Mason scrambled up the stairs and burst through the double doors of the city hall building, grabbing the door knob and lowering his right shoulder to slam the doors open. The security guards only starred as he sprinted to the conference room in the back. Before entering the room, Mason stopped to catch his breath.
All faces turned to face him as he stumbled through the entry. The room was small, with old wooden walls and a rectangular table in the center. Surrounding it were four people, including Mayor Soto. Chief Moreno and Eric were standing in the corners of the room, apparently observing the discussion. Mason looked up at them with his hands on his knees to hold himself steady, still breathing hard. His face was flushed, but he gathered up enough strength to share what he had just heard.
“They’re going to invade,” he said.
“What? Who?” Isabel, the City Manager, asked.
“Washington,” he said. “They’ve deployed the National Guard around the border. They are giving us twelve hours to back down and accept their ultimatum.” Seeing the confusion on each of their faces, he went on. “They are demanding the governor to surrender himself in exchange for complete forgiveness granted for the state.”
“But I take it that he isn’t going to cooperate,” said the mayor.
“The governor has asked for all state guard to be on alert for a full invasion.”
“You can’t be serious,” Eric said.
“You need to tell all policemen, both on- and off-duty, to stand guard throughout the city. As soon as people hear about this, there’s going to be unrest,” said Mason, now standing upright and looking directly at Moreno.
“I disagree,” Eric countered. “Putting police on the streets now will incite a riot. The people will think we are trying to control them. This city is already against the governor. We are a government of the citizens of this city and as such we must support their opinions.”
“I think a riot is a foregone conclusion,” Mason said calmly. Turning toward the mayor he said, “With all due respect, sir, you were elected to be a leader, not a follower. The people will respect that. But you need to make the call now. Time is running short.”
The mayor paused for a moment and then looked over his shoulder at Chief Moreno. “Do what he says.”
Without any acknowledgment, Moreno ambled out of the room. As Mason turned to follow, the mayor uttered, “Mason, I need you to lead these people too. They like you. They will listen to you.” Mason nodded and continued out the door. The mayor looked down at the papers on the table. His eyes lost focus as he tried to process the thoughts dancing in his head.
“This is going to get interesting,” he said.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The Ocean's Embrace
The moment he stepped onto the beach, the cold from the sand invaded his soul. The full December moon shone down on the black waters, which reflected its bright stare and illuminated the entire shoreline. There was nowhere to hide.
Eli strode calmly to the tide’s edge and collapsed onto the frozen sand. His right hand pulled his favorite Camel unfiltered cigarettes from one pocket while his left gripped the lighter. Opening the package, he took his last cigarette, the lucky cigarette. Ironic. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and simultaneously flicked the lighter. His first puff was delicious. It reminded him of his eighteenth birthday when his father took him to the local convenience store and purchased for him his first pack. Eli grew up poor, so the gift sufficed. His father could rarely be seen without a cigarette in his mouth and smoke billowing from his nostrils, creating an aura of smoke as pungent as his charisma. This was the father Eli loved and remembered so well. So many pleasant memories.
The smoke glided from his lungs and clouded the air before the wind grasped and pulled it out to sea. Eli began to imagine that the smoke was the ghost of his wife, leading him into the ocean. Today marked the first anniversary of his wife’s death. Cancer had ravaged her body, and despite years of treatment, she had lost the battle. Though Eli rejected the notion, his wife had accepted her fate. He had no children, no family to mourn with. He felt alone.
As the cigarette diminished, he glared at the moon, which now sailed the ocean horizon. He wondered if she was watching him from heaven, standing beside the Jesus she so adamantly believed in. Much to furor of his in-laws, Southern-born Christians themselves, they married. He never embraced her faith, but he enjoyed listening to her speak enthusiastically about it. Every Sunday she would return home from church, brimming with energy and passion, repeating every word from the sermon that morning. Eli just listened and grinned. He loved the sound of her voice. She once prodded him for never going to church, with which he joked that he didn’t have to – he got every sermon straight from her. Eli chuckled when the image of her face – so enraged and yet amused – entered his mind. So many pleasant memories.
But where was her God now? Whenever she needed Him, He was there. Such a spiteful God, to destroy those who love Him the most. This God had left Eli stranded, tortured.
As the last plume of smoke left his throat, he tossed the butt next to him and stood. He timidly stepped into the wet sand, the tide sloshing over his feet. He walked deeper. The water soaked his jeans up to his knees. The cold drained him of all feeling. His pace quickened and he fell over, submerging himself in the freezing ocean. He thrashed until his feet found the ocean floor, and when his head lifted from the surface he struggled to find his breath. The icy sea suffocated him. He could feel his muscles tighten, and color trickled from his face. He knew he was dying, and although the thought comforted him minutes ago, fear now racked his mind. Suddenly, his lungs expanded and he stabilized himself.
His fear dissipated, rage filled his body sending tingles back to his extremities, and he gathered air into his chest. His throat tightened as he began to yell, but only a warm breath of air departed from his mouth. He was too weak, too depressed to let out a wail. Feeling defeated, he simply whispered, “I don’t understand.” He repeated those words until tears claimed his eyes and dribbled down his cheeks, eventually dripping off his chin and joining with the salt of the ocean.
His frozen body wanted to be touched, comforted, embraced. He swam farther until he could not stand, surrounding himself with chilled water, but he felt nothing. God could not touch him.
“Take my life,” he said, “I’m no better than my wife.” He turned and began to swim towards the shore, but before his feet could find the bottom, the water warmed. His hairs rose on end, and for the first time since his wife’s death he was touched.
Eli strode calmly to the tide’s edge and collapsed onto the frozen sand. His right hand pulled his favorite Camel unfiltered cigarettes from one pocket while his left gripped the lighter. Opening the package, he took his last cigarette, the lucky cigarette. Ironic. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and simultaneously flicked the lighter. His first puff was delicious. It reminded him of his eighteenth birthday when his father took him to the local convenience store and purchased for him his first pack. Eli grew up poor, so the gift sufficed. His father could rarely be seen without a cigarette in his mouth and smoke billowing from his nostrils, creating an aura of smoke as pungent as his charisma. This was the father Eli loved and remembered so well. So many pleasant memories.
The smoke glided from his lungs and clouded the air before the wind grasped and pulled it out to sea. Eli began to imagine that the smoke was the ghost of his wife, leading him into the ocean. Today marked the first anniversary of his wife’s death. Cancer had ravaged her body, and despite years of treatment, she had lost the battle. Though Eli rejected the notion, his wife had accepted her fate. He had no children, no family to mourn with. He felt alone.
As the cigarette diminished, he glared at the moon, which now sailed the ocean horizon. He wondered if she was watching him from heaven, standing beside the Jesus she so adamantly believed in. Much to furor of his in-laws, Southern-born Christians themselves, they married. He never embraced her faith, but he enjoyed listening to her speak enthusiastically about it. Every Sunday she would return home from church, brimming with energy and passion, repeating every word from the sermon that morning. Eli just listened and grinned. He loved the sound of her voice. She once prodded him for never going to church, with which he joked that he didn’t have to – he got every sermon straight from her. Eli chuckled when the image of her face – so enraged and yet amused – entered his mind. So many pleasant memories.
But where was her God now? Whenever she needed Him, He was there. Such a spiteful God, to destroy those who love Him the most. This God had left Eli stranded, tortured.
As the last plume of smoke left his throat, he tossed the butt next to him and stood. He timidly stepped into the wet sand, the tide sloshing over his feet. He walked deeper. The water soaked his jeans up to his knees. The cold drained him of all feeling. His pace quickened and he fell over, submerging himself in the freezing ocean. He thrashed until his feet found the ocean floor, and when his head lifted from the surface he struggled to find his breath. The icy sea suffocated him. He could feel his muscles tighten, and color trickled from his face. He knew he was dying, and although the thought comforted him minutes ago, fear now racked his mind. Suddenly, his lungs expanded and he stabilized himself.
His fear dissipated, rage filled his body sending tingles back to his extremities, and he gathered air into his chest. His throat tightened as he began to yell, but only a warm breath of air departed from his mouth. He was too weak, too depressed to let out a wail. Feeling defeated, he simply whispered, “I don’t understand.” He repeated those words until tears claimed his eyes and dribbled down his cheeks, eventually dripping off his chin and joining with the salt of the ocean.
His frozen body wanted to be touched, comforted, embraced. He swam farther until he could not stand, surrounding himself with chilled water, but he felt nothing. God could not touch him.
“Take my life,” he said, “I’m no better than my wife.” He turned and began to swim towards the shore, but before his feet could find the bottom, the water warmed. His hairs rose on end, and for the first time since his wife’s death he was touched.
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