Coloring The Sun

I wrote this back in the old days (I think I was 16 when I first started). It's really bad, but I admire it. It reminds me of the times when I would post every thought or story I had without worrying who saw it or what people thought of it. It was bad writing, but I was OK with it because I knew it would help me expand. As embarassed as I am to post this (though I know no one is reading), this is one of the things I've always been most proud of. It's quite lengthy. Enjoy.

____________ <3 <3 <3 ____________


Ghost eyes can burn the skin. Everyone knows this when they take their final walk through the city, looming expanses of fire stained glass and cracked concrete smiling down at you from the peak of midday blue. Tiny specks of white cloud reflect imperfectly from the windows, shuttering at every pass of a gap of broken glass. The light and breezy air blows between my dirt dusted fingers and playfully tickles the back of my sticky neck. No sounds make loops in my ears; no bird or tank conceals the shrapnel ridden street. The only noticeable things are the imaginary eyes looking at me from burned out cars and scorched window frames.

Anywhere I look, I see the ghosts. Anywhere I go the wreckage of war follows. And they won’t stop staring. Every sideways glance serves my doubts proper with another body or skeleton staring, glaring at me from its resting place on a hunk of steel or mess of hungry shrubs. Ghosts don’t sleep. They never sleep because they never have to be afraid of getting tired. They never sleep because they never have to watch in the night or day when anyone or anything could lurk into their crawlspace.

The ghosts stalk from the lobby of a building and the baby carriage tipped at the edge of a sidewalk. They congregate at a fountain or hot dog stand. One laughs from its mangled skull, snarled in the grass under a tree. I would leave this city… but they never stop following me. They are always watching me.
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The Ferris wheel stopped working last week. The mayor finally decided that wasting electricity wasn’t the best solution for our problem. Since then the carnival has been quiet with only a lone child or pigeon fluttering through. Even during its past few months after reopening, people stayed away. After the first raid, citizens found it safer to be in rather than out on the pier, none-the-less on a giant metal wheel spinning over water. It hasn’t stopped us from wandering though. On the days when the radio tells us its safe, we leave our basement to be blinded by a yellow sun and white dandelions.

Today, we came to the Ferris wheel. Siren and the rumble of Russian tanks plowing through our streets have bombarded the nights. We haven’t been to the amusement park since Peter’s birthday a year before the war started. My legs ache from the five-mile walk here. Public transportation has been shut down and the city closed off. They started to use suicide bombings against us like a Palestinian martyr except it’s to kill off their own people. The mayor thought that the only way to prevent this was by shutting down bus stations and taxi services and by enforcing a nine o’ clock to eight o’clock curfew. We are the only free Allie occupied city remaining. Every other place has been plagued by the bombs and “cleansing”.

Empty cardboard soda cups and half smoked cigarettes lay flattened on the wood pier. Fast food wrappers skitter across the ground in the wind, lodging themselves into the spokes of rusted abandoned bicycle and the nooks of a vacant prize booth. An umbrella pole stripped of its paint and cloth covering screeches with every tickle of brushing air and turns lazily on its post. Roller coaster carts halted in the middle of the tracks keep steadily to the arc of the coaster course, a seagull pecking peacefully at the cushion pulling stuffing out with every jab.

Our muffled footsteps echo around between the carnival rides as we follow the site of the Ferris wheels top most cart swaying silently. Peter casts a glance at me from in front of me. He smiles playfully and sprints ahead of us.

“Race you!”

Laughter breaks the surface as we charge down the path towards the towering Ferris wheel. The only audible sound is our laughter and shoes against the pavement, a cacophony of a separate world from that of the war raging outside our borders. The sun beats slowly onto the rails of the giant machines signaling the beginning of daylights descent from the sky. A moon and three stars prick the darkening blue, almost a purple bleating through.

Peter and Dublin are the first to the Ferris wheel, pushing against each other trying to beat one another up the slick metal stairs. Simon runs in front of me, yelling that he’ll beat me to it. The sun outlines his silhouette with a white light making him almost Godly appearing. I stop short of the Ferris wheel to take a glance out at the water and gasp. Purple and pink have filtered the sky with a backdrop of orange and red to make an appearance of a field of flowers on fire, the sun being a warm and welcoming towel in the sweet grass. Waves gently lick at the sandy shore. Silence. No car horns or children’s laughter. Even the tanks and gunfire at the Southern part of the city have ceased to exist.

“Hey! Come on!” Peter’s voice crawls out over the sun-induced haze.

Dublin and Simon are already making their way carefully to the next cart, scaling the spindles of the contraption. Pete is waving me over to the first cart smiling like a kid in a candy store. None of us have been this happy in months, the ragged smell of a musty cellar confining us to a world of our own. Once the first signs of a total war breaking loose made its way to the radio Dublin, Simon, and I moved into Peter’s parent’s house, feeling it was better to have each other than no one. But other than us, the house was empty. Peter’s parents had left in a convoy shortly after the bullets began, but a suicide bomber had gotten on board, killing all fifty-two people. After that, no more convoys or people were let out. We were stuck in with no way out, trying to keep our sanity as family members slowly started to disappear from genocide and from fear. Now, all we have is one another. Our only choice is to wait for it all to end or for the Americans to breach our barriers.

I crawled into the carriage and followed Peter as he carefully climbed, fingers grasping for handholds on the cold rough metal. Colorful light bulbs of blue and orange lightly brush my belly, thighs, and breast as I cling closer to the iron supports. Even a fall from this distance could be enough to put me under soil. No medical care is supplied for civilians any longer. Only military personal are permitted into such areas. It makes me think about what has happened to those with cancer and life support, the people who have no other means of living other than the tubes and cables of a hospital housed machine. What was become of them?

At my first chance, I grab the edge of the bulky carriage and pull myself up and in, knees and shins meeting what is left of a bright red cushion. We are only one car up. Any further and our ability to keep hold of the old iron connectors would fail. Gravity does not always work to our advantage. Still, though, even at such a short height the breeze blows stronger and nearly knocks the wind out of me from its surprising late April chill. Peter pulls me into a hug, his windbreaker and body heat warming my bare arms until I can feel it through the muscle and into the bone.

“Beautiful huh? Not a plane or explosion in site.” Whispers in my ear.

The city skyline gleams on the surface of the water with an ominous emptiness. No lights pierce the delicate glass windows and no people walk the boardwalk along the beach. The city has turned to a ghost town. Sometimes I wonder if we’re the only ones alive. I don’t mean the breathing and eating humans either. The kind of human that doesn’t just sleep to leave the war behind or the kind to cower from their own self in a closet, but opens an eye to see a dandelion spreading its seeds for a spring yellow blossom. I think of the humans as the ones to scamper between buildings and trees like a nut-hunting squirrel before a long winter snow. Looking at our city streets, you’d never know that there was a society living here, the appearance of a hiding city.

Far off a gunshot sounds, slicing the air and into another person or barrack or just another one of us, the non-humans. Not everyone was the means of the attack. Only people like me. We are the termites of the American soil. According to The Third Law, we are no longer citizens, but the object at the end of a gun barrel. The only thing between the Movement and me is the mayor and his barricades. Out of the whole United States, only five of the major cities rebelled, throwing out all Blue Party followers and sheltering the Stripes. Our city is the last Stripes colony remaining. Peter, Dublin, and Simon were never Stripes. They were never either, but just bystanders. As they were about to be transported out of the city, they claimed Stripes as their party because they didn’t believe in what the Blues were preaching. They wanted to fight with me and not against me. Now the only fighting we’re doing is for the food the United Nations refuses to send and the everyday threat of another break-in.

“We should probably go.” Peter says, motioning his chin towards Dublin and Simons slow descent and the suns head barely popping from behind the water. “We have a long walk to go. We’ll be lucky if we make it home by nine.”

He releases me from his arms to stand up and swing himself from the carriage onto the bar below. I get up cautiously balancing on the unsteady swing of the cart and straddle the edge, looking down nauseatingly. Peter is already down. I take a last look at the dipping sun. In an hour, it will be gone and the bombs will start again. Another night of restless chatter and twisting in sleepy eyes will flow into a morning of radio talk and hungry moans. The flaming flowery field has been replaced by a dull light and dark blue, more stars prickling at the sensitive surface of the atmosphere. I only hope that for once, I wouldn’t be so afraid.

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The walk back is silent and hurried. To make it to the house before nine o’clock falls takes quick and hushed footsteps. If we are caught out after the curfew hour, we are fair game for killing. The Allied Army was granted the rights to take aim at anyone out later than the Laws allow us to and at every chance they’ve received they have taken full advantage. More than half the time it has ended up being sneaky Stripes plodding around the city looking for food, clothing, and water. Only once or twice has the Allied Army caught an infiltrator. And out of those few times, only one of the Blues were kept and killed. Blues aren’t allowed in here and if we go out there, we are as good as dead anyways, law abiding or not.

Only the cold black and blue of evening strikes the sky. A low moon shivers up from behind the city with the stars spattering sporadically around it. Everything is dark. The buildings quiver with far off explosions. Stray pieces of glass fall sharply through the air and shatter against the street and sidewalk, narrowly missing our group. It’s 8:00. We’ve got three miles to go. At this point, the only thing we’ve found to do is run. Panicked movements strip the placidly lightless street. None of the buildings around us have the slightest give away of the dimmest of lights. We’re running blind with the shine of the moon leading us along.

Glass erupts in the distance and the tremor of a tank tumbles through the concrete. Missile noises and jet plane engines shriek and roar, ripping through the sound barrier and sky. This evening’s battle has already begun. The Blue’s bombs and shells falling on the Earth like an autumn rain. I fall behind the three, my nerve endings and thought process scrambled from the blunt vibrations. They round a corner as I come to a halt. Lights flash violently overhead and the thunder cracks the wind. An earthquake splits up behind me, a tank coming along. On instinct, I pull into the alley behind a steel trash collector.

A British tank drums along beating on the shredded pavement. Soldiers with red striped armbands scuttle behind in formation donning the Canadian flag on the breast pocket of the tan uniform. Alterations such as the armband were created for there to be an obvious distinction between Blues, Allies, and Stripes. The Blues walk in the traditional green or tan camouflage of American soldiers where as the Stripes Rebel group flashes a small red strap hanging from belt loops and coat sleeves. I bore no proof of my being. The only thing that identifies me as the animal I am is the required card in my back jean pocket stating my Party, name, and stance. As of now, I have become nothing more than a flimsy roadblock in the Blue’s steps to destruction, The Third Law, and nothing but a dead weight on the Rebels and the Allies.

Boots thump the broken gravel and packed concrete and guns shake and quiver with nervous hands. Most of them won’t go back down this road. Only the lucky ones will escape the shrapnel and gunfire and only the blessed ones will be able to brag about keeping both legs. The tank trots onwards around the opposite corner of the one Dublin, Peter, and Simon went around. Have they realized I’m gone yet? Or are they still going, stricken with a blood hunted fear? I stay huddled behind the garbage collector until the armada passes.

But when they’re gone, I don’t move. I sit in the dingy alley hugging the clammy steel of the garbage bin, shaking with my mind and muscle’s electricity. The war was getting too close. Missiles still flew overhead with a tooth shattering and cringing scream. I wait and wait for my mind to calm and for the moment the firing will stop. The ground begins to rumble again and I take a peek at what is coming. A hummer strides from the direction that the Allied Army came from speeding through the street, dodging trashed cars and trucks. A picture of the Blues’ eagle rides the side of the vehicle, plastered on a stamp of the Saudi Arabian flag. An enemy. I sink far back into the shadows, drinking up the sweat pouring from my forehead and licking my salted lips. Through the sharp cold I find myself sweating a thick mist and sticky water soaks my back. The creases of my inner elbow stick together with a bodily made glue.

Without hesitation the vehicle passes. To be caught by the Saudi’s would mean instant death. They were the most brutal when it came to the “cleansing” and killing. With the Americans, depending on what mood the soldier was in, your life could be spared and it would be the Labor Camps for you, but the Saudi’s would rape and shoot you on the spot. Humans can be merciless, that nature of which I cannot be called part of. According to the Third Law… I am no human.





I don’t know how long I was there. Sleep had overcome me long before they were there, shaking me awake. Someone’s knees gazed at me through my blurry vision. I must have passed out because the world was turned sideways and crooked. My head and lip pained with blood, gravel, and glass.

“You need to wake up. We need to go!”

My left arm was numb with pins and needles, my face struck with the sharpness of a rock. I couldn’t feel my fingers.

“Get up. We’ve been waiting for hours for the battle to clear. Curfew is already passed and we’ve got to get back before someone finds us.” The voice was so familiar.

I weakly pull myself up to look into Dublin’s face, Peter and Simon at the edge of the alleyway staring panicked at the street and quickly back at me.

“Are you going to be alright?”

My hands are bloody from the broken glass and I can already tell my lip is split and I’ll need to bandage my head, but I tell her I’m fine to walk and we should get back before I cause anymore problems. She gives a nervous giggle and pulls me to my feet. Peter gives me an awkward and worried glance and an incomplete smile, only his tiny front teeth showing through.

The street is oddly quiet. The flying missiles and airplanes have ceased to exist and replaced with an eerie silence, like the Blues are lurking, waiting for us to come out. More stars have come out and the moon’s rising to its peak. At most, there’s an hour to get home before the Morning Guards come to roam and hunt down trespassers and curfew violators.

Peter grabs my hand, “Stick with us next time. Okay?”

Maybe next time the war won’t stop me.

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I don’t know how it started. All of the bombs and the deaths just came one morning to knock on our doors. The newspapers had been stopped under the beginning of the rule of the New Government. Intellectuals like Journalists and writers (such as me), Doctors, and Scientists were the first to be deported. I narrowly escaped, hidden in my parent’s attic. But when the government came for them and took them away I had to jump from the attic window to the balcony. I don’t know how long I ran, but eventually I ended at Peter’s house crying on his doorstep. I hid there in his basement.

And then they came for the political party members opposing their own. Once again, they came for me. We went to Peter’s parents’ house. They kept us safe in a back room, herding us to the shed in the backyard anytime a Blue came around. But at that time, they were only called the American military. It wasn’t until we realized that this was a political war, a political genocide like that of Cambodia that we knew that things had to be change, that things had to be identified and name and separated.

Soon enough, cities were warring with each other and closing their borders to the refugees and enemies. Canada even began to shut itself off from the escaped hunted. They swore to aid those being targeted, but not to let us loiter amongst their land. They wanted to give us a helping hand without ever needing to touch the opposite flesh, just as every other country has done; just as the British have done, just as the Russians have performed, just as the Australians did when they were still involved. All formulated a promise, but none welded a bond.

When the Saudi’s joined the war, it took none of us by surprise. Our fellow American’s still needed and wanted oil, so they made a pact, an agreement with Saudi Arabia. If they helped slaughter the “Inner-American Enemy” and provided oil, the United States would give up the lot of the land of the West Coast over for grabs. Taking into account our age old ties and the undeniably good offer of land, Saudi Arabia blared in with a ready, soul stealing attitude.

The only thing left to do was to hold fast in large cities across the nation and hope for the best. Under the circumstances of the Geneva Convention the United Nations was urged to get involved against a country involved in its own organization. Abiding countries followed through in combating the American forces, but one by one as the forces dwindled fewer and fewer countries dropped out to become neutral. Now, even if the United States exploded, no one could care. Our nation was damned as they saw it.

As the war seemed more and more problematic, the United Nations backed out on their agreement, completely erasing the policy from its agenda. Few countries stayed to assist. Food was stopped from coming in from United Nations effort. The problem became too monstrous. A country as big as ours battling against itself created unsettled stomachs and empty wallets. We were a lost cause, left to rot away in a political wasteland. Our only provisions were what our leftover governing mayors could scrape from supporting countries. Countries that wouldn’t reach out and touch us, only look at us.

Now we’ve been so far gone that I’m not sure it can ever fix itself. I’ve been walking for hours and thinking for hours and have become sure that it may never be okay…

_________________________

Soot and blood streaked my face while dirt made a thick haze in the air of the basement. Coughing slightly, I lay on my side, eyes glistening in the sunlight streaming in through the basement window. Simon sleeps next to me with a grease infested face. The ground was still rumbling. They had been going all the rest of the night.

The radio was on low and Dublin and Peter whispered quietly behind me. Early morning sun fled through the fogged glass. We got back an hour after the trouble, not running into anything the rest of the run home. It turns out my lip really was split and my head wasn’t bad enough to have to be bandaged. My hands sting and the feeling is back in my arm, but all together, I’m fine. Birds chirp outside, the neighborhood silent in the bombing’s wake. My head still throbs from the tremors of the previous evening’s tumble. The radio crackles.

“American Blues were pushed back—low casualty rate in military and civilian counts—no bombings suspected tonight—“

My stomach heaved a little. Low casualty rates meant high casualty rates. Anything would be said to make the people feel better. And when they say the enemy was pushed back, they mean that they never moved. They still camp at the boundaries, thirsty for another pilgrimage.

Feet shuffled and the basement door opened. Trucks hauling water and what little provisions they had were churning through the streets. Peter and Dublin left for upstairs to get the daily food and water given to the hidden families and groups leftover from the first raid. The packs contained nothing more than merely enough rice for four people, just about enough water for a day, a canned vegetable, and some form of bread whether it is a rock solid loaf or undercooked dough. No matter the condition of the goods, it was food and we ate it complaint free. Our stomachs rumbled from malnutrition and uncooked food, but we never said a word.

Every now and again we treat ourselves with canned meat or fruit from the pantry that, at this point, was only half stocked with non-perishable foods. Before the war started the city went crazy with buying and stocking food. Most households knew very well what was coming and Peter’s parents were some of the smarter ones. They’d stocked and fled at first chance and died at the first raid.

When the first raid came and went, it wasn’t buying and stocking food with stores crowded to top capacity, it was breaking windows and ransacking for all the grocery was worth. At the end, the only thing left was sour milk and spoiled eggs.

We were lucky to have escaped the first raid. The street two blocks down was leveled to nothing but blackening, smoldering ash. The house right next to ours lit up, but not from falling embers carried by the wind, but by a suicide attempt. Our neighbors didn’t feel that this life was worthy enough. By time we got out with the hoses and buckets in attempt for savior, they had already succeeded in their deadliest deed. For some odd reason, I don’t think their bodies were ever removed.

__________________________________

Sunlight caught Simon’s glasses with a blinding glare. The air wasn’t so breezy today, but stagnant and heavy. Only the sounds of vehicles on ration runs came through the streets, across town and passed. Radio reports told us the day should be safe, but instead of risking last night again, we sit stationary on the porch swing and steps. My head still buzzes with an invisible hangover from the bombs that came before. Peter swings us gently, strong legs flexing with every push. Pin pricks steady themselves in my feet and calves from being crossed under and over one another for too long. Peter’s hand rests on my knee, friendly, almost like two kids in a park. War loses the luster.

Strained creeks come from the chain links and hinges holding the light wooden bench and our combined weight up. Simon and Dublin whisper lovingly in each other’s ears. A ration truck hums by, slightly shaking the delicate porch under our bodies. I can feel a brush of air against my cheek and look to find Peter blowing on my face. The faintest give away of his smile yesterday creeps unknowingly onto his lips.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, his clandestine smirk gone.

Anything about nothing because there’s not much to think about.

A stern and upsetting look crawls across his face, “You were always a thinker before…,” He pauses, “I thought maybe this time you’d have something to say. I’ve been looking for someone to tell me anything that I don’t already know. I figured that whatever happens to go on in your head might be a good start.”

His childlike grip on my knee releases and his arm warms around my shoulders. War is luster. He and his voice go quiet again, his cheek brushing lightly on the top of my head. My hair tickles and scratches at his face, making him pull away and smooth my locks down.

I think I’ve always loved Peter. Before I even met him I’d see him around. He’d be at the grocery observing the intense green of an apple or buying a flimsy paper ticket for his girlfriend at the theatre. I had known nothing in my dreams but his coffee bean eyes and matching hair. The problem was I never knew I had seen him and I’d keep dreaming him and keep seeing him outside, but would never know it. I’d always walk by. When you have dreams, they’re of reoccurring images and actions you see during the day. He was my reoccurring image. He just always seemed to be there no matter the time of day. After a few months, his girlfriend stopped aiding him to the theatre and he was always with a friend or family member. And when I finally took notice and ran into him at the mall, he looked me up and down in disbelief. The only thing he said to me was enough to get us by.

“Have I seen you before?”

I asked him if it had been in a dream.

_____________________________________

Peter’s light snores barely came through over the commotion of an army of airplanes climbing the sky overhead. Smoke trails from the engines followed in tow creating white squiggles and lines in the almost perfect sky. As the fleet flew past another group came overhead. Dublin and Simon pointing up trying to count the Blue Angels in the flock shrilled with laughter. Sun exploded in the sky once the final group flew through the sky, ripping the sound barriers open wide.

Peter gasped in his half conscious state, “I wonder what’s going on in Downtown now…”

I don’t know. There’s no way to know other than to go there and see.

He only laughed through half-open slits, proceeding to close them completely with a gulping yawn, “What we need to do is to sleep.”

I let a weak smile fall upon me. I wish sleep was so easy. There’s no way to sleep now. Not with the earthquakes going every night and the few sudden screams that holler from next door, seeping through our concrete basement walls. Sleeping was what you were supposed to do when you were able to, with no present dangers ready to pop out from around the next corner. Sleep is what I miss most other than the wonderful foods Peter used to make.

That struck me as an odd thought. For the first time since the beginning of the bombs the thought of food came to mind. Food had been the least of my objectives lately, the hunger never stabbing enough anymore to make me want to jump. Peter’s cooking was the most stellar thing to ever welcome taste. As cliché as it will ever be, his spaghetti was always what I requested. As a kid, I was always fussy, complaining that spaghetti was disgusting. But after eating Peter’s, it became the only way for the world to spin. And as many times as he tried to educate me on the art of perfectly prepared spaghetti, I never managed it properly. I only ever managed stiff noodles and an overcooked meat sauce. But he would always giggle and give me a sweat kiss on the cheek after throwing in spices of his own touch. I always thought that touch was enough.

Peter and I had been dating six months before I introduced him to Dublin and Simon. It took two out of the four-and-a-half years we’d been seeing each other for me to take him home to mom and dad. They always asked me why it took so long to let him to their house with me. I don’t really know what the answer is. I think it has something to do with the embarrassment of finally being happy. In my teenage years I claimed on a daily basis that I’d never fall in love. Love was the spelling of a silly game. It was Peter who changed that for me, though.

After Peter met “the gang” we all hit it off with double dates to the mall or to a pizza place downtown. My parents said that the four of us became inseparable. It’s not only like dating Peter, but a whole group of people. There have only been a few out occasions alone together, but for some reason it’s never bothered us as it might seem. If we needed to be alone it wasn’t that far gone to tell Simon and Dublin off. It turned into a silent agreement between the four of us. With a simple flash of an eye or the twitch of a finger, the party would be divided into two.

This is what influenced their decision to stay with me in the city after the structure began to crumble. The fire was already killing, but they kept with me. I tried to get them to go, to leave, and every time I’d tell them to get out while they still could, they’d shake their heads “no” and go back to cooking dinner.

When I first told Peter to leave he didn’t say anything. He only kissed my hand and shook his head. He wouldn’t have it. But later that night when he was outside, thinking he was alone, I could hear him cry over the cacophony of swing creaks and car horns of the escaping. And the next day after he woke up, he pulled me close and told me he was never leaving me. He made a promise never to leave me. That’s the part that still makes me cry to this day. Promises don’t always mean what they’re supposed to mean.

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Something shook the suburbs this morning. It wasn’t the ration trucks or airplanes or enemy vehicles. The shock wave was much greater. It was still early. The sun hadn’t even breached the skyline yet. The only remnants of night were the half drawn moon and sparse stars and the only clue of morning was a thick layer of pink and orange crowding the horizon. I was awake, but just barely, peeking out the tiny basement window from the floor. It was quiet. Not even birds could drag themselves open eyed. The sun was barely yawned.

And as the thought of waking had begun to slowly bring itself to me, the ground shook more violently than even the first raid had caused it to. Glass jars and bottles resting on the shelves cracked and shattered as they tipped from their resting place. A wooden shelf faltered and screws loosened, the platform sliding itself diagonally, dropping all contents to the floor. I ran to the opposite side of the room and the basement window blew. Simon, Dublin, and Peter were up and frantic, huddled under the stairs with me.

It lasted for nearly ten minutes, the shaking and loud noises all attached into one loud orchestra of war. After, it was complete silence as though nothing had happened. The birds came out to greet the morning and the sun was half way out of its hole. Silence. Where does all the sound go when it finishes its run? Something of that magnitude… it’s hard to belief that it can just disappear. Were we the only to hear it? Did the rest of the city feel it too? Or are we making the final steps to insanity?

We turned on the radio twenty minutes following when we knew it was gone for sure. The Stripes’ radio station was nothing but static and inconsistent long waves of beeping. This could be the end of it all. Enemies could be rushing the barriers as we knew it, coming for us and everything else living because we are all the inhuman waste of the States. The crackling kept going.

“We should go see if we can find out what it was.” Peter looked around the room nervously.

Simon looked from Dublin to the window, “Pete, I don’t think that would be smart. It hasn’t even been an hour since it happened. It could be dangerous. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be incinerated and I’m not putting us at risk.”

“What if it’s help? What if it means that we need to get out now while there’s still a chance? We…”

“Are you insane?” Simon interrupted, “Help? Help doesn’t feel or sound like that, Pete! If it was help I’m sure their goal wouldn’t be death and brain damage. And where would we go? There is no where to run. We are stuck here no matter what.”

Simon was right. If we stayed in the way of danger, we were dead. If we ran from problems, we’d only be confronted by it again and be killed. Either way we turned it would be a dead end. If it came to the decision, it would be a better bet to hide than run through the open. A naked person never goes unnoticed in a crowd of hounds; an innocent person never goes unnoticed in a crowd of savages. Basements will always be our best bet. But regardless, the tempers went back and forth relentlessly. And as conclusion, Simon and Pete left me and Dublin in the house.

It hadn’t even been five minutes later until they came back down the stairs, steps heavy and faces drowned. Simon’s fflesh was of a ghost’s and Peter didn’t move an inch, no twitch or blink surfacing. Tears were welling in the depth of his eyes.

What happened?

They couldn’t answer, paralysis conquering the best of them. Simon sat on the last step and Peter still stood stoic and stiff. His flesh was turning the slightest of powder and he wouldn’t look me straight in the eye. Dublin looked anxious.

Peter, what happened?

Still silent. The birds outside were getting louder and the sun was growing stronger and hungrier with light. It was an overlay to silence, an encore to chaos. I ran up the stairs and passed them as quickly as I could, a rush of footsteps behind me. Peter grabbed my arm and I fell, getting dragged down a few steps. I could feel my arm bruising and peeling on the wooden planks.

He held both of my arms firmly, “Please don’t. Stay here.”

I want to know what happened.

“You’re not going out there.”

I didn’t care. I struggled and ripped free from his grasp, my arm getting skinned from his dirtied nails. I kept going up the length of the stairs, charging through the white hallways, polished floors, and on to the creaky old porch. I had half expected to see an army of dead bodies or a mass of soldiers piled at our front door, blood and bayonets pointing. But I didn’t. It was silence and I couldn’t figure out the puzzle behind Simon’s skin or Peter’s eyes. Stepping down the porch steps, though, it all solved itself for me in one simple equation. A giant cloud of black was rising in the North and I could tell it was a blaze. The atmosphere of smoke was massive, enough for a hungry giant to bathe in. The city had been overrun by a battalion of smokers, a line about a mile along. It was downtown. The city was on fire. I could feel Peter’s face crawling upon my own.

Rustling behind me, “I told you not to come out here.”
______________________________

Genocide has turned our country into a weird being. There are no two definite personalities, we’re all intermingled with nothing to do or say. It began with the President hinting. These people are a part of abnormal society he would always begin his speeches in that same way. Groups developed everywhere, some more subtle than the rest. Others proceeded in public “trials” and hangings. People like me were being killed every day. And then, “my people” were being kicked from the Military and the remaining of the forces was turned into flesh hungry super soldiers. They were told to target and kill people like me.

Doctors, writers, musicians, journalists, scientists, politicians of the “opposing party”, all free thinkers went down. The only things left were Blue soldiers, Blue politicians, factory workers, corporations, the feeders of the Blue Party. Everyone else fell silent. I escaped by luck and good people. All normal civilians left, all normal workers left, only the endangered government's most wanted and the ones defending them stood ground. The Blues made sure to cleanse as best as they could.

The only reasons for this genocide was money and the want and need to rid of the political party that was not their own. I had almost wished I had registered Independent when they first came for me. The first raid was only the true beginning behind it. Violence had been chasing us for months before it, but the first raid is what truly started it all.

It was October, I think, when it happened. That night at seven o’ clock, every major city in America was bombed and invaded. Hundreds and thousands died in every city from the bombings with thousands more added from the Enemy invasion. Only the well hid were spared from painful encounters. Only some cities managed in pushing the Enemy back with forces that had been kept secret until the point of chaotic outbreak. Our city was one of them and for a great amount of time we had been the only one. But that has been demolished and replaced with occupancy and I’m still lost without knowing where to go. The sun has faintly begun to disappear over the water, but with at least hours more to go until its extinction.

The buildings are dead. The streets are dead. Everything appears dead, but I know somewhere in the mess there’s something or someone. The ghosts could be there or the Enemy or the Allies. Anyone or anything could be striding around the back alleys. I’m almost there, but just barely. I want to make it before the sun sets… before I’m caught by the darkness.

The barriers had been penetrated. The smoke was from the fires that had been set and from the explosions that had been set off. All of the shaking had been from a junior sized warhead and now downtown is just about leveled. The Striped rebels were killed in the action, the reason for the static and beeping. The Allies were killed, scarred to the limit of abandonment, and only some remained in a few amount. For a great percentage, we’re on our own.

_____________________

Once word was spread around by the loud speakers of Allie vehicles speeding from the city down the streets and towards their home, we knew we were left for our own. This will be our last trip out. We’re taking a last tour to find what little food and water we can. So far, the streets are voiceless, but there’s a hidden evil below it. An untold truth and an omen for the future both residing under the same cracked concrete. There’s still smoke signaling the blue sky and I can feel a distant rumble vibrating underground. Our feet move quickly.

Peter and Dublin stop at the first house, 37 Hillside Crest Drive, and knock. When there’s no answer, they kick in the door and rummage for what’s been left behind. Simon and I are crashing through another house to find it vacated of all food, furniture, and people. No one else is outside, making me question if we have been alone this whole time or if everyone already got out. I can hear Simon stomping around the upstairs of the house and I can see Dublin and Peter stumbling from 37 Hillside Crest Drive empty handed.

The house we’re in, the floor is covered in an ugly red and brown oriental rug. The walls, the staircase, the floor under the carpet, it’s all white and painted. The connected rooms are all white and the back kitchen is chemical clean white. There’s only one picture on the wall of a sepia toned tree in the middle of a field, mist swallowing the roots and branches. The wall it’s hanging on is white. Outside, the house is yellow and the lawn is a perfect green.

A thud, thud, thud is coming down the white wooden stairs and I look to see Simon also empty handed. This could be more unsuccessful than we originally thought. We knew little was left, but we weren’t this convinced early this morning when we decided on such an adventure. Down the street some more, there’s still nothing and down the next street, everything is empty too. The street after that is even more deserted and the following road is nothing but shrapnel and ruin. In the end, we are holding nothing but a pocket knife and a can of Meatball Spaghetti-O’s. It’s as close to Peter’s cooking as I can get now.

The lane is completely abandoned. The only sign that a person ever lived here is by the skeleton contorted by a rope that has it strung from a tree and by the brown of blood flooding the family room of a large green house on the corner. No one has been here for months. It’s almost hard to believe that we were some of the few here our whole stay. Not once did we see another civilian, only soldiers and rebels came from their closets. Even now, we can’t find a soul. Where did the population go? It seems unrealistic to believe that they were all swallowed by the Blues or Rebel forces. It feels unlikely that over a million people would die overnight or join up in some form of Military club or another. Seeing can be believing, but believing can be ignorant. Dublin sits on the curb crying with Simon at her side. He whispers words of comfort in her ear, cradling her head in his arms and against his chest and stroking her dark hair wordlessly.

I look to Peter who stares right back at me, both of us useless at knowing what to do. He sits in the middle of the street and I pace from the stop sign and back. Hiding in the tall grass, a grey kitten curves its back and hisses at me just to for it to run and hide in the foundation of a red house. My arms burn from a few days ago when my skin got peeled getting pulled down after my attempted first run. My legs hurt from all of the traveling we did today. The small of my back is shrunken to a ball of pain after the continuous nights of sleeping on a solid concrete floor.

Dublin is still sobbing in the gutters while Simon speaks softly and Peter stares dumbly. I keep pacing and every time I make it to the end of the road, I get a glimpse of green, but I ignore it feeling that it could only be the grass. After one more passing by, though, I’m sure it has to be something else. Each time I make my round, the green moves. Center, right, left, center, left, always moving. I creep back and peek past the stop sign. The green is a shirt with a John Deer symbol on it and the shirt is on a young boy.

There’s a child one road over.

Peter stands up and Dublin isn’t weeping.

“What?” Peter stutters.

One road over, there’s a boy. He’s alive.

Simon and Dublin shoot up, all three of them running over to look at what I see. No one says anything at first, all of us afraid of what we are seeing. There’s a child alive at the end of another street and all he is doing is watching us at our stand still.

“Oh my…” Dublin’s voice cracks.

I’m the first to make a move and as I get closer I can see the boy is younger than I’d thought. He’s around six or seven, but he couldn’t be any older. Getting nearer, I can make out dirt rings around his eyes, streaked from tears and sweat and blood cakes the tips of his fingers and earlobes. The side of his face is burned. His sniffs and sobs are audible from my distance and I scramble to him, everyone else in tow. Once I’m in front of him I grab his shoulders and look into his blood shot eyes and at his singed blonde hair.

Are you alright? What’s your name? Where are your parents?

He backs off, but I’m stubborn and get close again. Peter comes up from behind and picks up the boy.

His voice is full of panic. “We’re getting out of here. Now.”

Why? We’re fine.

“The blood is fresh. Something has to be around.”

The rumbling beast underground must have heard because the low roar of a tank came right on cue, the path ahead of us devoured by an oversized vehicle with the Saudi Enemy symbol at the front. On our side and at our back, soldiers are running from their coves, guns up and facing us, barrels ready for death. The little boy is laughing.

A soldier steps from our right, yelling an incomprehensable and foreign language at us. His uniform isn’t like an American’s would be. His tan skin betrays his country of origin. Another Enemy steps forward.

“Drop the boy.” I can see blue eyes poking from under the shade of his helmet, a cold look of arrogance staring us down. His thick mid-western accent let’s me know he’s a common Enemy.

Obeying, Peter puts the boy down who runs to the man, retreating into the comforts of his arms. The child gives a sneer of victory and giggles some more. They used him as bait with full knowledge that we would not ignore a young kid crying in the streets. They’re playing a dirty game. The boy sticks his tongue out and runs down the street. All things truly wicked start from an innocence.

____________________________

They had us sitting on the street, all of the tanks and half of the soldiers gone. The mass amount of fire power was in expectance of Allie or Stripe forces, not for a small group of civilian targets. But according to the man with blue eyes, this was even better. They took Dublin away an hour ago and threaten that I’m next. I still haven’t thought of a way to break free and get out, all four of us untouched and alive. For some reason, with the exhausting dread in the back of my mind, I know that is no longer possible. I broke down thirty minutes ago when it came upon me that Dublin might already be dead. Simon hasn’t talked since. He fought to keep Dublin with us, struggling and refusing to let go of her. They grabbed both of them, though, and dragged her away as they beat him. I’ve been silently weeping, coveting my tears in dread of where Dublin might be and where I may end up. Peter has his arms wrapped tightly around me. I can feel his heavy breaths on my back and the slow and deep rising and falling of his chest. The back of my neck is wet from our shared sweat and the water falling from our eyes.

“Darling,” Blue eyes looked at me mischievously, “Don’t look so concerned. It isn’t as bad as you think. It’s a little fun actually.”

Peter’s grip gets harder and his breaths get deeper. “I’m not going to let them take you.” He breathes the hushed words into my ear. I’m shaking now.

Five soldiers sit around us with three more gone wherever Dublin may be. All of them have their helmets off and their guns down, only the man with the blue eyes stands at attention. With all of his decorations, I assume he is the General of Genocide. He stands and glares down at us. It’s a nice day today. I guess I couldn’t have asked for any better weather for this. The surrounding road is crowded by white houses and dying shrubs, brown with time. There are only a few clouds sitting in the sky and the sun is getting low. The General mumbles something to his foreign friend who gets up at his command and begins his walk towards me. Three Enemies are walking back to us.

This time, he speaks English. “Come on. It’s your turn darling.” His licks his teeth clean and I cower into Peter’s arms.

Simon looks and gets up to stand in front of me while Peter pulls me back. The Enemy lunges and Simon pushes him off. Peter stands me up and begins to pull me in the opposite direction, just to get stopped and shoved right back into Simon by the General. I’m almost being suffocated from being held so tightly, but I don’t want Peter and Simon to let go. The scuffle starts again but Simon is back down and Peter is being torn from me screaming.

“Let go of me!” He’s flailing and punching and kicking and I’m being dragged further away. They have him on the ground, kicking him, but Peter is still fighting. Twisting to get out of the arms of the Enemy, I scratch his face and feel the sleeve of my shirt tearing open from his iron grasp. I push him off but am only clutched again by the powerful hands of another Enemy. A loud shriek is rising from the distance of downtown, but I’m still contorting my body in attempt of release. Peter is being held to the ground and he’s looking at me, shouting and crying. Simon isn’t where he was before. The sound of metal on metal is getting louder and I’m being hoisted over the shoulder of an Enemy.

Fiftyty paces later, I’m still struggling, clawing and pounding at the camouflage covered back of the thing that has me restrained. It only gets me thrown to the ground with a groan and a smirk.

“All of that fighting for nothing lovely. You’re still stuck with me.” That grin… it makes me cringe. His malicious teeth point like a wolf’s would and his eyes squint with heartless desire.

From where I am on the ground, I can see Dublin. I can see the bare skin and the red marks and the dead horror in her eyes. The only thing left on her are her shoes. Clumps of blood and flesh and dirt litter the fragile area underneath the nails. She fought. Her eyes are open, but nobody is home. The irises and whites of her eyes are already dulling to the look of a long since dead corpse. The soul is completely gone, the last seconds of her life recorded in the fixated look of terror still there, always there. Locks of hair splay across her face and neck in a mess. She never liked her hair to be knotted and twisted. The sound kept creeping up on us.

I can’t end up dead. I can’t end like that. I search the ground for anything that could be used: shrapnel, a rock, dirt to be thrown into their eyes. But there isn’t anything. I look to them and their fiendish expressions. There’s no sign of mercy to be held. The sun is bright and I can hear Peter hollering the word please over and over again. Whether it’s about me or him, I don’t know, but the screaming and thought is interrupted by the sound of a gun shot. My heart stops mid-beat. They can’t kill him. And I’m weeping. I’m sagging to the ground on my hands and knees full of salty water and soot. I can hear the two advancing on me, but I don’t move. I stay on my hands and knees, fingers and feet grinding into the pavement until I’m sure blood is running. I can’t stop heaving. The sobs just keep coming. I’m being lifted up to sitting position and I have them looking straight into my eyes, full of lust and hate, but no love or forgiveness. When do we begin to become so lost in the politics that we become detached from society and emotions and anything relating to human hurting? I haven’t figured it out yet and it seems that I never may.

The wind picks up and the loud screeching from before is roaring directly overhead now in a stream of jets and helicopters, bullets and bombs dropping down on us. The Allies hadn’t completely given up yet. Explosions burst and flames rise over from where Peter and Simon lay captive and gone. Shells and gun powder and dangerous weapons keep falling. The two Enemies no longer care about me. They’re running away, getting caught by blowing fire further down the line of houses. Wordless, I stumble up to be thrown back down by a car exploding in the driveway near by.

Ringing in my ears are the actions of fury, the rivalry of battle, the appetite for more. In my left arm is a burning and I’m not sure I can even move. The loud noises continue in my ears and the sky above me proceeds to spin and twirl with the receding light of a fiery afternoon. I’m mute, but yelling. Somehow, I’m screaming nothing that could be considered a word. I’m just yelling, but I can’t speak. I’m deaf, but I have the annoying buzzing in my ears and the distant sounds of my cries and muttering. I’m numb, but I can still sense Dublin’s eyes and Peter’s pleads and Simon’s agonizing sobbing. The smell of smoke and fuel dizzies me until black washes over me. I lose it and then I’m back to it, nothing ever really making reality there. I know someone or something is missing and I know that somehow being flat on the ground isn’t right, but I feel light. I can blow in the breeze and fly. The blue sky comes in closer and then backs away. The clouds steadily float along. How nice it must be to flee so easily. It must be so weightless. Fire caves in on me and then silently licks its way away. The sky turns purple, then green, then blackout, and back to blue. I’m coloring like in a book. The Enemy, they do it too. It’s a way to heal lost hopes and doubts. If you’re unsure, if you want change, if you want the chaos or the love, you just change the appearance. You can make the Earth and the people walking it just as you want. This person can look like that and this sunrise is what I tell you it is. No longer is it orange or pink, but a lazy green and vomit brown. Another wave of black washes over me, cleansing me, but this time I find it harder to recover. They’re always coloring the sky with exhaust smoke and fire blooms. We’re always coloring the clouds with hope. I can’t stop painting. The crayons and colors are always there. I’m always coloring the sun…

________________________________

I can hear the shore getting nearer. The smell of fresh water and sand and rotting wood from the pier is gathering in my nostrils. The tip of the Ferris wheel I saw just barely poking through between the gaps of two buildings, but I lost it again. I’ve had to make detours around collapsed and charred buildings and bodies. Ghosts have flooded this city of ash and wind. In the distant background, guns and vehicles are beating closer through the atmosphere. Allie soldiers and Blue’s voices meet together to create a mass of confusion and similarity, two sides warring for being exactly the same as one another. You can never see the differences.

The footsteps of me echo and bounce to and from the remains of building edges and light poles. More ghosts peep at me from a blown out bus obliterated to everything but whole. No one is here but me and the deceased and the ghosts. We’re all here alone and together, keeping one another company until the sun goes down. The sidewalks on either side of me are shredded and beat and blackened. The horrendous skyscrapers are dark with destruction and loneliness. Cars are scorched to metal frames with steering wheels.

I quicken my movement. The sun is only dipping lower and lower behind the city and I can feel my heart race faster. If I can’t get to the pier, it will be more than disappointment that plagues me. Either way I look at it, I am dead. Any separate way I decide to see it, I could be callusing myself with false hopes.

The ghosts keep looking. They keep watching. They’ve been bones for too long. One of these days, they will become real and maybe then, people other than me will see them for all that they are. Without a second thought, explosives and the raging fire of an M16 is all that passes them. Maybe some day, the ghosts won’t silently watch, but alarm at their own will. That is when they will get their second thoughts, in their brigade of coffin infested funeral lines and court trials by the number. The time will come for the Enemy’s mind to finally wake up to the morning mix of death and reality. It will be our second coming.

__________________________________
Peter’s dirty and wet body is lying against my own in the darkness of a stranger’s bedroom. The bed is filthy from our grime encrusted clothes and skin. Outside, the air still buzzes and lights flicker on and off in the distance. The war is at full speed here in the city, but the suburbs have gone silent. Peter’s breathing envelops the back of my neck.

I had woken up at the very end of dusk before the stars and moon began to completely prickle through. To reassure my previous thoughts, I limped to where Peter and Simon had been to find Simon with a gunshot wound through the chest and Peter’s body nowhere to be found. Everything had stopped the moment I saw the reddish spots on Simon’s shirt and glazed over expression in his eyes. He was on his back, shirt torn and soaked. His shoes were missing. I dragged Simon’s body over to where Dublin rested. Love even in death. The Enemy was dead everywhere and the General was buried beneath the carcass of a car. Peter was still missing from the group. Dread and light shared my brain and heart. Flames still shuddered across the pavement in the breeze as I sifted through all of the bodies of flesh and metal. No Peter. It wasn’t until I made my way to the end of the street where it all started that I saw something. It seemed impossible that his body could have made it all that way. I sprinted as fast as I could.

Peter was cold on the concrete, but as soon as I started to cry and turn him over he moaned and inhaled a heavy breath of air. The right side of his face was completely eaten by blood and his leg was burned. He wasn’t well, but he wasn’t dead. I’d helped him up and half carried him to a house two blocks away where I stitched and bandaged him and laid him to sleep on the bed.

His fingers are tangled in the hole in my shirt sleeve and he’s awake, shaking with each and every intake of air.

“I hope you know that I love you.” His voice has become raspy and distancing.

I say nothing in return. I can’t because if I do, everything will run so out of control. The words would knot together and never make sense, only making any of his apprehensions worse and never better. Sometimes, it’s hard to say I love you even when you mean it and I can’t say it now, not now. Everything has developed into something so desperate and weak. Things can never be the same. I can’t release anything from my gaping mouth. I only turn around and pull him close, sticking my tears into the hollow of his neck. He kisses me. Without the words, it has become uncontrollable.

I love you, Peter. More than you could ever know.
__________________________________________

His grip had loosened during the night and I knew that he was gone. It seemed so distant when I first knew he wouldn’t make it. His labored breathing was only the slightest sign in contrast to all of the bleeding and burned limbs. I hadn’t thought more about it until it actually happened. For me, it was his second death, my second time to grieve, but this time he was really dead and I couldn’t let so much as a gasp roll from my tongue. I tried to bring him outside to burry him, but he was too heavy for me and the last thing left for me was to slouch in defeat. I gave his forehead one last kiss and covered him with the sheet and left through the front door of the house. The house has bleach white walls, floors, and ceilings. The staircase was white as well. There was no picture on the wall.

The street was quiet and I slowly start to walk in the direction of downtown. Darkness still has the city in its death grip, but my path is lit by the moon, nearly full tonight. A brilliant black and blue splayed across the sky, bright stars stringing the constellations like a Christmas tree. House after house after house is black and black and black with no sheet of life. Brand newish Mustangs and Lexus’ gleam the moonlight from driveways of empty houses. Houses and houses and houses, all unoccupied, all filled with material possessions of their previous owners. Pictures of families with children and pets archive the past of the city and life as it was pre-war occupancy. Whatever it was that caused this post-human existence, I will never see the death of it.

One, two, three more streets go by as I weave through and through to get to the center of this city’s heart. I’m traveling the veins of a microcosm turned to something much greater than itself. A flicker of light and another bomb goes off. A brigade of tanks and feet stomps by at the end of the street, all completely missing me. Even the moon can’t light me up enough for the enemy to see.

One, two, three more blocks and I still haven’t hit the border of the suburbs. More enemies trample by without a care in the world. The only worry is to fill their lust of murder for joy. Genocide can’t seem similar to war. There’s a difference between defense and attack, wanting and resisting.

One, two, three more steps pass me as I cross the street, but only the fourth stops to stare. He’s wearing the uniform of a Blue and he raises his gun. I don’t even flinch. His gun shakes and twitches and he seems unsure. He’s second guessing. With a grunt, he lowers his gun in pity.

“If I were you I’d run. I’d run as fast as I could.”

And I ran.

______________________________

The sun was sipping from the water surrounding the pier. When I finally got to the shoreline exhaustion overcame me with a sprawling collapse onto the sand. Sun down was ready to come to a diminishing end. I had made it to the pier before the depths of night could drain me again. This sunset would be my last. I’d be found tonight, there would be no doubt about it. The war kept inching closer and closer to me, getting more intimate by the blink. Once darkness falls, I stay here on the sands and wait. I’m so tired and bored of hiding. Now, all of the hiding seems monotonous with all these ghosts to help. Wind curves over my stomach, a ticklish feeling crawling across the flat of my belly. It feels so nice and calm even with all the shots piercing the distance.

Machine gun fire and more tanks and hummers sounded not too far from my spot on the shore. Not too long from now, it would be sneaking its way here for another game to play. War would be knocking again at my door to see if there is anyone left home. Not even the number one could be painted on my house. How I am now is further from home than I ever will be.

Tonight’s falling solar light is purple and pink and deep blue. A couple of stars prickle the pink, but they could just be airplanes. Looking into the sunset, I can feel Peter next to me. He’ll be right there when I die. I can dream that he will be. But I can feel him next to me now, looking onto the pier and Ferris wheel’s highest cart with me. All of those days riding the colorful carriages eating cotton candy and turning our tongues different colors from Jolly Ranchers. That is so far in the past I’m not even sure how I’ve come to remembering it. Peter’s warm body creeps next to me and my back gets heated from his hand. I can see everyone. I can see the city, the ghosts. I can see Simon. I can see Dublin. I can see the enemy. All of the Stripes Rebels and the rest of the world, I can see them all. I can see everyone of the world watching and waiting not sure of what to say and I can see the children not understanding why everything has become this way. For an instant, I can see myself sitting on the beach, huddled alone, but with a smile on my face and I’m staring off into the distance. The drowsy sky is setting a pink and purple star speckled air and then something weird begins to happen…

Out at the end length of the pier lights pop on and I can hear laughter as the Ferris wheel slowly starts to spin.

EL FIN