A Story About Nothin'

By Michael F. Mercurio


Eighty-two year old Marcus sat beside his best friend of more than six decades.  The heart and blood pressure monitor beeped slow and regularly, as air hissed into the tubes attached to his mask.

At eighty-seven, Clay would be dead soon.

“You wanna go another round,” Marcus asked him in a raspy voice.  He held the deck of cards in shaky hands.  He had dropped a few earlier, but luckily the nurse had come by to pick them up for him.  He took that opportunity to take a quick peak at her rump as she bent over.  She gave him a scowl, but then pretended to wiggle her butt at him with a half-smile.  Such exchanges had been their routine for a little over a month.

“No.  You always…cheat,” Clay answered in short breaths, elongated by his southern drawl.

“Fine by me.  I was getting tired of beating your sorry ass anyway.”

Clay was able to manage a grin through the air mask.

Marcus busied himself by looking at the wall of the hospital room.  It was dark because the curtain was pulled closed, blocking off the light from the hallway.  At one in the morning, there wasn’t a whole lot of noise coming from that wing, and most of the other patients in the adjoining rooms were asleep.  But Clay always had trouble sleeping in hospitals at night.  “How can ya sleep when all ya do is lie there all day anyway,” Clay once demanded with irritation.

Marcus knew that wasn’t the real reason the night bothered him so much, but he also knew not to press his friend on the subject.  During the day, he was kept awake by the noise of people.  At night, he was kept awake by the absence of it.  And for Clay, being awake in silence was a lot worse - especially when his mind drifted, and he couldn’t tell if he himself was still there anymore.

“Hey.  Marcus.”  Clay spoke haltingly, and with a sudden change of expression that interrupted Marcus’s inspection of the wall.

“What?”

“I’m…uh…”

“You’re what, you old coot?”  He made a mock gesture of putting his hand up to his ear.  “Speak up.”

“Tell…anyone…and…” he said in between breaths, “and I’ll kick…your ass.”

Marcus grinned, but it probably would have looked more like wincing to anyone who might have seen him do it.

“Yeah, right.  Think you can take me on,” he asked with a bit of phlegm caught in his throat.  “Tell anyone what, dumb dumb?”

Clay was silent for what seemed like a long time.  Finally, he responded.

“I’m…scared.”

Marcus held his tongue for a minute.  Then, he asked needlessly, “Yeah?  Scared of what?”

“What…if there ain't nothin'?  Nothin'…at all?”

Marcus leaned in a bit, as far as his stiff back would allow him.  “Hey.  Hey now.  You listen to me.  A billion people can’t be wrong, right?  You worry too much.”

“What if…” Clay persisted.

“…what if a billion people are just scared?”


Michael F. Mercurioeo  year old Marcus sat by his friend'
Copyright 2013

Absentia

By Michael F. Mercurio

 

It is very difficult for someone like me to accomplish things.  So often do people accuse me of being lazy, and claim that I will never amount to anything in life.  It’s not my fault though, really.  I can’t help the condition I have.  It was something I was born with.

Less than five percent of the total population has been diagnosed with it.  I was one of the “lucky” ones, I suppose. 

They call the syndrome “Absentia.”  In a nut shell, I only exist while someone is looking at me.  If no one is in the room, I’m simply not there anymore.  It’s a very odd ailment, that many people aren’t even familiar with.  It’s difficult to explain to anyone who isn’t educated on the matter, since I have no real way to prove it to anyone.  The closest analogy to this dilemma would be the old “light in the glove box” question.  They have no real reason to believe me, since they are incapable of perceiving the condition for themselves.  For all they know, I’m completely making it up.  They just assume that I crave attention.

However, I am indeed afflicted with Absentia.  You can imagine how difficult it must be for me to get anything done, really.  Anytime someone turns their head from me, I turn to nothingness.  It’s very hard for me to make something of myself when two thirds of my life isn’t actually taking place.

You would think there would be ways of managing it, at least.  I’ve tried methods such as painting and writing, so that something of myself would remain behind while I’m gone.  Alas, the condition doesn’t allow for it.  Even the words on the page disappear once everyone looks away.  It’s quite aggravating how I am unable to leave even a simple message behind.

It took me years to cope with this affliction, but I think I finally have a way – however small.

I’ve found that I can influence people’s lives simply by helping them in any manner I can.  It’s such a cliché concept, really.  But in a minute way, I’m able to exist through others whenever I’ve somehow made them happy.  It’s subtle, and often thankless, but it’s enough for me to be able to leave some sort of mark – some evidence that I actually existed at that point in time.

Since discovering this, I’ve often looked back on my old writings and paintings – for when I look at them myself, they are at least still corporeal.  But when I compared my works to the lives around me, and the happiness that I was somehow able to find for others – I realized that people were a much larger canvas than I could have ever hoped to leave my mark upon.  Their joy was a more expressive painting – their smiles a more captivating novel.

As long as people are able to find happiness, that – apparently - gives my life meaning now.  And if they’re happy, I guess I’m happy too.

Even if they still think I’m lazy and not doing anything with my life.


Michael F. Mercurio
Copyright 2013

Paxgate

By Michael F. Mercurio


We met in secret.

Like-minded individuals infiltrating every aspect of the industry, we had finally attained a global dominance.  In the end, they had to go through us to purchase their vice.

It wasn’t easy.  The summit was held every month for fifty years, since the inception of Internet-based social networking.  Outlets such as Facebook and Twitter are what initially made it all possible.  Ultimately, we ended up creating our own social network:  Paxgate.

Paxgate was made available to the public, but only to an extent.  Its true aim was to seek out additional candidates into our world-wide organization.  As more influential figures were added to the fold, it became a simple matter to completely take over the business – no matter which company was producing the product.  A quiet restructuring here, a controversial downsizing there – this was all it took to gain a complete monopoly on the product.

These companies had only one element in common:  Weapons.

And in the end, we controlled them.

All weapons.

Everywhere.

When the final statistical reports came in, we of the Paxgate organization were overjoyed.  We quickly began mass producing our items on a grand scale, selling them to all sides, without exception.  It didn’t matter if they were third-world nations in the midst of a civil war, or a major power securing their border.  Saber rattling generated our bread and butter.  The greater the strife, the more profit we made, and the greater our influence became.  There were many casualties as a result of our double, triple, and quadruple dealings.  This was the price we all knowingly paid - and paid it gladly, as we felt the ends justified the means.  It was a bold venture, after all.

As the world slipped into chaos, the vote was taken, and the final objective was initiated.

Every weapon distributed by the various arms dealers around the world now contained one key feature – a feature that was exclusive to those produced from subtle transactions made through Paxgate.  It was a debilitating one.

Each instrument of death was designed specifically to fail upon firing, once a master switch in our base of operations was thrown.  In one fell swoop, every armament on the entire planet would be rendered utterly useless.  War would finally become obsolete.

On the day of the scheduled switch-off, a celebration commemorating the event was held.  Men and women worldwide who secretly worked for Paxgate threw parties and cooked feasts for their confused – but relatively happy – spouses.  Then, at the approach of midnight, they sat at their computers, counting down to when the switch would be thrown.

In ten seconds there would be everlasting peace.  Then nine, then eight, and so forth.  Enraptured co-conspirators held hands, eagerly watching the countdown.  Finally, at “one,” the master switch was pressed by the Paxgate founders – now rather old, and their arthritic hands shaking as much from age as from excitement.

And it worked.  Every weapon on the planet suddenly stopped functioning.  Guns ceased firing, and missiles launched as duds.  There was a global quiet for a time on all war fronts.  Soldiers looked at each other in bewilderment.

Finally, there was peace.  Everything was silent.

It lasted for approximately five minutes.  Then, combatants proceeded to spill each other’s brains using the butts of their rifles.

We never claimed we were very intelligent.

 

Michael F. Mercurio

Copyright 2013

The Last Song

By Michael F. Mercurio

 

When I was but a child, I experienced a dream that was so profoundly disturbing, that I clearly remember it as the first dream I ever had. It affected me so greatly, that I cried for days after waking from it.  I never realized however, how significant it all was until now.

In my dream, I was standing in the middle of a crowded, black city street.  It was night time, and people were huddled close together holding candles and flashlights.  Apparently, there was no power throughout the whole city.  Everyone here reminded me of the displaced individuals I frequently saw standing on corners or lying on public benches.  In this case however, it seemed to be the entire populous that was being forced to live in this manner.

I realized then - in the illogically disjointed way one can only come to such realizations in dreams – that this was the final day.  I didn’t understand the details, but somehow I just knew – this was the end for everyone.

I walked for a bit, stepping between the frightened masses, and noted a small, blond-haired boy of about ten years old.  He was lying on the ground, shivering and seemingly alone.  I wanted to help him in some way, but for some reason I lacked the ability to interact with anything around me - such is the way of some dreams.  Almost as if acting on my own intentions however, a disheveled older gentleman in his late forties suddenly appeared with a blanket in his hand, and wrapped the boy up in it, cradling him.

The man began to softly hum a hauntingly familiar tune to him, but gave it up part way through, quietly sobbing in despair.  It was then that I realized – once again in the way one only can in dreams – that the man was the boy’s adopted father.  The child had been deaf throughout his entire ten years of life, but the man hummed this tune to him every day that he had been with him, despite his affliction.  Knowing full well that his charge could never hear him speaking, he would nevertheless frequently tell him of how the song would keep the monsters away.

The song wouldn’t be enough this night, however.  And, finally admitting it to himself, the man simply broke down and began to cry.

A few moments later though, the boy stopped shivering.  Turning his head toward the starless sky, he closed his eyes and began to hum.

It was the very same tune his father always sang to his damaged ears.

Astonished, the man could do nothing but hold his son, and finally join him in humming the tune.

As the duo carried their melancholic harmony, others nearby holding candles looked at them.  None had heard this melody before, but nevertheless, the impoverished onlookers began to one-by-one add their voice to the pair.  I could only look on in awe as a crescendo of the forlorn symphony filled the air around me.  The entire city was now humming this enchantment.

As I was slowly waking, I began to float upward.  From my new vantage point, I was able to discern that the apparently viral song was being sung by the all-inclusive populous of the darkened world.  As everything finally went black, only the song remained.  And then, there was nothing.  And I awoke.

Many years have passed since I first beheld that dream.  And to this day, the vivid imagery of it all still haunts me.  My anxiety of it seems to rise with each day as I see the events of the world unfold around me.

Even more so, because now when I look at my reflection in the mirror, I see a striking resemblance to the man who vainly sang to his deaf son.


Michael F. Mercurio
Copyright 2013