e.w.r. [trigger #247]

Most people, if they attach any meaning to it at all, understandably know EWR as the designation for Newark International Airport. However, there is a lesser known but far more interesting meaning, as it is also the designation for the self-named Enlightened Wolves of Rochester.

It is sizable group, that has increased in number from its humble beginnings back in 1956, when it had but six members. Now, the group claims a membership of over 230. The group exists to promote and celebrate a society of wolves who have decided to throw off the shackles of what they see as barbarism and tribal warfare in order to have a more just and civilized wolf society.

You might be confused, since there are no well documented populations of any type of wolf in New York State, but this is exactly why the E.W.R. has chosen Rochester as its headquarters. It is safely separate from the more established populations of wolves, within which the E.W.R. is widely rejected to varying degrees of hostility. Yet, Rochester is close enough to the sizable numbers of wolves to its immediate north in Canada, and thus they are close enough to continue their attempts in evangelization toward other wolves as yet unenlightened. The reason their number of 230 is not noticed by the scientific community as a wolf population, although it is by far the largest single gathering in the world, is because due to their so called enlightened views these wolves don’t live as other wolves do, and are thus unnoticed by humanity.

For one, the E.W.R. is entirely vegetarian. They don’t have a clearly articulated stance against hunting and eating meat, but the organization feels that the easiest way to separate themselves from the ways of their brethren is to refrain from the central quality that wolves are known for, which is the thrill of a hunting pack taking down prey. Thus, they forage and eat berries, leaves, and bark instead. Needless to say, due to their biological makeup, wolves of the E.W.R. are woefully malnourished.

The E.W.R. is also entirely democratic. Instead of an alpha male who leads as a dictator until he is challenged and vanquished by a rival male, the E.W.R. holds elections on every matter of significance, with less meaningful matters being decided by various subcommittees. Granted, it leads to a process of bureaucracy that can often be inefficient, but without the savagery wolves are often known for their population has increased significantly. Almost all of the group’s growth is from procreation rather than successful proselytizing. They lose numbers frequently from their adolescents, who escape to Canada to live like wolves of old, and yet still their numbers grow, which is why they are such a large, if weak and starved looking, population.

The E.W.R. is currently in the application process to join the Coalition of Humane Predators along with the Civilized Bears of the Mid-Atlantic, the North American Union of Literate Alligators, the Southwestern Sophisticated Snake Society (they do love their S’s), and Wild Boars for Reason. Representatives from the E.W.R. say they are hopeful their induction will be ratified within the year.

dreaming while taking a cross-country train. [trigger #93]

The gentle rocking and the rhythm of the track usually helped him to sleep quickly, but tonight he was having trouble. He finally fell asleep somewhere between McCook and Fort Morgan.

It wasn’t long before he was dreaming.

He was in a vast room, like a huge ballroom in a Victorian mansion. Aside from the wall furnishings, the room was empty. The room was utterly silent aside from the sound of the tracks in the waking world. Somehow, it was as if he could hear the outside of the train in his dream, the clicks and clacks of metal wheels interacting with metal tracks.

The sound of the train on the tracks reverberated against the empty walls, filling the space powerful echoes. The rhythm started to slow down, the space between the beats growing to create an eeriness in the silence in between, Chic-koooom! one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand, Chic-kooooom!

The room began to shake like it too was on tracks, as the lights began flickering and flashing on and off like the lights in a New York subway car.

He walked to the window. Outside, the landscape was moving past. Yet, it wasn’t the landscape that he would have seen in the waking world. It was an entirely alien landscape. Buildings that looked centuries old towered above the window. They were buildings that looked far older than the relatively young history of masonry in his country. Buildings that appeared to be at least 400 years old were cracking and crumbling as far as the eye could see.

There were also faded images of people watching his window move past. They were people in the dress of every era and geographical region imaginable. They were all still, not moving at all aside from the gentle turn of their heads to follow his movement as he sped past this odd world.

is this all a dream? [trigger #54]

The fires had been burning for weeks. The smoke could be seen as far away as Tacoma to the south, and a black haze filled the air for miles and miles in different directions, depending on which way the wind was blowing.

The fact that all of this destruction was caused by human beings made Won’s head spin. There had been no earthquake, no tornado, no tsunami; just humanity in all its destructive power.

The people had gradually lost faith in literally every aspect of their society. Then, in a tremendous powder keg moment, President Aiken had panicked and declared martial law in eight major cities, and the reaction was revolt. The nation had been torn down in a massive, violent upheaval toward anarchy and chaos. The government had broken down, authority had been removed, and people had been burning and destroying ever since.

Won couldn’t believe the things he’d seen. He’d always known, in some abstract way, that people had been acting out great atrocities as long as there had been people, but to see it happen was mind-boggling. Ordinary people, men and women he’d seen on the bus and in cafes, were killing and raping and looting with a wantonness that was overwhelming.

Won needed to move again to get some food, which meant going back into the dangerous Seattle streets. He checked that his gun was loaded before putting it back in the waistband of his pants, adjusted the ski goggles that made it possible to keep his eyes open amidst the smoke, then stepped out into the unnatural fog.

The trick was to walk quickly, with purpose, and avoid looking anyone in the face. The method wasn’t perfect, but it was the best he could do to move around the city, and he needed food.

He walked nine or ten blocks before he rounded a corner on the fifth rape he’d seen in the last month. It was a lone man acting out violence on a woman who’d found herself alone in the street. It was another moment where he saw the weak being preyed on by the stronger. Rage bubbled up from within him and before even making a conscious choice he pulled the gun from his waistband, rushed the son of a bitch, and pistol-whipped him across the temple. The rapist never saw Won coming, too caught up in his perverted violence, and he crumpled sideways after being struck with the revolver. Won moved quickly and kicked the rapist in his face, introducing the bridge of his foot to the bridge of the rapist’s nose.

Won positioned himself between the woman and her attacker, aiming the barrel of the gun at the man’s face. Dazed for a few moments, the rapist shook his head and looked up at Won.

“The fuck’s your problem, man?!? Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?”

Won didn’t respond verbally to the man, he simply pulled back the hammer of the revolver. The click of the gun as it cocked sent his message loud and clear.

The rapist stood up and spit on the concrete, his hand never left his nose. He started to back away from Won and the woman.

“You broke my fucking nose, man!”

The man realized there was nothing he could get from this situation but a bullet, turned, and ran into the haze.

It wasn’t safe for them to remain in the street, exposed like they were.

Won slipped his jacket off and placed it around the woman’s shoulders. He whispered, “I’m sorry, but we need to get off the street, fast.” She was still shaking, but she nodded that she understood and let Won help her to her feet. He ushered her as gently and quickly as he could into a nearby doorway where they crouched in the shadows.

They sat in the darkness, her hands tightly gripping Won’s forearm. Her fingernails were digging into his flesh, her rage and her fear manifesting in the same gesture.

Won wondered at the idea that people were reveling in the lack of order. It was as if the majority of people had monsters inside who were just waiting for an excuse to kill, to take, to destroy, to violate. When the societal boundaries had gone, so many people had become animals overnight.

Won wanted to wake up, to find out that it had all been a horrible dream, but he knew it was real. He sat there in the shadows and tried to remember what hope felt like, but to no avail.

the pot was melting into the soup. [trigger #51]

We all laughed. We made fun of those lunatics, with their rapture predictions. Even the bible says such a prediction is impossible, so it seems odd you’d be able to use that some bible to do some math and pick out when the rapture was going to happen.

We laughed right up until the moment on May 21st when all those people disappeared. Other ideas were suggested. An elaborate hoax. Spontaneous human combustion. Even alien abduction. Still, deep down we all knew. We’d been left behind.

Now, all that was left to do was await the end of the world on October 21.

People chose to wait in a myriad of ways. They joked; they planned ‘end of the world’ parties; they got wasted; they had lots of sex; they committed suicide; they tried illicit drugs; they went to war; they converted and prayed for a second rapture; they started doomsday cults, a few of which even resorted to human sacrifice. Yet, most of these sorts of behaviors were frequently interrupted. It was the great period of tribulation after all. Earthquakes were happening almost daily. Tornadoes, hurricanes, and random storms of locusts were popping up in the most unlikely of places at a remarkably frequent rate. It was hard to plan ahead, even by a few moments.

It was mid-August when Seattle finally went, about half-way through the tribulation. Many predicted Seattle would go earlier than that. The city had really gone to hell since Mark Driscoll had been raptured. There was all the gay marrying; lots of yoga; guys in dresses; dudes weren’t fighting each other for macho dominance; dads were staying at home to take care of their children instead of the moms, all of whom were wearing pants and putting on weight like crazy, turning their husbands into homosexual adulterers; people were even watching Avatar and turning into crazy tree-huggers. It was basically the most terrible environment imaginable. Still, against all odds the city made it to the midway point.

Seattle literally went up in smoke in impressive fashion. On August 16th, 2011, at 1:46pm, the city turned into a volcano. It wasn’t that the nearby volcanic mountains erupted, those had sunk beneath the ground and turned into lakes weeks earlier. No, the city of Seattle itself turned into a volcano.

First, came the heat. It had been growing gradually warmer for days, on August 15th it was 103 degrees.

On the 16th, shit got real.

Scott was in his kitchen when it happened, attempting to carry out an ill-advised plan to make himself some tomato soup and tuna melts before he passed out again from the high temperature. All morning the heat had been rising in earnest, and it picked up pace at 1:30. It didn’t take long for him to realize something was very wrong. The floor became too hot to touch, forcing him to take off his shorts to stand on them to protect his feet. That was about the time his skin started turned red from the heat. Still the temperature rose.

He knew he was about to die. For someone who had always been terrified of death, and who was about as good with pain as a toddler who’d missed his nap, Scott was surprised how calm he was as his skin started to blister from the heat. He looked over at what moments earlier had been intended to be his lunch: the pot was melting into the soup, which in turn was pouring all over stove, bubbling and smoking.

As molten rock started to erupt through the surface of the earth in his backyard, Scott’s last thought was of the irony that the lack of heat and relatively low number of crazy religious fundamentalists had been two of his favorite things about Seattle, and now he was melting in his own kitchen because he hadn’t heeded the warnings of a fundamentalist doomsday preacher.

she watched the broken yellow lines fly by. [trigger #44]

It was one of those RVs with a bed above the driver’s seat. It was illegal for children to ride up there while someone was driving. But then, what would the point be if you couldn’t enjoy the bed’s window?

Sally laid in the bed and saw the country fly by.

Her step-dad preferred to drive at night, and that was ok by her, because she loved to lie there and watch their progress. They were on the sort of highway that didn’t just have mile markers, but also had tenth of a mile markers. That was her favorite sort of road.

She watched the broken yellow lines fly by, and she felt safer than she did in any other place. To lie still and yet be moving at 80 miles an hour down the highway. It felt like nothing could touch her, nothing could get to her in these moments. She wished they could just be perpetually on the road. Then again, her step-dad wouldn’t understand the word ‘perpetually’. He didn’t read much. She didn’t mind that though. He was a good man, and he’d taken her in when her mom died, even though he didn’t have to. They loved each other, and it didn’t really matter that he wasn’t her biological dad, or that they hadn’t met until she was eight. He was her father, and that was that.

They were on their way to Six Flags in Dallas, on their never-ending quest to ride every major roller coaster in the country. Every six weeks or so they were back on the road, heading off for some long weekend or week long trip to ride another coaster. He owned a mail-order hobby shop selling collectibles of various kinds, so he could take much of his work with him, and pay college kids to handle the rest when he was out of town.

i haven’t laughed like that in years. [trigger #11]

Every summer, while the other students were getting full-time jobs during the break, all three of us would get in Jeremy’s old station wagon and drive across the country to the coast of southern California.

We would find a beach, park the car, and live off the money we’d saved during the school year. We slept in the car every night for two months, and I swear it was the best sleep I’ve ever gotten. The rotation had it so that we’d take turns stuck sleeping in the passenger seat, while the other two shared the back where they could actually spread out their legs like a human being.

We’d wake early every morning to see the sunrise, then we would surf for as long as the mood might take us. In the evenings we’d go wherever there were girls with an earnest desire to get laid. We always kept a running tally of our successes, with a $50 pot at the end of the summer for whoever won.

Of course, Jeremy always won, that goes without saying. His blue eyes, perfect smile, and the way his hair feathered into perfectly sexy shapes with no effort made it a fool’s errand to compete with him, but for some reason it was impossible to resent him for it. Besides, beach girls always travel in packs, and we always got his runoff anyway. I think Todd and I knew there’d be no chance we’d score as often without Jeremy around.

Most nights, whether or not we lured any tasty morsels back with us, were spent around a fire by the station wagon on the beach. We’d spend most of the night drinking and getting high and telling stories. Jeremy’s stories were always highly dramatic tales of things that had happened back at school. Most often, Todd or I or both of us had been with Jeremy for whatever adventure he was describing, but we never corrected him or called bullshit on his many exaggerations and flat out lies. To be honest, Jeremy’s version of events were always better than the real life story. I’m sure there are stories I remember incorrectly because my brain simply chose Jeremy’s falsehoods over the actual facts without my conscious assent.

It seems like those summers were perfect. It was a two month escape from everything that felt boring and worthless about our lives back home. We weren’t three boys from the midwest anymore. We were heroes, kings, gods.

I still wonder all the time what I gained in letting it all go to join the real world. I haven’t felt that exhilarating sense of pure joy like I did in those days in a long time, I haven’t laughed like that in years.

Sometimes I take out my phone, staring at Jeremy or Todd’s number. I think about calling, about asking them to set off on another adventure where we pretend for just a moment that we can be gods again. But, then I put the phone away and go back to my meeting, or yard work, or reality show, and wonder why my kids think I don’t know how to smile.

appalachian mountains. [trigger #6.]

Ochuna expertly kicked the small ball of buckskin and dried mud. He hoped he had kicked it gently enough, and with enough arc, to land safely in the nest, but he knew the moment it left his foot that at least it would hit the goal post. One point was assured, but he was hoping for two. His village was winning 6-2, he could taste victory. He knew that being up 8-2, since they only played until 11, would be a nearly insurmountable lead, especially with one such as him on the team.

The ball floated through the air, and even though only fractions of a second were passing, it seemed he had all the time in the world to contemplate this moment. Time seemed to slow down when he played. He had always been the best player in his village. Even as a boy he was better than many of the men who’d been playing all their lives.

Ochuna, a nickname given to him for the god of thunder, truly felt like a god when he was able to run free, to kick his opponents hard enough to force the ball away, to expertly avoid the feet and fists and nails of the other village’s players. He had always loved this game, but it was even more important since the Spanish had come.

Much had changed since these men with their strange way of speech and action had come from across the ocean. Yet, this game was still sacred. All other life stopped when villages played each other in this game that has existed for as long as there have been men.

Ochuna was given a house, his crops were tended by other villagers, he was fawned over and celebrated; all because no one had feet as gifted as his, because no one could make or take a hit like him, because no one else played with thunder like Ochuna did.

He had a sick feeling in his gut much of the time now. The way the priests gazed with scorn over this wonderful game. They always had one hand gambling on the game’s outcome, with the other wagging in disapproval; saying the game is savage and immoral and godless. What do they know of godlessness? Didn’t they know of the connection with the gods one felt when he wasdoing the thing he was created to do?

Ochuna knew that nothing this beautiful, nothing that filled him with this much joy, could be godless. This game was beautiful, and as long as he was playing all other worries faded away.

It was always after the game that Ochuna felt the sickness in his gut. When he heard them giving a new name to his people… ‘Apalachee.’ The Spanish were even starting to call other villages, even the the land itself Apalachee. He’d heard stories of the Spanish exploring far to the north and calling the distant mountains Apalachee as well. These stories were most likely exaggerations by traders hoping to confound and impress, but they were troubling stories just the same.

He knew for sure that the Spanish had even killed those of neighboring villages in the past. They were not to be trusted.

Everything was changing. Everything but this game.

The ball landed in the nest. Two glorious points! He noticed as his many opponents gave him that familiar look of awe and contempt. 8-2. It won’t be long now until he can celebrate another impressive domination.

Forget the Spanish. What do they know of this beautiful game? This game of the gods themselves. What do they know of the beauty and power that is Ochuna. Nothing can touch him once they erect these sacred goal posts. He is Ochuna the proud. He is Ochuna the victorious. For these few, wonderful, exhausting hours Ochuna truly is overcome by the spirit of the god of thunder.

Ochuna smiles with untouched joy and takes off to inflict his thunder on another sorry ballcarrier.