His mind was reeling as he floated in the icy water above the ruins.

The place was flooded in the ’70s to manufacture a lake and recreation area. The government made the decision; residents weren’t asked, they were told.

“Dear Resident,

“Plans for our new lake and recreation area are underway. You have 6 months to negotiate a sale with this office for all personal property and land.

“Cordially Yours, GOVERNMENT.”

And screw you. (The letter didn’t say that, but it may as well have.)

Everything in the town was sold by the owners to the government for unreasonably low prices. Some people managed to have whole houses moved to new locations, but the time, trouble and expense was just too much for most of the town’s residents.

The cemetery was relocated at government expense.

Everyone was told whatever else was left behind would be demolished and hauled away before the flooding began.

Residents, for the most part, took the money and ran. A few moved to the next town over, but the majority went further.

No one wanted to watch the valley be flooded. No one wanted to see the home of generations drown.  Had they cared to witness the deluge pouring into the place, covering fertile farmland and old streets, it wouldn’t be allowed; roads were closed for days while filling the artificial lake was accomplished.

Years later, the lake is vast, the campgrounds and picnic areas lovely. Greg’s parents and grandparents had brought him here often.

But they had never seen this!

Newly certified to scuba dive, Greg decided to make the lake one of his first solo treks. Now he wished for a camera, because Grandpa would never believe this.

The church, the school, streets, houses, fences–all still here! Nothing demolished. Nothing moved.

Imagine that: they lied!


The Last Train

Within minutes, “The Underground” became the whole world.

Rebecca had screamed and sobbed as Megan and Ruben hit buttons and switches that would bring down iron gates and slam airlock doors shut.

All over the city, people trying to flee into the subway stations were thwarted. Those who were already on the platforms were prevented from going to the lower levels, where shops and food courts could be found.

Ruben cursed under his breath.

“What? Megan demanded.

“No time to get the outsiders up to the platform,” Ruben said. “We’re stuck with them, whoever they are.”

Rebecca stared at her screen, which showed the area around the Broadway entrance, the station her husband and kids exited each morning on their way to work and school. The gate had come down, but it hardly mattered; the street was nothing but rubble and bodies, intermingled and bloody. Particulates– either dust or smoke; probably both– hung in the air.

Rebecca leaned forward, staring. Tears coursed down her cheeks; a single tear hung, trembling, from the tip of her nose. She made no move to wipe her face, just stared at the ruination of Broadway, her breath hitching in that after-sobbing hiccough Megan associated with small children.

Ruben, in the meantime, was monitoring the screens that showed the shops a level above them. Customers were still lined up for coffee or bagels, just beginning to show signs of awareness that all was not right over their heads. There weren’t a great many of those whom he’d just labeled “outsiders”, not in their section of the underground. He was thankful it wasn’t a rush period of the day.

Megan lifted the handset of her phone and called Mark, who was supposed to be sleeping before his shift. He answered before the first ring could be completed. “How’d you know?” she asked.

“I was talking to Larry. He’s– uh, he was— heading for the Stuart Avenue station. There were a lot of big… bangs. I lost him, Meg. I don’t think he made it.” Mark’s voice faded a bit at the end.

Megan bit back a sob and took a deep breath. “We’re going to need the whole team,” she told him.

“How bad is it?”

“It’s…” Megan’s eyes shifted from screen to screen: the entrance on the surface above them; entrances to other stations on the East/West line; the capitol building; City Park. “It’s bad.”

“Shit. I’ll round ’em up. On my way.”

There was a clatter on the metal stairs beyond the security room door. Megan turned to look, and saw the daycare workers leading the little ones down, single file. She could see that they were calm and in control. They worked their way down the hall and knocked on doors, delivering the children to their parents before going to their own little apartments.

Tony, the daycare supervisor, stepped into the doorway. “Hey, Meg. Things turned a bit wild up there all of a sudden. Thought it best to bring the kids down now.”

Megan motioned him over. “Did you lock the stairwell door?” she asked.

“Better believe it,” Tony assured her. “We don’t need outsiders down here.”

Ruben grimaced. “Those outsiders have just become insiders,” he declared. “We can’t open the outer doors.”

Rebecca sniffed loudly and pointed at her screen. “They’re going up to the platform,” she said. “Our east side door didn’t close.”

“What the–?” Ruben snapped. He pulled up video of the east door, hit a couple of buttons and watched as the metal barrier began to slide down. A couple more people managed to get under before it slammed shut.

“Let ’em go,” Tony said. “Look, the train just arrived.” He pointed at Megan’s screen.

Ruben hit another button and the terminal appeared on the main overhead screen. Sure enough, the train was on the platform. People were lined up to get on when the doors opened, and a few could be seen hurrying toward it from the east side.

“Not all of them went up,” Tony remarked, tossing Ruben an accusing glare.

Ruben glared back. He was more concerned that others might try to come down.

“No matter.” Megan, beginning to shake with delayed shock, stared at the train. The doors were still closed. Passengers on both sides of the doors and windows stared at each other. “We can’t let them…”

After a pause that seemed eternal, Ruben said, “We can’t let them what? Get off? Get on? Leave? Stay?” He slapped a palm on his desktop, making them all jump. “Do what, Megan?”

“Shut up, Ruben.” That was Mark.

Oh, thank God! Megan was never more glad to see anyone. He was followed by seven other members of the security team.

Rebecca had gone an even whiter shade of pale than she’d previously gone, and Megan left her seat to go to her.

When Megan placed her hands on Rebecca’s shoulders, the young woman gave her a grateful look. “Why are the doors still closed?” she whispered. Then her eyelids fluttered, her irises slid up in a slow motion eye roll, and she fainted.

Mark and Tony moved her from her chair to the floor and covered her with their jackets. Ruben shook his head and Megan resumed her seat. “She lasted longer than I thought she would,” he sighed. “Her whole family… damn!”

Damien, head of security patrol in this area, was still standing outside the observation office space, near the door. He was talking quietly into a radio. Megan strained her ears, trying to eavesdrop, but could only make out about one word in ten.

She began scrolling through camera feeds along the subway route. Broadway East/West showed several people on the platform, milling about confusedly. There was no train in that station.

The stairwell gates kept anyone else from going down from the street; people on both sides of those gates were working frantically to pull them open. Megan manipulated that camera enough to look past the people at the foot of the stairs; beyond a couple of layers of living people, she could see the dead lying in unnatural poses on the steps.

She switched to Stuart Avenue Station, a North/South line, and the sights were much the same. Ruben followed her lead, and they checked location after location. Mark watched over their shoulders. “Where are all the trains?” he asked.

Damien came inside. “We have a motorman on the platform,” he said. “He wants to know if he can open the doors.”

“No,” Ruben said.

“Yes,” Mark said.

Damien sighed dramatically. “Riiiiight,” he drawled. “Look, guys. I haven’t been able to raise any of the other motormen on the lines. What’s going on?”

“Trying to find that out,” Megan grumbled. “Cameras are active on all routes, but I can’t find a single train…”

“What are you talking about?” Damien cried. “They have to be somewhere.”

Megan swiveled in her seat and glared at him. “You want to search, Damien?”

He raised his hands, chest high and palms out, and waved them in surrender. “No, no,” he said. “I’m going to have to go to the platform and deal with that situation.” He pulled a key ring out of his pocket and started sorting through them. “I don’t think I’ve ever used the emergency stairwell.”

“What are you going to do?” Megan asked.

“Ask a lot of questions.”

Megan raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

“I need to know, first, how many people are on the train already. If there aren’t many, I suppose we could let them get out and stay here…”

“No!” Ruben interrupted. “We don’t have room–”

“Ruben,” Mark said.

“We don’t have the resources to add more people down here!”

“What about the people waiting to board?” Megan asked.

“We don’t have room for them, either!” Ruben was red-faced.

Rebecca stirred, moaned and sat up. “Jesus,” she sighed shakily. “To quote someone or other, did you get the licence number of that truck?”

“Stay still, Beck,” Megan ordered.

Rebecca started to cry. “Dear God,” she said. “My babies…”

“I’m so sorry, honey,” Megan said.

Mark and Tony sat at the terminals on each side of Megan and began their own searches. They were bypassing the platforms and looking at en-route tracks throughout the metropolitan area. “I don’t see any signs of cave-ins or track damage…” Mark’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “All the lights are on…”

“Where the hell are the trains?” Tony cried.

Megan was still looking at platforms, counting heads–sort of. There were other security stations throughout the area, folks who looked after their own platforms and apartments and sales kiosk floors. They patrolled and checked camera feeds, just like Megan’s people did. But they didn’t have the authority to do a city-wide lock down. Megan and Ruben had made that decision, and now…

Now it was what it was. At least no one else could get down now.

No one could go up, either.

Damien hadn’t moved. The security team milled restlessly, unwilling to interject any opinions or offer suggestions. All of them were intelligent enough to know that one answer was going to come with a hundred questions or concerns.

Megan pulled up camera feeds along the routes at street level. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” she chanted, barely a whisper, but heard by all. The split screenshots all showed different versions of the same chaos: bodies, fires, rubble, crashed vehicles. There was an occasional glimpse of a live person, staggering or crawling. Megan’s tears, unabated, soaked into the collar of her blouse.

Tony, meanwhile, was doing a camera by camera search of the tracks. They were clear–and empty of trains. Platform shots showed waiting patrons milling about in increasing levels of stress. Terminal gate shots showed others trying to get in or out; panic levels were rising.

Mark was on the phone. “Look, Alice,” he said, “we’ve got our own situation right here, including a train on the platform with people inside.” He listened. “Yes, we closed all your gates. We closed everyone’s gates. Did you want even more people down there? Alice… Alice! Stop yelling at me, or I’m just going to hang up. I have other people to call… No, we’re not opening the gates. Look at your monitors, Alice. Is anyone topside alive?”

Mark covered the mouthpiece on the phone and sighed loudly.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Megan chanted. It seemed the only thing she was capable of saying as she monitored the streets above.

“What are we going to do?” Tony asked, speaking to no one in particular.

Ruben swiveled away from the monitors and faced the room. “The tracks are clear,” he said. “Load that train up and send it on its way.”

“On its way to where?” Megan demanded. Ruben’s suggestion had managed to pull her away from her chanting.

“Wherever,” Ruben replied. “They can’t stay here. We don’t have room for more people. We already have outsiders in the shops– we’re not going to be able to feed ourselves for long, let alone extra people! Whoever made it to the platform–they have to go!”

Damien stared at him. “You’ve lost your damn mind,” he declared in a flat, implacable voice.

“Have I?” Ruben snapped. “Are you going to invite them to stay in your apartment? Are you going to feed them?” Ruben pointed at the ceiling with both hands. Everyone up there is dead!” 

Mark spoke into the phone: “Alice, we’re not letting people down here with us… No. We can’t do it. We don’t have room. We don’t have resources…. Well, you and your people will have to decide that yourselves. We can’t get to you, Alice. You can’t get to us…. I–okay, well, let me know. You can– whatever, Alice, just let me know. Goodbye!” He restrained himself from slamming the receiver down, but it was a close thing. He stared at the others. “She thinks they can walk out,” he told them.

“What–on the tracks?” Megan gasped. “They’re still live!”

“There are walkways,” Tony mused.

“Walk out to where?” Damian demanded. “To the same place he–” he pointed at Ruben– “wants to send that train?”

Mark put his face in his hands and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Train goes west,” he muttered. “Goes to the surface for the last two stops, right?”

“Yes,” Rebecca whispered. “Belview, then Park Place, past the freeway.” She rose to her feet and sat in an empty chair.

“Meg, bring up the end of the line.” Mark sat up straight and swiveled around to look at the big overhead screen.

“I already tried,” Megan told him. “The last few cameras are down.”

“What about end of the line to the east?”

“Same.” Megan’s tears kept flowing. “North and south, too. I can’t get a look at any of the surface platforms.”

“But the eastern end is clear out of the city,” Rebecca said. “It could be fine out there!”

“This one came in from the east. What does the motorman say?” He directed this last to Damien.

Damien shrugged. “Zero perspiration the whole trip, he claims. But he did say he never passed the east bound train that should have been at Fremont Station.”

Mark spun around in this seat a few times, staring at his feet and pondering. Finally, he said, “We have no way of knowing what that means.”

Megan blurted, “It means there are no other trains!”

“We don’t know that, either.”

“Of course we do,” Tony sighed. “The underground cameras are functioning all along the line. We haven’t located a single train.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Rebecca cried. “That’s just not possible!”

“If we send the train out–” Mark began.

“We can’t!” Megan cried.

“If. If.” Mark glared at her. “If we send it out, we send it back east, where it came from.”

“Because?” Damian prompted.

“It’s like Beck says. The last stop is way outside the city; it’s all fields and farms out there. It could be totally safe.”

“But we have no way of knowing that!” Megan protested.

“They can’t stay here,” Ruben growled.

Rebecca frowned. “Could people really walk out?” she asked.

Tony shrugged. “Any one of us could use the walkways to go station to station,” he said. “It would be a long trip. And,” he added, “it would be platform to platform. All the gates and doors are locked. No food. A couple of water fountains maybe. Not all platforms have them. Here and there a vending machine.”

Megan sighed. “No one at those stations are any more likely than we are to open up and let anyone in.”

“Not if they’re thinking about the ones who live there,” Ruben said.

“Okay, Ruben,” Mark commented crossly. “We get it.”

“Hey, I got a wife and kids to–”

“Shut up.”

Ruben snapped his mouth shut and glared at everyone.

Mark stood up. “Okay, people. This sucks. It’s not going to be pretty, I’d say. But…let’s head up there.”

As they filed out, he continued. “No one gets off the train. All those on the platform have to board. We send them back to the east and pray they’ll get off in a safe place. It’s all we can do.”

Rebecca stood up abruptly and ran after them. “I’m getting on the train!” she cried.

“Becky, no!” Megan jumped to her feet.

“I’ve got nothing left here,” Rebecca told her, walking sideways to keep up with Mark and look her last at Megan. “I’ll take my chances.”

“Probably for the best,” Ruben remarked.

Megan whirled to face him. “Will you, for hell’s sake, just shut up?”

Ruben shook his head sadly as the security team, Rebecca included, turned a corner and disappeared on their way to the emergency stairwell. “Megan,” he said. “I’m right about this.”

Megan scrubbed at her face, finally aware of the tears that had soaked through the top of her blouse. “I know,” she said. “Shut up, anyway.”

Ruben shut up.

They stared at the monitors. Megan brought the platform up on the big screen. Security appeared.

Over the next few minutes they watched as security argued with people on the platform. People inside the train were moved away from the doors and into seats. One at a time, loading doors slid open and passengers were ushered inside. When the platform was empty, Mark, Tony and Damien motioned the others to step back.

For several more minutes Damien could be seen talking into his radio.

Megan sighed and brushed away more tears. She could only imagine what sort of conversation was going on between their head of security and the motorman who was expected to drive the train away into the unknown.

She felt sick with guilt. But she knew she could have done nothing else besides close the doors. Ruben was right, damn him. There was no room. There were no resources; they were going to be in a world of trouble themselves before the next week passed. If they couldn’t return to the surface soon, they were as dead as the people above them.

Briefly, she considered running out of the room, up the emergency stairwell and onto the platform, where she could board the train herself. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she saw Mark turn and face the camera lens. She read the tension in his face; he wasn’t going anywhere.

The train started to move, heading back the way it had come.

Ruben pulled up cameras of the track. Clear.

As the train moved away, the cameras picked it up, on and on down the line, and then… it was gone!

“What the hell?” Ruben and Megan both leapt to their feet.

“Are the cameras out? What happened?”

Ruben bent and flipped switches, pushed buttons. There was the track. Empty. Clear.

They stared at each other, aghast.

They could hear the footfalls of the remaining “Underground” people, and the few outsiders who hadn’t gone to the platform.  Soon everyone was standing with them, watching as shot after shot of track showed them… nothing.

The last train was just… gone.

“Jesus Christ, what happened?” Damian cried.

“Rebecca!” Megan screamed. “Rebecca!” Mark threw an arm around her waist to support her, and led her out.

One by one, they left the observation area.

They still had homes. For now.
















Headlines, but… You Have to Read the Story!

Once upon a time, many moons ago, I took a Journalism class.

Yes, I did. It’s true. It was taught by Bill Duncan at Green River High School, if you care. He taught me a lot, but one lesson has stood out in my memory all these years, and it was all about the importance of a good headline. (Credit where credit is due–Thanks, Mr. Duncan!)

“A good headline,” he told the class, “draws the reader in. It makes him want to know more. It has to give just enough information to make you read the story.”

Clever headlines are great, but they can be misleading. Take his example, shared in class one day: “Nut Bolts and Screws”.

Now, I look at that headline, and imagine it on one of today’s websites. What could it be? A sale on tools? A “How To” article?

Add a picture of a fence, with a large building in the background. Are we building something? Was the fence damaged?

Is it a misprint? Did they mean “nuts” instead of “nut”?


Now, you imagine it. What do you think the story is? Are you going to read on, or just assume you know the answer and hit that all too infamous “share button”? And if you do share, without reading the story, what will your comment be?

I have a point.

All too often, as I scroll through social media sites, I see stories shared by acquaintances of mine with comments like, “Unbelievable” or “I knew this would happen,” or other similar statements that lead me to think they read the story and found it worth sharing for good reasons.

So, silly me, I click on the story and actually READ it.

As soon as I do, I realize that the person sharing read nothing past the headline and shared it because that short introduction sparked an emotional response.

The last one I saw, yesterday, turned out to be a parody site which clearly states on their “About Us” page that nothing they print is real, and if you believe it is, you need your head examined.


I was very amused by this “About Us” page, but appalled that the story they ran is being shared repeatedly by people who have clearly not read the story, or the disclaimers, and believe that the headline is real.

It doesn’t matter which story or headline I’m talking about, since all the stories are fictional on this site. I will add that they clearly use the words “fiction” and “fictional” throughout their stories to make sure that people know it is satire.

But… you have to read the story! 

I have literally begged people not to share stories if they don’t know what they’re about, but… no.

I once had someone tell me that my very own story was “fake news”, and it was an essay about something that happened to me on a trip that was completely true. I then asked him if he read it, and he admitted that he had not. He just thought WordPress was a fake news site.

Okay, then.

This is what we’re dealing with. People want sound bites and tidbits, and are unwilling to go the extra mile, even just to read a little article. The story isn’t as important to them as the chance to spread the headline, especially when they feel like it supports their agendas, whatever they may be.

As a writer, I find that discouraging. I like to think people read my articles from beginning to end, and maybe learn something. I can’t be the only writer who feels that way.

I wondered if it would make a difference to remind them that their agendas just got torpedoed?

Nope. I shared the “About Us” page in the comments, and got zero response. I’m not even surprised.

A good headline is a teaser, just like those movie trailers that make you want to fork out a few dollars and sit in a theater for a couple of hours. Sometimes the trailer tells you everything you need to know about the movie. And sometimes they are so misleading that you’re completely floored when you take the time to watch.

(I’m thinking of “Phenomenon”, with John Travolta. I don’t think I have ever been so fooled by a movie trailer. And even so, it was worth every minute of watch-time.)


Okay, I know some of you really do already know the story, but for those of you who don’t, here you are:

Nut Bolts and Screws

Thursday night was not your typical quiet weeknight. Bobo Bumhug, a patient at the Whoo-Hoo Mental Asylum escaped the grounds by jumping a fence when guards were distracted by a dancing dervish. Before he was captured, he broke into a nearby home and sexually assaulted a woman. Mr. Bumhug is now in custody awaiting further mental testing and no longer presents a danger to the community.

A “nut” “bolts” from the asylum and “screws” someone. For the record, if you are groaning now, I get it. I groaned, too. The whole class did.

Still, the headline is, in analysis, perfectly correct. But was the story what you thought it would be?

Let me know in the comments below.


Note: Naturally, it has been over 40 years since my teacher told this story, so it is not word for word what he said, but it’s close enough.

‘Rona Realities

This has been a trying time in our country, and in the world. A particularly virulent virus has taken lives from sea to shining sea, from coast to coast on not just this continent but on all the continents. There will be an end, I believe. But that end is not yet in sight.

From the beginning, I have shouted from the roof-tops: “Wash your hands!” I have advocated the wearing of masks, the use of hand sanitizer when a good scrub isn’t possible and keeping a reasonable distance between people. I have stayed home.

Then my father took a bad fall, and we entered one realm of Hell or other.

It’s one thing to read news stories about the effects of this pandemic, and quite another when you have to see them firsthand.

My father injured himself badly enough that my mother and I are unable to attend to him for a while. This means he had to enter a care facility where nurses, CNAs and physical therapists can help him heal and rehabilitate.

In normal times, this would mean that we could go there and visit in his room, go have lunch or dinner with him, take him for walks in his wheelchair and later, with a walker or cane. We could cheer him on in physical therapy. He could offer him reassurances, and love and hand-holding and hugs.

But, NO! These are not normal times. We look at him through a window while talking on the phone, or we do video chats. We cannot touch him, let alone hug him. We can’t sit across from him and encourage him to eat.

It’s a nightmare.

Now, I am perfectly well aware that it isn’t only our nightmare. This is happening all over the world. We’re a statistic. One case among many.

Obviously, I am not going to turn into an obnoxious, entitled bitch who demands that my father get preferential treatment, including visitors, when there’s a dangerous pandemic happening, and the lives of other residents would be in danger.

(Don’t kid yourself. I totally want to do that. That’s MY dad. And I know I’m not the only one who wants to do that; any child/spouse/parent/friend would want to go to their loved one’s bedside and be there in person to support them. But what we want and what we know is safe are, in this case, two different things.)

Here’s the thing: COVID-19 is going to be responsible for more deaths than those of patients who actually died of the virus. I don’t know how the numbers will be studied and analyzed, but they’ll need to be looked at, because I am not wrong about this.

Heart attacks, car accidents, other illnesses–they are certainly taking their toll, as they always do. But perhaps more of them are leading to the end of the line than normally happens. Things that might be overcome and survived are ending badly in more cases, and I believe that it’s because so many people are no longer allowed to have visitors while undergoing medical treatment.

Nursing homes and long-term care facilities probably have the strictest no-visiting policies, and those precautions are in place because they make good sense. Residents and patients are already at high risk.

Unfortunately, many of those high risk people are also those who have lessened abilities to understand the situation. I know my father has had it explained multiple times, and for a short period, he understands why we’re outside his window instead of by his side. But, within minutes, he repeats himself: “Why don’t you come inside? Why are you out in the wind?”

There are people all over the world right now wondering why they have no visitors, feeling lonely and deserted. This is leading to depression. And depression is a killer, friends and neighbors.

If they don’t care, why should I? What a horrible thought. Yet, I know there have been many who must have thought it, or who are thinking it now. Why should I care? Why should I try? I’m all alone. No one misses me. No one comes to see me. I give up.

I have heard those dreadful words from my father’s own mouth a few times now: “I give up.”

No! Don’t give up! Please, Dad. Keep fighting!

“I give up.”

Many have. Many more will. People need that healing touch, not from a stranger, but from those who love them the most. And they can’t get it.

That’s the cruelest reality of this pandemic. We cannot provide or receive the touch that would ultimately heal. Isolation leads to depression which leads to apathy which leads to surrender.

“I give up.”

Who is going to document those COVID-19 related deaths when the number-counters get moving? Will it even be a consideration, when things settle down at long last? Will anyone care enough to look at that data and say, “She probably would have pulled through, but no one came to see her, and she just gave up”?

I could do a lot of bitching and moaning, finger pointing and blaming, but it’s pointless and won’t change a thing. We are where we are. What is happening is going to play out, and I can only pray that people will be unselfish enough to do their part and make sure it plays out in the quickest and safest way possible.

We all know the recommendations: wash your hands; wear your mask; stay six feet apart; avoid large crowds.

In the meantime, consider my father and others like him who can’t have a loved one at their sides, rooting for them and holding their hands. Do your part to make sure this aspect of the situation can change. Wearing a mask and keeping your distance isn’t going to kill you. Refusing to do so could very well kill someone you love.

I want to hug my father. He needs to be hugged so he’ll want to keep fighting and get the hell out of there.

Seriously. Do your part. Lives are at stake. Virus patients and virus adjacent patients are all in peril.

Wash your hands and wear the damn mask.






Beyond the Grid

Monitoring the city’s security grid, a shocked Megan blurted out, “What the….?”

The co-workers on shift with her quickly adjusted their monitors to see what Megan was watching.

“Oh, dear God,” Rebecca gasped.

Security Surveillance had been moved underground several years earlier, two levels  lower than the subway system. Just below the subway level, there were several shops for commuters and employees, offering almost anything they could purchase on the surface. Near the entrance to the security level, there was a daycare center for employees of the shops and security who had small children.

Megan and her husband had worked in the facility for years, and maintained a small apartment adjacent to the control room, as did several of their co-workers. It was simply easier; the city offered the pleasant living quarters for a song compared to city rental rates.

Enough people lived and worked “The Underground”, as they called it amongst themselves, that there was a healthy social life, and most people were content to limit their visits to the surface, often staying below the city for weeks at a time.

The exception was the small group of school-aged children who commuted out and up into the city to attend their classes. They were accompanied on weekdays by the few adults with jobs on the surface.

“What do we do?” Megan asked.

“Close the gates,” Ruben ordered.

“No! Rebecca cried. “My kids are up there! Jim is up there!”

Ruben stared grimly at the monitors. “Not anymore,” he said.


Author’s Note: Inspired by a prompt on Writers Unite!

A Sea Turbulent As Me

The sea was angry, hurling waves against the rocks as the salty spray stung my skin.

Pat always told me he wanted us to be on the west coast because the waters were calm, not like the violent waves we used to see in Maine.

You certainly couldn’t have proven that to me, not that morning.

Salt water mingled with my angry tears, and I couldn’t miss the fact that the ocean’s turbulent behavior reflected my mood.

I stood looking out at the water, almost in awe of the tantrum; waves battered the shoreline, slamming against each other in thunderous claps that resounded as loudly as cannon shots. I felt an odd desire to shake my fists and cheer it on.

Pat, reduced to ashes and residing in a blue and silver urn, rested in my arms, waiting. I could literally feel him waiting, I tell you. I could hear his voice, urging me to complete my mission: “Just open it, Betsy. Just let me go.”

Of course, at that point angry tears turned to those of pure sorrow. “Oh, Patrick, the sea will just toss you back!”

If only it actually could!

My anger wasn’t with Pat, of course, but directed at the mob who trampled him when he dared attempt crossing the street to push back against their rhetoric and hate-spewing. Being labeled a coward or a fool for trying to do the right thing was something my husband lived with no matter where we made our home.

Police, in spite of the bad reputations assigned to them by protesters and media reports, are by and large working for the good of all. Apparently, that means they have no rights, except the right to die while protecting others.

I took the urn, unopened, to await a calmer sea.


Author’s note: Inspired by a prompt from Writers Unite!



Revelation (continued)

“Picking our way through the rubble proved difficult.” Jess utter a strangled cough of a laugh. “I don’t know why we thought we’d be able to find Mom and Dad, after…”

Teri, her face pale, nodded. “We hid out in the drainage system for days before we decided it was okay to go outside and look around. We figured if the air was toxic… poison, radiation, whatever… we’d already be dead.”

We all–Vance, Dale and I–nodded encouragingly. “Why do you think the planes were ours?” Vance asked. That was a stunning revelation.

Jess sighed. “They were flying low. Even across the river, you could tell. Dad was retired military. We’ve been to so many air shows…”

“They were ours,” Teri asserted.

Vance looked scandalized, but Dale only nodded thoughtfully. “It’s what we feared,” he said. “It’s the reason we built this place.” He added, “Go on, son.”

“We were scared, but we came out because it was so… quiet. Like… dead quiet, you know? No traffic, no birds, no voices; just nothing!

“The bridge was damaged, but not so badly we couldn’t get across,” Teri added. “We pushed our bikes, mostly. It was slow, and every little creak made me want to… uh…”

“Nothing looked the same.” Jess took up the narrative, sparing his sister the need to articulate a need to pee her pants or jump out of her skin. “Our parents had gone to a walking mall downtown, but we couldn’t figure out how to get there. Roads were destroyed or buried;  buildings had collapsed or burned.”

“We wanted to find our parents, but…in the end, it was all about finding decent food and water–”

“While avoiding all the bodies–”

“And getting around it, and out.”

“It’s huge. It took us ages.”

Teri sighed. “And, yes. Alone.”


Author’s Note: Inspired by a prompt on Writers Unite!



“No… what the—Mom and Dad are in the city!” Jess looked at us, his eyes wide and sincere. “That’s what Teri said, and then she started bawling. I mean…I almost bawled myself! Mom and Dad were over there, and…we couldn’t get to them, could we?”

Dale leaned forward in his straight-backed chair, hands clasped and elbows on knees. “So, what did you do?”

Jess grimaced. “We had our bikes, so we booked like hell for the culvert that drains into the river.”

“Across the river from the city?” I asked, just to be clear.

“Yeah. It was dry then,” Jess said. “No rain, no run-off. It’s big. We rode right in, because…well…it’s all concrete, and under the ground, and who knew when they might decide to start bombing on that side of the river! We were scared, man.”

Teri sat next to her brother, nodding in agreement. “We were too scared to go home,” she added. “Bombs were dropping on the city, and we could feel the impact, even though it was far off.”

Dale looked at Vance, then at me. Then he turned to Zack, who looked back at him with some measure of defiance. Leave it to Zack and his gang to bring strangers around, I thought. I wasn’t angry, but it was…disturbing.

“How did you end up here?” Vance asked. None of us had made it around to the other side of the city, where the river ran. The damage was immense. Driving around was too risky.

Jess narrowed his eyes in consternation. “No offence, sir, but we weren’t incapacitated. We rode our bikes, we walked–it’s taken us years to make our way, okay?”

Alone?” Incredulous.

I asked the real question: “Who dropped the bombs?”

Jess frowned. “The planes were ours.”


Author’s note: Inspired by a prompt on Writers Unite!


The First Riverview Avenue Bench

It was really nothing more than a footpath, wide enough for two people to walk side by side in most spots, and in the few wider areas, possibly a third person could squeeze in without straddling the edge.

As far as Meredith was concerned, the path had always been there. Her parents had walked that path, Meredith leading the way in her stroller at first, then on her tricycle. When she outgrew those, she walked, too, always ahead of her mother and dad, always on the lookout for friends and neighbors doing the same.

Meredith was about to go into second grade the first time she heard someone discussing the possibility of paving Riverview Avenue.

No one living had any recollection of the path being named; even Great-Grandpa Billy Dodge said it was already so-called when he was a little boy, and he didn’t know who was responsible for that. Billy Dodge was 96 the summer Meredith was 7, and she had a hard time picturing her dad’s grandfather as a little boy, but surely he had been one. No one was born old.

The great paving debate of 1967 was brief, hot, and quickly squashed by the locals.

Of course, it had been proposed by a transplanted resident who simply couldn’t comprehend the history of Riverview Avenue, and taken up by other transplants who didn’t like to get mud on their shoes when they walked after a rainstorm or during spring run-off.

Great-Grandpa Billy Dodge ended that city council meeting by suggesting that anyone afraid of banging mud off their shoes ought to go back to wherever they came from, and all the locals cheered.

Meredith thought the whole idea had been a silly one. There were tons of trees along the path, and they helped keep things relatively dry. The Parks and Recreations people spread pine needles and leaves after heavy rains or run-offs. It wasn’t all that muddy in the first place; certainly no one had ever lost a shoe.  That happened to her all the time taking the shortcut to school through the empty lot where the new library would eventually go up, and no one ever brought up paving there.

Riverview Avenue had been a footpath along the scenic riverside since the town had been established back in the early days of the 19th century. Over two hundred years’ worth of walking feet had worn the path down into the well-defined rut that the locals filled with fresh soil periodically so it wouldn’t end up being feet-deep and impassible. Sprinklings of pine needles and mulched leaves and twigs gave it a springy surface. No one came home from a walk with aching feet.

Pavement? No way!

“Dat path? ‘Twas a deer trail, I reckon,” Great-Grandpa told Meredith. “My pappy tole me it was dere when he was just a sprat, an’ dat was long ago.”

“Was it Riverview Avenue then, Grampy?” Meredith asked.

“Yup, always was, I reckon. Started as a joke, Pap said. Folks’d agree ta meet on the avenue, have a walk, share a picnic. Couples fell in love dere. Like your own mama and daddy.”

Meredith loved the stories of couples falling in love while walking the avenue. She especially loved her parents’ story, since they were the first couple to put a bench beside the path in the place where they shared their first kiss.

Dad had gone to work for Parks and Recreation while he was still in High School, and he’d gone on with them until his retirement in 1999. When he married Mom in 1958, part of his job was building park benches for the county parks and the various bus stops around the towns in the county.

He devised a little plan that summer. Newly wedded and happy as a lark, he used some of his own money to purchase materials and assemble a park bench. Getting permission to place it on the path was easier than he’d expected; his supervisor was deeply romantic and loved the idea. Dad built the bench and painted it, and placed it when the time came.

On their first wedding anniversary, Dad took Mom for a walk along Riverview Avenue. They slowed their pace as they approached the place where they had shared their first kiss. It was also the place where Dad had proposed.

“Why, Alan!” Mom exclaimed. “There’s a bench here!”

“Well, let’s have a look,” Dad said.

A plaque on the bright red bench read: “First Kiss–May 3, 1955. Proposal–May 3, 1957. Wedding–May 3, 1958. What a Lucky Day!”

Of course, Mom had cried some happy tears that May 3rd of 1959. No one had ever gotten their own park bench as an anniversary gift before!

Meredith was born May 3, 1960.

No one ever believed that was a coincidence. It was their lucky day, after all.


On May 3, 1978, Meredith and her parents took a walk on Riverview Avenue, and stopped to sit on the Anniversary bench. It was still bright red; Dad painted it every spring, and it had recently gotten its annual touch up.

They spoke of memories and plans for the future. Meredith would soon graduate, and be off to college in the fall. “I have celebrated every birthday on this bench,” Meredith said. “I hope next year, I will be able to be here.”

When next year came, her parents were there, but Meredith was not. Spring break hadn’t had the consideration to fall during that week. But when she checked her mail that morning, she found a birthday card from her parents. Inside were a generous check and a photograph of the Anniversary bench.

On May 3, 1980, Meredith was home for the weekend. It had been planned in advance; school was going well, and she didn’t have a Friday afternoon class, so she’d flown in the night before.

What hadn’t been part of the plan was Dad’s sudden gallbladder attack and surgery the night before. Mom and Dad were spending their 22nd Anniversary in the hospital, and Meredith had been sent home to take their walk on Riverview Avenue without them. “Take a picture of our bench!” Dad instructed. “I didn’t take one this year, because I knew you would be here.”

It’s my birthday, Meredith thought as she neared the curve on the avenue, the one where she’d be able to see the bench on the path ahead as soon as she cleared it. I’m alone on my birthday. My parents are sitting in a hospital on their anniversary. It doesn’t feel like a very lucky day today.

Ahead of her now: the bench. Someone was sitting there. A man.

As she got nearer, she thought the man looked familiar to her; but she was sure she didn’t know him. Should she stop? Keep walking?

Why should she? It wasn’t his bench. Who was this guy, and why was he sitting on her parents’ bench?

That was silly. Anyone could sit anywhere. Yes, there was a plaque, but it didn’t actually have their name on it. None of the other benches along the avenue had names; it had happened gradually, over time, that other people had placed benches with important dates all along the river front path. Some marked wedding anniversaries. Some marked birthdates. Some celebrated a graduation date, and some even marked memorials of long lives lived.

It was traditional these days to walk the avenue and read the plaques and try to guess the names behind the dates and celebrations.

The man looked up at Meredith as she paused. “Hi,” he said. He frowned thoughtfully. “Meredith?”

“Yes.” Meredith frowned, too. “Do I know you?”

He grinned. “Roger Burke,” he said, extending his hand for a shake. “I think I was a Senior the year you started high school. I liked hearing you sing in the musicals.”

Meredith blushed. She remembered the days of hoping to run off and sing on Broadway when she grew up. Now she was working on her teaching degree. Dreams die hard, sometimes.

“I like this bench,” Roger went on. “I think it has the best location of any on the avenue.”

“It was the first,” Meredith commented.

“Do you know whose it is?” Roger asked. “I was hoping I would run into the Anniversary couple today. I haven’t managed to be here on the right day, ever, since I started being curious about the benches.”

Meredith made up her mind, and sat down.

On that day, her 20th birthday, she shared the story of the first Riverview Avenue bench.

It turned out to be a lucky day, after all.

A year later, Roger proposed to her there. Her parents, healthy and happy, were there with them, celebrating 23 years together. They cheered.

A year after that, Meredith and Roger gathered on Riverview Avenue with all their family and friends, took their vows and celebrated with the biggest picnic supper the path had ever hosted.

Late in the day, it started to rain. Shoes got muddy. No one cared.

A little rain can’t compete with a lucky day.


May 3, 2022

Mom and Dad lead the way on the walk this morning, each seated in a wheelchair, pushed along by Meredith and Roger.

The bench, now a ripe old sixty-three years old, was waiting for them, freshly painted bright red. Riverview Avenue had recently been built up with fresh soil, and the ground under the bench had been renewed as well. It would never do to let it sink into the earth.

Meredith and Roger, both only children, had let the admonition to be fruitful and multiply go to their head. Their five children, along with their spouses and a dozen grandchildren, followed along, swinging picnic baskets and toting blankets and coolers with soft drinks.

Mom and Dad were helped out of their chairs and seated on the bench. Picnic goodies were spread all around, just off the path, and when everyone was supplied with a soft drink, aluminum cans were raised in a celebratory toast. “Happy Anniversary!”

Dad smiled and raised his soda can. “Here’s to the luckiest!” he cried. “That would be us.”

“Yes,” Meredith agreed. “That would be us.” She raised her own can and sent a silent cheer to Great-Grandpa Billy Dodge, who had passed at the age of 102. He had shared the story of the benches with her, and she had no doubt he was with them still, in his own way.

Happy tears were shed, but were soon interrupted when little Mikey cried, “Okay, okay. Let’s eat.”

After some good natured laughter, that’s exactly what they did.

What a lucky day, indeed.


Author’s Note: This story was inspired by a photograph on Writers Unite! and their Write The Story monthly prompt. Do yourself a favor and check them out, here: Write The Story, Writers Unite!