Stories for the Short

Garrett Berg

Like summer that sets

All men get

A little bit of humor

A little bit of jest

But what is not literal

Cannot be critical

Or so they think

And there they sink

Name the Future

For five full minutes, Randy couldn’t remember who he was. He had been sitting on his bed playing “Conqueror V” when His memory suddenly blanked out. At first this didn’t bother Him, and He continued to punch away at the buttons of His controller, but as time went on, he became more and more worried. Finally He paused the game, sitting back and trying to remember His name.

“Hey,” his roommate said. He glanced over at him, an average fellow, except for his different coloured eyes and the fact that he was missing an ear. Oh, and he couldn’t use his legs. No one cared.

“Wha you want Ben?”

“I just thought I’d tell you that I called the central office about that window that got broken. You know. You know, the window that got a stone thrown at it.” He was talking about the window that was letting all the air into the room, sitting right behind the television.

“Ya. Alright.” Finally he gave up trying to remember his name. He couldn’t, so He just went back to his game with a slight chuckle to Himself. Lack of motivation was His medical justification for being here.

“Name” he said to himself, feeling the sound of the word off His tongue. “Name.” Ben looked up from his book and glanced in his direction.

“Wha are you doing?”

“Nothing, now shut up.”

Ben’s green eye blinked, his other eye, the blue one, was blind and didn’t blink. Not that that made any sense; its just how it happened. Ben went back into his book.

“Wha you reading?” He said, feigning interest from His game.

“For My Beloved” Ben said, “It’s a good book.”

“Wha you think it means?”

“Means?”

“Ya. What do you think it is trying to say.”

Ben’s eyes clinched together in thought. “It’s a love story about a woman, who is really really rich. She starts to talk on this chat room, right? And she talks and talks, and then she meets this person and they really talk a lot, to each other. They send love letters back and forth, I mean really gushy stuff, right? And then she finds out that the person is actually very poor. I mean, she kind of expected it, but not really. The other writer’s language was so fluent and beautiful that she envisioned a prince or something. But he is just poor, working in order to stay alive—”

“So what about it?”

“Wha you mean?”

“Sounds like a pretty shitty book. Who cares whether he is poor. It doesn’t make any difference.”

“Well, I think the writer is trying to say that even the poor can be intelligent, that even they have self worth. That people shouldn’t look down on someone for coming from a less fortunate class and instead should treat them as human beings, maybe even give them a hand. Who knows?”

He nodded and turned back towards the television, unpausing the game. He didn’t feel like arguing. The little figure on the game ran through the rendered environment. It made Him happy. He couldn’t remember His name, and He was happy.

“Rand.”

“What.” He turned in rage towards Ben. Ben recoiled in horror.

“Oh. Oh, I didn’t mean anything bad Rand. I’m sorry, s-sorry bout disturbin ya. Go back to your game.”

“Nevermind that. Wha you need?”

Ban looked at the ground from his bed. “I jus… I just wanted to talk. I thought you might be angry. I didn’t mean no harm.”

“So?” Randy said. “So what did you want to say?”

“I thought you might want to talk. S-sorry.”

Randy violently turned back to his game, and then back towards Ben. “Out with it, I can’t just sit here and not know what you wanted to say.” Although he was happy about knowing his name again. He didn’t want to show that though. It would be considered weird if he had forgotten his name. Not that Randy cared what Ben thought about him.

“Well do you think its true? Do you think poor people can be intelligent.”

“Sure they can you dimwit. Anybody can be anything. But I’m not anything, so why should I read or hear about people who are?” Randy turned back to his game.

There they sat in silence for a while, Ben reading the gushy love story and Randy immersed in his game. He was nearly done with it, he had to finish it. He just had to, there was no way around it. If he didn’t finish it, he thought he might collapse from the anticipation. He had been playing nearly fifteen hours straight, in anticipation for this moment. He loved it when he completed a game, it always made him feel good. He could remember that. He liked to smoke to, that made him feel good, but smoking wasn’t provided for him, and he wasn’t motivated enough to work for it, so he hardly ever got to smoke, or even drink, although alcohol was cheap. He did have some in his dresser though, for special occasions. He was on the final boss in his game, so close to the end. If he didn’t win, an hour of work would be wasted, an hour spent on the game would be gone. That was the last time he had saved. An hour ago.

Then the boss unleashed a powerful attack, and he was dead. Game Over.

“Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” He screamed at the television. “Goddamit. God royal damnit, you are fucking impossible. How the hell am I supposed to beat the impossible!” He threw down his controller and went storming towards the door. Ben sat on his bed calmly, he was used to these outbursts.

Just as Randy reached the door, a knock came. In a sudden moment of surprise, all of Randy’s anger evaporated, and he opened the door. Outside stood a woman, lean and strong. She stood with an air of personal authority and personal respect that could only be obtained through a mixture of fate and sheer luck. She wore a tan shirt and blue pants, with a metal pin in the shape of a hammer fastened to her shirt pocket to mark her office. Her face was carved and defined, her dark brown eyes set slightly back in her sockets where they seemed to study every object that came into view. She seemed to stand taller than any man, her long black hair tumbled in royal beauty past her shoulders. She was the carpenter, come to repair the window.

“Uh, uh” Randy stammered, still trying to get his bearings after being so angry from his game. The woman smiled back pleasantly and gently asked him to move so she might repair his window. “Oh. Oh-kay.” He said, putting his hand on his head and scratching his scalp. The carpenter walked in and quickly examined the window and then left into the hall to retrieve the glass window. She came back, replaced the window, and quickly left without another word.

By this time Randy had forgotten about his anger. But this kind of forgetfulness was different. He still remembered that the game had defeated him, it was just that now something seemed more important. She was so beautiful, she moved so elegantly, her body was so perfect. There could be no other woman like her. She was love at first sight. He had to have her.

Randy burst from the door, for the first time in his life motivated. He ran down the steps, breathing hard due to his lack of exercise, and eventually caught up with her on the stairwell.

She turned, her big brown eyes staring into his. “Yes?” She asked.

“I… I…” He stammered, “Would, would… do you smoke? I have some in my dresser… if you smoke that is.”

“No. I do not smoke, anything.” She turned to go.

“Wait!” he said, “do you eat? do you want to go out with me sometime?”

She looked into his eyes, her eyes so bright and beautiful and sad and said,

Like the Dead

Believe it or not, there are people like me. People who are invisible, buried under the ground, no longer remembered. It is amazing to me how quickly time passes down here, under the earth. The worms come and keep you company. But they don’t talk much. It’s like life, except its not. It’s more like death. That’s what it is actually. No one knows it, but here I sit. I wish I could have a television down here. Or something at least. But I just have the worms, and the worms have me. They seem to like me, but I expect that once all my flesh is gone, that will change. I mean, I will still get the occasional visitor, but it won’t be like before. Not like it is now. It will be so much more lonely.

Its not sad. Being dead that is. Its not sad. Its like waiting, but for what you cannot tell. I wait here and wait, oblivious to the fact that I could be waiting for eternity. But not quite oblivious. It pops into my mind—or that is the wrong word. It pops into my consciousness. That’s the right word, my consciousness.

Sometimes I wonder why I am still here, but then it doesn’t matter. Because I am here. I am. And I am here. Such a strange thing, I had never thought death would be like this. When I was living that is. Like the dead, the living are so ignorant. Or they were. Or they are. I don’t know.

Unaware, they wander as if they live eternally, until they die. Then they die eternally. Or that seems to be how it is playing out. I wonder how long it will go on. Maybe I’m waiting for judgment. Maybe I will be burning in hell eventually. I couldn’t have lived life all that badly, could I have? No, I shouldn’t go to hell. Maybe I’ll just stay here. With the worms to keep me company. Either way, it doesn’t really matter, because I am dead.

I wish I could feel wind. I liked the wind. I was a sailor. I liked the sea. But I’m not a sailor. I’m dead, here in the earth, with the worms to keep me company. Such a cliché statement, its not only the worms which keep me company. There are the ants and the bacteria and the dirt as well. I mean, worms aren’t the only thing underground. People should think more about this. I guess they think about it when they are dead, so that’s ok.

When I was living, I hardly thought about death. Now that I am dead, I hardly think about living; except for thinking about the times I thought about death while living. That seems important somehow. But life is done, and that’s alright. I just want to feel the wind. I’m a sailor and I like the wind. And the sea. I also like clams cooked in oil.

But I can’t eat when I am dead, so clams are irrelevant. Unless they could keep me company. I wish I was in the sea, not in the ground. I would have more company. Fishes and clams and maybe even turtles. Sea turtles. I don’t like sea turtles as much as fresh water turtles, but they are still turtles. I like turtles.

Wait, what is that light? Why is that woman staring at me and screaming? What is she saying? “He’s awake! He’s awake!” Why am I in a hospital bed? I should be in the ground, not in a hospital. This isn’t where dead people are supposed to be. There is my wife. “This isn’t where dead people are supposed to be,” I say to her. Her face grows concerned, and then a loud beeping noise pierces my ears. The beeping noise hurts my ears. My chest hurts. Now they are bringing out paddles, metal ones. “I want to be buried in the sea” I say, and then the paddles hit my chest and

Happy

For the fifth time in his life, Ralf Rooney was happy. The first time had been when he was a little kid, playing naked in a sand box, enjoying the rough texture of the sand against his skin. The second time was during the first time he really spent time with a girl. The third time was when he made love to that girl, after their marriage on the tenth of September, 1988. The happiness he was experiencing now was the kind that seems unrelenting; he felt compelled to leap from his bed and skip, to explode in laughter and enjoyment, to revel in the feeling and to never leave from it. Every bone, every muscle in what was left of his body seemed to scream for joy. He cried, he wept, and the people around him all hugged him in congratulations and wonderment.

He could move his legs again.

It wasn’t that he had been completely against being disabled. He had accepted it, as he calmly and methodically accepted everything in his life. He had accepted it with a cool attitude, looking down on those who looked down on him. Never loosing his pride, never loosing his life, always accepting what had been given him with a healthy dose of distaste against those who would think of him differently. His family hadn’t thought of him differently, and neither had Rachel, his first and only sweetheart.

Now he could walk.

It was such a foreign thought to him now. Being injured. But now he was healed, back into the normal world—or at least partly normal. He would have two mechanical titanium legs, that wasn’t normal. But still, he could walk like a normal person, and he could always talk like a normal person. He could keep his same job, as a computer engineer. They would balk over his new legs, saying “congratulations”, “I’m sure its great to be back in the normal world”, “how are you feeling?” etc. etc. There might even be a party. Ralf Rooney loved parties.

But for now, he was happy.

“I am sorry,” said the doctor, “but most of the plastic surgeons agree that there really isn’t anything they can do for his disfigurement.” They were talking, of course, about his face. It too had been damaged in the car crash. But Rachel didn’t care, so he didn’t care. No one seemed to care, no one, that was, except those he met on the street, or those he encountered in the grocery store, or those he would soon stand next to while taking a piss in a public urinal. No one actually said anything, no one ran or stared or even showed to give a glancing look. They had been taught not to do such things. But it didn’t matter to him, none of it mattered. He could walk again.

And that was all that mattered.

One time, when he was still in a wheelchair, he had encountered a curb without a cut in it. He couldn’t get up, he knew he couldn’t get up, but he tried anyway. He turned his chair backwards, brought it to the edge of the curb, and slowly turned the wheels, trying to ensure that they got enough grip on the curb to lift him off the ground. The wheels slipped though, he couldn’t get over the curb. He cursed to himself. It was late at night and there was no one around and he wanted to get home to take a piss. He decided to change his method. He moved his chair forward about four paces and then began to speed up backwards. The back of his wheels nailed the curb, his chair suddenly lurched backwards, and he went spilling out of it, limp legs and all. Alone under the street light, on his back, his legs useless beneath him, he lay there. And then it began to rain

Then he broke out laughing. That had been the fourth time he had ever been happy in his life, laying on the street getting soaked in the warm rain. And nothing he could do to stop it.

Something about that memory brought another smile to his face. He had been happy then, as he was happy now. So strange how suddenly it can come upon someone. So strange, and so wonderful. He supposed that was a necessary component to happiness. Surprise. Suddenness. The unexpectedness of it all, the sudden good feeling of rough sand against your naked skin, the sudden brush of your lips against hers, the monumental ecstasy of getting rained on while you lay there helpless, just soaking it in. The cure had been equally surprising. A test run, a trial. His legs would only be able to stay in for a few months, and then they would have to be taken out again. But he was promised that he would have new legs a few months after that, once they had perfected them. This didn’t bother him, and made him happy too. He would get a time to say good bye to his previous life. To remember what it was like to be crippled and sometimes helpless. Not always helpless, just sometimes—the way one is helpless to put down their happiness when it comes rushing up to them.

Ralf Rooney took one foot off his hospital bed and put it on the floor. Then the other foot. He steadied himself up, wobbled around a bit, and then fell flat on his ass.

Suddenly he woke up from his dream, finding himself on his bedroom floor. It had all been a dream.

And he helplessly began to

A Class in Anarchy

“The first rule when creating high explosives is that no smoking is allowed. The second rule is that no talking, apart from asking me questions, is allowed. The third rule is that idiots who ask me questions while making high explosives are not allowed to create high explosives. Are these rules all clear?”

Everyone in the underground basement nodded their heads.

“Very well. The first explosive we shall be designing is a simple pipe bomb, which I am sure that you are all familiar with. The first thing you do is to fill a plastic pipe with gunpowder. You take the plastic pipe, and put it inside the metal pipe. The plastic prevents the bomb from pre-detonating, as steel can spark. We also use it for another purpose, which is to add napalm, which will be poured in after the plastic pipe is inside the metal pipe. You put the fuse inside the plastic pipe before you put the napalm in, is that clear? To make the napalm, we will simply stir a gallon of gasoline with a gallon of soap. The soap will eventually dissolve within the gasoline, making it a gelatin yet liquid like substance. Again, there is no smoking allowed. No flames, no sparks, no electronics. Do you all understand?”

Richard Gears, once high explosive expert for the military, stood slightly slouched in front of the group, directing their effort to wage war against the government they had grown to hate. Explosives were only one of the war fronts. Machine guns, flame throwers, and deadly computer viruses were all being developed or imported around the clock to more than 35 of the United States’ population, being supplied by more than 70 of the arms dealers throughout the world. Finally people were realizing that the size of the government was proving the old theory that power leads the slippery slope of corruption, which leads to the desire to more power, which can only lead to more corruption. After being dependent on the government’s drugs for the past thirty years, one man finally broke out of his daze and blew up his local government’s drug supply center. His true name was unknown, but he called himself “the politician.”

Jetteck Havelock worked intently on mixing the soap with the gasoline within his large bucket, aware of the incredible danger of putting his face over it, but still wanting to look into it as its gooey substance formed. How had he gotten here? Why was he doing this? These were questions he continually asked himself every day.

But he knew why he was here, and he didn’t feel like discussing it with himself any further.

When the napalm was of consistency, he went over to one of the pipe bombs and filled it nearly to the brim with the fluidic substance. When the pipe detonated, it would now spray the liquid for at least a thirty-foot radius—thus increasing the power of the weapon by over three hundred percent. In addition, the napalm could burn through the resistant Kevlar of the military, and, even if it didn’t, it would create massive panic and chaos.

“Alright, that is enough for now,” Richard Gears said calmly an hour later. The same way he said almost everything calmly. “Everyone get to the firing room for target practice.

The firing room, of course, was a room surrounded in sound resistant padding, in an attempt to sound proof it, with targets on one end and a door on the other. Behind the targets stood a naked wall of dirt reinforced with steel mesh. Many kinds of firearms were available, but by far the most popular was the remade Russian Takarev Semi-Automatic Pistol, cast in a combination of steel and light carbonate with a firm rubber grip and an anti-recoil gas ejection system. For a rifle, most preferred the de-commissioned M4, a large shipment of which had been recently confiscated in a US trade with war lords in the Sudan. Ammo for this weapon was plentiful on every soldier they killed, in addition to receiving large shipments of it from over-seas arms dealers, many wealthy and prominent American citizens were funding them and supplying them under the counter with weapons, food, ammunition, and the materials necessary to create explosives.

Jetteck knew what a rebels life was like. He had lived one for over a year and a half. Little food, no sleep, constant fear of the government discerning your position and dropping a bomb directly upon your head. You had to live in constant understanding that in the next second, you may die. The thing you wanted most was alcohol, and there was very little. Or at least it seemed like there was never enough. In the next moment, people could be trying to break down the steel reinforced door leading into your room. If they did, you would have to pick up your Russian Takarev Semi-Automatic pistol, which you kept under your pillow or directly on your person, move into the shadows or behind strong cover, sit still, and wait for them to come—never flinching when gunfire came pouring into your room. Your hand had to be steady, no matter if a man or woman took a round through the head right next to you, spreading their brain matter all over your shoulder. There was to be no flinching from your target, only you and the warm steel tool in your hand—a tool used to stop those who wished to stop you.

Bang. Jetteck fired his round straight into the target ahead of him, and then another, and then another. They were trained to shoot at the head with pistols, chest with high powered rifles. A pistol round couldn’t pierce the enemies body armor, a rifle could.

Bang. But face to face combat was always the last resort. Bang. He had been trained in firing a weapon, but trying to go up against trained military men was suicide. Bang. Their enemy were outnumbered on almost every engagement, that was true, but they were better armed and armored, had more support and intelligence, and were far better trained in the aspects of killing. Bang. The only thing they didn’t have was certainty. Bang. Certainty for their cause. Bang. Certainty that they were doing the right thing. Bang. That was something which every rebel had, an advantage. In war, an advantage could mean your life

Jetteck handed his empty pistol to the next person in line, who quickly loaded it and continued firing. He went to the rifles, picked up an M4, and released small bursts through the heart and lungs of the target, the copper jackets slowly spilling onto the floor in groups of three round bursts. Finally, when the clip was empty, he left the room; going to the computer terminal and accessing his email account. Their primary mode of communication was through e-mails and locked chat rooms. The government had tried to outlaw sites not registered (and monitored) on the government database, but they had failed miserably. They had tried to disconnect the internet network, but it was already too hardwired into the country. Anything they destroyed was quickly replaced through underground tunnels. Sewers were useful, or simply cables stretching naked across terrain. The military clipped these, as often as they could, but computer monitors allowed people to trace the disconnections and repair them, or form new ones. The over ground communications were often only temporary anyway.

Cell phones were nearly useless, and walkie-talkies were too dangerous. All the cell phone towers had been torn down and only authorized personnel could use the satellites. GPS systems were also hacked by the government; they had learned that lesson when more than a hundred men and women had died because one idiot brought along a GPS locator. They all died not knowing they were going to die. They were probably sleeping, or playing cards, or listening to music, or taking a shower, or making love. Then they were dead.

Their only weapon was surprise, and their only amour was invisibility. They knew the meaning of guerilla warfare, they had been given books and online lessons and oral trainers. People who were once history teachers taught them about American’s history, about the Revolutionary war. How men then shed blood against the monarchy just as men and women now were shedding blood against the tyranny. They were given access to banned books, from Locke, to Smith, from Keynes to Aristotle. They could read Marx, Engels and Plato. They could read anything they wanted to, all the masters of literature, all the instigators of revolution and peace. King Jr. and Hitler. Stalin and Washington. Jefferson and the Bible. Nothing could hold them back, the information was all available on the internet. They would have weekly discussions on what they had read, on what they had done, on what they were doing. They would try and empathize with those who lost their friends, and they would cry over their own loss. Jetteck had lost his girlfriend, his wife really—but there had been no formal ceremony. He considered her his wife all the same; his love, his joy, his death. The mother of his child; also dead. She had died when that bomb dropped because of the GPS. He had been away, planting a roadside explosive. His son or daughter had been too young to die, too young for war.

Everyone stank. Always. There were communal showers, but they also stank. Soap was plentiful, as it was often used to make napalm, but it was useless against the massive barrage of sweat and piss and shit and blood and chemicals. There was hardly any air conditioning, at least not enough. It was always blood curdlingly hot. An iced drink was heaven. A cool night was God himself.

It was cool this night, as he stealthily walked from a tunnel, leading into the abandoned and bomb-torn remnants of a bank. Four men followed him, also silent, also staying in the shadows. They were to place a roadside explosive, equipped with an electronic detonation device which the local shop owner—who was apathetic to their cause—could press in order to destroy a military vehicle if it came by. There was no reason that he would have to be found out. No one could find out. He would be completely safe, at least Jetteck hopped so. That was where they got a large chunk of their food.

A shot rang clear through the night air, a bullet hole appeared to Jetteck’s left. Were these motherfuckers crazy? They weren’t even carrying assault weapons, there was no firearm visible. Although they were lined in black Kevlar and equipped with fully automatic uzzi’s and sawn off shotguns, it amazed him that there were orders to shoot first and ask questions latter.

He nodded to the man, a boy really, next to him. The man pulled out a small plastic ball, opened a hard plastic cover, and pressed the button. First waiting five seconds, the ten threw the object, turned around and covered his eyes. Everyone else in the group did the same. A slight “pufff” sounded, very briefly, and then they all ran out into the street and into another building. “Agh,” they heard the man scream from the building. He had been wearing night vision goggles.

Quickly they put the bomb underneath the mail box, it stuck there well out of sight; and then ran into the building where the soldier had been stationed. Quickly and silently they climb a few flights of stairs and then waited in ambush in one of the rooms. Their breathing was hard, but they slowed it quickly as they heard the soldiers coming down. Jetteck had a pipe bomb ready, it had been recently made. He lit the fuse and threw it at an angle into the hallway, where it bounced up into the corner of the stairwell. “Oh shit” he heard, and then it burst, red and yellow flames flying all the way down to the other side of the hall, but not into Jettecks room.

The night was no longer cool. It was a blazing furnace. Jetteck quickly climbed out the window, the men under his command followed. They took to the shadows, waiting to see if anyone was coming. Jetteck took a peek around the corner using a modified web cam attached to a palm pilot. Four men were coming to investigate the explosion. “Bloody fuck,” Jetteck said under his breath. “Here they come.”

Like moths to a flame they came. But they were cautious moths. When the soldiers rounded their corner, he immediately opened fire, hitting one in the head before any could get a shot off. His comrades fire their weapons and two more men went down. There had been a total of five, now there were two. The remaining two opened fire, a round hit Jetteck in the stomach, he could feel it slice through him, but it wasn’t fatal. A shot rang from the other man’s rifle and

Good Business

Jack Stopper enjoyed selling groceries. It was a good business and his patrons were all nice people. He would say “hello” and “goodbye” and tell them to “have a nice day” and they would say “you too” and “I will” and be very happy and polite. It was a nice business, everyone was so kind and understanding. No one complained, no one was ever seriously angry. They had never had any serious incidents.

The man in front of him was tiny, such a small man really. He must not have worked out very much. Jack Stoppoer was very strong. He had been lifting grocery crates and running every day of his life. He ate healthy and exercised regularly. He took good care of his body. He was a handsome man, or at least he liked to think of himself that way. He had a nice wife, Rosemarry. She had been recently injured from slipping on the ice. She had broken her back, and was in a wheelchair. He had a son, who was in college, and a daughter who was a senior in high school. He loved them both very much, and his wife as well. He had had only one affair, and his wife had forgiven him for it. He had been very sorry for that. He was still very sorry for that. The man in front of him had a gun.

“I said give me all your money old man.”

That gun made the difference in their physical size quite meaningless. A weapon can do a lot of things, but one of the things it can do is make the largest man feel extremely small. “Y-Yes. The money. H-here. T-t-take it all.” He handed over a large wad of twenty and ten dollar bills. The man ripped them out of his hands, withdrew the gun, and ran off with them. Jack Stopper bent over and threw up all over the counter.

The police came. They seemed very nice. “Tell us what he looked like.” “White,” said Jack, “with blond hair.” “Could you give us a facial description for an artist?” “No, I was looking at his gun, not at his face.” “How much did he steal?” “Probably two thousand dollars in twenty dollar bills.” “We will try to keep on the lookout for him. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Jack nodded; they were very nice. He knew they couldn’t help him, but at least they were kind about it. Jack felt cold, even though it was summer. He had goosebumps. He was still frightened, there was no doubt about that. He wasn’t used to having a gun in his face, it had given him a horrible scare. He wasn’t used to being small, to being powerless. He had an ego, a small one, one that doesn’t really get in the way, but an ego none-the-less—and he enjoyed having it. He enjoyed joking about it and making fun of it and other people made fun of it too and that was fine. It wasn’t a real ego, it was just what he put on for show, because he knew it was funny and because it made Rosemerry laugh. He didn’t have an ego now. He just felt sick.

He didn’t know how he could look at people the same way again. Didn’t know how he could function when he was alone, or, even worse, with someone he loved. Wondering if the next person might point a gun at his face, make him feel small. How could he have an ego if he were small? He decided

The Philosophy of the Shroud

“Everything is relative. These connections between people are imaginary constructs made by our society—each person is their own individual, with their own morality. There is nothing wrong with other moralities, they are simply different. Thus society, in order to preserve peace, attempts to unify morality through law. Law is the real construction of the people’s majority will. It is the only moral guide that anyone can find.” The teacher paused in between his reading. “Does anyone know what this means? Comments and critiques please.”

“I think it is talking about Africa, about the Anarchy that is going on in the Sudan. It is saying that that is the conceptualization of no law, and it is obvious that in such a place that everyone has different concepts of what is moral. He might be also talking about how he thinks Anarchy is wrong.”

The teacher nodded, and then nodded his head directly to another student. “I think its talking about the different interest groups within the United States. How some people for instance are strongly against abortion, and some aren’t. Or how some are strongly for the Second Amendment, and some want it repealed. Neither of these are really right or wrong, it is just the majority that rules.”

Again the teacher nodded his head. He then nodded his head to another person. “I think he is talking about religion, about how different people view death differently. There are many religions, and none of them can be right or wrong since each person has a different conception of God.”

The teacher didn’t nod his head this time, but smiled and selected another student. “I am sure that it is talking about the different classes of society, how they clash and how people have to be equal economically in order to have the correct morality and how once society limits class conflict, it will be easier for people to cooperate.”

The teacher smiled even more brightly. “Wonderful!” he proclaimed, “you as a group have nearly proven his theory—different people see morality differently. You can’t compare one person’s views with another through logic because that is like trying to compare apples and oranges—there just isn’t any overarching morality available. Now many people will say that the greatest good for the greatest number is their morality, and this is a pretty common viewpoint, no? But another large moral viewpoint which was provided for us was the idea of rights. His argument is that rights are pretty much meaningless—since everyone has different conceptions of morality. Sure, some people think strongly of rights, but they really don’t have any more importance than, say, your desire to get cherry buble gum, or your idea that everyone should be more equal. His idea is that we are all on a level playing field, and that the only way to come together is to do so as brothers, because we can never reach any agreement without the connection of family.”

One more student thrust his hand into the air. The teacher slowly selected him. He opened his mouth in anger and said, “I think it is idiotic. The author completely refuses to make the most important connections between people, such as…”

“Yes, well I am sure that you have many irrelevant connections, we can see from the writings that

How Such Little Things End

She looked into his eyes, her eyes so bright and beautiful and sad and said, “I already have someone I love, and it is not you.”

And then the paddles hit my chest and I don’t remember anything else. I must be dead after that. But I will say, I am no longer worried about being dead.

Suddenly he woke up from his dream, finding himself on his bedroom floor. It had all been a dream.

And he helplessly began to laugh, probably waking his wife. He couldn’t walk, who was he kidding? It was all a dream. But he was still happy. He couldn’t walk, and he was happy.

A shot rang from the other man’s rifle and suddenly brain matter and blood came hailing down all over Jetteck’s shoulder. Jetteck’s hands did not shake and his resolve did not waver as he raised his sawn off shotgun, pointed it at the soldier, and fired. The soldier went down. Jetteck reached down to his stomach, blood came gushing out, he felt it wet his genitals. He dropped his weapon and put his other hand over the gaping hole in him. “Lets get you back,” the man said next to him. Jetteck nodded and began to walk.

He decided that he would buy a handgun. In order to defend himself against those who might steal his pride and his money from him again. “Yes” he said to himself, nodding, “I will need to buy a handgun.” He felt better after that. He breathed warm air into his lungs and his nausea went away. He felt better.

“…people simply do not have anything which unifies them. There is nothing significant to connect our moralities—everyone’s viewpoints are different, and thus everyone’s morals have to be largely different. Any similar morals we have are due to society attempting to bestow us with a certain view of what is right and wrong. And this seems to be, at least in my view, good. Society functioned when religion could move people’s souls and make them follow Biblical morals, and society also functioned when nationalism lead them to follow their country. But that no longer works anymore; force is the only thing which functions any longer to keep people unified. Force is a way to weed out different moralities, because those that don’t shy away from it will be punctured through their heart—and will no longer be a problem to society. That is what he is saying, and I think that is a very important viewpoint for us to examine. Morals can only be resolved through force.”

For people try to flock

To whatever they can mock

But there they sink

As they try to think