Cold War

Clarissa sat down at her computer and began writing. As she typed away at the computer she could hear the bombs falling in the distance. Not too many, just a few, every minuet or two the loud burst of sound echoed in the apartment. She just sat there, in her bedroom and continued writing. By nine in the evening, only a half an hour had elapsed, she opened her door, and shouted into the living room: Will you shut that crap off? I am trying to work!

The young man in the living room argued a bit, but then turned the television on mute. She stared at him for a few seconds. “It isn’t even new bombs, it is the same one over and over. . . did it even hit what it was supposed to? After watching this for an hour, you couldn’t even tell!”

And so the war had begun.

When I decided to write this story, Clarissa had been living in America for over twenty years. She was born in a small town outside of Berlin or part of Berlin, depending on when you asked her. She claimed the small town heritage of the little German commuter town, although she moved to California when she was two. Strangely her pride remained with her home town. She held a strange balance and mix between the two levels of nationhood, always preferring to be German in America and American in Germany. The memories of her childhood, which I only know from the stories that she told me, remind me of my own past. "In the beginning," she would always state, "my memories are always shrouded in graininess. I can never remember if they are real or if they are dreams."

She says that her first memory, was in the late summer when Berlin was unusually hot. She climbed up on the back fence, separating her garden from all the other neatly tended gardens in the complex. Barefoot she gripped the chain link fence with her feet, and hoisted herself up peering over the edge.

Dizzy Reflections of a Virtual Person

Hello? Where am I? What am I? I looked down at my hand, it looked normal, except for the occasional static which made it slightly flicker. When I stood, up my head whirled and large black splotches obscured my vision.

When I woke up again, I my confidence had increased. Standing up and looking forward through the monitor I saw a distorted round face peering at me from through the glass. We both looked at each other quizzically but after a second or two, the strange man began to type. Memories flooded back .

But they didn’t come in the form of stories, with beginnings and ends, with plots and characters, instead they came in the form of fragments. Photographs that one had deserted in my mind. These snapshots together create a mosaic of the situation, never able to fully mimic reality.

A girl in a blue bathing suit jumps into a giant puddle. The water hangs in the air like small jewels. Sparkling in a few escaped sun rays. An older woman stands on her porch and holds her mouth open waiting to finish her laugh.

A young girl with red hair stands on a building that doesn’t exist anymore. She holds a lollypop and the taste of sugar stings her tongue. Her hair is held by the wind in the air. In the distance, the traffic of New York stops for a second.

A woman with gray hair holds a baby up, but light reflects from her glasses. The man next to her looks at the baby and the other man forever drinks bitter orange juice from a cup he holds to his lips.

The women looks forward shocked, or perhaps the moment has caught her unwarily scowling. In the green back ground, the orange and yellow streamers float almost horizontally in the air. A blurry man waits in the background.

The snow blurs vision. A person bundled in red and another in blue hold snow balls in their hands. Movement caught creates the double edge of the hazy image.

Four children surround one another. In front of the one in the middle is a cake with four candles, only one is still lit. Smoke hovers above the other three candles. The girl’s lips are pursed as she lends over the cake letting the smoke smart her eyes.

Confounded the girl stairs down at her hand which holds a string attached to a red balloon. Her face is crumpled in confusion and frustration, while the balloon floats carelessly above her head.

In the musty dark, one can barely see. Cold nips at the six people next to the giant half filled balloon. One man holds part of the heavy fabric up while trying to inflate it, while two others are caught in the action of whispering.

The man said nothing, but nodded in seeming agreement. I began walking through the crunchy snow. After a few minuets of walking, I looked back, squinted, and could barely see the man. I immediately felt regret. I had been so close to something but I lost. I chose to walk away. Wind began to pick up and light snow flakes began to swirl around the sky. The wind, although quite cold, sent warmth through my body.

I find myself staring at the monitor again. Less confident, but more aware. My mind aches with a static hum. Nothing is on the other side of the monitor, and I begin to feel empty, like a gourd with all of its seeds scraped out. I try to stand up again. What am I? Where am I? Hello?