplicity. This has been a long war; a complicated conflict long enough for each side to kill each other. I have lived a nightmare. I wish to simply dream.

My flight is damaged, perhaps more than I. My only hope is to use what instruments I have left to locate a world upon which to crash and hopefully survive to live in the absolute beauty of emptiness, peace and silence.

Empty as I am of hate. Empty as I am of love. I wrestle with what I have left behind thirsting only for the life of what is to come. I pray that soon I will float beyond all this debris and wreckage of humanity and human ingenuity.

I pray soon. I pray often.

Off to the starboard tumbling freer than I is the body of a woman. Swathed in her silver space suit she shines brighter than any of the stars. What a queer ballet this shapely and slender form is performing; tumbling slowly and easy with her limbs waving…

She is within my wake and I have become fixated on her. Until I can find a home she offers me the last and only companionship I will know.

She is still wearing a helmet. She is wearing the uniform of my vanquished enemies. But war is over and if she were alive I would extend my hand to her in friendship and perhaps ask her to waltz or dance closely.

I can feel her soft touch on my shoulder; her white manicured nails softly press into the flesh of my hand as we sway to the strings of a symphony. Swathed no more in the silver suit of war my left hand cradles into the chiffon of her of her gown.

In sync are our moves; we are one. In sync in our hearts; we might find ourselves in love…

I lean back in my chair. I can see she is no longer tumbling in space. But she is not lost or fallen under my craft. I can feel the back of my head nestling against her space suit right between her breasts. Even with her gloves on, her slender and smooth fingers lovingly dig into my shoulders at the neck; massaging the tension of this interplanetary mess away.

She’s humming a lullaby. My favorite lullaby from when I was a child.

As I reopen my eyes I see her helmet is still on…

I need to see her face. I need to bask in her smile. To take joy in her eyes and run my fingers through her hair…

Standing and turning I take hold of her hands. I am so drawn to her; to her inviting figure and her loving touch.

Pressing her hands on my hips, I face her and reach for her helmet. We whisper sweet nothings about how our fortunes have turned in our finding each other. The strings of a symphony flood my mind’s ear as I finally get to see my secret love.

Not much of her hair remains. Her skin is no more. She is more than mere skeletal remains; she is a peeling and fragile husk. She is a beautiful husk; the only one left in this vast universe to love me. She is a beautiful husk, pulling me closer and closer for a kiss.


- - -

10/19/17

Mars for Everyone
By Joseph J. Patchen


The air is clear.

The sun is shining, burning away the colorless clouds and the heavy grey aftermath of the night. The sun is shining, high, alone in the sky, as it glints off the oversized sunglasses of two elderly women, smartly dressed, sitting side by side, engaged in the mundane, on their front porch.

They are sisters, separated only by a handful of years but united in a multitude of memories.

The air is clear; but evidently not today, March 23, 2063.Today’s news leads with an incident presented seemingly as a directed pronouncement and the sisters’ conversation ensues with neither looking upon the other. They begin by highlighting the tragedy that is truly most enlightening.

“Oh Binny, what an age we find ourselves living in. What a time to be alive.”

“Oh Biffy, yes, yes I must agree. Man is more connected than ever before to his universe above and his temporal realm below; man finds himself gliding from dimension to dimension known and unknown as if it were a relaxed stroll down a lane.”

“Oh Binny, I am reading a terribly good yarn on the news screen concerning the opposition party’s attempt to regain goodwill, and no doubt votes, following that whole eating humans mess in the past, by promising the downtrodden and the curious free trips to mars.”

“Biffy, did you say free trips to Mars? What an educational opportunity. I am both excited and intrigued.”

“Yes Binny, it is quite an opportunity however I am fearful before reading on.”

“My dear older sister, you have a sense of fear?”

“Yes with all the nausea that eats away at one’s stomach lining whenever politics is introduced.”

“Well read on…”

“Well according to the article some three thousand eager citizens crammed in that fenced and debris strewn lot on East 64th Street and Elm where a seventy five foot space rocket has been parked.”

“Seventy five foot…oh my, that’s a big one Biffy….cylindrical too…”

“Yes Binny. Anyway…”

“Oh wait Biffy, is that address near the new Dairy Stall?”

“Yes dear Binny; and you know how much I love my Strawberry Banana soft serve.”

“Me too, it is so delicious in both a cup and in a cone!”

“So, seven hundred people were chosen for the flight by someone who claimed authority by virtue of having the largest name tag and an even larger bow tie. Fifty were given space helmets and space suits with the rest receiving Hefty bags and the bottoms of plastic shoe boxes and were told to make do.”

“Sure shows how politicians plan Biffy. My God seven hundred human beings; think about it, must have been a big ship or a little cramped.”

“Or both; up and away the craft made a marvelous lift off for the seven month trip. A perfect lift off – so smooth and fast…”

“Oh Biffy, remember those days when we were ‘smooth and fast’?”

“Yes, well, um…everything appears to have gone well what with the peanuts --- five assorted varieties, and the tang and a whole host of internationally award winning in-flight films… All went well that is until they reached Demos. Seems two Venusian interceptors decloaked and simply vaporized the vessel. It is known to be Venusians because of their social media posts, including selfies, following the incident.”

“Oh my Biffy, that will ruin a vacation.”

“I am afraid it ruined a lot more my dear sister.”

“Oh yes the education…the children…”

“A government official states that they cannot admit or deny to any involvement and likewise cannot admit or deny the Venusians themselves were actually involved. The government simply calls it a tragedy and/or ill planning by a political party full of hacks and with no message other than to give things away for free.”

There is silence for a moment or two that seems intrinsically longer than the passage of the actual time itself. Two drones have dropped from the sky and hover above the women’s front yard, some fifteen feet where they sit.

The machines are scanning the yard as well as the home; seemingly to record all in their view. When they finish their task, their cameras fix and point to the women who stare and smile.

Moments of silence continue to pass until Binny utters the brave words that will save her and her sister’s lives for the present:

“What do you say Biffy, how about some soft serve?”


- - -

6/22/17

In Peace
By Joseph J. Patchen


The face in the blood soaked soil mocks me. I whacked the head from the torso severing it from its spine yet, while lifeless, those eyes open wide and contorted smile somehow has figured out a way to screw with my intellect.

It wasn’t dead it was shocked and demanded an explanation.

I had no other choice. I was coerced. My nature betrays me as my captivity on your world persists.

I’ve killed; not out of a characteristic self-defense but out of forthright malice.

Yet from the living there is no anger or disappointment against me. There is no attempt at a decisive correction of my behavior. There is only a small apologetic admonition and a simple direction as I am led to the next test and interrogation in a series of secured buildings.

And so it has been since my craft landed and my hand was extended in friendship. And so it goes in a whirlwind of subjugation on and on and one to the other in an exhaustive bloodless dissection from handler to handler.

“We’ll have your meal for you shortly.”

Always a pleasant tone and a smile; the shallow surface is not murky enough to mask a deep natural contempt. My meal; it is largely inedible but will, in the short term, stave off starvation.

“Eggs… Protein... I am so glad we have finally discovered a universal form of nourishment.”

“Congratulations, there has to be a Nobel Prize in this.”

Cheap baubles around your neck or slabs of engraved plastic are the focus of your life’s achievements. For your sake there are a handful of like blank minded low achievers who experience envy.

“You have to break a few eggs to make an omelet.”

And one replaces another. Your species is so naïve.

Scientists; learned men and women with their sugary platitudes and potted meats…now oblong shelled orbs of phlegm. I placed my trust in these purported rational beings of pure intellect rather than their bloated and slow witted counterparts – bureaucrats. I tactically believed an alliance could be formed…either way I now realize you are unable to accept the advancements of others.

I strangled a guard this evening. I felt the life drain from his being; pools of ooze, his essence still seeping from his body…I wonder why the other guards just stare.

I enjoyed it with an emotion exceeding the greatest satisfaction of community.

“You understand that I am the Commander of this base and under my command I can make your existence unpleasant. Now, for the last time, we cannot open your craft nor can we cut into the hull. What is this made of and how can we gain entry?”

I smile. For the first time I am met with a raised voice, a pointed finger and an overt threat. I’ve grown tired of the theater, of the laughter. What lies beneath your species on this marvelous marble of yours is a tight intertwining of fear and guilt.

Veins pop in the Commander’s neck and forehead.

“I came in Peace and yet I am nothing more to you than a smear on a thin glass slab. I came in Peace bearing a cornucopia of prosperity forever. I came voluntarily to your world with the best of intentions and all I am met with is theft.”

“Theft?” The Commander is wide eyed and red faced as liquid spittles forth from his mouth accompanying a shrill spillage of words.

“You threw my generosity aside choosing me instead for study. I would have granted you access to any information about my people and our physiology if you would have given me a chance to conclude my mission of pure neighborly charity.

“Instead you imprisoned me with ’tests’ and ‘examinations’ taking data from me. Now you seek to do the same with my vessel, an outgrowth of my own self. Commander you must understand that on my world our technological advances are not tailored to the mass diet. Our technology is tailored to our being and the violations you have committed on me have been felt on my craft and on my pieces at home.”

The Commander leans back in his chair with an air of self-assurance. “Then cooperate. You obviously speak English…”

“I speak in any dialect I am required. Bring in others of different cultures and tongues and you will learn what I can do and what you could have done.”

The Commander now leans forward, his face gnarling and his knuckles tightening; “Why don’t you stop with the cheap B-science fiction movie dialogue.”

I smile even wider for I can see into the dimensional tear slowly developing in the room over the old soldier’s brow. To my sight this is obvious but to the sight of man it is invisible only until we decide to be seen.

Another secret we could have shared. Be it by space or time or dimension we can travel by whichever means we decide. We are your unidentified flying objects. We are your ghosts, your phantoms and your spiritual orbs.

We have haunted your history and titillated your imaginations. But now it is over. The imaginings are done. You have failed your test in this once in a lifetime face to face encounter.

As your representative spews the hate and the threats of an inadequate species; as your most learned class simply defers to the most blunt and brutal uninformed warrior, others of my kind have no choice but to enter this room and rescue their brother.

In our attempt to serve man with secrets we thought you were ready to receive it is evident our mission has failed. The growth of this species is stunted by a false smugness. While advances in science and technology have made you ‘smarter’ your innate arrogance grows.

In our attempt to serve man we have no other choice now but to serve you your just desserts.



- - -

3/9/17

Gravitational Waves
By Joseph J. Patchen


I killed the mayor today. I killed him in the bright early morning of a press breakfast with other lawmakers looking on.

I shot him once in face. I aimed directly for the tip of his nose, right in the middle of his face, and he was dead before he hit the floor. His security was so smug, so lax and the city board so dulled, I simply slipped out the door before anyone took notice.

Out on the street I heard a commotion behind me and in front of me, not to mention to each side of me. Out in the street people were everywhere in constant motion with a rainbow of emotions and thoughts and duties. None had to do with the murder yet all of it was to do with life in the face of death.

And that is where I find myself. I find myself dead in the middle of the day in a mass of humanity. I find myself dead in the middle of the day in the rush for lunch, in a rush for gas, in a rush for provisions and no one seems to care about the other.

And no one seems to care about gunshots or the mayor.

My, my my luck.

Winter is coming and I dread the cold. I shudder at the thought of its saturation and grip. I cringe at the thought of the ice and the snow. The difficulty of mobility; the heavy coats, the layers and layers collecting sweat and the blankets stacked higher and higher rendering life stagnant.
It’s time to move on.

Over the commotion and the race for survival I begin to hear the tones; the bells and sirens rhythmically connect in my mind. A child walks through me holding the hand of his young mother. He has to be six or seven.

A child walked right through me as if I wasn’t there. He didn’t see me and he won’t feel me yet I savor a warm soothing burning in my gut.

I open my eyes and a sweet violin fills my skull. All around me is quiet; the birds, the breeze, the traffic…gone.

And so are the two priests I murder now as we speak all as the dusk falls. Their throats slit so easy. Their resistance and fight is so weak. These passive men believed words and logic could alter their fates.

Never in time do words hold their meaning. Never in time does logic reign.

Their remains are so easy to conceal. They were short. They were thin. They were old. They won’t be found for some time. They will give amateur sleuths and armchair detectives much to discuss in the years ahead and their lesson on history will be meaningless.

I hope their passing soothes my insomnia.

But it has not. It never does. It’s not supposed to.

My lack of sleep has nothing to do with guilt. I dismembered my wife without hesitation. I scattered some of her remains in the 1920s and others back in the 1840s.

I cut my mistress’ still pounding heart from her breast and it tasted as sweet as I thought it would. I felt ever so fine, as much as I do now in the mid-summer breeze that is meandering and tickling the shoreline.

Small towns are my favorite. The pace is measured. The pace is slower. The people are more trusting. Technology seems less important as nature is in its purest and most rhythmic embrace.

Murmurs and wisps of words, it’s always the same; it’s the only constant cramming my brain. Each night and each day tiny rumbles and small noises skitter across my brow flooding me with the stench of sin. Over and over, they call to me with rancor and with hate even slurring their speech though dead eyes, dried throats and seeping wounds until they manifest their clacking skeletal teeth shouting ’Kill! Kill! Kill!”

I ride the gravitational waves, the melodic riffs, sliding between the moments, mastering alone what great minds have only dreamt about. I slip in between the dimensions of time travelling from place to place riding the slide of space be it to the past, to the present and well into the future as the only true traveler, as the only true explorer thus bringing me closest to true immortality.

I believe with each trip that I can never die. I believe with each trip I can never be captured. I can always erase what has come before or what will become later. I am here. I am there. I cannot be stopped.

I pile the bodies from all walks of life, from all eras, anonymous to each other, unknown to those living, with no fear of leaving a pattern; no fear of ever leaving a signature; no fear of any bodily clue.

Terrans have always satisfied my hunger through their sluggishness. The opportunity always allowing me to stay several steps ahead of my never ending desire for suicide.

It’s never about the heavens or the seas. It’s the space in between.

I ride the gravitational waves to solely to hold my death at bay. I ride the gravitational waves to offer sacrifices to the demon of finality.


- - -

9/8/16

I Slumber In Moist Soil
By Joseph J. Patchen


The rain thickens, its pace quickens. I hear thunder in the distance.

If only there could only be a thread of lightning to give me a better clue as to where I may be walking. The water and fog have conspired to mask what lies in the distance.

This town, this dot on the map of a state and a neighborhood is all unknown to me. This area appears to be an unspoiled space swallowed into a tiny hole in the fabric of urban planning and design.

I lost cellular service about four miles past after dropping off an empty interstate and I don’t necessarily believe the weather to be the sole culprit. There are no street lamps, signs or signals. No building or structure of any type. And yet there are no corn fields, no farm meadows, or typical empty lots. This isn’t necessarily wilderness despite the trees, grass and assorted wild flowers.

It is as though this place was once populated, thrived, and died only to be stripped and left with dirt, rock and nature’s growth waiting rebirth.

At least four inches of rain so far. So says the radio before my car died. They claim another five will follow before dawn.

What few trees remain sway, wobble and creak in the wind. The squalls slap and I am rethinking that perhaps I should have spent the night in the car waiting for sunrise.

Water is pooling, a great sum though is flowing past my ankles. I have to walk. I ran out of gas. I can’t wait to drown. The water is cold, colder than the stiff gusts.

I ran out of gas. In my entire driving life I have never run out of gas. There were signs and billboards all along the way promising lodging, food and fuel but once off the interstate all I would encounter is emptiness.

I needed to push forward to find something in town to either fuel my car or myself. I just wanted the drive to end. But as I drove more it was apparent to me this wasn’t the rural side of town.

Still the drive ended, without gas.

This is my first time out here and like the idiot I truly am I failed to take the time in preparation to fully map this trip out in advance.

I wasn’t expecting to actually go. I didn’t think my parents would put the screws to me to attend a family reunion of cousins several times removed, in their stead, out in the boondocks two states away.

‘Removed’ is the perfect word. There is nothing here. Not a vegetable stand or a rundown brothel. No train tracks or even a mailbox. Not a falling stone wall or rusted iron fence. Not even a stray piece of litter.

The road though is paved with lines drawn bright and neat which means someone maintains them and appears to have maintained them recently.

I slumber in moist soil
so I shall not decay.
I slide from shadow to shadow
shunning the sun’s rays.

A voice, as if on a constant loop now repeats the verse, in a tone both calm and deliberate that I can only hear only from within. It is a whisper, a mechanical female whisper loud enough to be heard over the roar of wind and falling rain.

A pinpoint sun-like light appears up ahead, neither bobbing nor floating; it is streaking across the sky without a wobble and streaking across the sky straight in my direction.

Almost as if it sees me, it is coming faster; a disc of light, intent on me and as it approaches the size of it continually widens.

This circumference of white stark against the darkness illuminates much of what I have already encountered. In the wake of this light, particularly on its edges, I can see the rain lessening and the barrenness grow.

The wind is dying as well and a high pitched whistle stings my ears.

I don’t how long I have been walking but I haven’t gotten far. It feels as though I have been wading through this water for at least an hour but as I turn back to check my progress, my car is a mere thirty feet away.

The blinkers mock me as the water soaking my legs begins to drain away. I am growing tired, my muscles and tendons are tight. I am confused and fearful. The light is coming up on me and I am trying to push to the side seeking a place to hide.

Within minutes I feel a tap on my back.

I am at the car.

And so is the light.

Focusing the brightness below is a ship; a saucer of immense size hovering several hundred feet above. The light raining down from the hull bathes me, warms me, caresses me and I slowly feel serene and dry.

The same female voice I heard in verse soothes me, congratulating me for aiding the greater good.

I am about to be processed. I am about to be processed for nutrition in the same way this small town has been processed. The occupants of this craft are hungry after a long journey from far away. The minerals contained in my body, in every living body, as well as the structures and possessions we own are vital to their existence.

Water however is not. And the rain that is now ending is merely their waste; a vital nutrient for man and cattle.
I fall to the side into the mud. The processing has begun. I am numb as my body is extracted from my soul, a soul in free fall, a soul at peace, a soul drowning in dirt and filth.

The ship departs with the night.

There is no moon engulfing the stars. There are no layers of shadow on shadow. There is only bright sunshine, a crystal blue cloudless sky and below there is only sweet pain and death.


- - -

2/4/16

Stasis
By Joseph J. Patchen


The trees are dying in the stiff brown grass. The air is still and dry. Each step I take reduces what is underneath to powder and dust.

A small patch of moisture mournfully hangs on a stone and mortar wall. The stain just lingers. For some reason and I cannot explain why, the slick just lingers amidst the intense heat and constant sunshine. It’s been that way for almost a month.

It will be the last ghost of a dying planet.

Johanssen blew his brains out in front of that spot when he heard; when it was confirmed the sun was coming for us all. The amoebic outline of his blood and matter glistens against the rock. It entices and it captivates.

No matter how much I wish, I dare not touch it.

I’m in a bubble and alone.

I have to stay here.

I’m the last in every sense.

I flew missions from these pads over twenty years ago. And while I would love to say nothing has changed; it all has. Sure the people were friendly and respectful. But it was a matter of their pre-occupation with this assembly line rescue.

My colleagues and I were supposed to be saviors of this earth. We were supposed to shuttle survivors to larger crafts waiting above the atmosphere. The evacuation plan was rational and calculated. The re-occupation to a farther star was daring and necessary but we underestimated the time and the radiation generated from the flares.

Now these hallways and walkways are empty save for the bleached bones and leathery patches of skin that are seared and melted onto the terminal planet.

Everyone is dead. I’ve tried to find others. They are all dead. It seems…

Ironically it is incompetence that breathes life into me. My lack of ability to grasp the technological and scientific innovations of this age has allowed me to stand last. My lack to comprehend has forced me to study and train longer hours. I should have stepped aside. I have been training overtime. I have lived in this suit as a daily routine simply to understand it…

And because of it, the radiation hasn’t completely poisoned me.

The lie I live that I am a professional, that I am a so-called hero has shackled me and assigned others to death. I should have never accepted this command. I wasn’t worthy to handle this mission; years of depression and self destruction following my heyday have whittled away my abilities and intellect.

I am a hot-shot gone cold.

But what weighs heaviest on my soul is that any penance I can devise for my folly will have no redemption. I have truly sinned. I have delayed the mission and my pride has forced me to live in this Hell.

Following my first day, I couldn’t sleep. Food didn’t hold any fascination or importance. I just trained. I just worked. The excuse was I was just ‘rusty’. The truth is I had just lost ‘it’.

Bureaucratically I fell through the cracks while my colleagues began formulating the mission even taking survivors to the rescue ships above.

My work ethic was erroneously praised. I was stumbling between fear and confusion and the erosion age brings to one’s mind and heart. But as soon as death kicked down the door I wished I was in its wake.

But I am too much of a coward to die that way; to die slowly and painfully.

Oh I want to die. I see no reason to continue. For days I have wandered these launch pads and prayed for God’s vengeance to touch me. But my own obsessions and short comings have blocked the smallest caress. God doesn’t want me. He’s forcing me to plummet further.

The emptiness I feel cannot be filled by tears. I know now it can only be satiated by my blood.

So all is at the ready; my mission is clear. My mission will be done. I will fly today. I will fly my rocket toward the star that hungers so. I will fly my craft into the light and demand entry into the kingdom to come.

Amen.


- - -
I am a writer of weird stories.