BeyondProse.com Flash Fiction---A Death in Hollywood

 (Author's note: The prompt for this story is "She was a child star." I didn't get the mood of my longer version quite right. It's just hard to sit down to write at my house, someone will always interrupt me the minute I get something good going. Even worse, I found a serious typo in the version I posted at Beyondprose.com.) 

Just seconds after busting down the door to her apartment I found the once famous Emma Carter dead, laying naked on her bed. Her place was one of those extra small studio apartments where the kitchen, bedroom, and living area occupied one over sized room. For several moments I hesitated before stepping across the threshold worried I might have somehow misjudged the situation.

I had received her text message while in the middle of an afternoon meeting. At first I thought it was some joke, except for a very brief and ill conceived reunion event of the cast from our old sitcom a few months before I hadn't spoken to her in almost twenty years. Emma had stormed into the rented and nearly empty banquet hall acting like the energetic and mischievous ten-year old child star I met at the beginning of our sickly sweet television show. I was eight-years old at the time and I fell in love with her from the beginning despite the fact we were playing brother and sister orphans being raised by our wise old grandfather. Even though the event was advertised as a happy reunion of cast members who thought of each other as family it was obviously designed just to resuscitate Emma's comatose career

Of course, she and I eventually posed for pictures together in front of the small collection of disinterested paparazzi that attended but the second they drifted away she literally ran after them leaving me behind. Unlike the rest of the cast, I stayed to the end with Emma crying on my shoulder for several minutes as a reward for my patience. When we finally parted something deep inside told me I never see her again. So, it was quite the shock when I received her message pleading for me to come save her.

After the end of my meeting I sat in my car for thirty minutes staring at the screen of my cell phone wondering if I should head over to the address she gave. Eventually figuring I had nothing to lose I drove across Los Angeles just to satisfy my curiosity. The address turned out to be an old warehouse whose interior had been converted into small apartments. I imagined the developers of the building had wanted it to be an upscale location for young professionals but shifting neighborhood lines had claimed the area making it more than slightly dangerous.

With the door now swinging loose, I looked in from the threshold, her place seemed clean and well kept with mementos of her television and music career adoring the shelves of a couple of bookcases and walls. Everything looked so orderly that I again became concerned for a moment that maybe this had been some huge mistake. When the overwhelming stench of liquor and death finally hit me that was when I stepped inside.

Looking to my right I immediately spotted Emma's body and her nightstand where a decorative box containing a multicolored collection of pills and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat giving a clear indication of how she took her life. I also couldn't help but notice that Emma's body was contorted into something akin to a seductive, “come hither” pose. It was a sick thought but given Emma's behavior the last couple of years it did not take much for me to believe it was one final act of defiance to tell the world that while it might have used her up and tossed her to the side of the road it in turn could go straight to Hell.

The sitcom she and I starred in made us nationally famous for about six years. When the series ended my fame evaporated overnight thrusting me back into the real world. The effects of puberty and a severe case of teenage acne had robbed me of my charming boyish innocence and the network producers simply dropped me like the proverbial bad apple. In terms of simple numbers there was probably a couple of thousand better looking teenage boys coming to LA each year wanting their chance in show business. So I was less than nothing to those who made the big decisions about who to promote or send home.

However, a whole spectrum of producers and agents fell all over themselves to make sure Emma stayed in the national spotlight. She immediately became a leading cast member of television drama series and a mere two years later they again moved her into the music business. Her career soared with the entertainment journalists constantly floating rumors that with her ethereal beauty and devastating acting ability she could be the next Elizabeth Taylor.

It was always clear from the beginning that the big players in Hollywood had every intention of making her a major movie star. Sitting home nursing a bruised ego and a growing envy over her success I remember the massive promotional campaign on the eve of her first movie. I also remember how it was a massive box office disaster with special criticism aimed at Emma's awful performance.

Five major flops later her once golden career is destroyed with her eventually reduced to singing in the food courts of shopping malls and struggling to win a spot on some reality show. That was when her outrageous acts and stupid stunts exploded increasingly making her a laughing stock all across the country. All she got for her desperate efforts was an existence living off residual checks in a second-rate apartment all alone.

Looking at her dead body I had no real idea why she called me, even in the best of times we were never close. The only assumption that comes to my mind is that during our series my character was the nice and always responsible brother who dearly loved his sister despite her mischievous ways. The day she cried on my shoulder after the disaster that was our reunion event only seemed to back that idea up.

With nothing left to do I call the police and tell them what has happened. Naturally they tell me to wait and I move back towards the entrance of the apartment. Not before I pull out my cell phone and start taking pictures of Emma's body, her apartment, and the pills on the nightstand. The tabloids will pay a bundle for such pictures and I have child support I have to pay.

Why They Pass Us By...

Being a hopeless science fiction geek since my the early years of my childhood I am still fascinated to the extreme with the possibility of intelligent alien life somewhere out among the stars. For me, even though some serious scientists will debate the idea, the universe in general and our galaxy specifically is just too damn vast for intelligent life just to be a “possibility.” New research pushes the chance of alien life further into the realm of a near certainty.


Two Billions Reasons Why We're About to Find Earth 2

Planet-hunting scientists announced today that 22% of sunlike stars in the Milky Way are orbited by potentially habitable, Earth-size worlds. This remarkable finding indicates that there may be as many as two billion planets in our galaxy suitable for life — and that the nearest such planet may be only 12 light-years away.

The new study, published today in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, suggests that Earth-like planets capable of supporting life are far more common than previously thought.

To reach these figures, a research team led by Erik Petigura from the University of California, Berkely, used the National Aeronautics and Space Administration Kepler telescope to scan 42,000 Sun-like stars with the transit method of detection. Of the 603 planets found, 10 were the size of Earth, had rocky surfaces, and were situated within the habitable zone. And by habitable zone, astronomers refer to that narrow band within a solar system in which rocky planets can sustain liquid water and a complex atmosphere — precursors to the onset of microbial life.

Where once we had no certain proof of planets orbiting other stars we now know they are so common that new research suggests twenty-two percent of the sun-like stars in our galaxy have Earth-sized planets orbiting in that nice and comfortably warm habitable zone where water can exist as a liquid. Although the only life we humans know about, is of course, here on Earth it is tenacious in its ability to adapt and evolve under the most extreme conditions. So it's not a stretch of the imagination to believe that in our galaxy billions of world exist that not only have as rich and diverse biosphere as our planet but at some point hosted intelligent life.

Now I admit this is where science ends, numerous scientists covering an array of different fields can come up with reasons why intelligent life elsewhere in the universe might be extremely rare. And I know of one scientists in particular that explains the Great Silence with the idea that maybe intelligent life is common but these alien species have evolved into forms or environments that make a human-like technical civilization highly improbable. Still it defies my stunted imagination that in all the billions or years since the birth of our galaxy that we puny humans are the first and only sentient species.

Stressing the point even further lets assume intelligent life is common and that these species overcome their suicidal phases and develop a practical means of exploring the galaxy. Just one or two of these hypothetical mature and curious species could explore the entire galaxy in a couple of million years. Not to seem flippant but to me those of our own species who discount the idea of galactic exploration seem shortsighted. What is a mature, curious, and peaceful species suppose to do until their sun runs out of fuel or a nearby star goes super nova and sterilizes the home planet?

What is my point? While I admit I could be wrong but in my mind there should be a few intelligent species zipping around the galaxy exploring, colonizing, and even hanging out with, or at least observing, the galactic locals. Now Stephen Hawking and a few other scientists have raised the possibility that more advanced species do not necessarily have to be wise, friendly, or peaceful. If that is the case in simple term we are screwed if they find Earth because the power and technology it takes to cross the distance between stars means they could wipe us out on a casual whim.

However, barring the idea of galactic Nazis I personally have to believe most perpetually destructive races would go extinct before developing star flight. That leaves one other reason why we humans have not been contacted, just maybe they are avoiding us.

From Mother Jones:

George W. Bush to Raise Money for group That Converts Jews to Bring About Second Coming of Christ. 

Next week, former President George W. Bush is scheduled to keynote a fundraiser in Irving, Texas, for the Messianic Jewish Bible Institute, a group that trains people in the United States, Israel, and around the world to convince Jews to accept Jesus as the Messiah. The organization's goal: to "restore" Israel and the Jews and bring about about the second coming of Christ.

Messianic Jews have long been controversial for Jews of all major denominations, who object to their proselytizing efforts and their message that salvation by Jesus is consistent with Jewish theology. Last year, Abraham Foxman, president of the Anti-Defamation League, told Politico that former Sen. Rick Santorum's appearance at an event hosted by another Messianic Jewish organization, the Messianic Jewish Alliance of America, was "insensitive and offensive." And Commentary magazine, which bills itself as a "conservative American journal of politics, Judaism, social and cultural issues," noted, "it must be understood that the visceral distaste that the overwhelming majority of Jews have for the Messianics is not to be taken lightly." Many Messianic Jews are Christians who have adopted aspects of Jewish ritual observance; others are Jews who share the Christian belief that Jesus is the Messiah.

Update (11/8/13): After this story published, the Messianic Jewish Bible Institute removed references to George W. Bush's scheduled appearance from its website. But Freddy Ford, a spokesman for the former president, told Mother Jones on Friday afternoon that Bush's plans "haven't changed," and he will appear at the event.

To be frank, I stay the Hell away from these people, and those like them too because they scare the living shit out of me.

Leaf Blower and Marriage Maintenance

Several years ago during a hot and humid Saturday in the middle of August I stepped back inside my house after finishing up some routine lawn care when I noticed my lovely spouse smiling at me from her comfortable position on the couch. Had we been newlyweds I would have instantly assumed her beaming smile would have been the first sign that the rest of that afternoon would be spent behind the locked door of our bedroom. Instead, being a relatively old married couple, I looked directly into her overly happy eyes and braced myself for whatever new weekend destroying chore her mind had developed while I was outside mowing the lawn and using the weed eater to make our curb look presentable.

The former is a given but as for the latter the pod people we live among are obsessively fixated on creating a surgically precise cut between the edge of their lawns and the beginning of the curb. I actually give less than a rat's rear end but indirect and unspoken peer pressure along with the occasional neatly worded letter from the president of the home owner's association force me to try and match their compulsion at least three times a summer. With the curb trimming chore out of the way I had every intention of plopping my nonconformist butt in a chair and watching some television but my wife's mysterious smile had me nervous.

"Do you know who you look just like right now?" She said clearly about to laugh at her own brand of cleverness.

"No," I said wondering where her train of thought was heading while desperately hoping it would eventually involve both of us getting naked. "Brad Pitt," I said silently thanking some exceedingly small portion of my brain that is smarter and quickly than the rest of the grey matter residing between my ears.

"God no," my wife responded finally breaking into a laugh, "you look like Bill Murray's character from the movie Caddy Shack."

"How nice," I responded sarcastically walking towards the bathroom to go take a shower. While I was obviously disappointed that sex was not on the agenda I had no real problem with being compared to Bill Murray. For me the former SNL alum has always been culturally sophisticated, extremely intelligent in an unconventional manner, besides being outrageously funny in a off-kilter way. To show how slow on the draw about what my wife actually meant about the comparison it was several minutes later and I was out of the shower and getting dressed when the truth finally dawned on me. Truth be told, I couldn't really disagree with the idea she was trying to convey.

See one of the reasons I hate doing yard work is that I am terrible at it. While the pod people I live around actually enjoy the serf-like existence required to meticulously imitate the idea of an 18th century English Lord's estate I can easily count off a couple of thousand other activities I would rather be forced to perform. But hey, if they get their jollies obsessing over the tint of their lawns, falling autumn leaves, or stemming a crab grass invasion good for them, its still a semi-free country. I, on the other hand,  would rather go to the beach, play with my kids, or have a root canal done by a dentist who once worked for the East German secret police.

The source of all my problems can usually be traced back to my lawn equipment. If you were to observe the pod people around me you would discover that everything they use is top of the line. Their riding lawn mowers have huge vacuum attachments along with GPS tracking and nifty cup holders. The weed trimmers they use have telescopic view screens allowing them to cut single blades of grass. As for the leaf blowers they use, the damn things can put out category five hurricane winds.

  On the other hand, my lawn equipment is not up to their standards. Besides that I somehow have an ingrained talent at breaking the stupid things along with having no real ability at fixing them. Because of that there were a few years I went through push lawnmowers like penny candy. That had to deal with the fuel, or my lack of adding an ethanol stabilizer. As for weed trimmers I actually had one catch fire while I was using it. I'll just say it was an electric model and leave out the rest of the details despite the fact witnesses to the event say it was extremely funny.

Leaf blowers have been a special pain for me from the moment they first arrived at the local home improvement store. As with the rest of my lawn care trials I admit I have been my own worst enemy but leaf blowers have always seemed an abomination. To me it just seems insane how people freak out over autumn leaves falling on their precious lawns. However since I am forced to comply with home owner association rules I buy the cheapest model that will allow me to get by with the barest minimum of effort.That has finally come back to bite me in my ass.

With the trees in my front yard shedding their leaves a huge section of the neighborhood curb is now in danger of being covered over. To calm the inhabitants, and keep my wife happy, a couple of days ago I dug out the two-cycle leaf blower I own, fueled it up, and prepared once again to do battle with nature. But as I pulled the cord that starts up the damn contraption it broke leaving me no way to get it going.

Like a good suburbanite I pulled out my tool bag with the idea that the leaf blower would be simple to fix, no such luck. Believe it or not the pull cord on my base line Poulan leaf blower is an utter nightmare to replace. Thirty minutes into my initial repair attempt I found that the pull cord assembly is in the very middle of the unit requiring every nut, bolt, and part to be removed to gain access.

Needless to say for me this goes way above and beyond the call of suburban duty. After several days of quiet contemplation on the subject and reviewing a You Tube video showing how to successfully replace the cord without losing your mind the issue with the leaves has not been solved. They continue to pile up and I am sure the pod people are probably worried the world will end because of it.  My wife is also getting nervous because she wants to keep good relations with at least a few of the neighbors which requires me to keep the house and yard looking at least semi-decent.

As for me, I do have a rake but that seems awful excessive at this time. I told my wife I am hoping for a very windy day, which would blow the leaves down the street, or for her to give me wild monkey sex which would supply the proper motivation. We'll certainly see which one happens first.            

News from the Home Front

Last Saturday afternoon the kids and I accompanied, Dragonwife, my lovely spouse, to Columbia International Airport so she could begin what would be a week-long business trip to Geneva, Switzerland. Unlike many airports Columbia's is actually a pleasant place to visit. Skylights in the roof provide a fantastic amount of natural sunlight, there are scores of places to sit including old fashioned wood rocking chairs along with plenty of plants scattered about to add some green to the surroundings. While I was okay with staying longer the kids wanted to go home to their respective activities while Dragonwife was eager to get the TSA security checks done and cross over to the section of the airport only passengers can go.

“You really need to get the kids home,” Dragonwife said absentmindedly while digging through her shoulder bag, “plus, I don't want you paying the short term parking fee.”

“Whatever,” I responded feeling slightly ticked that I was the only one of the four of us feeling any warm fuzzys at her getting ready to travel across a significant portion of the planet. So, with nothing left to say I turned and started heading for the exit hoping my kids, my eighteen-year old son and eleven-year old daughter, who were already way ahead, remembered to look both ways before crossing the street going towards the parking garage.

So with one last glance as my wife was scanned down to her bone marrow and felt up by some unisex TSA official I headed out the door feeling the last four of five months of her scrambling to get ready for this trip had ended rather anticlimactically. All things considered it didn't matter much to me since both simple duty and common sense required that I take a week off from work to watch over my kids. Even though Spoilboy is a semi-responsible kid, I just could not fathom leaving them at the alone house while I go do my usual night shift routine.

During the buildup she and I had debated on which one of us would be pulling the toughest duty. She made her case saying it was a business trip and I responded saying yes, in Geneva, Switzerland. I would then mention my National Guard summer camps that were always business along with being in either an alligator infested swamp or some hot and dry desert. Contrary to the nifty and sleek television commercials depicting awesome adventure training my summer camps in the peacetime National Guard were usually less exciting than watching grass grow or paint drying. Now there were the few exceptions when some anal retentive officer, desperate to gain favor with the active duty types, volunteered us for every crap detail under the sun.

Even if I understood the complicated details of my wife's tax attorney profession I could not reveal anything since in all respects it would certainly mean the forfeiture of vital and sensitive parts of my male anatomy. However, I can write that her previous business trips were always in far nicer locations than I could have dreamed compared to places where I regularly removed engorged ticks or cleaned out coarse desert sand from those same sensitive male areas.

During these last several days I have stopped my son from trying to sneak a girl into his room. Made sure my daughter brought a real lunch to school instead of attempting to stuff a bag of frosted flakes cereal into her backpack. Insured that the dogs and cat had fresh food and clean water everyday despite the fact those duties belong to the kids. This list could go on but lets just say they kept me busy and leave it at that.

Along with keeping the two Sith Lords honest I had the normal duties of making sure the house stayed reasonably clean, the refrigerator doors were kept closed, the front door was locked at night, and that a mountain of laundry did not grow so high as to touch the ceiling. In short, while I did not delve deeply into the “honey-do” list left by Dragonwife I stayed consistently busy during her absence, not that I will get any credit for it. Several times during this past week while in the middle of some mundane chore I had a chance to reflect on the irony of the current situation. While I love to leave the house and the curiously inbred little town I find myself marooned by wife is very much the homebody. That she travels quite a lot lately doesn't bother me at all, I'm proud of her intelligence and abilities. But what does bugs the living shit out of me is that every time I plan a short escape something always comes up. It's a small recompense but at least she is suppose to bring me a t-shirt from the famous CERN Large Hadron Collider located in Geneva. What can I say, it appeals to the SheldonCooper/science nerd/total geek side of me. However I am getting a little nervous since what happened yesterday.

While I was getting a jump on the weekend bedsheets and blanket washing Thursday afternoon I heard the obnoxious squealing brakes of the FedEx truck that goes through the neighborhood. At first I figured the delivery dude was just dropping off stuff to the angry troll across the street, he works at home and rarely leaves. But instead delivery dude came to my door carrying two medium-sized packages. Both were sent from Switzerland by my wife with each of the boxes addressed to one of the kids.

When the kids got home from school we opened them and discovered a beautiful coo coo clock for my daughter, Darth Wiggles. My son, Darth Spoilboy, had several things in his box namely a fancy Swiss army knife, a nice leather toiletry bag, and a sweatshirt with some sort of emblem on the front. But no, nothing from CERN for the hardworking dad who did his duty and made sure the house was still standing and the kids stayed out of jail.

An oversight? I surely hope so, or papa is going to be pissed.

BeyondProse.com Short Story: Anything That Can Go Wrong, Will Go Wrong

 (Author's Note: The prompt for this story is, "The alarm went off" and comes from the recently and confusingly reorganized Helium.com. This was suppose to be a serious story but things got out of hand and that appears to be the reason it went over like a lead balloon at the new sister site Beyond Prose.com)

“Yeah, Master Sergeant Rick Adams said as he leaned back in the old office chair while his feet rested on the top of the facility monitoring console, “there was a time when the this post was swarming with scientists and senior brass all wanting to impress the politicians. They couldn't wait to cook up some new super bug that could bring both the Soviets and Chinese to their knees.”

Lieutenant Michael Phillips had heard it a couple of hundred times since he arrived at the secret site situated in an obscure section of the sprawling Fort Irwin army base located in southern California. As the old noncommissioned officer droned on Michael did his best to ignore the story about how the underground installation housed thousands of different types of contagious diseases, both naturally occurring and some man-made, in large refrigerated containers that were themselves stored in bunkers that were supposedly tough enough to withstand a nuclear attack.

“You know Sergeant,” Phillips interrupted just for giggles,” I never understood why the army and the Defense Department just didn't incinerate everything stored here at the end of the cold war?”

The old man was stunned silent for a moment that the newly minted Second Lieutenant would dare to derail the vital information he was trying to impart to him. Did they not teach these young ROTC punks any manners at college there days he thought to himself. Despite the fact Adams, as an enlisted man, was many years past due his mandatory retirement both senior army and DoD civilians officials had made a point of keeping him on active duty for his detailed knowledge of the bio-weapon storage site.

“Well sir, the old noncom said gearing up for another lecture, “some of these organisms are simply indestructible...” Michael quickly lost interest and stopped listening as Adams carried on, which in hindsight was not the right thing to do.

***

As the Cold War wound down and the hundreds of scientists and army technicians were reassigned or left the service it was Rick Adams who through experience and training or dumb chance was left in charge of the deadly installation supervising a rotating staff of five. For most soldiers assigned to the site, known simply as “Area Omega”, since the draw down the duty was a relaxing piece of cake. All that was required was the monitoring of the refrigeration systems inside the bunkers. When one went into alarm the soldier on duty would activate a redundant secondary system then place a call to have specially trained technicians to come and fix the unit.

Such was the easy life for Rick and the various people under his command who came and went over the years. With the Cold War slowly fading from the consciousness of military types, the elected leaders, and civilians in general the bio-weapon storage site became sort of lost in the bureaucracy. So much that Adams had long since given up maintaining army fitness standard to the point the young Lieutenant Phillips thought he reassembled the hugely fat and gross Jabba the Hut from the Star Wars movies. But no matter how well any system might run change does come and it was a civilian desk jockey that instigated it for Rick Adams and Area Omega.

The nameless drone occupying a seat in one of the Pentagon's subbasements was busy scanning personnel record anomalies on his computer screen when Adams' name popped up. Stunned that an enlisted man had gone over the thirty-years of service limit memos quickly flew out to all sorts of different departments asking how this happened.

The instinctive bureaucratic response was that everyone claimed both ignorance while pointing fingers of blame at anyone close. Now truth be told at one time in the Pentagon it was the job of a particular army colonel, named Dick Holden, to catch these types of Top Secret issues and quiet them down but he had long since retired, moved to Florida, and died of a heart attack. Whether it was from playing golf or the twenty-one year old hooker which left the small cabin of his boat the morning of his death only his close friends and a betrayed widow know for sure.

The matter of the dead colonel's last duty assignment became problematic because his actual job was itself classified as top secret with him working under the title of Chief Administrator of Floor Tile Inspection in all army buildings worldwide. After Dick retired seven separate generals, all non-combat REMF's, desperate to save their own pet projects, fell over themselves to point out that floor tile inspection could be cut as a cost saving measure. Which it quickly was leaving no cover for Area Omega or anyone in Washington DC really understanding the purpose of the place except for a couple of former KGB types who had long left the unprofitable spy business but who now ran online dating and gambling websites becoming millionaires in the process.

As the wheels and gears of the Defense Department bureaucracy slowly turned the truth about Area Omega was rediscovered which greatly surprised Rick Adams when one of the guys under his command called his house in Barstow, California to inform him that three army Major Generals, six Brigadier Generals, five colonels, and scores of lesser officers had arrived at the site demanding to know what was going on there. Now having such a collection of officers appear anywhere so suddenly would have been unusual the most important member of the group to appear at Area Omega was Congressman from the great state of South Carolina.

Things moved rather fast after that with Adams receiving retirement orders that became effective as soon as he trained someone else to take over. That is where Michael Phillips unfortunately became a player in this story.

All his life Michael Phillips had always suffered from one of the worst fates that can befall any man. He had never once lived up to the high expectations that was expected of him. The son of army helicopter pilot David “Flying Mad” Phillips who first claim to fame was using the twenty-millimeter cannon on his AH-64 Apache gunship to mow down a couple of hundred Iraqi soldiers during Operation Desert Storm. As far as the American press and public was concerned he had dodged an incoming storm of antiaircraft bullets and missiles to defeat the ravaging hordes which resulting in him being awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross medal.

See, what happened in actuality was that fifty near starving soldiers who had been abandoned by Saddam weeks before thought the approaching American helicopters meant rescue and fired off a flare so thy would be spotted. For Flying Mad, who had once dreamed of single-handedly blunting a Soviet tank advance pushing into Western Europe, the orange glow of the flare, the figures crawling out from camouflaged foxholes, and an itchy trigger finger was enough for him to open fire.

From there Flying Mad became a national hero who left the service to write a book, travel the lecture circuit, and eventually enter politics and eventually becoming the sole congressman to inspect Area Omega with all the other senior military officers. Between that time he married a beautiful Charleston socialite and produced the baby Michael who Flying Mad was sure was destined for great things.

The problem was that except for a low-grade animal cunning Flying Mad was an idiot with no real ability for abstract thought or nuisance. Flying Mad's one real talent was the skill to memorize any procedure or task, while that had its uses one of his instructors at Fort Rucker compared him to a mindless welding robot one might find on an automobile assembly line.

Michael's mother, Karen, did have a good deal of intelligence but it was strictly for social climbing. In truth her social climbing ability was Darwinian evolution in action since her particular family had trained young girls to do nothing else since colonial times. In Karen's calculating mind given the current political climate in South Carolina and the country she at worst would end up the wife of a future governor and maybe, with a little luck, the First Lady of the United States. During all this she continued to drink and party while pregnant with Michael so the poor rich boy really never had much of a chance.

Michael Phillips himself was kicked out of a every fine boarding school his parents sent him which eventually resulted in his education coming from expensive tutors who came to his Charleston home on Tradd Street. Clever maneuvering by his father later got Michael into West Point but after a ridiculous attempt to seduce the wife of the commandant he was kicked out and told never to darken the doorway of any building on campus again. From there it was the Reserve Officers Training Corp (ROTC) at a series of universities for Michael with Flying Mad getting several of his corporate sponsors to “donate” large sums of cash to the schools to see that his son graduated with some sort of degree as well as a military commission.

As the years went by Flying Mad had given up in despair on his son but when the command for Area Omega became available his used all his political clout to see Michael got the assignment. With the Pentagon brass pleased with the way Master Sergeant Adams had kept up the place they collectively shrugged their shoulders and agreed as long as the lackluster Second Lieutenant followed his example.

Michael himself, long use to the advantages of having rich and powerful parents, believed his life had ended when he received news of his first command in such a desolate place. No matter what Flying Mad told the boy Michael continued to whine about how he was being abused and how he could destroy his father's career and reputation. What made Michael finally accept his command was mother who threatened to cut off all the family money to him.

As Master Sergeant Adams attempted to train Michael how to oversee the stored bio-weapons Area Omega received a major upgrade of systems. New computers, refrigeration, air intakes, filters, and sensor systems were installed with the hopes that the site would quietly operate for a hundred years. Because Flying Mad chaired the subcommittee providing funds to secret military sites he made a special point of using private contractors in a naive political attempt to “save taxpayer money.” The fact that private contractors were from his father-in-law's construction company went completely unnoticed.

***

Since Area Omega was still classified Top Secret the retirement ceremony for Master Sergeant Adams was a private affair held behind closed doors in the banquet room at the IHOP in Barstow. Flying Mad was quite pleased with the choice and he made sure everyone ordered nothing on the menu over ten dollars.

As the weeks passed by Lieutenant Michael Phillips quickly fell into the routine of his new command and, surprising to him, actually began to enjoy the it. In fact he would often relieve the soldier on duty at the monitoring station since it give him a thrill to sit alone and be in command. The job was simple enough, all he had to do was watch the monitor and make sure the high-tech automated software did everything.

Thinking of old Master Sergeant Adams he sneered in silent contempt at all the worthless information he tried to teach him. Michael actually believed if the rest of the army was this easy he might show up his dad and make something of himself after all. That, of course, was when the alarm went off.

See the private contractors, eager to save money had used several types of computer software that didn't exactly work well together. When a new sensor, suffering from a factory defect, in a bunker went bad one of the monitoring programs believed the entire facility was at risk of failing. Lights started flashing and alarm horns were blaring with Lieutenant Phillips quickly at a loss to correct what he thought was a cascading failure event.

With one software program in alarm the rest, suffering a bout of anxiety, went into automatic diagnostic mode to check their own sensors readings resulting in a total crash of the system because of their mutual incompatibility with each other. Michael desperate to think of what to do, saw one of the computer screens asking if he wanted to do a reboot. Figuring a reboot had solved all his other issues with computers when he was younger hit the button believing that would return everything to normal.

By this time all the different computer monitoring software programs had gotten quite frustrated and confused with each other to the point the proverbial up had become down, left had become right, cold had become hot, and worst of all, in had become out. When Phillips tried to reboot system what really happened was the refrigeration systems cut off, while air intake systems began sucking tons of hot desert air inside the facility.

One of the software programs eventually realized what was going on a few hours later and in what amounted to a computerized version of “Oh my God!” attempted to shutdown the uncontrolled intake of air and to expel what was already inside. By this time the biological weapons had all thawed out and it only took a few minutes for a nice sized cloud to form above Area Omega. A strong wind blowing in from the southwest promptly then began pushing the deadly biological mixtures towards the city of Las Vegas.

As chance would have it Flying Mad happened to be in town for what his aides back in Washington DC had listed as a “business conference”. In reality Flying Mad was standing on the high-rise balcony of his ten-thousand dollar a night hotel suite recovering from a night with a couple of beautiful South American prostitutes when he noticed the strange cloud above the city and the sticky drizzle coming down from it. By the time he went back inside his hotel room the cloud was over the airport and his throat had already become sore while a rash had already developed unnoticed on his hands.

A Spectacular Insanity

Before anyone's knickers get all twisted into a wad of righteous indignation let me state that I am a honorable discharged veteran who served four years in the active duty army and seventeen in the South Carolina National Guard. During those years I saw both the exceptionally positive aspects of serving in the military and, of course, the nasty dark side that neither the mindless gung-ho types will admit to nor the armchair generals have any idea exists. So while I am a sorry ass, bleeding heart liberal strangely fixated on little things like social and economic justice for all Americans I, unlike a multitude of chickehawk conservatives, have actually served my country. While that does not make my opinion anymore important than that of the craven little fools who love the idea of war until they, or some member of their family might serve, at least I can say with all certainty I am not a hypocrite.

You do not have to be an anthropologist to understand Americans are a conflicted people these days. Many of us feel privileged to the point that any suggestion that we as a nation might be wrong in even the most miniscule issue can cause multiple waves of self righteous indignation. We wallow in a semi-fascist concept called “American Exceptionalism” that makes everything we do something directly ordained and approved by God. The planet can be raped and corporations can run amok but its all okay because we are the baddest people that ever walked.

Despite these narcissistic tendencies our longstanding dominance of the world stage is faltering because other countries are becoming better educated and organized while conversely we Americans seem to have our collective heads permanently stuck up our consolidated asses. We live off a mental diet of inbred reality shows and abject escapism deep fried in a batter of indifference. So much that a strange collection of elected morons can shut down the government bringing us damn close to causing a national economic meltdown but just a few days after the crisis is postponed we quickly return to our favorite delusions.

But deep down I have this gut instinct that Americans on an unconscious level understand that our privileged status and days of power are running out. The country that was once sickly optimistic believing that every problem could be solved with just the right amount of intelligence, faith, hard work, and guts has become a place where paranoia, fear, and self interest rule almost exclusively.

Our defense budget is greater than what all the other major nations spend combined. It makes up fifty-seven percent of the total discretionary budget available to the United States government. A paltry six percent goes to education while science gets only three. This is not the behavior of a people ready to meet the future and remain a player on the world scene.

So while we continue to build things like massive aircraft carriers, stealthy submarines, and sleek jet fighters designed to fight a power like the dead and gone Soviet Union shit like this happens: 

From the Washington Post

Girl dies after getting sick at school without nurse

A 12-year-old girl got sick late last month while she was at her Philadelphia school — a school without a full-time nurse. She died later that day. Here’s a piece on what happened to Laporshia Massey from the website of the nonprofit Parents United for Public Education in Philadelphia. The Philadelphia school district has been in a state of crisis for years in large part because of under-funding by the state. Drastic budget cuts this year led to what was referred to as a “grim new normal” that included the closure of two dozens schools, layoffs of more than 3,800 personnel and other cuts that left some schools without money for paper and new books.

 Here’s the post from Parents United:

Our hearts are breaking over the death of beautiful 12 year old Bryant Elementary student Laporshia Massey, who died following an asthma attack that apparently started at school.  We grieve for her entire family and the Bryant community.

According to the City Paper, Laporshia became ill during the school day. No nurse was scheduled. Laporshia called a family member, telling her repeatedly, “I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.” A staff person drove the sixth grader home.

Hey, I understand what the armchair generals and chickenhawks will say. "It's a dangerous world filled with crazy mother f*8kers that live to blow themselves up. We've got to defend our freedoms and all that awesome shit that makes America special."

Okay, like I said at the beginning, I'm a veteran myself and I do understand that like Bruce Wayne's butler Alfred said in one of the Batman movies there are just some people who want to see the world burn. So yes, that means for a long time we will need men and women ready to defend this country and our allies.That is still no excuse to let the United States decay and fall apart because politicians like the idea of a world empire at the same time the CEO's of the corporations making up the military/industrial complex play atop their mountains of taxpayer dollars. 

Hell, even some of the big brass types that warm expensive and ergonomically correct office chairs at the Five Sided Funny Farm (the Pentagon for those who didn't know) think we are wasting gigabucks on stupid projects. But who are they to question the wisdom of constantly building bigger, better, and more expensive toys so the politicians can massage their egos, corporations can loot the planet, all the while kids without trust funds fight in foreign lands and twelve-year old little girls die because the school can't afford a nurse. For the most part it's better not to think about this crap, it's too damn depressing, but when I do I have to admit there is a spectacular insanity to this all worthy of an exceptionally stupid people. That is my definition of American Exceptionalism.

     

The Flaws of Fate and Choice

(Author's Note: There are two elements of this story based in reality. A small South Carolina town whose economy was based on the now dead textile industry and closer to home a mysterious house that I passed a couple of nights ago on the way to work. All else is total fiction. Once again excuse the typos.)

Having lived all my life in the small South Carolina town of Tucker Crossing it's correct to assume that I have some knowledge of its long but uneventful history. This is especially helpful since chance, or maybe it was fate, deemed that I become the Tucker County sheriff right after my twenty-ninth birthday. Situated just a short thirty miles, as the crow flies, north of the state capital of Columbia, my hometown has nonetheless remained a calm and boring little oasis of old Southern charm complete with a laid back lifestyle. A few of the local residents have put those pleasant attributes to use by opening up several bed and breakfast inns which in all honesty is the town's main economic draw these days. But there are others who say we have paid a high price for such a quaint but weak way to pull people to our town.

Tucker Crossing missed out on all the rampant development because of a dilapidated two-lane road that is our one direct route to the interstate highway which the state refuses to repair. Another issue the developers have never liked is the abundance of abandoned textile mills that surround the town which could be used as sets for some post-apocalyptic movie. For those reasons we have missed out on the tacky and cheap strip malls, the larger fortress-like edifices packed with national retailers, and the congested subdivisions that blight the other small towns surrounding Columbia.

This has left Main Street as the primary business location in town. Given the town's isolation our shops and stores can often trace their beginnings back to the early twentieth century. So it was quite the event when I noticed what looked to be a new business that had opened up in the old Miller house on the corner of Main and Cedar Streets while driving into work Tuesday morning. Even with Tucker Crossing's relative isolation from the outside world, occasionally some enterprising soul will come to town and attempt to open up a business selling antiques or some other cheap nicknacks to the tourists staying at the bed and breakfast places.

I assumed that was the case when I saw the flashing “open” sign hanging from the first floor bay window. In the back of my mind I did find it slightly unusual since as long as I could remember the old Miller house had stood empty. In fact, even though I was a lifelong resident with family connections that went back even further I had no idea who these Millers were the house was named after.

Sitting on the far western end of Main street the Miller house is a two-story bay-and-gable style with a large wrap around porch. Never exactly an eyesore the old house had always shown a high degree of weathering and need of minor repair. Yet somehow its condition never got any worse despite no one living there. In fact, even though the houses surrounding the Miller place are all occupied it is curious how the neighbors, and the rest of the town's residents for that matter, simply ignored the place as if it was not really there.

Walking into the small county sheriff's headquarters I stop by the desk Mary Wilson uses to dispatch my deputies and keep track of their locations. “Mary,” I say, “what do you know about the new business that opened in the old Miller place?”

“The old Miller place? I have no idea what you are talking about Jacob.” She replied obviously annoyed that I had disturbed her from finishing up her morning duty assignments.

The old, vacant house on the corner of Main and Cedar.” I say as she hands me the duty logs from the two deputies working night shift.

Mary, like me, is a lifelong resident and while my own curiosity about the new business was slowly being replaced with my normal morning duties of quickly scanning the nighttime reports I did notice she had to actually think about the Miller house like it was something she had never seen.

“Oh, that place,” she replies, “no, I don't know a thing about anyone opening any sort of new business there or anywhere else in town. It would be nice to have some new people though.”

As I read the nighttime reports I notice one of the deputies had a run in with some local rednecks which took me completely away from my overactive curiosity. Still something in the back of my head would not let go of the strange and sudden nature of the newcomers. But I am a well trained and disciplined police officer, its been six years since I inherited the job of Tucker County sheriff when my predecessor suddenly died. As much as I dislike the idea sometimes this job has become my life, whether I like it of not, and I once again submerge myself in its daily demands.

***

Insomnia is an insidious disorder, for many who have never suffered from it there is a certain ignorant humor associated with anyone who had to deal with an abundance of sleepless nights. I have long since trained myself in dealing with it by spending as much time outside my little mobile home as possible.

During the weeknights my usual haunt is a bar called “Fallen Angels.” It is a hangout where every recent graduate of Tucker Crossing High School still living in town spends at least a couple of nights a week. There are no class distinctions, everyone from the mayor, the town's two doctors and three dentists along with the guys from the local garage and Pete's Septic Tank Cleaning Service drink and talk as if we were all one happy family.

By the time the owners Sylvia and Luke close the doors I can often go to my severely spartan home and catch a few hours sleep. When I can't, I drive all over the county listening to the radio and wondering what decisions I could have done differently in my life. It makes no difference, I always end up back at the sheriff's department headquarters, go inside my office, and lay my head on the desk and catch enough of a nap to be useful when everyone on day shift comes into work.

That was my plan in the dark and early hours of Wednesday morning. I had drove around and surprised both the night shift deputies who had parked behind one of the abandoned textile factories and gone to sleep in their cars. After scaring both of them to death and having the best laugh in the process I decided to head back into town.

My route takes me past the old Miller house where I notice light coming from every window and see a figure staring out the first floor bay window. I immediately pull over to the side of the street and stop out of a sense of job-related duty. As I get out of my car and walk towards the front door I am flooded my what could be a memory or a hallucination of me as a child walking past this house at night.

The old theater was still open then and I am walking home after seeing some movie. The Miller house was dark and empty as it had been all my life but I was overwhelmed by some presence that I believed was watching me from inside. It felt neither good nor evil but there was the impression that it was somehow judging me. Being around the age of twelve I ran off in abject fear and somehow erased it from my memory.

Walking up the steps I fight off the irrational urge to runaway again. Out of instinct I place my right hand on my pistol while with my left and I turn the ornate doorknob, push the weathered front door open, and step inside.

“Hello Sheriff Allen,” a beautiful raven haired woman says from behind a small counter situated in the corner of the house's foyer. Dressed in a simple but alluring peasant-style blouse and long brown skirt she looks like a gypsy that could steal both your heart and money. Her smile is open and friendly but I could not shake the idea that she somehow knew more about me than I could ever guess. “It's awful early in the morning but you are welcome to look around all you want.”Her accent was definitely not southern but it had a musical lilt that was almost hypnotic.

Both my voice and brain shutdown for a few seconds leaving me looking like a fool. When both come back I sound like a shy teenager who had never talked with a girl. “Just saw the lights on and you in the window, I felt it prudent to stop by and check things out.”

“By all means,” she says still smiling, “you can call me Chloe. If you need anything or have any questions I'll be right here.”

Stepping into the first floor living room every conceivable space is occupied by some item. I see antique furniture, paintings of all sorts, musical instruments, books, fine china, various weapons from swords to ancient rifles, early phonographs, children's toys and so many other items my mind goes into overload. Every room I walk through is as crowded with things as the first one I saw, not only that, I realize everything is one of a kind.

By this time my mind is so overwhelmed I completely ignore the fact that as I step into a room with only one entrance I find Chloe already there. “We have much to offer but I have a feeling you will find something special upstairs.” She says in a kind and subtle way that deep down is in actuality a stern order I am unable to disobey.

There to meet me on the second floor is a blond version of Chloe. “Hi, I am Lacey,” she says in a sultry voice full of sensual energy. Where her sister below looked like the girl next door, Lacey's was exotic and dangerous. The vibrantly colored dress she wore emphasized every curve of her body and combined with her come hither expression I quickly felt my own blood begin to boil. “You may find something interesting down the hall in the last room on the left.” She said in a disinterested manner utterly dissolving my growing animal lust.

If anything the second floor of the old house was even more packed with strange and interesting objects than the one below but my focus was on the mysterious item I was assured was important to me. Stepping into the room Lacey directed me I immediately see what she was talking about. The room itself is empty except for an old chair with an ornate picture frame resting on the seat. But it was the picture that stunned me to my core. The picture was of my high school girlfriend, Emily Altman, holding a strangely familiar child. As I stepped closer a story unfolded in my head counter to the actual events that tore us apart.

After graduation I foolishly joined the army and ended up serving a long string of combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. During that time all my ideals and beliefs melted away under the nightmare of wars waged primarily for the benefit of rich people. Emily instead went off to college in North Carolina, and a few years later met and fell in love with the man that would become her husband. For a couple of years after I returned to Tucker Crossing and became a deputy sheriff I made every excuse to talk with Emily's mom, Sally Altman. I never fooled the old woman who took every chance to remind me her daughter was quite successful and happily married.

While looking at that strange picture of Emily and that baby a new story unfolded to me in what I would call a waking dream where I skipped the army and went to college myself. Sometime later Emily and I run into each other at a high school reunion and quickly fall in love. The child she held in the picture was our first born and while I somehow knew this alternate version of our lives was no happily ever after, it was the way things were suppose to have happened.

“The item is yours for the taking if that is your desire.” A new voice said behind me.

I turn and see another version of Chloe and Lacey but with red hair this time. Instead of the open and friendly nature of Chloe or the raw sexual nature of Lacey this identical sister was stern and unforgiving. Nothing about this situation made any sense and ran counter to my training as a police officer where control meant everything.

“What do you mean the item is mine if I want it?” I ask partially confused but yet unable to believe I was looking at some incredible miracle that could erase my mistakes and allow me to have a real life.

“You have been given the chance to correct your own ill conceived life choices as well as an inherit flaw in the cosmos. Millions have lived and died praying for such a chance so make your decision quickly.” The red-headed sister tells me clearly growing angry.

I turn back towards the picture but hesitate. What right do I have to change the course of Emily's life? More importantly my own actions while in Iraq and Afghanistan weigh heavily on my mind and I find myself not really believing I deserve any happiness.

“Ashley, what of our customer? Has he made his choice?” I hear both Chloe and Lacey call out.

“No, sisters,” she says behind me, “doubt and guilt cloud his mind. This one has failed.” She says and as I turn around in panic to plead my case everything goes black.

***

I wake up in the sterile and nearly empty bedroom of my trailer. My sheets are drenched with sweat and I find myself fighting off such a wave of despair several minutes go by as I stare longingly at the pistol sitting on my nightstand. The only thing that saves my life is the idea it was all a dream.

My duty to the town and years of ingrained habit soon take over. I ignore my feelings and go through the motions of getting ready for work. That is until I pass the old Miller house on the way in which looks completely devoid of any inhabitants. In the belief that seeing the house empty I will slay the active demons in my head I pull the car over, run up onto the porch and peer inside the bay window.

As I thought, the house is empty and looks like it has been that way for uncounted decades. But the police officer in me will not accept anything until I go inside.

An elbow punch to a side window breaks glass and a few second later I am inside. I am immediately bothered by the fact the layout is just like that of my dream. I convince myself that has more to do with other houses that I have visited that look similar. The air inside is musty and stale but there is an eerie silence to the old house that bothers me, almost like a residue of monumental disappointment. Knowing nothing will be settled until I march upstairs to the room I saw the picture. A weird form of fear flows through me as I slowly begin to climb the steps.

A grown man should never feel the fear and uncertainty that truly challenges his sanity but as I look into that room and see the exact chair the picture of Emily and our baby was sitting. The picture, of course, is nowhere to be found although I already knew that, I had my chance and blew it.

A numbness comes on me and I walk down the stairs and back out of the house like some toy robot a child might wind up. When I get to headquarters I take out my pistol, remove the magazine and the round from the chamber, and place it on Mary's desk.

“Mary,” I say as she looks at me with concern, “call the mayor and then the county council chairman. Effective today I resign, I cannot do this anymore.” Before she can say anything I remove my badge as well and walk back out.

Several days pass with everyone doing there best to change my mind but it's during that time I figure out a plan for my life. The sheriff of a second rate and impoverished county does not make a lot of money but I was never one to spend much anyway. I buy a motorcycle complete with saddle bags, pack a few belongings, and leave town.

In this reality Emily has found her happiness and I will not disturb her but I will be damned if I let my life pass by and not try to find some small scrap of it for myself.