Saturday, March 10, 2012

The Discovery -- We Are Not Alone Continues

Part Four

"General, to say that we are in a crisis would be an understandment," Joan began. It was the first time she had given voice to the war to come. The alien spaceship's continued to use the meteors to pound the urban cities to dust. Each impact was a megaton explosion, leveling each city to ruble.

They both watched as the fireballs raise more dust into the atmosphere. Humanity was dying. Joan eventually asked the question, they had avoided for two days, "How do we surrender...?"

Becker finished her sentence,"And will they understand, if we do?" She nodded knowingly that if they sent a message to where the position of the ships were, and no response came, was it because they do not understand, or was it because they simply wanted to destroy Earth.

They sent the message after they had contacted the other world leaders left around the world to represent their perspective governments. China was first to respond and agreed to the plan, then Russia, then the United Kingdom, then Australia, and one by one the answers came in the affirmative.

The bombardment stopped. Instructions followed. Earth had surrendered to a species known as the Peggellians. Later referred by Earth civilians as the Pegusans.

The terms were simple. Surrender. Occupation. Enslavement. They had came to take Earth's resources.

Johnny knew he had to get home before curfew. Earth's new progenitors were intolerant of excuses. Tardiness was meant purnishment. Disobedience meant purnishment. The slighest infraction meant punishment of the worse kind.

He remembered how the simplest of things use to bring him joy. It had been fifteen long years since that fateful day. It was now April 1, 2026, Earth was in a permanent winter.

Dust clouds still remained heavy in the air. Respirators were required to go outside.
Johnny's mask filtered in the oxygen, as he briskly walked home, and glancing once more at the moon his heart panged once again. He approached large steel-iron gates with a large letter "R" arched of the center, and the crumbling, grecian cement posts lined either side of the battered driveway.

This was the last symbols of Johnny's wealth. Now, he shared his once isolated home with twelve other families. He wondered, what would his great, great, great, great grandfather would have thought? He, of course, was named after him. He changed his name to Johnny, to lighten up his stuffy manner, and to remind himself of a youth he never had.

He stepped into the doorway, reached for the tarnished door knob, and twisted. His shoulders slumped as he walked down the stairs of his former home. He no longer considered this grand place, this place of decadent luxury his own. The lights were low. Shadows bounced off the walls, and in a doorway of the living room stood a young blond girl, who yelled over shoulder, "Mr. Rockefeller is home...."

Roger Troutman's parents had been killed on the orders of the cleric Khomeini, but he had been spirited away by a close family friend to the US.

Now, he sat in the tunnels of Damascus awaiting an opportunity to break the shackles of the alien invaders. He, like everyone, had a story of the day that Hell took possession of the Earth. His, however, was a narrative he shared with very few. He had left the conference with Joan Wilder and Major General John Becker in high spirits.

He had felt a connection with the General that he had not expected—a kindred spirit of sorts. He realized that, though, he had been raised as a product of the American culture--in his heart--he was Iranian.

The amount of death he witnessed, while a student revolutionary had torn at his soul, and his perspective of life through death had become etched at his person. He sensed that, the General understood this, and a common bond had been formed, while they'd hammered out the peace accords between Iran, Syria, Lebanon, Israel, and the US. The acknowledgement that Israel had the right to exist and the formation of a Palestinian state by the self-interested had finally seem to be coming to a resolution. He left the meeting inspired and resolute that the accords would be done.

Roger had an epiphany several days before the meteorites had hit Beirut, Tel Aviv, and Jerusalem--the fanaticism, in which he embraced as a revolutionary, still fired his spirit but the meeting with his adoptive country's countrymen had given him hope and the passion to bring Islam in to the 21st century.

On Roger's ride to back to Damascus, where he had been staying during negotiation and given him ample of time to think he saw several streaking meteorites light up the night sky. He heard the sounds of multiple sonic booms echo overhead as he realized the implications of the meteorites' impact and he also knew they were going to be close. He had one chance. He had to reach the tunnels that supplied Hezbollah extremists during the days of the Lebanon-Israel War of 2006.

Roger told his driver to head to towards them. The black sedan sped with reckless abandon along the highway and its tires squealed as his driver Omar turned off the road into the desert dunes. Very few knew the route as well as he did driving at a kinetic pace between the large and small sand dunes. The car wheels kicked up sand behind it as it plowed through the isolated deesert as it approached a large three story sand dune, which grew in size.

The meteor struck Damascus. The shock wave rippled outward for nearly thirty-five miles with hurricane force winds whipped the sands, dust, and ash turned into micro blast glass shards of spears, piercing through the hardest concrete, ripping through the strongest steel, shredding the flesh of family farm animals nearby.

Troutman's sedan horn blared as the doors of three story dune slowly lower into the floor of sand, a ramp became apparent, the sedan disappeared underneath the dune as Roger yelled the code into his cellular telephone; the sands of destruction was the last sight he saw as the ramp doors closed behind them.

The place was called the "Crescent Moon." The long "dunnel," if you will, steadily sloped beneath the dunes of Syria. The dunnel network was as complicated as any road system; signs pointed to various locations within Syria and towards locations in Lebanon. The lights dimmed and emergency generators switched on as the energy of the meteorites from the region impacted each ancient city.

Cairo, Damascus, and Jerusalem became wastelands, cities of fire, the smell of sulfur and brimstone wafted through the air, while the ancient monuments were covered with a grayish-silver acidic ash.

The entrance of the dunnel had been buried. The emergency rations were plenty and scattered through the network of dunnels. Canned good became the staple for the survivors. Roger and the "Crescent Moon" freedom fighters as they became known were surrounded by concrete and steel. The storage facilities were also filled with armaments for the next conflict with Israel--but they'd now be used for the battle against the sky invaders from Pegasus.

It had been fifteen years, Joan Wilder and Major General John Becker had done what was necessary to save what was left of humanity. The answers they sought in the beginning had now been answered. The "government," as such, was nothing more than a puppet regime for the aliens-- the Peggellians. Life on Earth was suffering. Armageddon had come, but it had not been by humanity's own hand, but from the outside.

Man had always been afraid of his own shadow, and for once, humanity had been right. To bad they were focusing on the wrong tree. Joan writes in her journal, like Anne Frank, her experiences, her surprises, and her marriage to the general. To them, at that time, it had made sense.

Each anniversary celebrates another year of living that had not been expected. Joan watched her general finish dressing. Everything for him had to be in the "proper" place, it was his quirk and she was okay with it.

Fifteen years ago it used to bug the hell out of her, now she was "okay" with it. Like a broken in baseball glove, she grew comfortable with his idiosyncrancies. God, how she missed baseball, football, and soccer, but the planet was being harvested for its minerals, for its grains, and for its oceans -- Earth's greatest assets.

Apparently, the greatest single commodity missing in the Pegasus galaxy was salt. The levels of the oceans fell as they were drained away and the alien harvester's created fields of salt.

Joan and John left for the office.

Part Five

In the years that had past, Roger had grown greyer, obviously older, and he hoped wiser. The dunnels had hidden him and his band of rag-tag rebels beneath desert surface since the times of the scourge; the cleansing; the rapture; the day the Earth community had been shattered.

The atmospheric dust swirled, the heat of the desert was an ambient 25 Celsius, a bit cooler admittedly, but the cold nights were even more frigid. Roger missed the heat, his bones missed the heat. Roger memories flooded back.

“Omar!” he waved for his former driver to come over. It had nearly taken six months to unbury the doors; the equipment from the dunnels had done their job. Omar nodded as he covered the distance between them. Roger pointed toward the bodies that lay splayed on the ground, scavengers of the desert gnawed on the bones of the dead, and the dunes sand sprawled over the unburied. Chord after chord of rotting bodies decomposed and apparent that they had been dumped in the desert by the alien invaders.

The disrespect of the Pegusans of the Islamic and Judeo-Christian burial rituals left a bitter taste in the mouths of the men. Anger swelled in the blood of Omar and Roger, the horizon landscape revealed the devastation of bombardment, as the men scanned deeper in the daylight skyline.

Part Six

Ice-cold grey eyes fluttered opened as they coalesced in the fog of recognition, blinking rapidly, at their surroundings. A female voice, gruff from sleep, echoed “How long was I in stasis?”

“Fifteen years Earth Standard Time,” another female voice echoed.

A room began to form. First, the walls—white and sterile, second—the floor—black and white checkered squares, and finally, a white canopied mosquito net hospital bed in the center with two apparitions shaped—one standing upright and the other laying in the bed. Both shaped as females. One older than the other—by appearances, laid in the bed, a middle aged woman with silver hair with an athletic build sat up unsteadily at first, and a bit of nausea coursed through her system.

The other waited patiently. The young dark raven haired beauty wore a white gown with the v-neck cleavage neckline revealed just enough to accent her bosom. Her dark forest green eyes showed compassion for her friend of two millenniums. This incarnation of her friend had been quite happy—children and a husband—and a place of influence to shape humanity’s future. Unfortunately, for them—the Peggallions had other plans Earth.

Her friend’s physical form had been Earth side at the time of the Pegusans’ attack. She asked her friend, “What do you remember?”

The other answered, “I remember seeing the Peggallions’ attack, and having to rush in the Bronx Deli’s basement as the meteorite hit the city…”

“I remember sending out a distress call prior to the food and water running out… And I remember the pick up of my physical body….”

The other nodded, “Good your memory is intact….”

“Why have I been awakened?” the silver haired woman asked.

“We have been contacted by the Earthers….”

“Oh? They are aware of us?”

“Yes,” the other continued, “a rather resourceful Earther named of Roger Troutman has been giving the Peggallions trouble. Undercutting their production, sabotaging their resources, and undermining their personnel movement, and researching their vulnerabilities—and he found us.”

“Huh, Roger Troutman…Sounds very familiar—an Iranian Persian, a Sunni, I believe, raised in America?” The silver haired woman questioned.

“Yes, the same, you know him?”

The other responded negatively, “No….but my husband does, or did….do you know if he survived the attack?”

The other hesitated, nodded as she took an awkward step back, “Yes, yes he did….”

Part Seven



It had come in the form of a dream. Colors swirled within his head. A mist formed into a shape of a person he had once known.

A room formed around him, white, barren, and isolated. Above it were stars. In the middle of the room, a white plush couch—and at one end a dark raven haired woman, next to her sat a silver haired middle-aged woman

He knew her, or at least, recognized her. Uncomfortably with an inquiring tone of uncertainty, he asked, “Hello?”

“Hello Johnny,” the silver haired woman responded.

“Do I know you?” he countered.

“You should…” a smile crossed her face.

“Gina?” He asked. The other nodded in the affirmative.

“You’ve … you’ve…” he stuttered, “You’ve been dead for fifteen years…”

She continued and smiled, “My physical form was—yes! I have been in stasis the past fifteen years to reform my shape and corporeal essence. It is difficult to explain to outsiders, but simply, when our physical side has expired, our thoughts and energies that make us—us, need to “recharge” the eternal being. Our corporeal side loose cohesiveness, even form, thus we go into stasis in order to reshape our thoughts, to reshape our form, and our corporeal energies.

“What are you are experiencing at this moment is the form of our reality when we want to communicate in our vocal form….”

“We ?” Johnny asked.

“Yes Johnny ‘we’ I am an Oriuisian…”

“Since when?” He seemed confused.

“Since always—Johnny, our society takes the libertarian perspective. Obey the convention of the “rule of law”—but the journey of our personal bliss is our own. We have one absolute law, no messing with the temporal law of time, although we are capable of traveling back and forth, we must respect the linear nature of a planets history….”

The confused brow on Johnny’s head had been firmly set in perplexity. Gina looked over at her friend—and smirked. Her friend responded in kind. Gina scooted over as she patted the couch for him to come over, “Johnny, please sit…What I have to tell you is very important and I have a very short period of time to do this…”

Johnny walked over to the couch and sat down between the two women. He sat uncomfortably at first, stiff as a board, rigid, his hands clasped in front of him. Gina leaned back with one arm on top of the couch and the other along the couch’s arm. Gina and her compatriot wearing long, white gowns, with v-line cleavages seem to ooze an intoxicating sensuality.

“Johnny, it began 3500 years ago…” Gina started. She explained the history of the Peggallions and the Oriusians. How these ancient races had been invariably linked through war, famine, and the competition of resources. Their battle of each other viewing themselves as fighting against good versus evil. In some respects, each saw it as suffrage of chaos versus order, linear versus cyclical, nature versus nurture, science versus myth. In that the struggle between the two races was the culmination of the duality of opposites and its very nature the necessity of its existence.

Gina explained to Johnny the order of things and the placement of Earth’s suffrage and battle to take its next step in evolutionary development. She is also explained that the Peggallions premature consecration of this step of humanity’s development. In fact, she Gina, explained to Johnny that this sabotaged the development of human eventuation of shedding the physical being, but she explained to Johnny it was not too late, extinction could be prevented.

She explained to Johnny his mission. Johnny worked at the secure communication facility near the New York Transportation Harbor. His duty was to sabotage the network for the rebels, the space fleet that attacked Earth was station outside of Pluto setting up a materials convoy to the Pegasus Galaxy. Johnny was overwhelmed, but he understood his role. Afterwards, Johnny woke up. Uncertain of the veracity of his experience, Gina’s friend coalesced before his eye, while he had breakfast.

“Who are you?” Johnny asked…

She responded, “I am Eve…” Johnny looked at her with full discernment. Her eyes shifted among the color spectrum, “I am the First” Her smile broad and alluring.

Johnny questioned, “The ‘First’?”

“Yes, Johnny—the First. All things have a beginning, middle, and an end, even in a cyclical universe. You can trust your vision…Johnny” she smiled like the Cheshire cat as her form dissipated.

Johnny understood the assignment. After all, it was the order of things that he help reclaim his planet, his home, and to destroy the tyranny that oppressed humanity.

Part Eight
The office overlooked the devastated city of New York, and it was also now where the new American government sat.

The aliens had reconstructed most of New York, but as the ocean had receded from the harvesting of Earth’s resources, the sins of the state's past could be seen.

The pollution stood as tall as Sequoias trees and in the streets rusted cars, trucks, and tanker ships leaned either against the old shattered skyscrapers or collapsed in the middle of once bustling streets.

The 'new' New York was built on top of the old. The technology that had defeated the greatest powers on Earth from space was now used to advance humanity forward thousands of years.

Personal transportation vehicles flew as power was abundant, and with the reduction of the population from the earlier shelling of the meteorite the population of the Earth had now been reduced to less than one billion. Food was plentiful.

But before, in the days that followed, the meteor bombardment by the alien invaders allowed for disease, dysentery, and dearth to took hold of Earth’s people and ecosystem. Emergency services of the planet were in the state of crisis: bodies laid in the streets, burnt, smoldering, and twisted in configuration that were eerily reminiscent of an old space-alien monster movies of the twentieth century 1950’s.

The once majestic cities of Earth, flatten by the bombardment, were debris ridden, spires of concrete, steel, and fragmented shards of glass. The cluttered dystopic skylines forever reflected the changed horizons; the land of despair and desperation, looting, rapes, and murder replaced the rule of law and the “grand experiment” itself sunk into a Hobbesian Hell. These days were called the end times, but in reality they were to become the times of destiny—shrouded in pain and misery. It was the suffrage of humanity. The humbling of humankind’s ego and the resurrection of the basic staples of life: family, community, restoration of virtues, and the “purity of justice” long since forgotten returned.

The overseers of Pegasus were bemused by humanity’s attempts to return to ideological stoicism. The hardliners Pegusan’s felt that the crushing of the “definable” ideologues were a threat to their controlling the population and often used mass execution for the slightest infraction.

Public demonstration resulted in the wholesale slaughter of city’s population. No, the alien invaders curried no favor from the people, because that was not why they were here. The aliens' mission was simple. The exploitation of Earth’s resources and the quirky obsession of humanity for the necessity of freedom of expression was irrelevant.

Simply, humans were a tool--a necessity--for mining the resources of the planet. The pacifist’s "Earth First" motto and demonstrations fell on deaf ears. The Pegusan’s, in human terms, regarded humanity as a piece of bottom-feeding scavengers who warranted no quarter. Pegusan's made the atrocities of 20th century's Nazi Germany, Stalin's Russia, Idi Amin, Dafur, Rwanda, and every other totalitarian regime combined pale in comparison. The population of Earth had been reduced to ten percent of its former size -- 600 million. Yet, humanity spirit did not waiver, the art of sabotage and covert disruption were used with subtlety and stealth to annoy the Pegusan oppressors in the hoping to delay humanity's final extermination.

The United States had been shattered, Nevada, Arizona represented the new "left" coast. The sunken state of California could be seen in low tide, and the super volcano of Montana was now active, but somehow did not erupt in the meteorite bombardment. Florida population had been completely wiped out from the initial salvo.

Joan Wilder and John Becker, once again, took stock of what was left on the anniversary of the day that Earth died in fire.

The new American population was 60 million. The overseers had taken pleasure in “culling the herd” of the American citizens. Joan Wilder and John Becker shook their heads collectively and tears once again flowed from Joan's eyes.

Joan's sentimentally had been great of late -- melancholic in fact. The angst had been driven by a belated friend’s patriotic spirit. Joan looked over at John, she saw his stoic brow furl as her tears dissipated and her voice cracked, “Let take back our planet!” John nodded in agreement.

Joan’s cellular telephone rang and the scrambler chip activated, “Hello Roger”

The other responded, “Hello Joan. Ready?”

“Yes.” She responded.

“Well then, let’s get started….”

“Project Phoenix is a go?” Joan’s tone inquired.

“Yes,” the other continued,” Oriusians are on standby…”

“Good,” Joan looked at John nodding in the affirmative….


The Discovery -- We are not alone

Editor's Note -- I began writing this story in 2006. As with all things, it was put aside for only a moment and now it is six years later. What is funny about this piece of fiction is that I had written about a possible revolution in the Middle East and now that the Arab Spring has come about, I find myself imitating real life. No worries I am sure there are no aliens watching from above .....

Part One -- Introduction

The moon in the night sky hung like a lead weight as Johnny shook his head trying to remove the image of it. What he looked at it now was not the moon of his youth. It was blue, purple, and reminded him that the war had taken its toll. An old quote charted its way through his memory, he smirked at its remembrance as he plodded homeward, "It was the best of times and it was the worse of times," and so began Johnny's long reverie of his day.

Johnny had not always been one to lose himself in fantasy. No, he had once been a great leader of men. Now, Johnny was a mere mortal who had lost his wings. His family, his wife, and kids were all gone, because the desolation of the Earth had befallen to the Great Empire of the Pegasus galaxy.

The Earth laid in ruin. All of the great cities stood in silence, Beijing, Shanghai, Moscow, Mecca, Cairo, Tokyo, New York City, and San Francisco were crumbled heaps of ashes. Johnny's head hung low as he continue to plod home.


Sadness squeezed at his heart, it suffocated him, his was grief palatable as he remembered the the great cities. He felt his life had been wasted. He had wantonly sewered his youthful indiscretions on trivial matters. He had thrown away his wealth playboy antics as he let the scrapings of it feed his frenzied friends; and, the cities rubble reminded him of that waste.

At first, the explosion, which was thought to be a nuclear bomb in a cargo container ship in the Boston port had actually been a meteorite. A celestial object from space on April 1, 2011 destroyed Boston, Massachusetts. At first, he thought of it as a bad joke. There had been no warning, and the government had assured the public days earlier that the last of the terrorists group had been captured. The now defunct Red Brigade members had been either jailed or killed.

The "War on Terror" had been hard fought and the "good guys" had won. He had said to a friend earlier that morning that, he would celebrate the news that night with his wife, Maria, and his sons, Franklin and Gerald, in Boston, one of the birth places that had spark democracy itself.

So, when he boarded the family Learjet in the late part of the afternoon on the Western Coast, and found out, in the air, the demolition of his home by an meteorite, Johnny sat stunned as the pilot tried frantically to find another location to land. Everything that he had known was gone.

Then, other reports of large city (just the cities) destructions began to crawl through the static of the airplane speaker from his pilot: New York City, Washington DC, Baltimore, Miami, Louisville, St. Louis, and Detroit at first, were thought to be impacted by stray pieces of meteorites.

But NASA and the scaled back NORAD soon realized the mistake, the rallying of the troops, to defend the planet had been lost. The day of petty squabbling amongst ourselves had left us blind to the space fleet that had approached us. The very danger was not among us, but from the another place far away -- "in a galaxy far far away." The danger came from stars in space.

In the trying to kill each other, when we forgot the golden rule of life, in order to have a life, one must look up at the sky to enjoy the complexity of the darkness, the beauty of the sparkling stars, and be in the awe of their danger among the void of space.

Then, the question of why just the cities, began to stir on the edge of the citizenry consciousness

It was as if massive tidal wave realization had struck the planet. The randomness was not random, but orchestrated. Space Command of the European Space Agency was first to spot the distortion, but NASA confirmed it. NORAD commanders rushed back to the bunker of Cheyenne Mountain, and the remaining government representatives gathered under the hills of Camp David.

Secretary of State, Joan Wilder, tried to pull herself together and organize what was left of the government. The information bombarded her, NASA and the ESA had just informed her that the asteroid belt, between Mars and Jupiter, were being knocked out of their orbits by a space fleet of some sort.

The enormity of it all crushed her chest as she began to hyperventilate. She was having a panic attack, "This was not the time or place for this," she thought. But, how could she defend the country against such an enemy?

How to defend against a technological superior enemy? How to defend against the sure destruction of humanity? How to defend the US? What could she do? Her mother, her father, her grown children were more likely all dead in the early salvo of "meteor storms" of the cities.

What could she do? Her aides were screaming in her ears, asking the impossible questions of what to do next? The phone, barely working, was ringing and the room was spinning--and now, now she had no control over herself. She passed out.

Part Two
The commander of the space fleet surveyed the darkness of space, the asteroid field before him, and his ships. The stars glittered in the distance, while he pondered how long before the Gusfack surrendered, (a term later to be translated as Earthers), the blue ball, if at all.

They had studied Earth for centuries, from a distance, but the impossibility of maintaining such observation was becoming more difficult because of their galactic shifts of the galaxies.

The Pegusans were a people as such that prided themselves in ritual, in strategy, and in conquering those who were and are technologically less advance themselves. The destabilizing of asteroid was one of their many tricks to “persuade” a world to surrender to them.

The one true enemy that had defeated them, Oriusians, and had been a near fatal miscalculation on their part, they were an older race that had walked a different path, but were seriously more dangerous. This lesson had taught them that, the underestimating an enemy was a dangerous mistake that could not be repeated.

So, they became cold and calculating, and now the commander of the space fleet discerning, malevolent, black eyes smiled as he receive the message from Earth. The stars’ light reflected in his eyes as his communication officer relayed the communiqué.

“Commander Moortje,” the officer began in the clicks, grunts, and sighs with body movements that indicated the commander’s authority and his dominance of the crew, The Earthers’ have transmitted a message…..”


Joan Wilder woke up with her aides in her face. The closest aide, Mark, was nervously, frantically fanning her face with a stack of papers in his hand. A young nurse, had her wrist and was looking at her watch as she took Joan's pulse. And, the last remaining Joint Chief of Staff stood uncomfortably in the corner across the room. She leaned up shooed away the nervous ninny of an aide and asked with her eyes, "How long had she been out?"

The nurse answered, "About five minutes." Joan felt the embarrassment in her face. She braced herself as she got up. The room was no longer moving. She took moment as she felt her confidence assert itself as she walked toward the desk that had once been the president of the United States--John Sheridan.

A one time friend and confidante, now most likely killed in the devastation of what was Washington DC. She had been on mission to the Middle East once again to settle a dispute and was returning when the meteorite struck the nation's capital.

It was all coming back to her now, as the events flashed through her mind. She unconsciously picked up a picture frame from his desk. It was of a Zebra, a picture that his daughter Elly had taken at the Denver Zoo in Colorado.

For a moment she smiled, and then the tears began to flow. Damn it! She was stronger than this! She looked around the room once more and she fixed her eyes on the only person in the room who she felt she could trust. She dismissed her staff, say for one-John Becker. No, that was Major General John Becker and her most ardent foe before the demise of DC....


Major General John Becker had been in the military most of his life. He had seen presidents come and go, and watch many men and women under his command die for causes that he did not always agree with his Commander in chief, but he followed his duty as always.

Today was different, however. All had been lost. His family resided in New York city, his two daughters, and only son along with his wife had been killed in the impact of the first series of "meteorite storms." He was on his cell phone with his wife, when it struck.

The silence at the other end was deafening, the last thing he had heard her say was she was picking up their youngest, 18, from the Bronx Zoo. The harden warrior now stood before the only remnants of his government pondering what to do next. Joan Wilder, who he grudgingly respected, was the last of the civilian government.

He patiently waited in the corner, as the nurse finished examining the Secretary of State.


Part Three

It had been a day! “The General,” as she referred to him, she was on the cellular telephone. Her “General” was John Becker. He had been sent into danger once again. He had been sent to the Middle East to assist the Secretary of State—Joan Wilder. Her goal and her mission were to assuage the leaders of Lebanon, Syria, Iran, and Israel into rationality.

Lebanon had been entrusted to the secure Beirut for the mediation. It was the final meeting before the signing of the peace accord. Iran and Syria had been the focus of the world stage because of the turmoil inside their boarders.

One event had finally brought these two turbulent countries to the table—revolution.

The students of Iran had finally reached their tipping point with their imams for their religious fanaticism. The angst and the rage that filled the hearts of the students had broken the bond they had with the clerics and the Iranian theocratic government. The stillness of political disruption that had been perceived from outside in the Western world had been incorrect. The festering of dissatisfaction had been subverting the contentment of Iranian society even before the overthrow of the Shah, twenty-eight years later was the clerics turn.

They had gone too far. The mass execution of students had breached their trust with religious leaders and their government. The students' felt they had nothing left to lose. Tens of thousands of student had been slaughtered in the fear of a major political course correction and the movement towards a stable Islamic democracy.

The overthrow of the imams and the Iranian government had been more dramatic than the seizing of the US Embassy in the late twentieth century. It had been more dramatic than the fall of the Berlin wall and the desolation of communism. The mass hysteria, witnessed via Internet and Al-Jeezer Television, of 10 million voices in unison had overran the armed services, government offices, and religious mosques.

The sea of humanity thundered throughout the streets of Tehran and every other major Iranian city and culminated in untold millions of deaths. Not since the French Revolution had such a purging of political, religious, and the veracity of the people's anger culminated in the destruction of cultural ideology.

The students had bullied, crashed over, government militia outposts, dragged out “elected” government officials to the streets backed by the imams—and executed them on the spot, while the clerics hunted down and killed—or at the least severely beaten in a few cases.

The enormity of the violence fed the blood fugue raged for nearly three years. It began in May 2008 and ended as abruptly in February of 2011.

Joan Wilder, Secretary of State, had been appointed by President John Sheridan after the fall elections of 2008. Her appointment was met with controversy, but the near unanimous approval had the Washington DC politico’s tongues wagging for months. The one contentious rival to her appointment was Major General John Becker. He felt that she had undercut the military as a former US Senator, but he respected her directness and her integrity.

Now Gina’s husband, “The General,” was with Joan Wilder, and returning from the Middle East on board Air Force Two talking to her on his cellular telephone. It had been the first time he had traveled with the Secretary of State, because of their adversarial roles, which had been widely reported, the opportunity to work together had been limited.

The General described the white and blue interior of the Air Force 3, the leather seats, and the long oak conference table in the room he sat in.

He told his wife, of thirty years, of Roger Troutman, an American Persian, was now head of Iranian Provisional government.

He told her of Roger Troutman's history, of Roger's adoptive parents. How Roger decided to keep his American name. How he had decided against returning to his birth name that his birth parents had given him. How his adoptive parents had always encouraged him to seek out his heritage.

The Major General had told his wife of Roger's belief in democracy. He told his wife the optimism he felt. And, for the first time in his life, the Major General told his wife, Gina, he believed that peace awas attainable in the Middle East.

He hold his wife, he believed that Roger Troutman was the wild card needed to that would stabilize the newly democratic Iranian government—and the region.

Gina and John had often these cursory discussions of his work, he didn’t discuss specifics, but had talked often of his impression of events, and the people he met. The surface chatter to “clear” his brain from work was one of their rituals—he and she did this out of habit. They exchanged information the usual husband and wife banter, but the warmth of their voices communicated that they were still in love. She informed him that she was going to pickup their youngest.

Boom—boom—boom—boom thundered in the day-lit-sky. She immediately recognized the sound. Years of living on Air Force military bases told her the sonic booms were close. The store windows rattled, and Gina looked up into the instinctively toward the sky. She saw the entrails of reentry fire and smoke from a meteorite, and studied its projected impact.

She cursed as the realization struck her, the concussive blast engulfed the city from the tidal blowback, waves of soot, dust, dirt, and ash surged through the streets only to leave the tallest building protruding from the debris. Major General Becker phone had been left with silence of a “drop” cellular call—and the last word from his wife of “Shit!” imprinted on his memory....


Friday, March 09, 2012

Adam and Eve Chronicles--The Immortals

Editor's Note -- In the past few weeks, I have been watching the deluge of political debates, primaries, and caucuses. The political discourse and rancor has impacted me emotionally and frankly--I am tired of all it. So, in order to cope with all the news I have decided to write my way out of the blues. I have written brief episodic narratives and over next weeks or so I will be posting them.
Part One -- Introduction

I sat in front of my patio heater lamp waiting for the answer. I wanted the answer to be different from the last two times I had asked. Maybe the third time would be the charm and finally I would get the answer that I had sought for all my life. I know it is not traditional but I had always been a woman that did not believe in tradition.

I remember reading the stories of Amelia Earhart, the legends of Aphrodite, and the legends of Amazonian women. All strong women figures that symbolize independence, good judgement, and power. So I sat waiting for the answer from my man of ten years remembering our many misadventures that had brought us many trials and tribulations together; yet, I sat optimistic.

This time it was different. I felt it in my very bones. I knew with certainty that he had decided to say yes. He had called me on my mobile to let me know that he had a surprise and he could not wait to “show” me what he gotten me. So, I sat. My cat -- Daisy -- jumped in our backyard, the sun’s last light dissipated behind the mountains of the Rockies and final heat of the day slowly dissipated away. The patio heater lamp became even more apparent and the warmth from it intensified on my skin.

My thoughts wandered more contemplating the last 200 hundred years. My man had finally found me out and there were no more secrets between us. He finally knew I was an immortal born in the Ural Mountains of Russia during the time of the Czars. He finally understood my family history and why I shrouded myself in mystery. He finally understood why the secret order that I belong to had cloaked itself behind the many shell corporations. And, he finally understood why I felt the urgent need to insinuate myself in the life of Eve.

Eve the queen of humanity.The mother of civilization was trapped in a dream. Her memory bounded by the curse of Lillith -- the first woman. I was Eve’s protector bounded by the secret orders trust. But, tonight was about me and I sit waiting for an answer that will bring me joy and hope.

Part Two -- Lillith, Adam, Eve, and James

“I know its scary,” I told him, “But the answer is with Adam.” He stared at me as if I had a third eye in the center of my forehead. He wanted to believe. He really did. Unfortunately, what I was telling him was counter to every legend, every religious book, every counter theory that he had ever read. Now, he wondered if he had “hooked up” with some nut from a cult. So he stared.

I could see in his eyes that they were still working out the details of what I said about Eve. He knew I had been holding things back for more than ten years, but he did not know it was this big. The secret order had not wanted me tell him, but I felt that if I had not, my mission to protect Eve would be jeopardized. So we sat on the patio heated by our infra red patio heater. The light of the day had long gone and the twilight of the stars illuminated our backyard.

Our house sat on the edge of the city away from the glaring lights. The backside of the house was eclipsed by darkness -- and the low lights of the hurricane lamps barely lit our faces. James had known that I did not believe in angels or demons, but he did not understand how I could believe however, in beings that were all powerful and had powers of telepathy and telekinetic abilities.I explained to him that these beings were from the evolution of Earth. Eve, Adam, and Lillith were the first generation of immortals. He looked at me again still contemplating what I had said. So we sat in the stillness of the night listening to the crickets chirp....

I had decided that my confession, which had begun at the beginning of the evening, was in my best interest. Eve’s memory was returning despite the curse of Lillith. Eve had found her true love Adam. The found in each in an airplane crash that been caused by Lillith, while they travelled to the New World. They had been sitting next to one another wondering what the other thought. A strange connection seemed to be toying with their sense and Lillith did not want them to figure out their “true identities.”

Lillith had always shadowed Adam and Eve and she was determined to keep the other from knowing the other existed. But, the Universe has a perverse sense of humor -- and after nearly two thousand years with certain son of theirs that had been splayed on a cross -- the Universe had decided to place Adam and Eve on the same plane together. Lillith was furious and she planned to rectify the situation.....

I suddenly felt James warm hand on my back and shoulders. He stood behind and I looked into his eyes and they smiled and I knew that we would be together for years to come ....

Part Three -- My Name is Lillith

It should have been me. Adam should have been my first love not Eve’s. The Universe had placed us together and yet it separated us soon after. The millenniums that followed left me more determined. It was time. The 21st century had finally given me the means to take my revenge. My plans would begin September 11, 2001. I had three weeks to set my plans into motion.

So I sit at my patio table with the yellow and blue furled patio umbrellas blocking out the moon’s light, while the propane outdoor heaters heated the porch. I look over the architecture blueprints of the World Trade Center and engineering schematic of 757 Boeing airplanes. I plot the airplanes courses and ready the plans that my henchmen would follow in detail. They were the perfect patsies and I knew it, whether my henchmen knew did not matter to me.

The 21st century for me was and is the perfect breeding ground for fear and chaos. Barely past the new millennium, the world has become a place where meaningless charlatans can preach the word of a fallen leader. While my followers (my henchmen) are easily influenced by me and the seduction of paradise, it is their fanatical passion that energizes me. I bathe in it. I have not known such passion and fanaticism since the lead up to the “Good War.” I must confess it has been a very long time. For I have existed before recorded time and I am one of the oldest of the first generation immortals.

The propane outdoor heaters crackled and brought my attention back to night surroundings. I am the harbinger of death and my role would be soon defined in the 21st century. I roll the blueprints and the schematics into their proper tubes and ready them to be sent off to the hills of Afghanistan. I sign my communication to my followers as Lillith. It has been a good night of planning. Time to turn in.


Part Four -- The Garden of 1870

My life has been long lived. My husband to be, James, and I will be getting married tomorrow. He knows who I am and what I have done. He also knows that I am immortal. I grew up in the Ural Mountains of Russia during the times of the Czar, but it was far removed for the glamours of the palace and elegance of the royal court. My people numbered in the hundreds of thousands, but were diminished in the “Good War” of the 20th Century.

Now, in the 21st, my man of ten years lies in wait for me to come down the stairs. He sits waiting for me on the patio. Quietly, I work myself to the patio stopping by the kitchen to grab a couple of wine glasses and the bottle of wine I had left chilling in the fridge. I open the glass door to step out on the porch to see James loving eyes on me illuminated by the patio umbrella light.

I sit down. I clasp his hand for a brief moment before I pour the wine into the glasses. He looks at me with his crooked smile and I nearly melt. I am such a school girl around him, but I maintain my composure and finish pouring. I turn my chair so it parallel with James’ chair not wanting to look at him directly into his beautiful hazel eyes. This is also gives me a chance to look out our backyard and our garden.

The garden that we have grown reminds me of another time and another life. It was London 1870 and I had just arrived from Russia to meet my husband that had been arranged for me as a matter of “corporate business.” Essentially, the marriage was an unification of families. My husband at the time was older and did not believe that young woman such as myself was worthy of his time or have any interest of her own. She was to tend to the staff, tend to the garden, and to bare him children -- boys preferably. I tended to two of the three.

We immortals choose when we want to have children. It is an ability of our evolution that allows us to circumvent the fertilization by will. I never loved him. In fact, I put an end to our marriage, when I killed him. In any case, as I look out at the garden I remember the flowers and shrubs that were in my house -- just outside of London. It too had a patio -- a solarium actually -- where the sun’s ray would burn with intensity and warm the entire room.

Part Five -- Darya, Dominika, and a Party

My bachelorette party had been quite eventful. My friends of the 21st century and my remaining family from the Ural Mountains had attended. My backyard had been transformed into a gala type atmosphere.The decorations of white, gold, and silver glistened in the daylight and shimmered in the moonlight. My friends misbehaved badly, while my Grand Aunt Dominika danced the night away with a hunky tanned beefcake named Andre.

Nightfall brought the events to fruition. My friends of the 21st century and my family began to discuss James--and what it meant that he knew who I was and what to do with him if he ever revealed my relationship with the secret order. At various tables, my women friends cackled like old ladies, and some of them were, while the garden patio heaters warm the night air. I told them all I trusted him explicitly and implicitly.

All the women rolled their eyes and shook their heads. My Grand Aunt Dominika, who was more than 450 years old, pulled me aside and looked me in the eyes. Her steely grey eyes studied me--and asked me once, if I was sure, I nodded in the affirmative. I told her that James understood me -- and that if I were to spend my life with a mortal I wanted it to be him.

The party atmosphere escalated as the music from my homeland filled the darkness. And then it happened, Darya -- the Queen of Amazons -- broke the celebratory mood. Her personal guard stood beside her as she called the women to order and dismissed the men entertainers. She simply bellowed, “Attention!” The men scampered out of the room. They knew their place and it was not to be in the presence of the Hellenishians.

Part Six, Darya, My Grand Aunt, & A Man Named Jack

The patio garden heaters tried to push back the cold of the night, yet the fall air turned my backyard garden more cold.The women at the party and my family now huddled around the table patio heaters in order to shove away the chilled air. Darya was now droning on how the Hellenishians must continue to protect Eve -- and how the latest plot to assassinate the President of the United States had failed due to our efforts protect him and the First Lady.

It was the secret duty of the Hellenishians to protect those that evolve the social contract and thwart those who wish to devolve it. At any rate, my backyard garden was filled to the brim with girlfriends and relatives -- and my house, which sits at the edge of the city, away from the glare of the light, was shrouded in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains. Darya wrapped up the pep talk and my bachelorette party resumed.

The entertainers returned. Beefcake male strippers, groomed by The Order, shook their assets. My Grand Aunt Dominika re-attached herself to Andre, a tall Nubian male, well muscled, goatee, and shiny bald head. She whooped every time he shook his fanny in her face. l laughed. My friends laughed. My family laughed. It was a sight we all ogled in delight. I had not seen my Grand Aunt enjoy herself in a very long time -- not since I had killed my husband in London.

The night I had took revenge upon my husband in 1892 for the murders and my friend, Mary Ann Nichols, of Whitechapel, London, I had been living in London less than three years. The Hellenisian Order had not put the final piece of the puzzle together until the murder of Mary Jane Kelly. I did not catch up to him, however, until March 15. He smiled at me, when I used the razor blade on his loins, he retorted -- “You did not like my handy work?”

And I responded, “No my dear husband I did not. For you have surely been a murderous Jack!”

Part Seven -- Lillith Stops Time

It had been a long walk. The heat of the day was inviting and the bright sun welcoming. Now, the sun set behind the ridge of the mountains and warmth was gone. The chill of the mountain air greeted me as I opened my patio door. A few nights prior I had decided to change the world and now I wanted to look upon my garden one last time.

It would be two more weeks before September 11, and I wanted, just for a moment, and pause time. I needed it. The centuries flew by at a dizzying pace. The world for me was out of control always spiraling on its axis. Yet, as a first generation immortal I had the ability to stop time -- just for a moment -- and take a breath. Adam was the true guardian of time but he did not know it, because I had cursed his memory. A memory block that could only be broken if he and Eve remembered that they were “true soul mates.” But, I digress.

I stood in the center of porch. I stood there, with my arms stretched out, as if I were splayed on a cross, my feet arched, my skeletal form shadowed against the red-brick of my home, and my raven black hair was fluid in the ice cold wind. I stood there motionless. I absorbed the nature around, The colors of my garden blurred; the greens, the reds, the purples, and the blues blurred. All of the colors of the rainbow atomized into pixels. Down to their base elements.

The world became motionless. It ceased to exist. Reality was no more. The world became a singularity. I “walked” along the string in my non-corporeal form touching all the elements of Earth. The darkness surrounded me. The dark matter of space, time, and the Universe filled my being -- and for a moment -- time stopped. I no longer existed. And, then the Universe rebooted. I became thought, motion returned, and the world returned. I had returned to my garden. I was now in my backyard garden. I am surrounded with flora on my deck from the garden and patio heaters with tables and blue-green patio umbrellas.

It was time to make a call. I felt refreshed. I needed to change forms from time to time. Soon -- the 21st century would be mine.

Part Eight -- The Story James & Anifisa

I had met the love of my life in 1994 after a FedEx 705 had been hijacked. I did not know it then but my life would be forever changed. I had been working for the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB), when I first laid eyes on her. Her skin was tanned, her legs were long, and her were a floral green that I had never seen before or after. She called herself, Anfisa, she was Russian born in the Ural Mountains.

I would not see her again until after the planes had crashed into the Twin Towers. I did not know this then, but she had been protecting and shadowing me and my partner Eve for nearly seven years. She belonged to a secret order known as the Hellenisians, women who were sworn to protect the queen of civilization and a first generation immortal.

As I recollect this, I am still dumbfounded by the fact that there are immortals amongst the last generation of humanity. When I saw her Anifisa again, clouds of dust were still in the air and tears of grief were running down my face. I had just lost my brother, who was in Tower 1 and deep residing anger began swell in heart and my throat, when I felt her touch me. My skin felt the coolness of her hands and then she clasp my hand and led me away.


She took me away from the destruction. It was a long walk. My life felt surreal. My heat pounded out a hallow tune of remorse. Yet, I followed her and before I knew -- we were in Queens in her backyard and staring out at her garden. We were sitting on the porch at a tempered glass table with patio umbrella shading her eyes. I asked, “Where was I ?”

She replied, “My home,” in her distinctive Russian accent.

I stuttered, “M...m...my n...name is James,” she nodded knowingly and smiled.

Part Nine -- James’ Worldview Changes

The evening sun nestled behind the Rockies. The oranges, purples, and reds of the evening sky dissipated into blackness. The air cooled and I sat alone on my porch. I had just arrived home after spending the day looking for something called the “Market Patio Umbrella.” My fiancee had wanted to new umbrella for her bachelorette party and she had me searching every home and garden shop in town.

Anifisa and her friends wanted everything perfect. From what I understood the queen of the Amazons, a second generation immortal, was to attend. This was all new to me, such as planning a wedding, writing vows, and setting up sitting charts.But, the questions I had the most was, what kind a ring do you get a 450 year old bride. I am still in shock to find out that my future wife was part of some secret sect and no one in the modern world knew about it -- not even the conspiracy theorist. I was still wrapping my brain around that there are immortals.

I am still trying to figure out how the characters of the bible were really alive.How Adam and Eve, the mother and father of civilization, were alive and that Lillith, Adam’s first wife, was trying to kill Eve. All my life I thought the bible had been metaphor and that the social contract was, in part, an allegory for societal behavior. For the first time, however, it made sense of how other cultures around the planet had similar leanings and ideals in terms of the “golden rule.” The fact the teachings were spread by the first generation immortals provided clarity.

I also understood why the secrecy of the sect was so important to my fiancee. She had trusted me to keep the secret and I will until the day I die. Admittedly, it is a bit dramatic of how I speak of immortals, but the fact was my world had been turned upside. So, I sit on the porch studying the garden fiancee and I had tilled together.

Part 10 - My Life Before James

Today is July 4, 1959. I am sitting on the porch in my newly built suburban home on the outskirts of Denver. I am watching my family and my fellow sisters in arms play games of the rural middle class. I look out at the mountains as the day’s sun is seemingly stuck in a perch just above the foothills nearest my red-brick home. As I sit here, I reflect on my long journey to America trying to understand the idea of the democracy and the country’s political system.


The idea of democracy was foreign to me and my sisters in arms. We have always been ruled through a warrior matriarchal caste system and power coalitions which asserts themselves in terms of loyalty, mission, and coercion. Our power relies on our ability to assimilate and adaptation. We learned long ago, because our numbers are few, and the fact we are a warrior women -- the last of the Amazon women in fact -- to infiltrate a society and a community. Our immigration after the Great War was a necessary step to protect the Mother of Civilization--Eve. The United States of America will be the place of our future gatherings, because she is here, and because we understand the sacrifices that need to be made to help our sacred order.

The afternoon sun lowers as I watch the children play various games in the backyard. Kahlee and Jolene are playing horseshoes in the northwest part of the yard, while the others -- Britt, Tonya, Dary, and Allia are playing doubles badminton. I take notice that the ‘adults’ are all watching the girls play and are aligned along the circumference of the porch from my right and to my left.

My sense of community envelopes me watching the activity in my yard. I am feeling embraced and loved because my clan has shown me their support. My transition to the United States has been educational in terms of culture and community. My husband, my assimilation beard, has truly no idea of who I am, but with my new suburban home and my golden labarador named “Goldie” I see many possible future.

Goldie breaks up my reverie with her playful barking as she dashes back and forth between kids and the adults. Some of the adults have food on their laps -- barbecue pork ribs, egg salad, and hot-links -- teasing Goldie with small morsels of meat from their plates. I go to the kitchen, return to the porch with a bowl of ziwipeak natural dog food, and call Goldie over to eat. My dog jumps up and down and vicariously prances over to me as I sit the bowl down in front of her next to the base of the patio.


Sunday, March 04, 2012

Editor's Note

Editor's Note -- It has been very long time since I written on this blog. Part of the reason for this is that life happens and one gets busy, but of late, I have been frustrated by the political rancor since the election of 2008.

The partisanship and the political acrimony in the United States has deepened and created a greater gulf between the haves and the have-nots. So, this is my rejoinder -- to return to the fold and once again join the millions of voices in a chorus and hope my musings at least impact one person.

This blog originally was about the telling of stories, which did not get very far because of school, life, and school. But, from this point forward I will dedicate at least one posting a month that is either fictional, non-fictional, or informational.

In the following days to come, I will be posting several post from fiction to non-fiction. I hope you enjoy them ...

Thursday, May 14, 2009

An Abstraction of Colorado

Figure 1. Ludlow Massacre – Tent Colony.[1] Photograph 1914. No photographer credit. From Western History/Genealogy Dept., Denver Public Library. http://photoswest.org/cgi-bin/imager?10060350+X-60350

When I look at old pictures from Colorado, out of context, with a few words set-typed below, I often wonder what is the rest of the story. How can I know this person? What did they go through to be photograph at that moment? But, no matter how much I wonder the stories of their plight is untenable, unobtainable, and unfixable by time and space. I cannot go back in time and fix her trauma. However, in the figure 1 photograph, haunted me, something about the woman and the image surrounding her and behind her made me wonder who she was. The life she must have had and what stuck out for me was the transitory nature and the feel of oppression. The image came from the United Mine Workers for America strike camp in 1914 it reminded me of a couple things from Killing for Coal.[2] First the cover of the book where the men are standing around and the second was about resources being used and how America fuel resources was being changed over from wood to coal. Of course, this was happening over a period of years, yet the image reminded me how fragile living conditions were and the woman reminded of a time when energy resources were dependent on the sun.[3] The tent colony was a place of working people trying to bring Colorado and America into modernity. The picture, according to the information from the Western History/Genealogy Department of the Denver Public Library, was from 1914 collection in regards to the UMWA strike after the Ludlow Massacre. It does not specify how soon afterwards, but it does show the conditions of the camp. Her imaged haunted and made me curious to do more research. The place looks to be in transition. She seems to be in a liminal state of loss. Wondering what is next for her and her family? The snow for me signified a barrier, and given enough time, one knows it would melt away. This strikes a metaphor in mind, in that, piling up of the snow, represented a “boom,” but once gone a “bust.” She looks haggard and tired, yet there is something more, the faces of the men and others are blurred. They have no features. And, this brings me to a point. Her features are barely discernible. The strike camp, where the Ludlow Massacre occurred is barely discernible. It is a picture that indicates distance and yet proximity to the heart of the devastation of change to labor and company relations set the future course for Colorado. As put forth by Andrews’ at the end of his second chapter, citing a Greek immigrant “The earth has been transformed …. And I ride the wave to survive.”[4]

Figure 2 – Prospectors, West Creek District. Source H. S. Poley Collection, copyright H. S. Poley, 1900?

“Riding the wave” seems to be an immigrant and American past time. In figure 2, the prospectors are traveling along a trail, possibly loaded down with ore of gold or silver. In the summary of Western History/Genealogy Department of the Denver Public Library, what is in the bundles is not defined. However, I chose the image based on the speculation that there might be. They travel along on an old dirt road in Douglas County, Colorado, and we the observer, see the grit and our own projected romanticism within the picture. It gives one wonder what they may have found. It leaves one the sense that rushes to Colorado both gold and silver, and before that California, had a context of urgency and sent wave after wave of people into the wilderness of the west and the coast. [6] In Colorado, Americans, immigrants, and Native Americans began to transform Colorado, from the earliest days of the west to the 21st century. The waves of people to come to Colorado, in the future, never saw the realized that Colorado became, and its storied and buried past; a history of which was built on more than blood and sweat, but on soul, gold, and coal.

Figure 3 – Plains Indian Burial. Source: Western History/Genealogy Department of the Denver Public Library.

It is the soul, where some believe, that the transition of oneself truly begins. In this picture of a burial, I am nostalgic for a time that I perceive as simpler and less complex. But, the truth of the matter, when clarity comes to my mind, I know with certainty it was not. I see this image and take note what is missing. I wonder where the horse is, and I speculate, in this recreated image, is this a time before Euro-Americans came to the plains? Is this a time before the Spanish came to the pueblos, before the Conquistadors sword broke the Native American’s spirit, and this a time before the horse returned? Or is this a time, layed before the transition of one’s spirit, before the night sky, simply a family gathering of a tragic loss? This is the image that came to my mind’s eye as I viewed the picture. In the book by Carl Abbott, Stephen J. Leonard, and Thomas J. Noel, Colorado –A History of the Centennial State, they document how the Anasazi, the ancient pueblos lived in Colorado.[7] After contact with Euro-Americans, life on the plains changed, and the nomadic tradition of the tribes was even more ephemeral than before; the permanency of the existence could only be measured by trade with the first pioneers, the mountain men, and fur traders.[8] The plains for Native American’s lifeways changed and the introduction of the horse changed the way they interacted with one another and the way they interacted with their environment and the energy within the context of their environment.[9] The image of the burial reminds me then of a simpler time and unification of spirit. The burial of our energy sources human, agriculture, horse, and even coal were all products of solar energy. Think of coal as fossilized solar energy. At any rate, the returning of the body to the sun to be burn in the blazing heat of the day, for me, a symbolic gesture. As Carl Sagan, oft said, “We are star stuff” and the family sitting under the burial waiting for the next day’s light are taking shelter in their ancestors presence seemingly waiting for the transition of tomorrow.

And, that is my theme, Colorado in transition. First with Ludlow Massacre, a lone women waiting for change, burros carrying the hopes and dreams for prospectors hoping for change, and the plains Indians under the ancestor’s burial await for their ancestor’s transition to heaven.

Bibliography

Abbott, Carl, Stephen J. Leonard, Thomas J. Noel, Colorado –A History of the Centennial State, (Boulder, Colorado: University Press of Colorado, 2005), 12-13.

Andrews, Thomas G., Killing for Coal: America’s Deadliest Labor, (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 2008), 27-49.

Ludlow Massacre – Tent Colony. Photograph 1914. No photographer credit. From Western History/Genealogy Dept., Denver Public Library. http://photoswest.org/cgi-bin/imager?10060350+X-60350

Plains Indian Burial. Photograph 1940 – 1960. Photograph. No photographer credit. From Western History/Genealogy Dept., Denver Public Library.

Ludlow Massacre – Tent Colony. Photograph 1914. No photographer credit. From Western History/Genealogy Dept., Denver Public Library. http://photoswest.org/cgi-bin/imager?10060350+X-60350

Plains Indian Burial. Photograph 1940 – 1960. Photograph. No photographer credit. From Western History/Genealogy Dept., Denver Public Library. http://photoswest.org/cgi-bin/imager?10033695+X-33695

Poley, H. S., photographer. “Prospector, West Creek District.” Photograph 1900? From H. S. Poley Collection, http://photoswest.org/cgi-bin/imager?00172578+P-2578.

West, Eliot, The Contested Plains – Indians, Goldseekers & the Rush to Colorado, (Lawrence, Kansas: University Press of Kansas, 1996), 98, 144-170.