Category: Writing

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Writing

A Haunting Game

| thetembo
Reading Time: 15 minutes

Authors Note: Fourth in the Christmas Carol series.

2017: Christmas Spirits
2018: The Gift of Giving
2019: ‘Tis The Season

Pre-game Show

Three apparitions stand beside a well lit Christmas tree in a studio setting. A camera pans over to them and then zooms in for a close-up shot of moaning and wailing.

“Welcome to ESP Network Christmas Eve haunting. I am the Ghost of Christmas Now. These are my co-hosts, Christmas Past and Christmas Future. We have a great show coming your way. A new ghostly triad takes on that inscrutable veteran of hauntings, Ebenboozer Scrooge,” says CN, the Ghost of Christmas Now.

“Gentle ghosts. How are you enjoying your retirement?” asks CN.

“Well, CN, I have lots of fond memories of shaming lost spirits back into goodness, but haunting is a young ghost’s game,” says, CP, the Ghost of Christmas Past. “We had our time.”

“Yes, CN, I miss conjuring up terrifying pictures of a lost spirit’s future, but the future is the only way forward. Time to let the young ghosts give it a go. I think they have some great talent and can take goodness through terror to a whole new level with just a little bit of planning and foresight,” says, CF, the Ghost of Christmas Future.

“Nothing like scaring the hell out of someone by showing them the gossip that goes on behind their backs when they don’t show up. I miss it too, but I love the action in the booth and bringing commentary to the eight monitors of the Dead Zone, the ESP Network patented broadcasting venue.”

“I love it too,” says CF. “I still look forward to each and every vicarious haunting.”

“Me too,” says CP. “Our team is still together. Let’s make some future memories.”

CN touches the spiritual transceiver in his left ear. He says to the viewing audience, “Okay. Mary Frickin Christmas is down on the field with Marla, the set-up ghost for tonight who will kick-off the haunting.”

One of the studio monitors shows Mary Frickin Christmas holding a microphone in her hand and Marla at her side.

CN says, “Merry Christmas, Mary Frickin Christmas.”

Mary is dressed in a blue down jacket and exhales the cold of death with each breath. Mary holds her black knit mitten to her ear over her black knit cap to receive the sound from CN. “Merry Christmas to you and the rest of the team. I’m here with Marla, one of Ebenboozer’s oldest and deadest friends.” She turns to Marla, “So what’s your game plan this evening?” She extends the microphone to Marla.

“I think this is just a routine haunting. Ebenboozer was a softy when I knew him. We’ll have him carving roast beast in no time.”

Mary shudders from the chill of death in front of her but maintains her professionalism. “He gave the old team fits back in the day. What makes you think you can turn him around so easily?”

“We have an awesome team of unique talents and the team has a great new playbook with whole new strategies on fear and shaming. But I don’t want to give too much away,” explains Marla.

Mary turns toward the camera. “There you have it. Lot’s of confidence down here on the field, CN. Back to you.”

“Well done, Mary Frickin Christmas,” says CN. He listens to another announcement coming over his spiritual transceiver. “Ok, now over to Holly Daze, reporting to us live from inside the living room of Ebenboozer Scrooge. Happy Holidays, Holly. What’s the mood like on the playing field?”

“Somber. Very somber. I’m reporting to you from the Christmas screen saver on the TV in the living room. The only signs of Christmas in this house are on this screen saver and its candles aren’t lit, its fire isn’t started, and its Christmas tree isn’t even turned on. I don’t feel a single vibe of Christmas. I don’t see any signs of Christmas. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t even know it’s Christmas Eve. I disagree with Marla. A routine haunting isn’t going to cut it. I think this is going to be a much tougher game than they expect. Back to you, CN.”

A shadowy image moves about the screen saver in Ebenboozer’s TV, lighting candles, starting a fire, and turning the Christmas tree on.
“We’re getting close to game time. Time to make your predictions,” says CN.

“I’ve seen this lack of situation awareness a thousand times before,” bodes CP. “I think the home team will prevail.”

“I agree with CP,” says CF. “The visitors better bring more to the game than a routine portrayal of a dismal future or this conversion is over before it starts.”

“Well, I’m going to buck the trend and go with the visitors. It’s going to be a great game. Marla’s opening kickoff is just moments away.”

First Half

It’s late at night. Ebenboozer sits alone in his house on Christmas eve working on his computer. On his TV, he has a screen saver showing a warm room with a Christmas tree, decorations, and a fully lit fireplace that makes the TV room glow a warm red. Outside the TV, the room is cold and is lit by a single office lamp.

An apparition passes through the front door dragging streamers of Christmas lights with presents caught in the mesh, clanking and cracking like tossed china.

Ebenboozer rises to greet the apparition and asks, “Who are you?”

“I am Marla, one of your closest friends.”

“Oh. I don’t recognize you. You sure I know you?”

“Oooooh!”

“Sorry, maybe it will come to me later. What do you want?”

“If you don’t change, you will be miserable for the rest of your infinite days.”

“Why should the afterlife be any different?”

“Because it’s a long time,” crones the ghost.

“I don’t want to feel like this, I just do. I want to change. You don’t have to convince me. I need a plan.”

“Oooooh! Aaaaah! Oooooh!” Marla wails. Chains rattle. Lights flicker. The Zoom feed doesn’t freeze. “You will be visited by three different ghosts tonight.”

“Is that counting you?”

“Noooo,” wails Marla.

“Should I run out and get some snacks?”

#

Ebenboozer drinks his usual nightcap. “Marla? Marla? Nope. I don’t remember a Marla. Maybe she has the wrong Ebenboozer.”

He falls asleep on the couch. The computer screen glows a brilliant white. An apparition emerges from it waking Ebenboozer up.

Ebenboozer, no stranger to apparitions asks, “Who are you?”

In a deep haunting voice, the apparition says, “Oooooh. I am the Ghost of Right Action.”

“The what? The Ghost of Right Action?” Ebenboozer chuckles. “Sure. Okay. Ghost of Right Action. You can dispense with all the theatrics. This is my fourth haunting already. I hear the other guys retired?”

The Ghost of Right Action coalesces into a scruffy-bearded old man with thick bifocal glasses looking more like a middle manager than a ghost. “Forget about those other guys. We are here to talk about you.”

“Okay, let’s get on with it then. What is it you want to show me?”

“That you suck at Christmas. Oooooh.”

Doors open and close. Eggs crack and pop in the refrigerator. The dog licks Ebenboozer’s feet.

The Ghost of Right Action walks over to the nightstand and points to a stack of unopened letters, some postmarked from Christmases two and three years ago.

“Would it kill you to at least open and read the letters?”

“Why? Do you think there is money inside?”

“No, because these people are taking the trouble to let you know that you are in their thoughts on this sacred holiday.”

“So, you think they want money then?”

“It’s not about money.”

“Ha. I’m just playing with ya.”

“Oooooh! Aaaaah! Oooooh!” wails the angry ghost. A picture falls off the wall. The vacuum starts running by itself. The dog rolls on its back hoping for a belly scratch.

“Five lousy minutes. That’s all it would take. Are you telling me you can’t spare five lousy minutes to open the cards?” the ghost chastises.

“Well, I’m seeing who will keep sending for ten or twenty years even though I never respond. That way, I will know who really cares.”

“Jeeeezzz,” sounds the ghost. “Good luck with that. You’re further gone than the reports indicated.”

“Reports? Are you guys spying on me in the off-season?”

“I’m out of here.”

The Ghost of Right Action poofs into nothingness. The recoil from the implosion sends a shock wave through the room knocking down the electronic tree, gusting up the electronic fire, and blowing out the electronic candles, all showing on the TV screen.

Ebenboozer looks up to the ceiling and shouts, “Thanks for nothing. The place is a mess and it smells like smoke.” He scratches his dog under the chin and says, “But at least my feet are clean.”

#

Ebenboozer lies back on the couch. Just as he starts to drift off into visions of sugar plums, a second ghost materializes in front of him, singing nasally and off-key, “‘Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la, la la la la.”

Ebenboozer asks, “And who might you be?”

“I am the Ghost of Good Intentions, fa la la, la la la, la la la.”

“The what? The Ghost of Good Intentions?” Ebenezer tries to stifle a laugh.

The Ghost of Good Intentions coalesces into an energetic, fit young woman dressed in a fuzzy-brown reindeer antler headband, a red-nosed ball on her nose, flashing multi-colored Christmas lights blinking randomly about her neck, an elfish green blouse, yoga pants, and stylish suede black boots.

“Okay, let’s get on with it then. What is it that you want to show me?”

“That you suck at Christmas.”

“So, I’ve been told.”

She picks up the remote and flicks through all the inputs. Each input reports “No Signal” in turn. “What’s wrong with your TV? Did you forget to pay your bill?”

“I canceled it. Too many lame choices.”

“Well how are you supposed to get in the spirit of Christmas if you can’t watch any of the great classics? And there are so many wonderful new shows on Netflix and Hallmark.”

“Hallmark? Eeeewwww.” Ebeneezer shudders viscerally at the mention of it.

She turns the channel back to the screen saver. Holly Daze is covertly mouthing the words to her, “What the heck are you doing?”

“Well, let’s get on social media then. We’ll connect and spread cheer online. What accounts do you have? Facebook? Twitter? Insta? Tik-Tok?”

“I only have Facebook, but for all I know, they’ve canceled the account. I haven’t used it in years.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I had like a hundred something Facebook friends, but I couldn’t stand any of them.”

“Oooooh! Aaaaah! Oooooh!” she groans with bewildered eyes. Thin wine glasses shatter. Aerosol cans spray aimlessly into the air. The heater kicks on because of the sudden chill in the air.

“How do you connect with anyone?”

“Do I look like I’m connecting with anyone?”

“You’re not supposed to be hanging out here by yourself on Christmas. Christmas is supposed to be fun and cheerful.”

“Well, that is what the drink is for.”

The Christmas lights around her neck all turn red and start blinking in sequence, her antlers grow sharpened tips, and her boots turn from suede to leather.

“Have fun with that. I’m out of here.”

The Ghost of Good Intentions disappears like the roadrunner eluding the coyote leaving nothing but puffs of dust in her wake. The curtains blow after her, a plant topples over spilling its speckled potting soil onto the rug, and the dog shifts to a more comfortable position on the floor.

Ebenboozer turns to his dog and says, “She was pretty hot. Ya think she’d go out with me after the holidays?”

#

Ebenboozer is sweeping soil from the rug into a dustpan and putting the dirt back into a pot. A third ghost materializes, glowing much brighter than the other two. Ebenboozer shields his eyes from the painful light and then puts on a pair of welding glasses that just happen to be stowed beside the fallen plant. The dog runs and hides behind the couch.

Ebenboozer asks, “And who might you be?”

“I am the Ghost of Radiant Ideology.”

“The what? The Ghost of Radiant Ideology? Where do you guys come up with these names? Do you have a marketing department or something now?”

The Ghost of Radiant Ideology coalesces into a high priest with flowing white robes backlit by a shimmering aura. Ebenboozer keeps on the welding mask as much to prevent retinal damage as to avoid direct eye contact with the high and mighty ghost.

“Ghost of Radiant Ideology, I fear you the most. What is it that you want to show me?”

“That you suck at Christmas.”

“Someone might have mentioned that to me already.”

The radiating priest spreads his arms to the sky. His loose sleeves hang from his wrists giving him the illusory appearance of an enormous giant.

“Ebenboozer. Ebenboozer. This is the season of giving.”

“Hmmm. Feels more like the season of spending.”

“Your gifts would bring joy.”

“Yeah, to the stockholders of the major retail corporations of the world. Isn’t every day already Christmas for them?”

“Spread mirth to all those you touch.”

“I’m not contagious anymore. The doctor cleared up my mirth with some penicillin,” Ebenboozer jests.

“Oooooh! Aaaaah! Oooooh!” moans the Ghost of Radiant Ideology. Plastics in the room prematurely age and crack in the radiant light, an unopened Christmas card spontaneously ignites, which Ebenboozer quickly puts out, and the mirror reflects light back into the room.

“Ebenboozer, why don’t you have a Christmas tree, the very symbol of radiant joy? And lights? And garland?”

“Nobody is coming over. So what’s the point?”

“Good luck with that. I’m out of here,” says the distraught ghost. The Ghost of Radiant Ideology turns off like a light switch.

Ebenboozer takes off the welding mask in the suddenly dark room. He shouts at the vanishing point of the vanished ghost, “Hey, whose power were you using to generate all that light?”

The dog whimpers from behind the couch.

Half Time Show

The camera cuts from the living room back to the studio for the half time report.

“Well that didn’t go too well for the triad,” says CN. “The offense sputtered, dropped the ball, fumbled, and failed.”

“Yep,” says CP. “The Ghost of Right Action started off with a routine nagging.”

A replay of the scene shows on the monitor as CP continues with the voice over.

“Ebenboozer easily deflected the attack with a few distancing jokes.

“The Ghost of Good Intentions tried to follow it up with the good intentions of connecting with other people but without any TV channels or social media connections, she really couldn’t drive the point home. Watch on the replay, as Ebenboozer recoils in disgust. She induced disgust at the thought of connection, not at the lack of it. A major sack on that play.

“Finally, the Ghost of Radiant Ideology comes in all aglow with shallow ideology.

“Back in the good days, we’d come at them hard with a proper shaming. A complete disaster for the triad,” concludes CP.

“The ideology of Christmas goodness is anything but shallow,” protests CN. “Do you think they can turn it around, CF?”

“It all comes down to proper planning and evaluation of your opponent. The triad needs a complete change of tactics. Berating, moralizing, and extravagant glowing aren’t going to get the job done. Ebenboozer has never responded to a proper shaming or force or vacuous ideologies. The triad is going to have to bring the real stuff if they want to turn this one around.”

“Let’s see if we can get some insight from Mary Frickin Christmas, standing outside the purgatory locker room,” says CN.

Mary Frickin Christmas is back standing with Marla. Mary says, “That was a tough first half. I think the triad took the worst of it. What’s the feeling in the locker room?”

“When a ghost has his or her back to the wall, they just go through it. They’ve lined up some new tactics and are ready to turn this thing around. I hope they get him good. I’m so angry he says he doesn’t remember me,” says Marla.

“That’s the inside scoop from purgatory. Down but not out. Back to you CN.”

“Thanks, Mary Fricken Chistmas. Holly Daze, are you there?” The monitor shows Holly Daze cleaning up the mess on the screen saver.

CN says, “Looks like some technical difficulties. Okay, we have an exciting second half coming your way.”

Second Half

Ebenboozer falls asleep on the couch. The computer screen glows a brilliant white. An apparition re-emerges from it, waking Ebenboozer up. The Ghost of Right Action coalesces back into a scruffy-bearded old man with thick bifocal glasses.

In a deep haunting voice, the apparition says, “Oooooh.”

“You are/I am the Ghost of Right Action,” they say together.

Ebenboozer says, “I think we established that already. What the heck are you doing back here? Is it next year already?”

“Noooo,” wails the Ghost of Right Action.

“Didn’t you cause enough damage for one night? Are you bonded, by the way?”

“Noooo,” wails the Ghost of Right Action. “I just wasn’t finished.”

“Okay, let’s get on with it then. What is it you want to show me this time?”

“I understand it’s a bit of a pain to open up the Christmas cards, and even more of a pain to respond to them.”

“Yeah, I think we’re finally on the same page,” Ebeneezer concurs.

“If you are just responding to make it even, don’t bother. But let’s look at it as an opportunity to invite other people into your world. Why don’t you up the game a little bit and suggest something you can do together. Make an offer. Take the initiative and see what happens?”

“Ooooh,” Ebenboozer responds.

“From where I’m standing, you could use a little a company now and then.”

Ebenboozer glares at the minor slight, but takes up one of the old Christmas cards and opens it.

“From John, the needy bastard. I just saw him less than half a year ago.”

“Now. Now. Did you get something out of the meeting?” The Ghost of Right Action reaches into the computer monitor and pulls out a pen and a blank Christmas card that says, “Merry Belated Christmas.”

Ebenboozer starts writing, “Enjoyed our conversations last summer. Maybe we can do it again sometime sooner.”

When Ebenboozer looks up, a stack of blank cards with stamped envelopes is in a neat pile on the table he is writing on. The Ghost of Right Action has vanished into nothingness as if Ebenboozer had the idea to write the cards all on his own.

Ebenboozer tries to shake off an odd feeling he doesn’t recognize.

#

Just as Ebenboozer finishes with his Christmas cards, the Ghost of Good Intentions re-materializes in front of him, singing “Now we don our gay apparel, fa la la la, la la la la.” She holds a set of brown furry reindeer antlers and a fuzzy red nose.

Ebenboozer puts his hands to his ears, “It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it? And who talks like that anyway – don our gay apparel?”

“You are/I am the Ghost of Good Intentions,” they say together. “Fa la la, la la la, la la la,” they sing together almost in harmony.

Ebenboozer says, “I think we established that already. What the heck are you doing back here? Haven’t you come down from your sugar rush high already?”

“Ooooh,” she moans. “These are for you. I’ve brought you a reindeer antler headband and a red nose. You can’t feel bad about anything when you are wearing a pair of antlers and a red nose.”

“I suppose not. Who can feel bad about anything when you look ridiculous?”

“Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.”

“A what?”

She ignores him and puts the antlers on his head and the red ball over his nose.

Ebenboozer rolls his eyes but can’t resist cracking a smile.

“Awwwww,” wails the Ghost of Good Intentions. “Did I see a little wisp of happiness?”

Ebenboozer blushes.

The Ghost of Good Intentions says, “Now you have a dinner you can go to tomorrow. I checked your pantry and refrigerator and you have all the stuff you need to make stuffing. I took the liberty of pre-heating your oven.”

They retreat to the kitchen.

Ebenboozer asks, “What stuff is the stuffing stuff?”

“We’ll start with that loaf of bread that’s harder than an iron anvil.”

Ebenboozer glares at the minor slight, but starts sawing the bread into small cubes.

“You’ll need to chop up an onion and a stalk or two of celery. Then add some spices.”

Ebenboozer finishes stuffing the stuffing stuff onto a skillet full of sizzling butter bubbles. He pours chicken broth from a carton over the mix.

“As soon as the oven is finished heating, stuff the stuffing stuff into the stuffing pan and stuff the stuffing pan into the oven for about forty-five minutes.”

She kisses Ebenboozer on the cheek and disappears in a puff before Ebenboozer has a chance to entertain any thoughts about her that could ruin the moment. On this exit, she breaks nothing more than her fair-scented wind.

Ebenboozer blushes again and shouts after her to cover his embarrassment, “Sure, leave me to do all the hard work.”

The dog sniffs at the cacophony of odors coming from the kitchen. Ebenboozer feels an odd feeling of warmth he is sure is caused by the poor insulation of his oven.

#

Just as Ebenboozer unstuffs the stuffing from the stuffed stove, the glowing Ghost of Radiant Ideology materializes, not glowing quite so bright as before. Without his backlit aura, the priestly robes look more like an oversized white cotton terry cloth bathrobe.

“You are/I am the Ghost of Radiant Ideology,” they both say together.

“Tough night for you ghosts having to work a double shift,” comments Ebenboozer.

“It’s only once a year and we get paid for the overtime,” answers the Ghost of Radiant Ideology glowing somewhat brighter at the thought of the extra spending money.

“What is it that you want to show me this time? Did you bring me a Christmas tree? Garland? Enough Christmas lights to overload a nuclear power plant?”

“A better analogy,” says the ghost tightening his terry cloth belt.

“A better analogy?” repeats Ebenboozer with disappointment in his voice.

“I think you are half-right about mirth.”

“Really? I’m half-right about something?”

“Yes. Mirth should be contagious, but you shouldn’t try to prevent it from spreading. It’s not a dis-ease. It’s a joy-ease.”

“A joy-ease?”

“Yes. The opposite of a disease. You should try to spread it. The more people you infect, the better off you are. The better off they are.”

“You want me to be a joy-ease super spreader?” Ebenboozer giggles at the thought. His reindeer antlers bob rhythmically as he chuckles. You could even say his shiny red nose glowed.

“We can work on the language, but yeah. That’s the idea.”

Ebenboozer can’t wipe the silly grin off his face at the unfamiliar warmth of joyous radiance warming his chest.

The Ghost of Radiant Ideology turns off like a light bulb.

Ebenboozer shouts after him to hide from the discomfort of joy, “I still would have liked a Christmas tree.”

#

Ebenboozer pulls the curtain open from the window. The dawn is stretching its rosy fingers across the morning sky. Ebenboozer checks the date on his phone.

“Christmas day. Wow! They did it. They did it all in one night.”

He stuffs the stuffing into the refrigerator. “I’ve got a busy day ahead of me. But if I don’t get a little sleep, the only mirth I’m going to spread is kids laughing at me sleeping in my own drool on a couch somewhere.”

Wrap-up

Ecstasy reigns in the studio over the incredible comeback. CN, CP, and CF are jumping up and down in unison.

When the excitement fades, CN jumps back into his studio commentary. “Incredible. Simply the most incredible turnaround I have ever seen. What happened out there, CP?”

“A complete Hail, Mary. The triad completely changed their tactics.

“Watch on the replay. First, The Ghost of Right Action nearly fumbles the ball with the crack about him needing company. But then he actually provides genuine support.

“Then the Ghost of Good Intentions finds an opening in the defensive line with the possibility of genuine connection. This is unbelievable. She actually helps him prepare a meal so he won’t feel foolish when he shows up.

“And finally, the Ghost of Radiant Ideology tones down the wattage on his glow to cut through all the hyperbole and bullsh*t. Look at that smile on Ebenboozer’s face. In all my hauntings, both real and vicarious, I’ve never seen anything like it.” He wipes a tear from his eye.

“Any thoughts, CF?”

“I have to give credit to the team. They really came up with a great game plan. Who would have thought that using the tactics of goodness could actually induce it? It’s a real game-changer.”

“Happy Holidays,” says CN.

Holly Daze, still fixing up the screen saver, replies testily, “Maybe once I get this mess straightened out.”

“Merry Frickin Christmas,” says CN to all.

“Merry Frickin Christmas,” to you too, replies Mary Frickin Christmas.

All members of the crew and team members wave as the program fades to black.

<<<<>>>>

Writing

The Grinch – 2020

| thetembo
Reading Time: 3 minutes

Author’s Note:
We pick up the Grinch’s story, as retold in the year 2020. The Grinch had been social distancing, digital distancing, and every other kind of distancing, as is his way. He was not savvy to all the happenings of the year.

“They are planning their gatherings,” the Grinch snarled with a sneer.
To spend a whole day, with those they hold dear.
Tomorrow is Christmas, it’s practically here!”

He hated the sound of kids playing with their toys,
He hated the thought of the NOISE, NOISE, NOISE, NOISE.

He hated the idea of them killing a beast,
On which they would delightfully FEAST, FEAST, FEAST, FEAST.

Then he growled, with his Grinch fingers nervously drumming.
“I MUST find some way to stop Christmas from coming!”

And, now, I will fast forward to when the Grinch invades the town,
In the interest of keeping, the word count down.

All the windows were dark, quiet snow filled the air.
The Whos dreamed troubled dreams, of a year most unfair.

“This is stop number one,” The old Grinchy Claus hissed,
And he climbed to the roof, empty bags in his fist.

Then he slid down the chimney, a rather tight pinch.
But, if Santa could do it, then so could the Grinch.

Expecting stockings all hung in a row.
The mantel was bare, there was nothing to stow.

Then he slithered and slunk, with a smile most unpleasant.
The feel of the room had a most empty presence.

No guns? No bikes? No skates? No drums?
No tree? No wreath? No popcorn? No plums?

He slunk to the icebox, to take the makings of a feast.
He found only half-eaten pudding, infested with yeast.

He used his green fingers, to sample a dash.
He gagged on the mold, and nearly through up the sash.

As the Grinch came up empty, ready to retreat back above.
He heard a small sound, like the coo of a dove.

He turned around fast, he saw a small Who!
Little Cindy Lou Who, who was no more than two.

She stared at the Grinch and said, “Santa Claus, why?
Why are you not wearing a mask? Why?”

Well, you know, the Grinch was so confused and so muddled.
He stood there beside her, completely befuddled.

“Why, my sweet little tot,” the fake Santa Claus pried,
Why do you want, my face to hide?”

And then thinking maybe, she thought it was Halloween.
or maybe some other holiday, that came in between.

He said, “Santa’s don’t wear masks, because they have to eat.”
To eat the cookies left for me, would be an impossible feat.”

And his fib fooled the small child. Then he patted her head.
He got her a drink, and he sent her to bed.

He held empty bags, he held them quite nimbly.
Quite disappointed with his failure, he tossed them up the chimbly.

Then he went up the chimney, himself, the old liar.
Wondering why on the walls, there was nothing but wire.

And he found the same thing, at the other Who’s houses.
No evidence of Christmas, from even their mouses.
They must have known he was coming, the sly little louses.

It was a quarter past dawn when he fled in his sled.
His vision of stopping Christmas, painfully dead.

Three thousand feet up! Up the side of Mt. Crumpet.
As far away as he could get, to not hear the trumpets.

“Pooh-pooh to the Whos”, he was grinch-ish-ly humming.
“Another year of annoyance, Christmas is still coming.

“They’re just waking up! I know what they’ll do!
“Their mouths will hang open a minute or two.
“Then they’ll tear open their presents and shout WOO-HOO!”

“That’s a noise,” groaned the Grinch, “I just can’t bear.”
He covered his ears and averted his stare.

But he didn’t hear, a muted sound over the snow.
Why the silence this year? He wanted to know.

He stared down in Who-ville, the Grinch popping his eyes.
What he saw down below, was a shocking surprise.

Every Who down in Who-ville wore a medical mask.
They were avoiding each other and looking aghast.

Something had stopped, Christmas from coming.
When one Who approached another, the other went running.

And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow,
Stood puzzling and puzzling: “How could it be so?”

“A Christmas without ribbons! A Christmas without tags!
“A Christmas without packages, boxes, or bags!”

Whos avoiding whos, wound his brain up all tight,
Until he figured it out, with a revealing insight.

The Who’s were in trouble, from a horrible beast.
They all became Grinches, so the beast wouldn’t feast.

He would finally have a Christmas, he could enjoy it in peace.

Writing

Bubble Dome City

| thetembo
Reading Time: 2 minutes

Dear Liza,

I’m not so sure a visit to Bubble Dome is such a great idea. It might sound like a great vacation spot. The temperature is a comfortable seventy degrees. Room temperature. It’s a pretty big room, at over ten square miles. But it’s still a room. The weather never changes. It never rains or snows or gusts or anything else on the inside.

There is not much to see. I can walk anywhere in the city in less than an hour. We have potted trees spaced out evenly on the walkways. Everything else is a building.

I live in an apartment on the eighth floor with my mom, dad, and brother. It’s 72000 square inches, one of the largest in the building. We have a garden on the roof and a fruit tree spliced with oranges and lemons and limes. I like it when we get to eat exotics. For a class trip, we went to the hydroponics tower. Each floor grows rows and rows of food. It’s where most of our food comes from. There is an enclosed aquarium outside of the dome. Our teachers told us it is filled with tilapia but the water is so murky I couldn’t see them. I hate tilapia. My mom says I have to eat it because it’s the only source of complete protein in my diet.

The outside is so different. Nothing but dirt and sand as far as the eye can see, as barren as the surface of Mars on the outside, judging by the pictures. Sometimes I can’t even see the outside through the thick ozone and methane and hydrogen sulfide and carbon monoxide haze that hangs over the dome. My teacher says it’s as smoggy as the atmosphere of Titan and just as lethal. Even if you could breathe the atmosphere, the heat would cook you. It might as well be the surface of Venus.

Someday, I will be old enough to walk outside the dome in a spacesuit. I can’t imagine what it would be like to walk for hours and to feel like you are not getting anywhere. Or to look back and see the dome, my whole world, as just a little bubble on the horizon, as I’ve seen in pictures.

It would be awesome if you could visit, but I think you would get bored pretty quickly. And to be quite honest, I think I would rather visit your planet. There just isn’t that much to do or see here on Earth.

Writing

The Alien World of Juxta

| thetembo
Reading Time: 8 minutes

Authors Note: I was thinking about something like the planet Juxta for use in a book. I am intrigued by the idea of making reincarnation into a biological function and seeing where it would take me. Then I watched the Netflix series “Alien Worlds” and decided to make a post. If you know the authors of the series, please forward it for an episode in the next season.

Amoebae

In the planet Juxta’s primordial past, Amoeba begat amoeba and amoeba ate amoeba in a never-ending cycle of birth and life and death on the bipolar planet. In the burning season, when Juxta was at its short but scalding perihelion within a half astronomical unit of its sun, all the amoebae dove deep into the soil to escape from the oven-baked surface crusted like a burnt loaf of bread. The oceans boiled and filled the skies with a Venusian-like blanket of steam and clouds smothering the planet in its supersaturated embrace. The tidal forces of the nearby sun activated the interior and the planet reshaped itself with volcanoes and plate movements. Amoeba begat amoeba and amoeba ate amoeba in the depths of the ground of Juxta.

Juxta moved quickly in its orbit when close to the sun heeding Kepler’s law of equal area in equal time. As Juxta retreated from the sun into the recesses of its solar system, the skies poured back into the ocean during the flooding season, eroding and sculpting and shedding the heat of the burning season out into space. The amoebae emerged from their hiding in the dark polar corners of the spherical planet to move about Juxta’s reemerging oceans and rivers and lands. Amoeba begat amoeba and amoeba ate amoeba in the surging waters of the regenerating planet.

In the slushy season with the sun fading to dim light in the distance, the planet turned cool and snow formed first at its poles. The icy polar tentacles of each pole reached toward one another like the magnetic lines formed by iron filings in a dipolar magnetic field. The migration of the amoebas began. Amoeba begat amoeba and amoeba ate amoeba on the great migration running from the icy polar regions to the fading warmth of the temperate zones and on toward the tropical, equatorial belt.

In the icy season of aphelion, when the planet’s orbit reached over 30 A.U. from the sun, reducing its image to nothing more than a pinprick in the distance, Juxta turned into a giant snowball. Some amoeba took time out from the endless cycle of begetting and feasting, hibernating as icy crystals. The creatures that remained behind thrived when free of predators for a brief while and proliferated before entering a hibernation of sorts by dehydrating their cells and using an anti-freeze molecule to survive the long cold winter on the surface. Others begat and ate in the depths of the great ocean as all the mobile amoebae migrated to the fissures where the earth had ruptured and renewed during the tectonics of the burning season to survive the long cold winter. Tardigrades.

During the melting season came the great thaw. Juxta shook its snowy and icy coat showing small patches of growing earth that merged into larger patches like a molting Arctic creature piecemeal-shedding trading its white coat for a dark one during the summer. The thin belt of color at the equator grew to a double patty thick sandwich with polar ice buns and finally disappeared leaving a sparkling blue and brown planet. Amoebae migrated back to their warming poles and hibernating amoebae resurrected from their crystalline slumbers. Amoeba begat amoeba and amoeba ate amoeba on the great dispersion from the vented tropical regions to the once again temperate latitudes and ice-free poles.

During the dry season, the sun grew larger and Juxta warmed with each passing day. Snow-capped mountains lost their white peaks. Rivers and lakes dried. The amoebae sought out shade and shelter in North facing slopes and in deep waters and in caves. Amoeba begat amoeba and amoeba ate amoeba, but mostly ate, as they aggregated and fought to follow the vanishing waters deep into the aquifers and underground rivers and lakes of the polar regions. And so it went for eons. The year and the seasons repeated in a never-ending cycle of hot and cold, steam and water and ice, and birth and death.

Evolution

A billion years passed. And then another. During the Cambrian explosion of Juxta, amoebae and their kin learned to coalesce into aggregate organisms improving their chances of survival over their unallied adversaries, but the only way to survive the burning season was to decompose from their multi-cellular patterns back into their singular cellular selves and dive deep down into the earthen safety of the interior. Slime Molds

When the amoebae emerged from their singular cell sequestration during the flooding season, they would re-aggregate into their colonial selves. The amoebae learned to send chemical messages to other amoebae and those messages differentiated one group from another so that amoebae sorted themselves out into species of amoebae that cooperated and competed in a primeval-soup ecosystem of complex amoebal forms. Amoebal species learned to cooperate with other amoebal species forming more composite species with each colonial form learning to specialize in function like the organs of a complex organism. The patterns of the amoebae become something greater than the amoebae, themselves. An ecosystem and an evolution of cooperating and completing composite species evolved into ever more complex forms convergent with forms one might recognize on Earth. Lichens

The amoebal signaling message of an individual cell was passed from generation to generation. It grew sophisticated enough to remember the same single-celled creatures or their ancestors after the transition of the burning season to create and recreate individuals so they could disassemble and reassemble back into their former selves without chaos and formlessness. And so after each burning season, individuals reincarnated back into their own clones, transcending body and form and season and climate and the harshness of the heat of the burning season, although variation was always inevitable depending on the fortunes and misfortunes of each of its single-celled lives. During the cold and dim icy season, species learned to migrate to their ancestral underwater mounts like salmon returning to the creek of their birth and mostly for the same reasons, though certainly not to die. The emergent creatures engaged in a reproductive process at the level of the aggregated individuals. During sex, two compatible partners would completely dissociate into their amoebal constituents. Each and every amoeba in the pair would replicate. One set of the replicated amoebae would recombine with the partner’s set of replicated amoeba to form two new individuals with new combinations of their parent’s patterns and memories. The original set of individuals would reassemble into their original selves, the whole process as a strange form of cloning and sex passing on new mixes of pattern and meme to the fully grown offspring.

The composite amoebal brain learned to encode the patterns of ultra-long term memories in the replication molecules of the individual amoeba so the memory of patterns and the pattern of memories would be passed from one generation of the individual to the next. Memes and genes encoded together. Memories or fragments of memories would be passed from one generation to the next both surviving the amoebal isolation of the burning season when amoeba begat amoeba and the icy season when partners begat partners.

Culture and memory and generation and year became one and the same driving the evolution of Juxta forward through eon and era, playing out over time like a film of Juxta natural history viewed one frame at a time.

A Year

Life adapted to the bizarre seasons and climate and year of Juxta. Complex species, though more accurately described as recurring patterns of interactions between amoeba and other protists, emerged from the fitness functions of cooperation and competition.

After the scorching of the burning season, and as the clouds finished the worst of pouring themselves back into the oceans, the amoebae emerged from the single-celled safety of the deep ground of each pole, sending out cell-smell messages to find their kin and bodily neighbors, of their previous incarnation. As the torrents of rain and flood subsided, the surviving protists reassembled themselves into goo and then back into a facsimile of the creature it once was, filling in missing pieces with redundant cellular replications if necessary to re-instantiate itself, the whole becoming much more than the sum of its parts.

The creature looked about and others like it looked upon him, new yet not, in a new incarnation of itself. The creature found plentiful food in the other creatures it dominated, which had the misfortune of reassembling near its hungry and bellowing stomach. The creature hunted and foraged happily and successfully with its comrades, though even apex predators sometimes fall prey to disease, parasites, other predators, or just bad luck.

The weather turned cool. The creature and its clan undertook the mass migration from the poles to the equators always staying ahead of the worst of the weather. Snow began to fall at the poles and ice appeared on the surface of calm waters. The chill triggered instinctual memories and even distinct memories of past migrations in its previous incarnations. Mobile creatures of all types migrated from the poles toward the equator and from the lands to the sea.

As the long winter fell and the sun looked like nothing but a bright dot in the distance, the creature’s protists reorganized itself to form gills and webs and a bioluminescent organ used as both a lure for prey and a method of communication with the members of its clan like a lifecycle-confused amphibian. It entered the ocean and swam to the spot of its birth, migrating to underwater heat vents like a salmon returning to the spawning grounds of its birth, feeding and growing on the concentrations of life at the vent. Great Animal Migrations The clan aggregated with other clans into an underwater city of aquaculture and society.

When the time was right, the creature sought out and competed for a compatible and willing mate. When the courtship succeeded and a partner was found, the pair engaged in something that we would call sex in the safety of private corners of an underwater nook but would not recognize as such. At the height of mutual orgasm, the constituent protists of each individual released the hold of one another dissolving into an amoebal solution. Each amoeba divided and replicated itself so the organism was at once itself and a clone. One copy of the clone intermingled with one of its partner’s copies, exchanging compatible protists in the process. When the moment of orgasm passed, the protists reassembled themselves such that four individuals now stood where there were once two, two identical as the original and two mixed into something new. The new individuals held mixed memories and features of the two originals after the biological exchange of form and culture.

You may find it difficult to call a full-grown, mentally ready creature your child, but the new mixes would need time to learn their new bodies and adapt to their new memories, having only a half-intimacy of both their parents that could prove both enlightening and uncomfortable to all concerned.

When the smells of the long winter were replaced by the smells of the thawing waters, and the creatures of all species began the reverse migration, a dispersal back to the land and then outward to the poles following the thaw both north and south, the creature and its clan swam back to the land, surrendered their aquatic forms, and began the long walk back to the pole following the warming weather.

When the land dried and the oceans shrank into the clouds and the creatures had long resettled into their polar homes, the creature dissolved itself into a pile of goo which then disbanded, its constituent protists diving deep into the earth as single-celled creatures struggling to survive and thrive to start anew in the next generation.

Authors Addendum: Do you think it would make a good episode? A good backdrop for a book? Let me know. author.mike.angel@gmail.com.

Writing

Weapon System Earth

| thetembo
Reading Time: 3 minutes

Author’s Note: An Homage to Star Trek: Next Generation. Sorry about the #2, I just couldn’t resist the second-grade humor.

“Away team to the ready room for a debrief.”

The team follows the Captain into his ready room. Each sits in the seat befitting their rank, the Captain at the head of the table.

The Captain turns to #1, who lead the away team. “Report. What did you find?”

“The entire planet has been weaponized. The planet has an incredibly sophisticated sensor net capable of detecting any military movement on the surface, in the atmosphere, and to a limited extent, the exosphere. The sensor net is interconnected in a global network capable of relaying data to any of its command posts in seconds. The network also interconnects to a quite deadly actuator system for the launch of an assortment of fissile and fusile weapons.”

“So the whole planet is a giant weapon system?”

“Yes sir.”

“Anything else?”

“The network generates petabytes of information. They use AIs to process the data for threats and response selection. It is doubtful that we could overload the system.”

“Impressive. The recon reports did not indicate such advanced technology. Do you recommend first contact with the Earth?”

The officers look at one another but none takes the initiative to respond.

“Why the hesitation. From your report, it seems pretty cut and dry.”

Again the officers look at one another and back at the commander without responding.

“#1, I want your recommendation, now. Do we abort the mission?” the Captain demands.

#1 responds without hesitation to the direct order, “I recommend for intervention, not abort.”

“Intervention? Explain yourself.”

“Well, despite the sophistication of their weaponized planet, the weapons aren’t pointed against a potential planetary invader. All the weapons are pointed back at the planet itself. The whole planet is jury-rigged like a floor full of mouse traps. If one goes off, it would basically trigger the destruction of the whole planet.”

The captain squints his eyes and shakes his head to work through his incredulity. “What kind of weapon system points at itself?”

#2 speaks. “My team has a hypothesis, sir.”

#2 clears his throat and continues, “We believe it’s a self-destruct mechanism built because the natives would prefer to destroy their planet before enduring alien rule, just like the self-destruct mechanisms we have on the ship to prevent it from falling into enemy hands.”

“But the whole planet? We would sacrifice to keep others out of danger. If they kill everyone, what’s the point. It is just suicide.”

“Yes, sir. That is what we believe. They prefer suicide to subjugation.”

“It would seem prudent to abort then. #1, why then did you recommend deferral? Do you concur with #2’s assessment?”

“No sir.”

“Do you have an alternate hypothesis to propose?”

“Yes sir. I think the Earth suffers from some sort of schizophrenic paranoia affecting all of its inhabitants. Or perhaps an autoimmune deficiency causing the planetary immune system to turn on itself. In either case, it would be our ethical duty to conduct an intervention and provide treatment.”

“True,” says the Ethics officer.

The captain turns to the Exopsychologist and asks, “Exopsychologist. What is your assessment of the mental health of the planet?”

“I believe that #1’s diagnosis of schizophrenic paranoia is essentially correct, although I think the underlying cause is somewhat more nuanced. Despite, their advanced weapon system technology, the population has not yet developed a planetary consciousness. At this point, it does not think like a planet. It does not think like a coherent individual. This planet has grown up as an orphan without either the discipline or love of a parent civilization. You won’t be able to reason with it. You will have to treat it like you are the parent, and it, your unruly, spoiled child.”

“Indeed. The problem is the weapons. Security officer. Do we have the firepower to deter an incident?”

The weapons officer responds, “No sir. By our estimates, there is enough firepower for the planet to destroy itself ten times over within thirty minutes of initiation. We have enough firepower to stop at most 20% of the firepower within our line of sight. Any pre-emptive strike would likely trigger an unstoppable incident.”

The captain grimaces, not happy with any of his options.

The crew waits.

Finally, #1 breaks the silence. “Your decision, sir?”

“Stand down. We will return to base and report the situation to senior management. If they choose to come back with the necessary firepower, we come back and intervene.

“Ethics officer. Do you authorize this course of action?”

“Yes, sir. I think it is the best we can do under the circumstances. Just hope they don’t blow themselves out of the galaxy before they figure it out or before we return.”

The captain stands at attention and straightens out his uniform. “Back to stations.”

The crew and the captain exit the ready room and return to their stations.

The captain sits at the helm and orders, “Plot coordinates for station Sano 1.”

The navigation officer responds, “Coordinates plotted, sir.”

“Engage.”

Neology, Writing

Needomaniac

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

needomaniac: a person or thing that requires excessive attention but can never be truly fixed or satisfied.

Every item,
is an ocean of need.
A nymphomaniac,
of infinite greed.
A ravenous hog,
you constantly feed.
Always demanding,
your time it bleeds.
Doing nothing,
still has a fee.
Filling your mind,
like a strangling weed.
Let me leave you,
with this little creed.
The item to tend,
is your sanity.

Writing

Hug a Zombie

| thetembo
Reading Time: 3 minutes

Author Note: It is a satire, just a satire. More than anything, I want to introduce the idea of digital distancing, maybe the start of my own little Meme. I swear, I tested positive for anti-memes.

So far, scientists have more questions than answers. Here is what they know so far.

ZVoid-21 is the first biodigital virus ever discovered. It is transmitted primarily through memes and social media directly into the brain stem of its victims. The virus immediately affects the production of neurological transmitters. Serotonin production is reduced resulting in OCD-like behavior. You may notice the affected individual begin to incessantly forward meaningless memes to everyone they have social media contact with. The biovirus also induces a dopamine dependency that seems to only be satisfied by immediate and continual likes in response to the sending of the meme.

In the second stage of infection, the biodigital virus attacks the amygdala, the emotional center of the brain. Victims begin experiencing emotional outbursts, pounding excessively at their keyboards, and even verbally attacking individuals that fail to validate their entries. In some victims, the biovirus attacks the hippocampus. Victims begin to experience selective memory tending to only remember things that support their pre-infected dispositions.

In the final zomboid stages of infection, higher functions in the pre-frontal cortex shut down. In this stage, victims become completely withdrawn from their physical social surroundings. While they sit at tables with others, their heads seldom lift from their digital media. The affected individual seems to lose all sense of awareness as a biological entity. Lab studies have shown that the removal of social media at this point results in complete withdrawal or violent attacks to the point of eating their antagonists as you may have seen on the news clips.

Zombies cluster in groups with similar pre-dispositions. Unless provoked as previously mentioned, they seem to be more dangerous to other groups of zombies with dissimilar dispositions than towards the unaffected. Pre-industrial communities have developed no cases of ZVoid-21 nor have they been attacked by any of the affected. The only known attempted attacks on the unaffected occurred during an organized zombie campaign in all the major cities. Fortunately, within an hour, all of the zomboid protesters stopped to post selfies of themselves disrupting the coherence of the event. The only damage occurred to social media servers trying to absorb the massive viral load of selfies and nascent memes.

The only defense against the biodigital virus that has shown any effectiveness so far is digital distancing. All anti-meme inoculations and remedies have so far proved ineffective.

For those who might be asymptomatic, the CBDDC, the Center for Biodigital Disease Control recommends turning off all digital media whenever possible and spending more biotime with your friends and family, gradually extending your digital distancing time into bio-only holidays and vacations.

For those with early symptoms of ZVoid-21, the CBDDC recommends slowly increasing your time between posts and checking for likes. The idea is to slowly reduce your need for immediate gratification and validation with the goal of learning to live with deferred and even withheld stimulus from your friends and followers. The fear of uncertainty in relations and social status is the leading indicator of susceptibility to the disease. A CBDDC spokesperson suggests practicing techniques of manifesting mindfulness and confidence as successfully used in pre-digital times until an effective ZVoid-21 vaccine can be found. They also strongly suggest visiting natural environments with the recommendation that you turn off your alerts, turn on your DND sign, go into airplane mode, and leave the earpods in their case.

Many argue that it is just people living. Epidemiologists who proactively encourage digital distancing are at odds with economists who argue that such behavior will bring the attention economy and ultimately the real economy to its knees. Both groups argue that any sign of intelligence is completely asymptomatic in the other. Social media sites argue that global interconnectedness and the overthrow of hierarchical control systems are far more important than the mostly benign symptoms of most cases of ZVoid-21. 

But that is little consolation to parents who have infected their children, to the scores of friends lost to dings and little red hearts, and to unfathomable petabytes of banal information that threaten to overwhelm the fabric of our society.

As of this writing, there is no known cure and none forthcoming. Until there is, stay safe, digitally distance, and try not to be miserable. Hug a zombie (but don’t take his digital media if you don’t want to become a snack). Who knows, it may help.

Writing

The La Grange War Memorial

| thetembo
Reading Time: 7 minutes

You are sixteen years old. You are one of the first recruits to make it into Space Force as an infantry spaceman under the new law permitting anyone sixteen years young to join. You are aboard the Kobayashi Maru, a battleship at space for over a month now.
The Commander stands at the podium facing you and the rest of his troops. The Commander says, “Our mission is to control the L5 Earth-Sun La Grange point.” The green dot of his laser pointer pops against the black void on the cisEarth map on the large monitor. “Its location is programmed into your TDUs (tactical display units).”
You speak out, “There’s nothing there but empty space.”
The Commander responds tersely, “This a key control point of cisEarth space.”
You repeat, “But I don’t see nothing there but empty space.”
The Commander represses his anger at the insubordination. “You look but you do not see.”
You respond defiantly, “I see fine. There is nothing there but empty space.”
The Commander practically spits at you as he speaks. “This point is a La Grange point, a key strategic area in space. It may be 93 million miles from Earth but it is vital to the interests of cisEarth space.”
“What the hell is cisEarth space?” You never made it to physics or astronomy class at high school. They are classes for juniors and seniors. You haven’t made it that far in your high school career yet, but you aren’t going to let your ignorance stop you from asking questions.
“Everything on this map,” bellows the Commander, circling the 93 million mile radius of the Earth’s orbit about Sol. “The objective of our mission is to secure and hold the L5 La Grange point. If there are no further questions.” The Commander ends his statement with an understanding clear to all in the room except for you that there are to be no further questions.
“I have further questions. What is a La Grange point?”
“It’s Hill 1022. You understand the importance of high ground, don’t you? A La Grange point is the high ground of outer space.
“Now if there are no further.”
You miss the meaning of his incomplete sentence. You ask, “This is our secret mission? To take over a piece of empty space? This is what you pay me for?”
“I pay you to follow orders, goddammit. No more questions. Gunny, get control of your man.”
“Sir, yes sir,” shouts out the Gunny.
With that, the Commander dismisses you and the rest of the troops.
You turn to Gunny Highway, “He never answered the question. What the hell is a La Grange point? Why are we here?”
Highway, in his own idiosyncratic way, jerks his head sideways and snarls responding in a hoarse voice, “The La Grange points are points in space with no gravity to pull you back to either the Sun or the Earth. Like floating on the water on a surfboard just beyond the surf line.”
“A point? How big is a point?”
“Well, mathematically it’s a point, but practically speaking, it’s about the size of the Earth, maybe bigger.”
“You mean the space is so frickin’ empty it doesn’t even have gravity? And it’s as big as the goddamn Earth. Why do we have to fight for it?”
“These will be holding points for asteroids captured or piloted to the Earth for mining. So they have strategic value to the tune of trillions of dollars.”
“I don’t get it. You could fit a million asteroids into space the size of the Earth.”
“Like the man said, you’re not paid to think. You’re paid to follow orders.”
“I thought I was being paid to finish high school.”
In his gruff manner and guttural voice, Highway says, “Welcome to the real world son. You should have stayed at home.”

#
A blaring siren noise sounds, “Battle Stations. Battle Stations.”
The Commander stands on the bridge of the battleship monitoring the tactical data display. A bright dot is heading straight for the ship.
“Damn it, they’ve been shadowing us in the light of the sun.” No one catches the irony.
The tactical AI application speaks, “Inbound missile detected. Recommend evasive maneuvers.”
“I need a goddamn AI to tell me that? Evasive maneuvers,” responds the Commander. “Prepare to launch countermeasures. Ready missile bay.”
“Missiles ready,” responds a voice over the comm link to the First Strike Defensive Weapons unit.
“Make the initial trajectory of missile one degree off target. They can’t hide in the sun from both us and the missile.”
“Trajectory plotted.”
“Fire away,” orders the Commander.
“Missile away,” responds the First Strike Defensive Weapons unit.
“Inbound missile intercept in thirty minutes.”
“Launch countermeasures,” commands the Commander.
“Countermeasures away,” responds the Counter Offensive Defensive unit.
“Ground troops at the ready,” bellows the tactical leader of the first infantry unit.
You and all the men in your unit race for your suits and helmets and weapons. Your unit takes its positions in the airlocks.
“Troops deploy,” commands the Commander.
The first infantry team deploys out the airlocks positioning itself off the ship’s midsection about one klick. You and the others fall into formation separated and equidistant from one another. You have nothing to gauge your motion in the deep vacuum of space. It looks to you like you are just hovering over the ship.
An energy beam becomes visible as it closes. The iridescent beam passes through the countermeasures like an asteroid through Saturn’s rings.
In an instant, the ship is nothing more than muon shards in the quantum foam of space. The Commander and the ship have been atomized like the photons out of a light bulb. You don’t hear so much as a single scream from the wreckage. The crew of the Kobayashi Maru is as silent as the space you drift in.
In the distance, a rapidly expanding spherical rainbow of colors marks another explosion. The leading edge of the distant ship’s exploded energy field expands past you and the Kobayashi Maru troops passing like water through a fishnet. Your TDU detects enemy combatants approaching. You and the others speed toward your enemy face on and upright like the offense of a football team charging towards the defense without the bother of actually running. In the anger of destruction, no one bothers to worry about rescue and recovery.
Your tactical display registers a hundred enemy combatants on an intercept course. You charge up your weapon. You lock on to a remote target that you can’t see.
Gunny Highway shouts over your ear pod, “Fire at will.”
You fire.
Other shots from the first infantry unit fire into the void. You see Gunny Highway on your three. You recognize his shape and his inimitable sideways head jerk even through the obscurity of his uniform. He fires off three rounds. You see inbound energy spikes speeding towards yourself and the others. You lock on to another target and fire into the void.
An inbound energy pulse speeds to your right. Gunny Highway is split in half vertically from the top of his head to his crotch. The two pieces of him spin counter to one another like two tops, one in the Northern hemisphere and one in the South. You lock and fire into the darkness at an enemy that is nothing more than a blip on your TDU. Again and again. The TDU-indicated remote targets decrease from a hundred to fifty to ten.
More inbound fire. The men about you split in half like a high-speed wire is cutting straight through them. The sectioned parts spin at the cuts in the strangest of ballets. The feet of one man point toward each other than away and then toward each other again like interlocked gears. Another man’s torso and head appear together but then spin so it looks like he is kicking himself in the back of the head and then he is momentarily whole again. A frozen eyeball drifts past you looking blankly into the emptiness of space. A hand frozen on its trigger fires, again and again, the armed appendage recoiling about like a pinball in a game with no bumpers or paddles.
In seconds, no blips remain on your screen. The enemy fire has ceased. You shout out on your comms. “Kobayashi Maru report.” Static. “First infantry, report.” Static. “Anyone, report.” Static. There is no response. There is no purposeful movement. There is no enemy fire. There is no enemy ship. There is only.

#
You. You are the sole survivor. You have won the battle. You never even saw your enemy. You look at your TDU. You have drifted to the exact location of the mathematical abstraction of the La Grange point solidly painted on your screen. You fire your jetpack to stop your forward motion. Aside from a brief deceleration, with no reference points, before and after makes no difference in your speed or direction as far as you can tell.
You switch your comms to an Earth station frequency. You say, “I claim victory for Space Force and our Great Country. I claim this La Grange point for Space Force.” It takes about eight minutes for Earth to learn of your great success.
In another eight minutes, you hear the ground station response, “We don’t have a signal from the Kobayashi Maru. What condition is your ship in?”
You respond, “It’s only me. No other survivors. No ship.” And spinning corpses beginning to orbit about you in the deep gravity well of the La Grange point.
A distant blue dot hangs in the distance. The moon is barely a pixel in your vision. You are in the greatest nothing, both a real and existential void beyond your comprehension. You chose this job. You chose this path. To get to physics and astronomy classes. To get to prom and teenage awkwardness. To escape your mother from smothering you in a bubble. To hide from your father’s never-ending disappointment.
It takes way more than eight minutes before you finally receive a response. “God speed to you son.”
Spinning severed frozen partially uniformed body parts immerse you in a perverse ballet of rotating harmony. Highway’s neatly halved body continues to spin each eye spying its counterpoint for a brief moment then looking away, then looking again. One side gives an eternally frozen snarl to the other every corporeal rotation. The ballet of the battle-lost bodies orbits about you at the La Grange center of emptiness in a gruesome caricature of a solar system with you as its sun.
Your oxygen is redlining. A voice shouts in your ear in alarm. “Warning. Atmosphere depletion imminent. Warning.” You turn off your audio. You release your weapon. You release your TDU. You extend your arm towards Earth and then your middle finger. You detach the glove from the uniform with your left hand while your right arm remains extended with your gesture intact. Your middle-finger and hand freeze instantly in place as the air rushes out of your uniform.
Within a few seconds, you are frozen-dead, locked in a La Grange orbit forever by the negating gravitational forces of the Earth and the Sun. You are a corporeal monument of the “La Grange Wars” preserving your last commentary on the stupidity of your choice and the feelings about the purpose of your effort for all eternity.

<<<<>>>>

Writing

Soul Scanner

| thetembo
Reading Time: 5 minutes

“I wish to enter the temple, Master Poh.”

“Simple. Just place your palm on the plate of the Mindful Scanner.”

I do so. I approach the palm scanner, my hand hovering in front of it. My palm makes contact with the transparent plate. It immediately flashes red and blares, “Access Denied.” I jump back, alarmed. “Master Poh, it’s not letting me in. Don’t you have to add my biometrics to its secure digital vault?”

“No.”

“How does it recognize me to let me in?”

“It is programmed with a keyword. If your mindful state is in accordance with the proper intent, it will allow you to pass.”

“Keyword? What is it?”

Master Poh places his hand on the scanner. It immediately flashes green and I hear the door lock unlatch. He says, “You may try again tomorrow. The keyword will be humility.” He disappears into the foyer inside the temple entrance closing the door behind himself.

#

Master Poh stands humbly in the doorway. I approach the palm scanner, my hand hovering in front of it. I think my most humble thoughts. I am nothing. I am a flyspeck on the universe. I am a stain on the planet. My palm makes contact with the transparent plate. It immediately flashes red and blares, “Access Denied.”

I jump back startled and shout, “What? I cannot be more humble than that!”

“Humble is more than thoughts of insignificance.” Master Poh places his hand on the scanner. It immediately flashes green and I hear the door lock unlatch. He says, “You may try again tomorrow. The keyword will be patience.” He disappears into the foyer inside the temple entrance closing the door behind himself.

#

Master Poh stands patiently in the doorway. I slowly approach the palm scanner, my hand hovering in front of it. Ever so carefully, my palm makes contact with the transparent plate. It immediately flashes red and blares, “Access Denied.”

I jump back startled and shout, “What? I took my time. How could I be more patient?”

“Patient is not the same as slow.” Master Poh places his hand on the scanner. It immediately flashes green and I hear the door lock unlatch. He says, “You may try again tomorrow. The keyword will be reverence.” He disappears into the foyer inside the temple entrance closing the door behind himself.

#

Master Poh stands reverently in the doorway. Reverence has me confused. Am I supposed to have reverence for the scanner? For the master? I’m starting to think it’s all a nasty trick on me, but I play along. I bow to Master Poh. I bow to the scanner. I approach the palm scanner, my hand hovering in front of it. My palm makes contact with the transparent plate. It immediately flashes red and blares, “Access Denied.”

I jump back and shout, “What? Are you f**king with me?”

“Reverence is deeper than bowing.” Master Poh places his hand on the scanner. It immediately flashes green and I hear the door lock unlatch. He says, “You may try again tomorrow. The keyword will be trust.” He disappears into the foyer inside the temple entrance closing the door behind himself.

#

Master Poh stands trustingly in the doorway. Am I supposed to trust the Master? Or is he supposed to trust me? I say to the master and the all-knowing scanner with a bowed head, “I will be a very good student. But you have to let me in first. Trust me. I will not disappoint you.” I approach the palm scanner, my hand hovering in front of it. My palm makes contact with the transparent plate. It immediately flashes red and blares, “Access Denied.”

I jump back startled and shout, “What? I trusted it but it did not trust me. The device does not play fair.”

“Trust is earned, not requested.” Master Poh places his hand on the scanner. It immediately flashes green and I hear the door lock unlatch. He says, “You may try again tomorrow. The keyword will be faith.” He disappears into the foyer inside the temple entrance closing the door behind himself.

#

Master Poh stands faithfully in the doorway. I rub my hands quickly together and say, “You can do this. I have faith in you.” I approach the palm scanner, my hand hovering in front of it. My palm makes contact with the transparent plate. It immediately flashes red and blares, “Access Denied.”

I jump back startled and shout, “Arrrrrrrrrrrggg. The machine hates me. Why do I continue to torture myself?”

“You must have faith in yourself, not the device.” Master Poh places his hand on the scanner. It immediately flashes green and I hear the door lock unlatch. He says, “You may try again tomorrow. The keyword will be.”

I yell, “Don’t say it! I think I get it. If I have no expectation, it will let me pass. That is the secret of the scanner.”

He disappears into the foyer inside the temple entrance closing the door behind himself.

#

Master Poh stands quietly in the doorway. “I’ve got this,” I say. I confidently approach the palm scanner, my hand hovering in front of it. My palm makes contact with the transparent plate. It immediately flashes red and blares, “Access Denied.”

“This is bullshit.”

Master Poh says, “Having no expectation is still an expectation.”

“Double talk and riddles. You just don’t want me to come in, do you? You programmed the thing to not let me in. Why don’t you just say it already?”

Master Poh places his hand on the scanner. It immediately flashes green and I hear the door lock unlatch. He says, “You may try again tomorrow. I will let you enter the keyword yourself.” He disappears into the foyer inside the temple entrance closing the door behind himself.

#

Master Poh stands identifiably in the doorway. He hands me the app. I enter my name as the keyword. When the app says, “Keyword Accepted,” I approach the palm scanner, my hand hovering in front of it. My palm makes contact with the transparent plate. It immediately flashes red and blares, “Access Denied.”

“The thing is stupid.”

“The device is not an access code to your accounts.” Master Poh places his hand on the scanner. It immediately flashes green and I hear the door lock unlatch. He says, “You may try again tomorrow. I will let you enter the keyword yourself.” He disappears into the foyer inside the temple entrance closing the door behind himself.

#

Master Poh stands anonymously in the doorway. He hands me the app. This time I add the word “not” in front of my name to catch the device in a contradiction. When the app says, “Keyword Accepted,” I approach the palm scanner, my hand hovering in front of it. My palm makes contact with the transparent plate. It immediately flashes red and blares, “Access Denied.”

“The thing is just plain broken.”

“You are not your name.” Master Poh places his hand on the scanner. It immediately flashes green and I hear the door lock unlatch. He says, “You may try again tomorrow. I will let you enter the keyword yourself.” He disappears into the foyer inside the temple entrance closing the door behind himself.

#

Master Poh stands unexpectantly in the doorway. He hands me the app. I hand it back to him. I say, “I wanted to get inside. I wanted to learn.”

“You have already learned plenty. You have learned that you are not humble. You are not patient. You are not reverent. You do not trust. You are not faithful. You are not a name. You are not clever.”

“The temple was my chance at a future. The temple was my chance at a life. All gone. I will become nothing. I am nothing. I get it. I am not getting in.” I sit down on an empty porcelain stool next to the door, defeated. I realize I have no control over what will happen next. I surrender to the inevitability of a future not of my own making.

Master Poh grabs my wrist and pushes my palm up against the scanner. The light flashes green, the lock unlatches, and the door swings open. My jaw drops to the top of my bare feet. I look at the master astonished.

He says with the faintest hint of a smile, “You are right, you are nothing. You may enter if you choose. There is nothing more I can teach you. But if you wish, I can help you to understand what you have learned.”

I bow to him and say, “I would be grateful.” I bow to the scanner with reverence and a humility born of fear and awe for the spiritual device that knows me better than I know myself.