Musings of JR Simmang

I wouldn’t call Francine my wife, though we’ve been together since the first winter. After the Plummet, people stopped believing in God, myself included. She didn’t speak a whole lot of English, and I didn’t speak a whole lot of… whatever she speaks, but when it’s cold, you don’t need words. We were told by some young couple a few months back that there was an enclave of people in the South, trying to rebuild. From Alaska, or what used to be Alaska, the South might as well be the other side of the world. Judging by the increasing number of cropland, and wild corn, I’d say we were somewhere in Idaho. I keep doing that. There aren’t borders any more. I rolled over in our tent, the moon poking my eyelids open. Francine was gone, which I supposed wasn’t wholly out of the ordinary. Still, with Marauders sweeping across the nation, one can’t be too concerned. I sat up, rubbed the dirt from my face, and shuffled outside the tent. Spring. The night was pitch-black, pure, breezy, and dark...

The spot on the bed next to me was cold again. She’s been getting out more and more frequently. I threw my legs over and slipped on my house slippers. I poke my head into the kids’ rooms. We were watching our grandkids this week. Parents were out on vacation. I kept telling them they need some adult time, away from the kids, where they can reignite their marriage. But, for three years, they didn’t separate once from the kids, and they were starting to get that crazed look in their eyes. From Kaileigh’s room, I could see the light on in the barn. I wasn’t surprised. A part of me knew that was where she would be. I walked downstairs, poured myself a glass of water, and watched the light flicker in and out of the sorghum fields. What was she doing out there tonight? Painting? dancing? Tonight she may be working on her memoir. Having finished my water, I pulled on my boots and started the walk out to the barn. The trail was still trying to stitch itself back together when I stepped...

I spent ten minutes watching a bird build a nest. It flew out of the tree and came back with a twig in its beak. The twig wasn’t tossed into the nest. It was sewed in, like a thread, and the bird wasn’t just building a home. It was weaving one, one that was wrought by its own wings and will to survive. And I thought to myself, the chicks that are hatched in that nest will never know that it was built with sweat, that their mother and father worked together to build this nest in spite of the cats that prowl the neighborhood, the wind that was blowing from the north, and the heat that threatened to strike everything dead. In that, I saw us.             Our America, the America of our ancestors, was built on the foundation of sinew and sweat. It was liberty that had allowed our ancestors to create a country where every man and woman was rewarded for his or her spirit. It was a country where an individual could pull in, inspired,...

12 young men, all of them hung, swinging from the scales of justice, judged with their eyes lost in contention, wearing the badge of the righteous. The gallows-swain, brute force in his arms, poked and prodded their chests, checking for a semblance of breath, while they wait for the villain to confess. Round and round they swing, their ears begin to ring. A witness to the stand, a witness to their hand. They stare, they do with their milky eyes, right into the hanging head. Accuser, fingers pointing, their whispers he does dread. Round and round they swing, their ears begin to ring. A witness to the stand, a witness to their hand. When all is said, and the verdict demands, in unison they break their jaws, Justice deferred, is justice denied, end his life, devoured, bloody claws. -JR Simmang

My wife and I sat down at the Alamo Drafthouse the other day and watched "Man of Steel." It was certainly an entertaining movie, and it contained in it an issue that's plaguing this new generation. Where are the heroes? The History of Heroes We've all heard of Bullfinch. He was a smart guy who compiled the myths of heroes from the Greek and Roman pantheon. Hercules. Theseus. Perseus. What did all these people have in common? They were part god. There was a time where these heroes were certainly looked up to. Parents would retell the stories of these brave men and women to lull their children to sleep and give them something to ponder: Am I part god? Can I achieve the same level of greatness? And, for a time, this worked. The story of these heroes, being born of humans, and going on to accomplish something unhuman, inspired children. They would run around in the streets, on the farms, and pretend to slay minotaurs and medusa. They would make believe they we...

Today’s breakfast: black coffee and a bagel, pulled off of the funeral home's complimentary coffee and bagel cart. it always struck me as odd. 'Parents just died? How about some coffee? No? Then a bagel will do you fine." But, Mr Johnston, the funeral director, insists on it. I’ve been told that I need to overload with protein in the morning, pile my plate high with eggs and bacon. FDA guidelines and all that. I’ve also been told that sunlight is good for me. Truth be told, I work on 18 cadavers a week, and the people who have coffee and bagels for breakfast look just as dead as everyone else. People don’t understand the work of the undertaker. Usually, when the wine is served, and the hors d’oeuvres have been laid so pretty on the table, I wind up eating by myself. But, my clients don’t complain. Well, at least until recently. I like to do my work during the day time, because no matter how used you get to draining blood from the veins and pumping in a preservative, ...

When my wife and I got married, we saw all our presents scattered over our living room floor when we pulled back in from our honeymoon. The lights were out, but even in the dark, silhouetted against the fireplace stood, stark as night, a foxtail fern, sprightly and uprightly waving in the shadow. A fern. I thought. Well, it won't make salsa. But, my wife, dropped my hand and lowered herself to the side of this fern. "Is this?" She muttered, and looked to me. "I don't know." I said. She ran a hand over the foliage and took the card from its envelope. For minutes, she kept her eyes locked on the card. When she joined me back over the threshold, she turned me to face her constellation "This fern was raised by my great-grandmother. It has lived in her house while the hammers fell on the west-bound train tracks. It lived with her while the great furnaces pumped out the Atlantic. It lived with her while the Germans forced...