A Heavy Choice

I stared at the list of names. All of these people, every single one, was a stranger. Most importantly, every single one was dead; and they were dead because of me. I was my fault, and yet.... it wasn't. I'd had decision to make. No matter what I did, people were going to die. The question had been, "How many?" I tried not to make the decision, be all "smart-alek" and going with "no one;" but people had died anyway. The one forcing the decision on me had reminded me that the question was "How many? Would it be a  small handful of unknown, but no less important, people? Or, a larger group, who's size was the equivalent of a small nation? How many people would die?" Finally, I chose. Heaven help me, I chose. "The needs of the many..." and all that. What else was I supposed to do? Let a millions of people die, or only a couple hundred? I am not proud of my choice, but I wouldn't change it. The decision was made, and I have to live with it. You judge me, but if the choice had been yours, what would you have done?

Unfamiliar Home

She just stood there, staring. Occasionally she would take a few steps and then stop. She would then pick up an object, look at it as if seeing for the first time, and then put it back. When she encountered pictures, she would stare at them like she was trying to remember who was in them. She also muttered to herself. Nothing intelligible, but muttering none the less.

"This is a lovely home. Is it yours?" she finally asked.

I stared at her, holding back tears. "No, Mom. It's yours. This is your house."

"Oh." she replied, and then looked at me with a strange expression. "Why did you call me 'Mom'?"

Pain and Memory

Mr. Grey had told her that she had been unconscious for three days, and missing for two weeks before that. She had simply disappeared one night after stating that she was going to her dorm's gym. Two weeks later, her friend, Pasha had found her lying in the floor if the entry way. She was dressed, although not in the clothes she had left in, but her feat were bare and bloody. She had no memory of how she had gotten there or where she had been for those two weeks. Every time she tried to remember what happened, s searing pain shot through her head. If she tried to press on through, the pain and pressure only got worse. The doctors said it was probably due to the fact that she had sustained two concussions. She also had three broken ribs, two cracked ribs, busted knuckles, lacerations on her face and arms, and the bottoms of her feet had been scraped raw. They said that, from appearances, she had at some point gotten into a fight barefoot on rough terrain. They said that the broken bones and cuts would heal, but they could not tell her for sure whether her memory would return.

Insta-Learn

"You can learn anything! Insta-Learn lets you download new knowledge and skills directly into your brain. No more grueling training sessions, no more boring lectures! Learn what you want when you want!"
     I gave a small grunt after the commercial ended. When I was younger, I had wanted to use Insta-Learn to learn as much as I could. Now, not so much.
     Ever since I was little, my dad had taken me to what little "wild" remained and had taught me how to survive on my own, without technology and amenities. He had also taught me basic medical techniques, and how to read, write, do math, cook, sew, and fight. He taught me all of these, and a few more, without ever letting me use Insta-Learn.
     At first, I thought it was kinda cool to learn things the "old-fashioned" way; but as I grew older I started to resent it. I didn't want to be dragged out to the middle of nowhere to spend my days and nights with no technology, hot water, or bed. I didn't want to learn skills that I would probably never use; but my dad never relented. He never really explained why he made me learn things this way, he only ever said "Character trumps talent."
     I didn't stop resenting the lessons until it was too late to thank him for them. A few years ago, I hand the unfortunate experience of having to use, not only one of the skills, but all of them in order to survive. I also learned the short-comings of Insta-Learn. It was hard to access the stored skills in the "wild", and while the brain may know how to do something, the body does not necessarily understand how to perform it. Therefore, my hard work and hard won skills made me smarter and faster than the "Insta-Learners."
     As my dad always said, "Character trumps talent." Talent will only take you so far, but hard work will take you farther. Thanks, dad.

The Dragon

 He stared at the dragon crouching before him. He should not have gone out on his own. No one would know what had happened to him. His mother would spend the rest of her days expecting him to come home, like she did for his father. He couldn't climb the rocks, they were too step and smooth. Besides, dragons could fly. He would just be making himself an easier target. He couldn't dash to the side and try to run around either. The dragon's reptilian eyes tracked his every movement and it moved it's body to block his every time he tried. There wasn't anything to do but fight and hope for a miracle.

Flowers for His Grave

I remove the dead flowers in the vase and replaced them with fresh ones, daisies this time. I stand up and stare at them, framing the gravestone. My friends always ask my why I bother with the flowers, the man had been my enemy after all. I can't really say why. It's a compulsion. The man had no family and no friends to miss him. I was probably the closest thing to a "friend" he'd had, and all we had done was fight and argue. He hadn't always been that way. Our research shows that he'd had a family once, and friends too; but in one sweep, tragedy took that all away and he had let the bitterness it brought fester. By the time I met him, all that he had been was gone. He had wanted nothing but to destroy the world that had hurt him and taken all that was dear to him. It had been my job to stop him. I didn't hate him, and I don't really believe he hated me personally. I was simply standing in his way. He would have done the same to anyone who had opposed him. He had been right about some things- the unfairness of the world, the cruelty of man, etc- but his methods for dealing with them were wrong. I guess I feel sorry for him. It saddens me that no one is around to miss him for who he was; that the only people who remember him are those who were hurt or destroyed by him. In my mind, I'm not leaving the flowers for the man I killed, I'm leaving them for the man who was hurt by life and had died before I met him.