The Works of Nick Hayden

Pexels / Pixabay

Arieos and Falson were brothers, light-skinned, dark-haired, large-eyed young men who understood one another without words. They were not alike in temperament, Arieos being bolder and quick-witted, Falson more perceptive and deeply rooted in the history of their people.

They sat together upon a rocky, lifeless land beneath a brilliant array of stars. Their people had come from those stars, their stories said, and the center of their civilization spiraled out from the remains of the vessel that had brought them to this place.

That monument was far away, months away, and Arieos and Falson sat alone, tired and hungry and awed.

They had been born in a land of glimmering night, which the first survivors had named Midsummer. It had no light except those distant stars, no ball of fire come to visit at regular hours as told in the stories of the old land, just the twinkling of gems in a blanket of black, a shimmering canvas to watch over them while they slept and when they woke.

But Arieos and Falson saw something upon the horizon, an edge as of fire. It was almost too bright to look at even from this distance.

“It is the Sun,” Arieos said wonderingly.

“A sun,” Falson whispered. “Not ‘the.’ But light. Sunlight.”

“We were right,” Arieos said. “This is not an abandoned land, floating alone in space. This is a world. Beyond that line, there might be creatures and plants we cannot imagine.”

“There might be,” Falson said. “There might not be.”

“Dream, Falson!”

Falson smiled. “I always dream. But it does not change what is.”

When they closed their eyes to sleep, the light burned behind their eyelids.

Upon waking, they continued toward the light. Soon they could see from the heights the line, straight and unyielding, that separated the night from the day. The land beyond was barren and rocky, much as the land beneath the stars was, but they could not be certain of what lay farther, for their eyes were too weak to look long into that brilliance.

They approached with heads bowed, their thick clothes uncomfortably warm. Blasts of hot wind smashed against them. Falson stopped first, and Arieos, understanding, turned back. Together they returned to a hollow beyond a ridge, where they could shelter.

“You want to turn back,” Arieos said.

“I do not want,” Falson said, “but I believe we should.”

“We were meant for light,” Arieos said angrily. “Man was born in light. Did we come so near to hide our eyes and trek back home now?”

“It will take time, I think, for us to adjust.”

“Time,” Arieos said flatly.

“Perhaps a generation or two.”

Arieos walked away. Falson waited patiently for his brother to return, knowing his temper would take time to cool.

“I don’t want to talk about it tonight,” he said when he appeared again.

Falson nodded.

They ate little, their food nearly gone. For many days the land had not yielded the reeds and crawling creatures they gathered to supplement their dwindling rations. They lay awake instead of sleeping, the sky lighter than they were used to.

“You cannot see the stars here,” Falson said. Hundreds were still visible, and yet the sky seemed emptier. “In the light, there will be none.”

“There will be one,” Arieos said, “a force of fire like passion and conquest and religious fervor.”

Falson rose when Arieos finally fell asleep. He covered his face with a cloth and removed the layers that protected him from the cold. He could not see clearly, but the light led him. He walked until his his skin seemed to burn.

“Arieos!” he called. “Arieos!”

From a distance came the answer: “You fool!”

“Am I in the light?”

“No. Not yet.

“How is it?”

“It burns. It is too strong.”

“Come back.”

“If I don’t go in, you will.”

Arieos did not reply for a long time. Falson started forward again.

“Come back!” Arieos called. “Please.”

Falson turned back.

They did not speak the rest of that day, and they did not fall asleep for a long time. When they woke, they looked to one another and began to pack. They looked once more at the light-seared land beyond.

“We live in shadowlands,” Arieos said bitterly. “Every day I will think of how close we were.”

“It would kill you.”

“It would be worth it.” Arieos looked at his brother with piercing eyes. “Do you understand that?”

Falson nodded slowly. “The desire consumes you. To be consumed would be fulfillment.”

They stood in silence for a time, one knowing he must listen, the other that he must speak.

“I may hate you after today,” Arieos said.

“I know.” Falson touched his brother lightly on the shoulder before turning to head deeper into the dark. “But I think it is worth it.”

Arieos remained a moment longer then joined his brother for the arduous journey home.

tookapic / Pixabay

I woke up and knew I was going to die.

It was sometime past four in the morning. The dream was still vivid–not the images, those had already dissipated–but the certainty that my end was near. It felt solid, a physical presence, and oddly unemotional, like a date on a slate of stone.

I woke my wife and told her. Don’t talk like that, she said. But after talking to her, I was more anxious, as if the reality of what I had told her left the dream world and entered the waking world.

I did not go back to sleep but lay there trying to sleep. As the sun brightened the room, my dream faded bit by bit until I held only the remembrance of what I had experienced.

By the time I herded the kids through breakfast and brushing and clothes (several sets for the girls in quick succession) and driven them to school while my wife dealt with the baby, and delivered them to their classrooms with Have a good days, I had forgotten.

At work my coworker was sick, so I had double the paperwork. It was better just to do it. Nobody wanted to be behind after throwing up repeatedly the day before. I ate lunch at my desk as I piled through it, my head beginning to pound from all the numbers. I took a jog to the break room, just to clear it, then dived back in. My wife called at some point, reminding me about a dentist appointment that had sounded like a good idea a week ago.

The time in the waiting room was too long (as usual). Then it was scrape, scrape, scrape, and the endless drool and suctioning, and the faint taste of blood and scrape, scrape, scrape, until my whole mouth ached. The dental hygienist was a young lady I had taught in youth group, and she chatted happily the entire time.

That afternoon I poured over reports again, feeling the space between my teeth with my tongue.

At five I rushed home so I could be just in time to take my son to basketball practice.

“How was school?” I asked.

“Horrible. People cheated at dodgeball.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not, Dad.”

I watched practice. Josh lives the game. I could tell it in his face.

When we returned home we had a late supper. Then it was spelling tests for both of the older kids and devotions. After devotions, I read books to the baby or, really, just Goodnight, Moon eight times and sang Old McDonald until I ran out of farm animals, pets, and jungle creatures. She slept happily.

AAt her bedtime, Annie complained that she hadn’t had any time to do art with me , so I let her stay up, and I sat by her and drew aliens while she drew princesses. She’s actually quite good.

Finally, everyone was in bed. I really just wanted to veg, but I did the dishes because we need spoons in the morning and then my wife doesn’t have to worry about it. We watched our show together, and in the silence after, right when we should be heading to bed but wanted to delay the day a little more, she asked, “So, you didn’t die today, huh?”

A memory of this morning’s realization washed over me.

“I suppose I could go,” I muttered.

“What?” she demanded.

“It wasn’t a red letter day,” I said, “but it’ll work.”

“Stop it.”

“I love you,” I said seriously. “I think the kids know that. I hope so.”

“You’re being an idiot.”

“Yes,” I said. “It was a good day.” I look at my wife. “If I’m lucky, I might even get another.”

She punched me. She’ll regret that if I don’t wake up in the morning.

Hans / Pixabay

The agents kicked open the door and rushed into the room, guns ready. The target, Chad Starn, sat at his computer, hands raised above his head. Agent Simon Adamson strode up to him and cuffed him. “Game over, kid.”

“It’s not a game,” Chad said, looking up at Simon—not defiantly, but with a certain insistence.

“Sir.” Agent Diane Quarter was studying the computer screen. “We have a problem.”

“It’s already in motion,” Chad said quietly. “It is finished.”

The lights went out. All of them. Computer, lamp, fish tank. Another agent managed to open the curtains, but there was no light outside either. Only the faintest glimmer of starlight reached them.

“What have you done?” Agent Adamson demanded.

“I thought many times how I would answer. It is much more dramatic in my imaginings.” Chad spoke from the darkness, a shadow with a voice. “But let me ask you: what do you know? From what I understand, you are thorough.”

“We don’t have time for these games, kid.”

“It isn’t a game. I told you that.”

Agent Adamson growled, then spoke rapidly. “Your name is Chad Starn, 18. Known as kantbelieve on chat sites. You are a genius, quiet, aloof. No social media presence. No criminal record. Hacks into Russian intelligence eventually traced to this computer, this room. Messages sent to federal agencies today saying, ‘Open your eyes.’”

Chad said nothing.

“Adamson,” Agent Quarter said. ”Service is out, too. Can’t get ahold of anyone.”

“EMP? Is that what this is?” Adamson demanded.

“We’ve connected everything. Cars, watches, alarm systems, power grids, refrigerators, phones. The cult of the microchip, the religion of machine learning. A web suffocating civilization. I ripped it apart.”

“Take him to the car,” Adamson ordered. “I’ll get the computer.”

Agent Quarter shuffled him cautiously through the dark hallway to the front door. Halfway across the lawn, Chad planted his feet and looked up.

“Get moving,” Agent Quarter said.

“Look,” Chad said. “Just look.”

Above, the moon was dark, but the sky was full of stars, more stars than she had ever seen.

“‘Two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and awe, the more often and steadily we reflect upon them: the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.’” Chad said. “There are only a handful of places in the civilized world where there is no light at night—no headlights, no electric signs, no TVs or phones or street lamps. We cannot see the sky for all the light pollution.” Chad laughed softly. “Soul pollution.”

“You’ve crippled us,” Agent Quarter said, pulling her gaze from the sky.

“You’ll fix it. In a week, you’ll have everything back to normal, or close enough. It’s too important to keep the machine running. But maybe some will remember when they looked into the sky and saw the stars again.”

Agent Quarter pushed him into the backseat of the car.

“It won’t run, you know,” Chad said. “We’ll have to walk.”

Agent Quarter slammed the door and leaned against it, furious. But when Agent Adamson returned, he found her staring into the heavens.

“Get in,” he told her.

“He said it won’t work.”

He tried; it didn’t. Agent Adamson swore and paced the car. “This is some night, Diane.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s quite a night.”

Free-Photos / Pixabay

It was mid-May, and Todd was taking a walk as an act of protest. The cold wind gusted around him, making him hunch as he plodded forward. The light mist, almost a fog, splattered him. He would be soaked by the time he got home.

“Stupid weather,” he muttered. It should have been warm by now, with the temperature hovering in that sweet spot where shorts and T-shirts came out but no one sweated much.

Another man was coming his way on the sidewalk. They looked up at each other, nodding, and the other said, “What about this rain?”

“I’m done with it.”

“Me too.”

They continued on.

Todd didn’t enjoy his walk but he completed his usual circuit, just to spite the clouds.

His son Marcus had returned from play practice when Todd entered the house, dripping. “I hope you’re happy,” Todd snarled.

“Dad, it’ll get sunny soon.”

“It should be sunny now.”

Marcus rolled his eyes.

“Who ever heard of delays for ice in May?” Todd demanded, removing his coat and hanging it to drip its excess water on the floor. “What’s even the point. You’ll just have to make the days up.”

Marcus turned his attention back to his phone.

“You voting now?” Todd asked.

“I’m reading the weather report.”

“Tell me what it says.” He began peeling off his socks.

Marcus sighed. “Fifty to sixty percent chance of rain. Less than twenty percent chance of snow. Temperatures likely in the fifties. Ten percent chance of clear skies and sun.”

“What’s the count?” He walked gingerly into the room, the cold shirt and pants uncomfortable.

Marcus flicked his finger to scroll down. “Um…eight percent.”

“See, that’s the problem! Everyone thinks it’s going to rain, so it does. They need to get rid of all these weather apps and choose on their own terms.”

“It would never work, Dad.”

“Yeah, well, it should. It’s groupthink and social media celebrity nonsense. When I was your age, we just let the weather happen and then we talked about it….”

He started upstairs, grumbling.

After a warm shower and some clean clothes, Todd sat down in front of the computer. He clicked the WeatherDemo shortcut and logged in. Weather Demographics was a data-driven website. Todd had obsessed over his county’s statistic for months, who voted, how they voted, long-term and short-term trends, but he had begun to despair. Democratizing weather had seemed a good idea once the weather control systems had been put into place. You didn’t want politicians in charge, being bought out by the travel lobby picking the next tourist hotspot or the entertainment industry increasing inclement weather so you stayed inside and stared at a screen even longer. Let the people decide.

But the people were maniacs. The farmers wanted rain when they wanted rain and sun when they wanted sun, but the older women wanted sun all the time and kids wanted snow, six feet deep, for half the year. These contradictory but understandable desires all made up the daily voting. If that had been it, the weather might have fallen into a rhythm of sorts.

But the Internet was a dark place. Soon, #WetWednesday was a thing, and #FryemFriday and #MistyMonday. Christmas in July went from phrase to reality. Petitions circulated with the goal of giving an ailing person a perfect day of weather, whatever that weather might be.

The control system was remarkably fluid, but weather was weather. If temperatures dropped in a nearby state, it would affect you, despite the 95 degree day the snowbirds ordered in.

This is what frustrated Todd the most. Not that his son and his friends tried (and often succeeded) to influence conditions so there was just enough ice at five in the morning for school to be cancelled or that his wife had given up caring and pre-voted “Sunny and 70” for the next three months. It was that no matter how much data he absorbed, no matter how cleverly he inputted his personal weather desires, he could not really influence what happened. It was ultimately in someone else’s hands.

But he pored over graphs and tables and did some calculations before finally throwing up his hands, two states over.

Marcus leaned into the room.

“I voted for sun,” he said.

“Thanks,” Todd said glumly.

“How’d you vote?”

“I didn’t.”

“Come on, it’ll warm up soon. Everyone gets spring fever.”

“Maybe.”

“I wasn’t going to vote, but I figure you looked so miserable, like a wet cat.”

Todd smiled. “All right.” He picked dry and 85, not because he wanted it quite that hot, but with 43 percent of the vote in, it looked like he’d have to edge it upward.

“So, was it really better before?” Marcus asked.

Todd clicked the button. “We complained. All the time. So maybe it’s not that different.”

Then he pressed the share button to tell everyone how he voted and that they should do the same.

DasWortgewand / Pixabay

Since his crash landing on Calliope 4, which the native called Aurerallear, Thomas Alistair had seen many amazing thing. The flora upon the planet was wild and mobile, roaming the wide plains in slow movements like a stop-motion movie filmed day by day. In the sky were light shows unlike any on Earth and which he had not yet discovered a proper scientific explanation, and the double sunset every four or five days set a rhythm of beauty Thomas wished he could capture. Little of his equipment had survived the crash.

The natives, the Aurarauia (as far as he could pronounce), were a diverse people, with skin shades that ran from black to purple to blue to green to red, sometimes in one specimen. They were extremely social, always talking in their strange, soft language that was like wind whistling through various passages. They had not yet reached space, but their technology seemed equivalent, in its way, with early 20th century Earth, a sometimes incongruous mixture of natural methods and alien machine.

Thomas had adapted to their lifestyle as well as he could over the last nine months, but there were many aspects of their culture and religion he still did not understand. For instance, clans and families would leave for days at a time, on journeys to…well, he didn’t quite know what or where.

The Aururuia who had adopted him into his family system worked hard to understand Thomas’ language. Uhrah, as Thomas called him, had shown himself quite adept at English, far more so than Thomas was in their language.

Yesterday, Uhrah had said, “It is time.” He had said no more, and by the wrinkling of his face, Thomas knew that Uhrah had some happy secret. Thomas had often met silence in the face of his questions and been led to some scene or piece of art that was to be his explanation—and often times it did, in fact, answer his question far better than the dance of words did.

That day, they started out, Uhrah with his whole clan, across the plains toward where Thomas knew the sea to be. Not only his clan, but those of the entire city seemed to leave that day, and when he looked across the grasslands, he could see other groups moving in the same direction from other settlements. By evening, they arrived at the summit of a long, sloping descent that opened into a wide valley. Beyond that, somewhere, was the ocean.

In the valley were massive figures, some ten stories tall, like giants out of a story. In the fading light Thomas could not make out what they were, but the scale of them, silent and towering, filled him with a sense of awe.

In the morning, they descended among the figures—but they were not creatures. They were sculptures of flowing lines and strange curves, made not of stone but of braided grass and vines and exquisitely carved wood. They shone in vibrant colors in the light of the double suns, rising almost simultaneously for only the second time Thomas could remember. Dozens of these gigantic works of art filled the valley, and Thomas walked among them, dazed by the scope and detail and sheer variety. Any museum of Earth would proudly display the meanest of these scupltures.

“Why?” Thomas asked Uhrah.

“It is done every year. To worship the god.”

“So many….”

“Clans have worked day and day. We are happy.”

“You should be.”

“This is us.” He gestured to a work that seemed like a flowering tree, a trunk with plants and animals and spiritual figures emerging, teeming with an explosive energy caught in a frozen moment.

Thomas spent the day wandering, trying to take it all in. He could dwell on a single one for a hour. They were scenes out of a hundred happy dreams, expressions of music in lyrical abstraction, mythic recreations of life and suffering and redemption.

Uhrah led him, against his will, away from the garden of gods, back to where they had camped the night before. Thousands of them waited along the slope, sitting and standing and laughing and chatting, facing the figures almost hidden in shadow.

Suddenly, a flame appeared, then another. The Aurarauia stood and pointed and the noise grew deafening.

“What’s happening?” Thomas asked.

“Fire,” Uhrah said. “Watch.”

Thomas could not turn away if he wanted. The flames licked the sculptures. One by one, each seemed to gain its own fire. And they burned. Smoke rose into the night sky and the valley glowed as bright as day beneath the growing, ever growing, insatiable flames. Pillars of fire rose, a temple of conflagration, the sculptures alight and falling away in great mounds of ash.

Thomas wiped his eyes, unable to stop crying. He had been happy, down there. Lost, alone, he had seen beauty.

“Why?” Thomas asked. “Why?”

“The God is beauty,” Uhrah replied soberly. “We make beauty. We give to the God.”

“Why does it have to be burned? Can’t you keep it? Save it?”

Uhrah did not answer at first. “Beauty is not ending. Cannot end. The God is beauty. Beauty is day and day.”

Thomas sat, exhausted, and watched until only coals remained, like the light of Earth cities seen from space.

thefairypath / Pixabay

As a lesser noble of the House Elganar, Allen could absent himself from the pageantry of the Annual Ball with little notice. He had danced with a few pretty young women, but their polite smiles and flickering eyes proved his low position. He wasn’t worth the attention. He stood in the outer hallway, surrounded by portraits of old monarchs and gilt enough to pave the road from the palace to the king’s country house. Music, precise and bloodless, whispered through the doors. He sipped his wine and waited for nothing in particular, melancholy.

A young lady sat on a small bench, her back against the wall, her head tilted up, eyes closed. She seemed to be listening to the music and dreaming. She was a servant, by her simple attire, with hair pulled up in a bun. Allen, noticing her, could not look away. She was handsome enough, in her ordinary way, but upon her shoulder, the size of his hand, sat another woman in the same position. This creature or apparition was exquisitely formed, like a china doll, with an expression of serenity on her face that made him long for home. Allen took quiet steps toward the servant and her fairy. The servant heard him and opened her eyes. She stood.

“Excuse me,” she said, lowing her eyes. The fairy upon her shoulder looked steadfastly upon him.

“May I ask,” Allen said, entranced, “about the fair creature on your shoulder?”

The servant raised her eyes. “You can see her?”

“Yes. Quite clearly.”

“I cannot, and I have not met many who could.”

The fairy tilted her head curiously, studying him.

“What is it?”

“A gift from a witch upon my birth.”

“I did not know that witch’s gave gifts. I heard they specialize in curses.”

The servant took a deep breath. Allen saw she had heard this before. “All I know is that she granted those who saw the spirit to see my true self. I think that is a gift, for when you are a servant, no one sees you at all.”

Allen nodded. The spirit watched him unblinkingly. He did not know if he was unnerved or pleased. “What is your name?”

“Trisha.”

“I am Allen. No titles, please.”

The spirit spoke: “Love me.”

Allen shuddered. He looked into Trisha’s face. She was more beautiful than he had first thought. “Tell me about yourself, Trisha.”

###

After they were married, Allen settled his wife in his small manor outside of town. It was a palace to her, with rooms that were hers and dresses in the closet and a garden where she could walk. Allen watched her day by day, finding joy in her joy and watching the spirit float about, wide-eyed and beaming. Allen arranged dinner parties so he could bring his wife into society, and when he went off to other cities upon business, his mind wandered back home.

But one day, he found the spirit looking at him glumly, though Trisha seemed unchanged. “What is the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Are you happy?”

“I think so.”

But the spirit looked away, its face tinged with some deep sadness.

“Are you unhappy?”

Trisha looked down. “Don’t ask such questions, husband.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Nothing,” Trisha said. “It’s fine. There is just a shadow on my soul. Nothing is wrong.”

But the spirit looked at him with sad eyes. “Love me,” it said.

###

They could not have children. Allen had thought that a child would remove the emptiness in his wife’s life. So he took her on a tour of the kingdom. They saw the great falls of Grennaloll, the expanse of night colors visible from the Rainbow Plains, the city nestled against the cliff called the Giant’s Steps. He stayed with her, held her hand, listened to her, surprised her, and gave himself wholly into her wellbeing. Trisha smiled and found in the sights joy, but Allen watched this spirit and saw it watching him. Sometimes he saw it turn away from him suddenly, as if he repulsed it. It was a strange, volatile thing sitting upon his wife’s shoulder, full of sadness and spite and shame.

Eventually, they returned home. Trisha wept. She wept loudly, as if unable to stop herself. He came to her and tried to comfort her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It was wonderful. You’re wonderful. I just—sometimes, I’m just sad and I don’t know why.”

He stayed with her and tried to comfort her. The spirit looked at him and demanded: “Love me.” When he said nothing, she repeated it. “Love me. Love me.

A shudder ran through him, tapping some long hidden emotion. “Enough,” he said. “I’ve done everything you wanted, I’ve sacrificed my fortune, my time, and all my own interests, I’ve given you everything. What more do you want from me?”

Trisha was sobbing beneath his words, but the spirit stood upon her back and screamed: “Love me!”

“Love you? What do you think I’ve been doing? The king couldn’t have lavished more upon you. I adore you! What more do you want, for some god to claim you as his own?” Then Allen said something he did not mean. Man can only give so much without wanting something in return. He is weak and cannot stand to let his gifts be spurned. “Love you? I think I might hate you.”

The spirit shuddered then looked at him with an expression of pain and ice. “I knew it.”

She turned her back on him. And he, stricken, left the room and wept.

rawpixel / Pixabay

His wife found him staring at the computer.

“Um, Mark? What are you doing?”

He looked up, startled. “I’m waiting for him.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. He doesn’t use Facebook.” She clicked his other tabs. “Or Twitter. Or Pinterest. Or email. Or idle games. Oh, and definitely not Google Plus. Does anyone use that?”

“I’ve had him get ahold of me before on–”

“Go play with the kids.”

“I need his help. He’ll know what to do. Without him, I just can’t–”

“Go. He’ll get here when he gets here. He always does.”

Mark stood and headed outside, where his wife had recently banished the kids. And now him.

“Let’s play basketball, Dad!”

Mark looked down the sidewalk, hoping to catch a glimpse of his friend walking along toward the house. Sometimes he just stopped by, like old friends do.

“Come on, let’s play PIG.”

His son threw him the ball, and he caught it awkwardly. “Okay, then,” he said, looking one last time to the corner. “I suppose I can whoop you again if you want.”

They played a few rounds while his daughter booed whenever he made a basket. She became increasingly bored as they played and eventually demanded that he play Tigers with her. So he walked around the yard on all fours and pounced on small imaginary creatures until his wife came out to say it was time to come in and get ready for bed.

Mark stood up, alarmed. “He’s not here yet! Did he call?”

“No. Now help me get the kids brushed.”

“I need to go look for him. Maybe he’s lost. He gets turned around sometimes.”

“After,” his wife said.

Mark looked longingly down the street, then rushed in to help. Soon he was out again, striding down the sidewalk, crossing block after block, hoping to spot his friend. There were others out walking, and sometimes he thought he recognized this one or that, but it was only an illusion, a trick of the brain.

At home, his wife wanted to watch a show, and he sat, despondent. “Where do you think he is?” he asked. “Maybe he won’t come.”

“Maybe he’ll come tomorrow,” his wife said cheerily. “You know how he gets distracted. Now how about getting Netflix going?”

Mark listened for the creak of the porch, for the gentle pressure of the door being opened. But it did not come and eventually he forgot to listen.

In bed he lay awake, wondering what he should do. Mark needed to talk to his friend, but his friend was one of those people who preferred to stay “off the grid.” A nice fellow, a smart, engaging fellow, but odd and frustratingly whimsical.

Perhaps he would stop by tomorrow.

At half past two, Mark woke. He heard knocking down below.

“Oh, not now,” he said groggily. “Why now?”

He turned on the lamp, scribbled a few notes he hoped he could read in the morning, and went back to bed.

MichaelGaida / Pixabay

The mayor of Utopia City was a well-built handsome man, the sort of man you’d see in a Men’s Warehouse advertisement, with perfect hair, perfect teeth, and a perfectly tailored sense of style.

Like most politicians, the mayor wasn’t as popular as he thought he was, but his approval ratings were north of 50%, which was nothing to sniff at.

He lived on 100 acres somewhere outside city limits, which in past years would have been problematic, legally. His residence, palatial, with swimming pool, movie theater, and an underground bunker, was heavily shielded from satellite by trees.

Each morning he drove into town in his SUV. Some days he saw a residence still smoking from the previous night’s fire, or a local store with newly shattered windows. He’d walk from the parking garage to City Hall and spend the morning working through the endless piles of papers. He had done much to improve the city, but nothing could be done about the paperwork.

At lunch he walked a block to his favorite restaurant, an Italian bistro. Being health-conscious, as all men who strived to live a good life should be, he avoided the pasta except on Friday, his cheat day, and ate a salad instead.

Today, as he walked back to City Hall, a citizen accosted him. It was a bright, clear day, and the other man, well-dressed, like a teacher or accountant, pulled a gun and told him to hand over his keys. He wanted his vehicle and knew where it was parked. He’d been watching the mayor, watching him closely.

The mayor eyed the citizen. He was a good judge of character, and he could tell the would-be carjacker had the nerve to do what needed to be done but had never done it before. So the mayor nodded and reached into his inner jacket pocket. Pedestrians along the sidewalk and those looking through the windows of the convenience store they stood in front of watched to see what would happen.

From the jacket pocket the mayor retrieved a 9mm and shot the concerned citizen five times. The citizen lay bleeding out on the sidewalk as the mayor continued to his office. The onlookers went about their business.

That afternoon, the police chief entered his office. He was there to request more officers.

“What for?” the mayor asked.

“To protect the journalists.”

“Hire what you need. We’ll get the funds somewhere.”

That evening the mayor had a meeting with one of those journalists, a big name from an important paper. The news shows were flashier, but the intellectuals read the old standards. He met the bespectacled gentleman at his office door and walked him back outside, past the bistro (the body had been removed), to one of those Japanese restaurants where they cook the food at the table. As flames rose and the chef’s blade chopped, the interviewer asked the question everyone asked: “The statistics are astounding. In less than a year, murders, arsons, assaults, robberies, drug crimes, everything has fallen to zero. This is the City Without Crime. How did you do it?”

The mayor smiled charmingly. “You just have to understand how the world works.” The cook slid a heap of steak and vegetables onto his plate. “Selling alcohol was only a crime during the Prohibition. If you make a law, you increase the crime.” He took a bite and lifted his chopsticks in gratitude to the cook. “So we got rid of the laws. The City Without Crime. Trust me. Someday, everyone will do it.”

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Delia woke to the gentle clicking of a clock somewhere in the distance.

She lay there, eyes closed, for a long time, the steady tick-tick-tick leading her consciousness slowly out of the depths, giving her a sense of space and calm.

Delia was only eight, and she was not brave. She remembered, bit by bit, how the King had come to her, smiling, and how the soldiers had grabbed her and forced her to drink, pouring vile liquid down her throat….

She sat bolt upright. She knew it had happened, that she had been the one chosen.

She was not in a field, exactly, but a large roofless room. It was hard to make out the walls because trees grew all around her, and the white stone was covered in vine. The bright sun and green grass settled her some

There was no wind, no movement, no sound, except far off the clock ticked. She looked up. The moon waited white and round and dead in the empty sky.

Tick-tick-tick-tick.

She closed her eyes and opened them. It seemed everything should dissipate like an illusion, that only the metronomic beat anchored it.

“You must see him,” she told herself.

They had told her she must, that they depended on her. She did not want anyone to depend on her.

Eventually, she stood. She had decided the way she must go. Slowly, like one going to the headmaster’s office, she began to walk. She passed out of one open-sky room into the next, realms of grass and flowers, trees and shrubs, gardens, orchards, mounds of mushrooms. She smelled deep roots and bright splashes of color. It made her happy, gave her a modicum of courage as she hesitated and listened and turned right or left. The rooms were connected by large archways leading through white walls.

Tick-tick-tick-tick–relentless, insistent, neither impatient nor lax–tick-tick-tick-tick–slower than footsteps, faster than decision–tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

It was louder now, but still subtle, still a whisper. If there had been any other sound, she might have missed it.

Delia passed under another arch, lower than the others. It led into a long, narrow area filled with grass higher than her head and a mound of earth at its far side. She pushed through the grass. The mound was covered in flowering vines, like a pumpkin patch, and sitting on a natural seat was a thin, pale man. Vines wrapped his wrists and ankles, waist and neck, so he could not move, and from his chest came the steady, endless beat.

Delia stood before him, motionless, wanting to run. He was man-like but not a man. His eyes were black holes, his face a mass of ash. He might have been formed of metal or bone rather than flesh.

“Are you the Man from the Moon?” she asked.

Do not look into his eyes, they said. Never. No matter what he says.

He could not lift his head to look at her. “Yes. You are the one they sent?”

“What do you want?”

“Look upon my world.” She could not resist. She looked to the white orb of the moon. “It is lifeless, a pristine, orderly thing.” Tick-tick-tick-tick. “This prison will not last. So they send you to try.”

“To bind you.”

“To placate me.”

“How?”

He said nothing, and she sat.

“When I am free, I shall remake this world,” he said. “Where I step, order. Away with this writhing, twisting stuff. Purity. Simplicity.” He spoke with bored malice. “They sent you here to die.”

Delia lay down and closed her eyes. She wanted to escape.

“Look into my eyes. You will, eventually. To save the world. It will satisfy me for a time, all that young life snuffed out in a moment.”

Tick-tick-tick-tick.

Delia concentrated on that sound, let everything else fade away.

“This verdant prison will not hold. They will not find the vessel before I walk again. Time is running out. You are a snack, a few hours, nothing more. Time is running out for all of you.”

Tick-tick-tick-tick.

After some time, Delia opened her eyes again. The sun had not moved. The scene remained the same.

“What are you doing?” the Man from the Moon asked.

She did not answer, but closed her eyes again.

Tick-tick-tick-tick.

The space between the clicks seemed to expand as she listened. Sixty seconds equalled a minute. Sixty minutes an hour. Three thousand six hundred. She had never counted that high. But if she did, she could escape for a time–for an hour.

A minute, two minutes, seemed an hour, knowing that he watched her, knowing that she could not escape, knowing that he hungered after her.

Tick-tick-tick-tick.

“What are you doing?” He had been asking it over and over.

“Waiting.”

The clicking slowed more. She was sure of it. Why, when she was scared, when she wanted time to pass, did it slow? Nothing to do, nowhere to go, but wait for the inevitable. Eternity in a moment.

Tick–tick–tick.

“I will kill you,” the Man from the Moon snarled. “Come here.”

She trembled, breathing hard, and she listened, clinging to the steady beat.

Tick—tick—tick——

And when they came for her, what seemed days and days later, the sun had not yet set. A man in armor led the men, who dragged what looked like a coffin. The knight knelt beside her and touched her hand. “Child, are you all right?”

“I want to leave.”

“I will take you home.”

She stood unsteadily. The others were stuffing the Man from the Moon into the strange capsule. “How?”

“You bought us time, dear girl. I do not know how long it has been here, but it has been months beyond the walls. But that creature is not used to this world, and adjusts himself to the sense of time of those near him. Enough. Let us go.”

He lifted her up. As he carried her out she heard a great blast and saw the capsule shoot into the darkening sky and disappear.