Baggage

The thick tape felt heavy and burdening in my hands, as I ran it carefully across the top of the box. Packing things up is never easy, but something about it is liberating. Sure you worry that pieces will get lost, memories and perceptions, but you can also choose to leave some things behind.

I moved over to the next box, labeled ‘broken dreams’ and lifted the flaps slowly. A mess of feelings washed over me and I quickly slammed the box closed, about as much as one can ’slam’ cardboard. I clutched the tape tightly as if it were a weapon. The box seemed to stare back at me, waiting for me to make the first move. After a few moments of shaking my head to clear it, I sealed the box.

The one labeled ‘mistakes’ wasn’t coming I had decided. I was going to leave it for her. Maybe she’d understand how much of both of us is really in that one box, that one word. Maybe she’d think about them and whether there’s a pattern. Maybe it would mean something to her. Maybe we’re making one now.

Maybe she wouldn’t even open it.

I started lining the boxes up that were ready to go. Put them closer towards that door, organize them a bit. Positive things on this side, negatives on the other side. Necessities together, and things that are just going to sit in the back closet of my mind in a separate pile.

One stood out a bit from the rest. It was smaller and unlabeled, and with the sun coming through the window, had something of a warm color to it. I walked over to it and scratched my head, examining it closely. It didn’t look at all familiar, but it was sealed. Carefully, I pulled the first flap back, and the second, and peered inside. With a smile spreading over my face, I closed the box and using the thick marker wrote “Hope” across the top.

 

Vignette

“Ouais, ouais, ouais. I’m up.” Jagger said, pushing the large husky away from his face. The dog seemed to be grinning, saliva dripping all over the truck’s leather seats. I grimaced and kept my eyes on the road, not wanting to think about how sticky the inside of the car would be shortly. Jagger put his cap on the dog and ran his fingers through his messy blonde hair. He stared out the window for a moment, fixated on something I couldn’t identify, and then lit a hand-rolled cigarette.

The cool air crept in through the open window and I shivered slightly. Day was just breaking, the sun like a beacon of hope in the otherwise dreary sky. Lighting things up around it and growing by the minute. Snow spread before us, every direction looking just like the other. Sure there were mountains to the left, an open plain and forest to the right, but it was all basically the same. It was all still just a cold and empty place to be. I shivered and hoped to God that Jagger had been reading the map properly.

The truck felt like home, strangely enough. It was cramped, very cramped. We had supplies tied down in the back, and stuffed right up against the seats. It felt like we were going on a trip, you know? Jagger’s good luck dream catcher hanging off the rear-view mirror, his dog getting all excited about new scents. Everything we owned was either on our backs or in our pockets. The start of something. But I knew it wasn’t. Just another dead end milk run to a deserted memory. Another search for something worth hanging on to. Mountains, frozen lakes, forests, it all blended together. It was all so meaningless.

‘This place is a goddamn wasteland,’ I thought darkly.

Jagger yawned and smoke poured out of his open mouth. “Bonjour, mon ami. Sorry I slept late. These seats are damned comfortable. I knew I had a good feeling about this truck. It’s like… destinée,” he said with a laugh.

‘Yeah, the seats had been comfortable. Now they’re just sticky, thanks to that mutt.‘ I shot a glare over and the dog’s ice blue eyes and grin seemed to taunt me. Jagger subconsciously scratched behind his ears, while eyeing the map. He kept looking at the map, looking out in the distance, looking back at the map. It was unnerving, really. I kept trying to look over at it without getting any closer to the dog than I had to. The last thing I needed was his slobber on my face.

“I know they said the sky would look weird out here, but I didn’t expect it to look like this.” Jagger muttered, and I followed his gaze further out into the distance. The sky was a deep blue-purple and seemed to almost pulse with power. “We should stop for a bit, cook some lunch, let Gibbs run around. It’ll be good for him. The town isn’t going anywhere. After that I’ll take over driving. It could get bumpy.”

I didn’t say anything, just kept driving.

Eventually I pulled over. Literally pulled over. I didn’t know why. It’s not like we were on a road. It was just snow, everywhere. Old habits and all that, I guess. Gibbs was the first one to jump out of the truck. “Hey!” Jagger yelled “Don’t you go far, I’m not in the mood to chase you all up and down this snowy tas d’ordures!”

It wasn’t long before we got a fire going. A small flame in such a large region. Smoke flowed up to the sky and disappeared before it got there. Just spread out in the air and vanished. Like we all do.

“So this place you picked out.” Jagger never did waste much time trying to spark up more conversations. “Mining town that got shut down before the Old Sov’s took it over and got it goin’ again? You really think we’ll find something there?” He shook his head. “Then again, as long as they have some food I’ll be happy,” he chuckled.

I started off into the distance, not saying a word. “You still shook up after the other night?” He shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault, mon ami. It was them.” He grinned “Hey, you’ll feel better after you get some food in you and catch a nap in the truck, eh?”

Maybe that would make me feel better, but I didn’t think so. I had this rotten feeling in my stomach like all Hell was about to break loose and I wasn’t sure why. I obediently climbed into the truck, and gazed out the window as Jagger drove, singing songs in French all the while.

There was an explosion, and then things went black…

I sat up slowly, the taste of blood fresh in my mouth. It felt like my face had been cut open but it was too cold to be sure.

“Ça va?” Jagger coughed out the words as he stood up in a snow bank a few feet away. Before waiting for a response he ran over to an unconscious Gibbs. Feeling for a pulse and groping around in his pockets for a cigarette, Jagger was breathing heavily. Panicked he muttered, “There’s blood on him but I can’t find a wound…”

I was surprised to find myself hoping that the dog would get up. He meant so damn much to Jagger. It was all he had left. ‘Come on, you stupid worthless mutt,’ I silently prayed.

Gibbs opened his eyes and licked Jagger’s face. “Ah, remercier dieu, he’s okay.” Jagger smiled and closed his mouth on a cigarette excitedly. “And my smokes aren’t crushed!”

Jagger looked back at me and his expression quickly changed. He simply said, “Don’t get up.”

I glanced around and saw smoke coming up from over the hill. Without a word Jagger walked over and peeked over the edge. “That’s… not good.” He disappeared beyond the horizon and I focused on trying to stand. By the time I’d managed to get on my feet, he was back, looking surprisingly pale. Or was that the snow?

Jagger glared at me sharply, “I told you not to get up, Con.” With a hand on my shoulder, he gently pushed me back down into the snow, and started softly patting a towel against my face. Even Gibbs slowly walked over and started whimpering and trying to lick me, but Jagger kept him at bay. He lit a cigarette and stuck it between my lips. “Breathe,” he said, “Or you may go into shock, and I’m not carrying you around this entire city.”

I took a deep breath and felt the smoke enter my lungs and warm me from the inside. It burned, but it felt good. I coughed a little and Jagger’s eyes seemed to laugh at that. “So the good news, mon ami, is that there’s a hole in the windshield the size of your body. Maybe next time you listen to ol’ Jagger about your seatbelt, eh?” He smiled, clearly relieved that I was okay. “The bad news”, He shook his head, his face turning to stone, “Is that’s the least of our malédictions. The truck is destroyed. We can probably save the goods, but it’s not going anywhere.”

‘And there it is’, I thought. ‘All this time and we’re going to die out here.’

 

Decadence: The Scribe
Decadence

The beaten side bag dropped from my shoulder as I fell to the ground in a sitting position. The large man standing before me seemed to sneer, his lip curled in that persistent “I’m better than you” way; his eyes were slightly narrowed in a combination of boredom and annoyance. Two bodyguards stood tall on either side of him, eying me up and down as I reached into the bag slowly, worried about the condition of their trigger fingers. Pulling out a small gnarled notebook and ink quill, I tried to ignore the guards and directed my voice to the man. “I… Mr… sir, would you… l-like to hear what I have so far?” The Waterlord nodded solemnly, and trying to keep my voice from cracking, I began the tale.

“No one is sure if it was the chemicals that poisoned the water, or if it was through the plants that we genetically altered. With the p-plants, it could be a…. byproduct… ” Unsure whether he was following me, I glanced up. “Like how the plants take in carbon dioxide and give out oxygen.”

“The plants changed and grew wildly out of control,” I continued, “A few water treatment facilities were founded over the world, like yours, sir, and some smaller bodies of freshwater have remained unaffected. For the most part, though, the world’s water became toxic. Entire species were wiped out, thousands of lives on smaller islands lost. ”

He looked bored, like he was waiting for me to stop wasting his time. Sweat beaded on my forehead and my hands were shaking so much it was getting harder and harder to read from the paper. I put them down and took a few deep breaths.

“So,” I started and winced as my voice cracked, “this city is kind of like a fiefdom. The treatment facility offers some jobs and beyond that people barter food or trade services for the water you provide.” I paused for clarification but after a few seconds of not receiving any, I continued. “Who rebuilt the city?”

Waiting for an answer, I started to glance around the small chamber. It was decorated with lavish works for art, from paintings to sculptures. The dim yellow light gave even the most beautiful paintings, by artists like Ravelle and Gilman, an almost haunting aura to them. A pedestal caught my eye.

The Waterlord nodded. “My grandparents rebuilt this city and the facility itself. The-”

“Is that what I think it is?” I blurted out in excitement. “I’ve heard stories of a book that contains maps and information about the world, what it was before and what it is now.”

With a hoarse laugh, he replied, “Of course not. That merely functions as a decoy to fool her. The real one is kept safe. Now, as I was saying…”

“Yes, my Lord. I’m sorry.” Feeling a bit more relaxed while I waited for him to talk, I picked my papers back up and prepared myself to write as he spoke.

He waited for me to get settled and then began. “My grandparents had no long-term view of things. They used to give everything away for free, and it caused so many problems. There were hundreds, thousands coming to get water at one point, and the facility couldn’t keep up. People died in the streets outside waiting for water. I vowed never to make the same mistake, and I came up with a complete trade system. You can fish or make shoes or teach, and exchange those services for water or whatever else.”

“Having that kind of absolute power would corrupt most people,”the Waterlord remarked proudly.

I chose my words carefully. “You must have a… powerful sense of res….responsibility… to the… people.”

With a smile like a hungry wolf’s, he calmly replied, “You’re right. Lesser men would have buckled. It’s an incredibly fragile system. If I were to abuse the people, well…” He chuckled softly. “Who knows what they would do.”

I laughed nervously and wrote some things down on the glowing paper. The fish oil burned into it, embedding the letters forever. He noticed this and spoke the first unprovoked words out of the entire conversation, in an almost curious manner. “There’s enough technology around that you could find a better way to record things. Why do you use such an archaic method?”

Feeling slightly more comfortable, I smiled. “We’ve fallen back to some old times. Trade routes and some nomadic tribes. Small communities and professions based around this idea of helping others and doing what’s necessary. Me? I collect and tell stories… Love stories for the romantics. Stories of glory and – and honor for the veterans. Stories of discovery for the travelers. Everyone needs something to believe in.”

I shook my head. “It’s important to remember where we came from and necessary to shape where we’re going. Don’t you agree?”

The Waterlord was silent for a few minutes, reflecting, I assume, on some private decision. When he looked back up his gaze went right to the pedestal and the book that had previously caught my eye. Staring at it for a few seconds, he seemed to grow instantly older and more worn and tired. “Yes,” he said softly. “I do.”