We Lost the Sun (We Lost the Moon)

We lost the sun.

We lost the moon.

We forgot the words.

We forgot the tune.

Out here in the cold

We do what we’re told

We were two lemons on a train.

I followed her out into the rain.

She would laugh and say,

'Have you heard the latest news?

China is sending rockets to the moon.'

There are clouds of dust on Mars.
There are mountains on the moon.

We forgot the words.

We forgot the tune.

Out here in the cold

We do what we’re told

We were two lemons on a train.

I followed her out into the rain.

She would laugh and say,

'Have you heard the latest news?

China is sending rockets to the moon.'

She would laugh and say,

'Have you heard the latest news?

China is sending rockets to the moon.'

The Pinball Wizard of Las Vegas

The Pinball Wizard of Las Vegas 

(for Larry) 

I walked around in a kind of bubble. 

I could look out but no one could look in. 

I took only shallow breaths, the air was thin, 

the oxygen limited. 

No one knew 

about the dark thing that held me captive. 

In Las Vegas, my favorite cousin 

mangled his hand between the whirring blades of a machine. 

All that remained was a partial palm. 

I was ten; he was sixteen. 

Soon he arrived at my grandmother’s house 

and I had to face the horror 

of what he had lost. 

His palm was bandaged, 

hidden from view, 

wrapped up like a miniature mummy. 

He held a white, plastic ball and tossed it to me. 

I tossed it back; he caught it 

by pulling on the bottom of his shirt, 

using it as a kind of glove 

for the ball to softly land. 

My fears of facing him vanished. 

I was free. 

How did he know how 

I had suffered? 

Later the Las Vegas Sun 

wrote an article about him 

and his prowess at pinball 

(using just one hand and a palm). 

He would often sit 

in front of his house, drinking beer, 

watching over his muscle car; 

and when a can 

was thrown at his metallic prize, 

he would be off to the Vegas Strip, 

chasing after the perpetrator. 

Still later, he worked 

for the Department of Defense 

at the Nevada Test Site. 

He held the highest of security clearances. 

He married. But he knew the dark side 

of man’s inventiveness, of man’s machines. 

He knew that they could bite, 

that accidents happen. So he quit his job. 

His wife took pills and he drank. 

The money ran out, there were fights. 

It ended with the suicide of his bride. 

He became emaciated and depressed. 

His bones poked through his skin. 

Somehow he seemed to hover above us all. 

Then the convulsions began and he fell 

through the clouds, a diver, 

free falling, tumbling, without wings, 

without a chute. 

Z World (Stories)

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Z WORLD — The old ones had grand and glorious machines. They could fly across oceans. Their sailing vessels filled the skies. They inhabited glittering cities of light. They mapped the stars and sent men into space—but they went mad and destroyed themselves. We are their offspring. Z World is so named as it stands at the end of that old world, faint traces of which can still be seen in our world, in ruins and refuse not yet been reclaimed by nature—its rolling hills, farms, forests and streams. We do not know what lies beyond our shores. Our seafaring vessels are not capable of traversing the globe. Over many generations our people have engaged in battles but nothing like the great wars of the past. We live a peaceful existence. We feel blessed. We share a common language with the old world, with our ancestors; even so, many of their words seem foreign to us and are difficult to decipher. The old ones were capable of great magic. They were able to record and transmit images of themselves across great distances. This art has now been lost. We do have transcripts of these talking pictures along with faded photographs, ragged books and other deteriorating volumes archived in makeshift libraries. Sadly the largest of these libraries recently burned. This is why we have decided to compile and distill from the existing archives a few stories that moved us. We are thinking of future generations, that there will be a record not just of sacred texts, of poets and philosophers (of that we have already made abundant copies), but we wish to produce (using the archives and literary techniques discovered in the books of the old ones) a record of the final months before death and the whirlwind overtook them. 

WHITE NIGHTS (NOVELLA) — Robert Rouan is a kind of Don Quixote with a heroin habit. Strung out and desperate for drugs, Rouan stabs a drug dealer in a scuffle in the North of Paris. He is then locked up in the Santé, an old prison. After rumors spread that Rouan is a spy, he is brutally beaten and falls into a deep coma. Decades later, Rouan awakens to an altered and damaged world, marred by wars and the collapse of the U.S. Government. What is left of America is under quarantine: where life is controlled by monolithic corporations and its inhabitants live in misery. 

"During the day prayer rugs were set down. Over half the inmates in the Santé were Muslims originally coming from Pakistan, Tunisia, Algeria, West Africa and Morocco, in the last generation or two. Prayers were said throughout Block C five times daily. Many of the inmates studied the Quran. Most of this activity was clandestine; it was not approved of by the prison authorities; catholic chaplains were made available but very few imams were officially sanctioned and made available to the prison population. Located just south of the Sorbonne on the Left Bank, the poets Paul Verlaine and Apollinaire had once been incarcerated behind its towering walls as had members of the French resistance during the second World War. It now housed the assassin, Carlos the Jackal, and an assortment of thugs, petty thieves, murderers, rapists, psychopaths and even transvestites. This was not what Rouan's fellow countryman in the United States imagined when they thought of visiting Paris. It would be hard for them to picture what life was like in that graying fortress, built in the nineteenth century and designed more like a castle than a prison with its turrets and oval passageways..." 

PETER PAN, UFOs & THE MARLBORO MAN (SHORT STORY) 

Z World

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"You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us," Scrooge pursued. "Is that so, Spirit?"

The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received.

Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit pauses a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover.

But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black.

"Ghost of the Future!" he exclaimed, "I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart.

Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His mind was bound by a gray sea.

He could feel its power tumbling in his chest.

His eyes were cold but his skin was warm.

He saw things as they were not as others wished.

His songs are mostly forgotten now.

But somehow he is still with us, 

in the sound of the surf, 

in the rush of ocean waves echoing in our ears.

The King in a Country of Rain

When the rains came, who would have guessed that he kept a secret?
That he knew his kingdom would fall, castles and all.

He was no prophet. He was just a king lost in dreams
that no one could not quite recall.

When the rains came, who would have guessed that he kept a secret?
That he knew his kingdom would fall, castles and all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The old ones had grand and glorious machines. They could fly across oceans. Their sailing vessels filled the skies. They inhabited glittering cities of light. They mapped the stars and sent men into space—but they went mad and destroyed themselves. We are their offspring. Z World is so named as it stands at the end of that old world, faint traces of which can still be seen in our world, in ruins and refuse not yet been reclaimed by nature—its rolling hills, farms, forests and streams.

We do not know what lies beyond our shores. Our seafaring vessels are not capable of traversing the globe. Over many generations our people have engaged in battles but nothing like the great wars of the past. We live a peaceful existence. We feel blessed.

We share a common language with the old world, with our ancestors; even so, many of their words seem foreign to us and are difficult to decipher. The old ones were capable of great magic. They were able to record and transmit images of themselves across great distances. This art has now been lost. We do have transcripts of these talking pictures along with faded photographs, ragged books and other deteriorating volumes archived in makeshift libraries. 

Sadly the largest of these libraries recently burned. This is why we have decided to compile and distill from the existing archives a few stories that moved us. We are thinking of future generations, that there will be a record not just of sacred texts, of poets and philosophers (of that we have already made abundant copies), but we wish to produce (using the archives and literary techniques discovered in the books of the old ones) a record of the final months before death and the whirlwind overtook them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Best friends, Parker Jane and Star adored each other. Star had long strawberry blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Parker Jane had short dark hair and dark eyes. Star was a dreamer; Parker Jane, a realist. Never jealous of the other, they celebrated their differences. Where one was weak, the other was strong. They were closer than twins and would often read to each other from their diaries, sharing their most intimate thoughts and secrets, as only twelve year old girls can.

Star looked up at the sky and pointed, “Do you see those dark clouds?”

“So what?” Parker Jane looked up and shrugged.

“Do you think it is going to rain?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“I don’t want it to rain.”

“Not rain. We need rain. We need water, Star. Without water we would die.”

“When it rains people get sick.”

“Everyone gets sick sometimes.”

“But it is happening more and more. Reverend Flowers said Eurasia is seeding the clouds with poison.”

“That’s a myth, Star.”

“Reverend Flowers said Eurasia is the enemy and they want to kill us.”

“Kill us. Eurasia doesn’t care about us.”

“Reverend Flowers said they don’t believe in God. They want to take our freedom away.”

“Reverend Flowers is a big bag of wind.”

“Reverend Flowers is the head of this compound. He is our leader. He shows us the ways of God.”

“God,” Parker Jane laughed. “What God?”

“Please Parker don’t say that. You must believe in God.”

“Star, don’t be silly.”

“See, it's starting to rain.” Star held her hands out as she caught droplets of rain in her palms. “Let’s get inside. God may not protect you from lightning, the way you have been talking Parker Jane.”

“I’m not afraid,” Parker Jane said defiantly.

“Because you know deep down God loves you. God loves us all.”

“Even atheists?”

“Even atheists. God loves sinners most of all.”

“Oh, I’m a sinner because I don’t believe in fairy tales, is that how it is?”

“No we are all sinners, Parker Jane.”

“Star, sometimes you drive me crazy, but I still love you.”

“I love you, too. Hurry let’s get inside. I don’t want either of us to get sick.”

Star was right about one thing. After it rained, people would often get sick, and it was happening more and more often. It had been three hundred years since the first atomic bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima. After that, the world suffered wars and man-made plagues. As the art of warfare advanced, death ruled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Parker Jane and Star idolized Princess Larissa. She was so beautiful. She was so much better than any actress or storybook character. She really was a princess. She was the only child of King Harold. She lived in a grand palace, an estate, overlooking the ocean. She wore beautiful gowns. Since Parker Jane and Star were orphans (their parents died in wars overseas), Princess Larissa was both an imaginary big sister and fairy godmother.

At nineteen, Princess Larissa seemingly had it all—glamour, fame, charm. But she harbored a secret. A secret, no one but her father knew. No one guessed. She felt there was no one she could tell. She spent hours alone, talking to herself, wandering, thinking, and worrying about the future, worrying about what would become of her if her secret got out. She would often look up into the sky and search for an answer but heard nothing. She was alone. It seemed so unfair. She wished she could be lifted up into the clouds and drift away to another land far from her own country, far from her shame. She was a prisoner caged in a palace. Often she could roam the grounds of the estate but she was seldom seen in public (occasionally she would visit a local hospital, this gave her great joy and she always introduced herself simply as Larissa without fanfare and with her security detail out of sight).  

After the death of her mother, the horrible thing began. Her father heartbroken and drunk stayed in bed for days. She tried to comfort him, she loved him so. One night he awakened her as he slipped into her bed in the dark. He was crying and babbling incoherently. At first, she patted him on the shoulder and kissed him on the cheek to calm him. She stopped suddenly. She could feel his erection pressed against her. Then it happened, he entered her. She was a virgin. It was a strange sensation. She cried out but he continued. “Please stop,” she begged him and still he continued. Finally, he collapsed while still inside her. She pushed him away. He slept. She got up and went to the bathroom; the bathroom light was cold and clinical. She was in shock, she moved around as if in a trance. There was blood between her legs. She showered. She sat in the bathroom on the cold floor all night and cried.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In his Chapel Hall office, Prime Minister Westerbrook sat on a red velvet sofa. Gray and handsome, he sipped on a cup of coffee.  Seated on a chair across from him sat a portly, balding man: Chief of Staff Cyril Blakely.

“What about this virus? Where does it come from? Why now? Why are there so many new cases?” Prime Minister Westerbrook asked.

“Yes it is true, many have fallen sick. The death toll is rising. But we have suffered with so many of these viruses. We do not even know if the sick are all suffering from the same disease. We’re not sure about any of this,” Chief of Staff Blakely answered back.

“Is there any truth to the rumors that Eurasia is behind this?”

Eurasia was the most powerful country in the world. Their leader, Premier Tsong, ruled ruthlessly. Many people lived in forced labor camps. Travel was prohibited there. It had suffered through civil wars for a generation and had been under martial law for just as long. The Pope was under house arrest for speaking out against the regime.

“No.” Blakely replied with certainty.

“You seem sure of yourself. How can that be?”

Blakely knew something. Prime Minister Westerbrook could read his old friend easily.

“I only mean to say that there is no evidence that Eurasia has anything to do with it. That rumor is something that Reverend Flowers fabricated to stir up the fanatics on the right. His claims are bogus. He is still upset over all the cutbacks to the military.”

Prime Minister Westerbrook had decommissioned the armed forces and scrapped their machines of war. The people were sick of war. He had been voted into office on that promise (with Chief of Staff Blakely as his campaign manager). Prime Minister Westerbrook kept his promise. There would be no more fighting overseas. The defense system that protected the borders from invaders remained intact; it was formidable and state of the art. But no retaliatory force was left to engage in wars on the other side of the world.

“Still you are not telling me something. Tell me.”

Blakely flushed, his ears turned red. “There is one thing. Not substantiated. It is possible Zion Industries is involved.”

“Zion Industries, Zion Industries,” Prime Minister Westerbrook repeated.  Zion Industries funded Westerbrook’s campaign and developed many wonder drugs. They were one of the most respected companies in the land. But after the military was decommissioned, they worked on a secret project developing viruses and vaccines. This worried Westerbrook. His face turned ashen. “I want to know everything.”

“Yes.”

“And if it is their bug, do they have a vaccine?”

“Part of the protocol would call for the vaccine to be developed along with the virus. But with this, from what I can gather, there is some confusion.”

“Find out,” Prime Minister Westerbrook was livid.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Princess Larissa could not sit still. She decided to go for a walk. She had to move, and in moving somehow (as if by magic) leave the past behind. Maybe something would change; anything that would relieve her of her suffering. She thought the beach would be the best place to walk. She took a deep breath and descended a steep and long set of wooden stairs to the water. The wind blew hard and cold. She shivered. She wore only a thin, blue jacket. The sunlight brought out the highlights in her hair. It shimmered. She had the face, walk and frail figure of a fashion model. Looking at her, no one would guess that her spirit had been ravaged, that her sanity had been shattered.

What was to be done? She asked herself. In the beginning she could not bring herself to say anything to her father. But when it happened again (and only later when he was sober), she said something to him. He pretended not to understand, that he had no memory of the event. But she spotted the darkness, the guilt that weighed him down. She told him he must never come into her bed again. Ever. Finally, he muttered something about how drunk he was and that he did not think too much could have happened.

“It happened,” she insisted “and it must never happen again.”

“Okay,” he agreed. But it did happen again and again.

Princess Larissa continued her walk along the beach. She was a young, beautiful woman but had no boyfriend or lovers (her shame of what her father had done was too great). She watched as the waves crashed against the sand.  What could she do? Who could she tell? Who would believer her? Her father was king. He was above the law. In her mind she turned the problem over and over like the waves tumbling on the shore. She could not push the problem away; she could not command the tide to recede.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Did you hear?” Star was out breath and flushed as she grabbed and clutched Parker Jane by the arm.

“Hear what?” Parker Jane asked back, shaking her head.

“It is the greatest news,” Star exclaimed.

“Tell me,” Parker Jane smiled.

“Princess Larissa will be on TV, an exclusive interview. She will actually talk, answer questions.”

“When?”

“Friday night.”

Parker Jane and Star then made plans to watch Princess Larissa in the community center (where holographic images were projected on to a big stage that transformed normal size humans into thirty foot giants).  Parker Jane and Star even skipped dinner. All over the country folks awaited the arrival of Princess Larissa in their homes on TV.

That Friday night, the community center was packed. Even so, Parker and Star found seats upfront. They were wide eyed and never happier. Princess Larissa very rarely spoke publicly and never sat for such a lengthy interview. The interview was conducted by Chaisley Citrone, a veteran reporter and war correspondent. Before Parker Jane and Star could catch their breath Princess Larissa appeared before them. She seemed to look right into their souls.

Chaisley Citrone, a small pretty woman in her mid thirties, walked beside Princess Larissa on the grounds of the king’s estate.

“Let us start with something sad, the death of your mother, our queen, just a year ago.”

 “Yes, her death was so hard, so unexpected, such a shock,” Princess Larissa remained composed but weary, mournful.

“I am sure you think of her often here on the estate.”

“Yes, of course I do. Just over there is her beloved garden; depending on the season, it would be filled with roses, orchids and lilies. She so loved to sit next to the pond in spring and watch the world turn green.”

“Your father, the king, took the death of his queen hard. We all remember the speech he gave at her funeral.”

Princess Larissa froze and did not reply.

“It is still difficult for you to talk about it, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That’s right,” Princess Larissa spoke in a monotone devoid of emotion.

Chaisley Citrone did not expect such a response. It was as if the mention of her father had taken her breath away.

“Let’s move on. Larissa, I can call you that I trust?”

“You may. That is my name,” she smiled. Her mood changed.

“What are your plans for the future?”

“I will be attending nursing school.”

“Nursing school, is that right?”

“Yes, I feel I have a call to work with the sick.”

“Still, it is a surprising choice.”

“Possibly. But I have done some volunteer work at hospitals. I spent hours with many of the sick, some who died while I was in the room. When I see the elderly who cannot help themselves, or any of the sick, I want to help. But what I can do is limited since I have no training. I want to do so much more. Our hospitals are filling up. What hurts me the most is seeing the children. They are so innocent. When they die, it breaks my heart. There are so many sick now. We all most do something, whatever we can.”

“This new virus is taking hold all over the country.”

“Yes, it is terrible. You should know, the sick are not contagious. We cannot catch the disease from them.”

“How does one become infected?”

“That is a mystery. That we do not know.”

“What is usually the best treatment?”

“There is no treatment.  There is no cure.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reverend Flowers announced to the press that he would be making an important speech from the pulpit of his church to be broadcast nationwide on the following Sunday. His sermons were often broadcast on Sunday mornings but this was different. This would be no ordinary sermon; he declared it vital to all. Parker Jane and Star would be singing in the children’s choir, before the speech. When they heard the news, they were ecstatic (Parker Jane and Star were wonderful singers). Later they would watch themselves (in a replay of the event) on the big stage in the community center.

There were several rehearsals which Reverend Flowers attended. But he omitted his speech (that was kept secret). The press engaged in a guessing game, but all of their guesses were wrong. Strangely, Reverend Flowers did notice Star during one of the rehearsals and complemented her on her voice (after she sang a solo, or rather a short refrain). “One of the angels” he was heard to say. Star had never been given praise from such an important figure. Parker Jane discretely rolled her eyes. But when she saw the look the pride on Star’s face, she kept her sarcasm to herself.

Parker Jane and Star arrived early at the church (already wearing their chiffon gowns). Then they waited. Parker Jane could see that Star was nervous. She gently patted Star on the shoulder and smiled. Star caught her breath and smiled back. As Reverend Flowers entered the church, the choir began. Star seemed to be floating, in another world, her eyes glittering, as she sang.

Soon everyone was seated and Reverend Flowers made his way to the pulpit. His hair was gray, his shiny well scrubbed face and jowls were smooth shaven; he was a big man (one could even say fat). Even so, he was a man of distinction, power and authority as he stood above the congregation; his voice boomed out for all to hear.

“Today, I will not speak of the ways of God, the angels and heaven. Today I will speak of evil, of Satan, and of the sickness unto death that plagues and haunts this land. Over the past months, I have accused Eurasia and its evil empire of poisoning our land with a terrible virus. I have stated how foolish Prime Minister Westerbrook has been in dismantling our army and leaving us vulnerable to the vultures that would pick this country apart. But I have been wrong about one thing and one thing only. Eurasia did not create the virus that poisons our country. This poison was created in the laboratories of Zion Industries, the same company that funded the campaign of Paul Westerbrook. Zion Industries, following orders from the Prime Minister, began secretly making this deadly virus. This particular virus needs certain atmospheric conditions to incubate and metamorphisize in the clouds. After this transformation it is dispersed by rainwater. Once this contaminated rain comes in contact with the earth, toxins enter into its human hosts undetected. It then lies dormant for a time, days, weeks, sometimes months. Later it sickens its victims and ultimately kills them. How this weapon of war, created by Zion Industries, made its way into the atmosphere above us, is uncertain. It may have been an accident committed during some sort of testing phase. There is some evidence of this. But who authorized these secret tests against the will of the people? Prime Minister Westerbrook.  We must call on Zion Industries to release all records and to aid this country in a search for a vaccine. Everyone must then be inoculated. Before this, Prime Minister Westerbrook must resign. If not, he must be forcibly removed from office. That our greatest threat comes not from Eurasia but by Prime Minister Westerbrook in cahoots with Zion Industries is baffling. They worked in tandem, in secret, in the darkness, like the devil himself, shame on them. Again I say, Prime Minster Paul Westerbrook must resign. He is worse than a fiend.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mr. Speaker, Mr. Speaker,” the voice of Myles Kendrick boomed out in the House of Commons as cheers, applause and cries echoed throughout the chamber.

“Order, order, the opposition leader has the floor,” the speaker of the House said in reply.

“Mr. Speaker, we ask for all records of Zion Industries to be made available to a bi-partisan committee, made up of members of both the Conservative and Democratic Party. We cannot expect the government, the Ministers of Defense and Justice, to investigate this matter.”

Prime Minister Westerbrook stood up. “I have already put together a team to look into this matter discretely and to discover all facts no matter who will be hurt. We want the truth. We want a solution. This is all we care about. The country comes first.”

“Mr. Prime Minister,” Myles Kendrick shot back as he stood. “Reverend Flowers has done this country a great service in making this scandal known to the public. Your offices, Mr. Prime Minister and your ministers, were involved. They cannot investigate themselves.”

Cries were heard throughout the chamber once more.

“Order, order,” the speaker called out.

“Honorable leader of the opposition, it should be noted that is a highly delicate matter coming under the official secrets act (for the good of all). From what I know, Reverend Flowers does not have access to top secret documents and has not signed the official secrets act. This country will not be run by rumor and innuendo,” the Prime Minister declared.

“No, Prime Minister it will not. Nor will it be run by private organizations such as Zion Industries. It should noted that they are great friends and contributors to you and your party. That a secret contract was given to those responsible for your election is repugnant. It begs the questions, are you and your party bought and paid for by Zion Industries?”

Shouts (a kind of thunder) shook the House. Prime Minister Westerbrook stood, “Mr. Speaker, Mr. Speaker,” he called out. But he wasn't heard. Others stood and cried out.

“Order, order,” the speaker pleaded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Prime Minister sat alone in his darkened office. He hadn’t slept (except for the occasional nap) in over a week. This only added to his paranoia. But he wasn’t suffering from delusions; everywhere he turned he the saw the eyes of a monster, luminous in the dark, looking back at him, studying him, preparing to pounce. On his desk, were top secret documents. One contained the formula for a virus. This formula was unique. Westerbrook was astonished at how accurate Reverend Flowers description had been. In order to be activated it needed a unique chain of events to occur. A certain altitude along with a precise barometric environment was necessary in its first phase of development.  It would then be vaporized and fall back to earth when it rained—parts of its chemical structure deeply embedded within its DNA. Once it entered its human host, it would be fatal. The second insurmountable problem was that Zion Industries was not cooperating in any kind of investigation. After Reverend Flowers’ speech, finger pointing was followed by silence, a total blackout (the only visible activity taken was by public relations consultants, spin doctors and lawyers in tower suites illuminated throughout the night across the capital as they worked to protect the coffers of their clients). 

All the Prime Minister wanted was peace. Like his fellow countryman, he was sick of war, sick of the waste of human life, sick of the sorrow. The purpose of the secret project with Zion Industries was not so much as to create new viruses, new weapons of war, but to study how these viruses functioned and how to defend against them. The research was about cures and vaccines not about more killing and more death. Westerbrook sighed. How did it come to this? What would he do? He could resign. But how would that help in eradicating the disease that plagued the land? Would that only delay the search for a cure? Very few knew (except those at Zion Industries) the one terrible secret that haunted Prime Minister Westerbrook most of all. It was so terrible that Prime Minister Westerbrook prayed it wasn’t true—once released the virus was programmed to replicate itself over and over again. Its designers must have initially assumed its power at regeneration would dissipate. They were wrong, according to the study that sat before him on his desk, the virus was replicating itself at a faster pace as the days and months went by; it was growing stronger and infiltrating the clouds from coast to coast . Ultimately it would cover the entire planet. Seemingly, It could not be stopped. The only solution: find a vaccine. But without the help of Zion Industries, that would be impossible. No, Prime Minister Westerbrook thought, he must stay in office and convince Zion Industries to work with government scientists in finding a cure. It seemed the clouds themselves would have to be inoculated, if there was to be any hope for anyone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As she crossed the outer chamber of the palace office, Princess Larissa trembled. Upon entering the inner chamber door, the king, her father, looked up from his chair.

“Larissa, I very seldom see you at this time of day,” the king observed.

“No, you do not,” the princess replied, her voice seemed stern, aloof.

“There must be a reason for your midday visit”

“There is.”

The princess stood in the middle of the room and looked away.

“Come closer,” said the king.

The princess put her hands out but did not move. “Father, I have something to say. I have contacted the Greenville nursing school and have been accepted.”

“I see. As you know, I have no objection to you going to nursing school. I think it would be fine, but Greenville is hours away from here.”

“Yes, that is true,” the princess agreed.

“Travel to and fro would be far too time consuming. Perhaps another school here in the capital would be more suitable.”

“Greenville is the best nursing school in the country and I could stay with the Sisters of Mercy. They run a dormitory for female nursing students.”

“Out of the question, you are a princess. You are not a nun.”

“It is not a convent. It is a dormitory for nursing students.”

“And what of your security detail, where would they stay?”

“It is safe. Strangers are not permitted in the dormitory, only the students and nuns.”

“What of terrorists? It is not practical. I am sorry Larissa. You must find another school.”

“I do not need your permission. I have been accepted by the school and reserved a room. I am going.”

“I am not just your father. I am king.”

The princess began to cry. She turned her back so her father would not witness her tears. She had guessed at what he would say. But she hoped he would understand. She could no longer live with him. Why could he not see that? Would she ever be free?

“You promised to stop,” she cried out. “But you continue to come,” she could not finish the sentence in fear she would be overheard outside the chamber door. Finally she screamed, “You monster,” and ran out of the chamber, her face contorted, her whole body twisted in agony.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sleep evaded Princess Larissa. For hours, she turned over and over in her bed. Then she heard footsteps outside her door. Or was it a dream after a fitful night? She asked herself.

“Larissa, Larissa,” the king called out.

No it was not a dream, it was a nightmare. Her father was drunk.

“Go away,” she cried out.

“I want to talk,” the king shouted.

“No, go away. Please,” Larissa pleaded. Her door opened and light flooded into the room.

“Larissa, I just came to talk. I know how upset you are. But you must understand your place is here with me in the palace.”

“Daddy, please. Go away.”

“I just want to talk.” The king staggered forward.

“Do not come closer,” Larissa held a bejeweled knife in her hand (that she had taken from the palace storehouse).

“What is that in your hand, dear child? A knife, do you think your father would harm you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“You know why. Please go away. No more, no more Father. I can’t take it anymore.” Larissa began to cry.

The king came forward to console his only daughter. “Larissa, I love you dear.”

“Daddy, stop.”

But still the king came forward, his arms opened wide. Larissa plunged the knife into her father’s chest. The king, drunk and bewildered, stumbled backwards. Larissa still held the knife in her hand as the king fell to the floor—the color of its blade now matching its ruby red handle.

Larissa looked down at her father as he gasped for air. Horrified, she could not move.

Finally, she screamed, “Help, help.”

But it was too late, the king was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Prime Minister would stay in office (there was a vote in the House, but those loyal to him won out and the majority party prevailed). None of this relieved Prime Minister Westerbrook. He no longer cared for the job.

The king was dead (with Princess Larissa under house arrest in the palace) and plague ravaged the land. The dying spilled out of the hospitals in massive numbers and died at home. Hospitals could offer no viable treatment. So what was the use of clogging up the health system with patients who could not be cured?

Still, the Minister of Health resigned and was replaced with another talking head babbling on about the nature of disease on TV but offering no solution—those who might have helped at Zion Industries stayed silent, fearing criminal liability.

If only Reverend Flowers had not publicly fingered Zion Industries, a cure might have been found, the Prime Minister thought. The Minister of Justice could subpoena records but could not compel those few who really understood the virus to help in finding a cure. It was unfathomable to the Prime Minister that Zion Industries had a cure but was keeping it secret. That would be diabolical. No, if they had a cure, they would provide it to the government. Why risk the fallout? Still, it was hard to say. Many in the ministry of defense, who once worked side by side with Zion Industries, had sought legal counsel and resigned. This too complicated the issue—secrets, lies, deception, who really knew the truth?

The public believed the virus would eventually die out (like so many before). This, the Prime Minister knew was wishful thinking. He knew the hard reality; this gnawed at him. But if the public was told, panic would rule; the country would fall apart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several buildings on the edge of the compound housed the sick including Star. Each day after school Parker Jane would visit. Star’s illness changed everything for Parker Jane. They shared more than a world; they were interrelated parts of a shared destiny. Star grew pale and thin and spoke in whispers. Parker Jane worried about Star but tried not to show it. Parker Jane would stroke her hair and smile. But Star knew the truth. Star surprisingly had no trouble facing the reality of her imminent death. Star worried too about what her dear friend would do without her. They truly loved one another.

One day Star had request, “Parker Jane please promise me you will pray for Princess Larissa.”

Parker Jane looked at her friend, kindly. “Yes Star, I will pray for Princess Larissa if you wish.”

“Thank you. There must be some reason why she killed the king, perhaps it was an assassin and she is being blamed. Princess Larissa is a good person. I just wished I knew what really happened." 

“I don’t know Star. It is very strange. There is so much that is bad is this world.”

“But Princess Larissa is not bad. I know it.”

“Of course not, Star. It may have an assassin. We do not know what happened.”

“My one wish is to find out the truth before I die.”

“Before you die, don’t say that Star.” Parker Jane almost became angry but the gentle soul before her prevented that. “There may be a miracle, a cure."

“It is too late for me, I think. I know you think stories about God are just fairy tales. So many people including Reverend Flowers say so many things, so they will seem important. But God doesn't care if a person is important or not. God is love, Parker Jane.” 

Star was weak but radiant, luminous even. Parker Jane had never believed in Heaven until that moment as she looked at the light that flashed in Star’s eyes. Parker Jane realized that Star would never ask for prayers for herself but only for others (like Princess Larissa). Parker Jane knew too that Star had played a kind of trick on her (even though her concern for Princess Larissa was genuine). Star in her own way was teaching Parker Jane how to pray. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Princess Larissa made a decision. She would tell her story to the public. Princess Larissa had told her story to both her lawyer and the examining magistrate. Still, the Ministry of Justice sought to charge her with murder—this necessitated Princess Larissa going directly to the public for sympathy, for support. Of course, Princess Larissa dreaded airing her secrets out in public. But she had no choice. She would be interviewed by Chaisley Citrone.

Dressed in a plain white shirt—her hair pulled back in a ponytail—Princess Larissa sat at a table across from Chaisley Citrone. The interview began with the question everyone in the kingdom asked, “What happened on the night of your father’s death?”

“I must go further back to explain,” Princess Larissa replied.

“Yes. Okay then. Let us go back. What went wrong between you and your father?”

“After the death of my mother,” Princess Larissa paused and looked to the ground, her lips trembling, “my father came to my room. I was in bed sleeping. I awoke. He was crying. He was drunk. He was so sad.” Princess Larissa paused again as tears ran down her face.

“Your father came into your bed. Then what happened?”

“I hugged him. Then, it started.”

“What started?”

“Sex, he entered me. It happened so suddenly. I asked him to stop. But he did not.”

“Did this happen more than once?”

“Yes, I begged him to stop. He would promise. Make excuses about being drunk. But it happened over and over again. Finally, I told him that I must leave the palace. He refused to let me go. Later that night, he returned to my room, once again drunk. I panicked and picked up a knife. He came at me. I said stop, stop.  But he kept on coming. The blade was so sharp. He fell.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Parker Jane rushed to Star’s sickbed. She could almost hear Star calling her. Parker Jane feared Star would be sleeping and they would not be able to talk. To Parker Jane’s surprise, Star was awake and smiling. “Princess Larissa was just here. She talked with me.”

Parker Jane thought Star was imagining it all, that it was all a hallucination. But no, others said that Princess Larissa had indeed visited the ward. After the interview with Chaisley Citrone, the ministry of justice accepted a plea from Princess Larissa of manslaughter. Prime Minister Westerbrook then pardoned her. The monarchy was dissolved. (Princess Larissa agreed since she was the only heir to the throne.) Larissa would not become queen; she would remain forever a princess.

Star beamed with happiness as she recalled the visit.

“Parker Jane, Princess Larissa has agreed to be our sister. I told her all about you. She wants to meet you. She said she will visit soon.”

Parker Jane bent down and kissed her dear friend on the cheek. A few hours later, Star died. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is no known record of the final days of our ancestors. Shortly after the death of Star, Parker Jane’s diary ends. She did, however, make a few more entries. Princess Larissa did visit the compound for the funeral of Star. After this, Parker Jane and Princess Larissa became like sisters.

In the final months, the Prime Minister imposed martial law. Anarchy prevailed. Everyone it seemed became infected. After that, the whirlwind began.  It was miles long and ferocious; it passed from one side of the country to the other, destroying everything in its path. It returned again and again. Some claimed Eurasia was scrubbing the clouds of its toxins. Others said it was payback. No one knows for sure. So much was destroyed. There are no records at all beyond a certain date. We do know a few hardy souls survived, in the debris and dust of the whirlwind, in the falling darkness, in the rubble of those dark days.

(Nowhere Man) The Killing of John Lennon

ORPHEUS IN THE ATTIC

Red lights flash, sirens blare, a blue

and white police cruiser flies across Manhattan.

Over his fallen and broken body,

John Lennon floats,

John Lennon

hovers.

His mind flashes back to when he was a boy

and a band played behind the wall of his garden.

Debilitated by paranoia and delusions,

Mark David Chapman harassed Hari Krishnas

and threatened

Scientologists.

He sent telegrams to Satan.

Outside his holding cell, he is fitted with a bullet proof vest.

“No fuck ups. No Oswalds.”

The police commander calls out.

We are buried beneath falling ashes.

We hear the tinkling keys of a piano.

We hear a voice.

Like a hummingbird, it feeds on flowers and honey.

Our minds flash back to when we were children

and a band played behind the wall of our garden.

John Lennon floats, John Lennon

hovers.

The Eighth of December

It was the eighth of December.
This is what I remember.
This is what they said:
John Lennon had been shot.
John Lennon was dead.

It could have been George C Scott.
It could have been anyone.
But a psycho with a gun
had snuffed out the sun.

Yoko took to her bed.

John Lennon was dead.
It was the eighth of December
That is what they said.
This is what I remember:
John Lennon had been shot.
John Lennon was dead.