War and Space

In the days of Frequent Wind, the aftermath looked bright.  Innocence only appeared if you were not peering through a camera or, even worse, looking up from the land near Tân Sơn Nhứt Air Base.  The only knowledge that exists is the path that led us here. Far away, men mowed lawns, and women planted gardens in a land that was becoming hated for its perceived decadence. 

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Playtime scraped the concrete walls slowly enough that no sound could be heard. But with each grain of sand blend, there was a pinpoint hope of exile. Sisters struggled to be heard. Many stood in the sunlight and agreed with full hearts, voices booming in agreement. But the car ride home was always like none of it ever happened. No one questioned his license. Like downed Japanese pilots from 25 years earlier, some could still be found on remote islands in which no other man had set foot.

I stood in lines of conformity with a styrofoam vessel in my hands. I never really knew how fortunate I was until 50 years passed, and I found that in this basement, the will to do something good still existed. The evil scientists were still hard at work in their dungeons, conjuring up the death and disease of the years to come. They would feed it to their own families and bask in the glory of profit margins.

Nothing had to shine as it does now. The facade of our fragile well-being today. Back then, we just made our intentions known, and to a good measure, we were held to it by the others around us. Parents were parents, which was not relative to the property lines drawn by the tax assessor. 

Somewhere high above a summer night sky, men who, under the influence of oxygen, nitrogen, carbon dioxide, and gravity, could not even speak to one another were suddenly shaking hands, exchanging hugs and ceremonial gifts. The catch? They had to first leave the planet to do so.

Rest was finally here after 20 long years, no more smoking gun.  Eloise dealt a deadly blow.  An iron ore freighter met her end in Lake Superior. Bombs detonating on both sides of the globe kill no one quickly. A morning standard is born that does not end. Linda meets the law, but she and her like-brother John are later let off the hook.

Smoke-filled jets filled the sky, everyone living in a sweet little bubble. It was not sweet for all, but it was what it was.