September 8th. Again.

For five days now, it’s been September 8th. The same day repeating, like the movie “Groundhog Day”, and I’m the only one who realizes it. I also know why.

And I’m terrified of September 9th.

---

I found the cave in late October 1962, on an Air Force base in Germany. Father had just started a tour of duty there when things got very tense on the base. Even as a twelve-year old girl, I could feel the air of apprehension, practically bordering on fear. Left to myself, I explored the hills on the base and eventually discovered the cave.

Excited, I returned for a flashlight and went back to investigate the brush-covered hole in the hillside. Not realizing the dangers of exploring underground, I soon became hopelessly lost and exhausted. When my flashlight died, I lay down and cried until sleep overtook me.

When I woke, my dark-adjusted eyes detected a glimmer of soft light. I crawled toward the light in the dark so as not to lose sight of it. The tunnel opened into a huge cavern lit by phosphorescent glow. The center of the cavern was a grouping of joined stalagmites and stalactites, resembling nothing so much as a giant tree trunk with massive roots. To one side, three figures sat hunched and motionless except their hands were in constant motion.

Creeping toward them, I saw the three held a long tapestry between them. The furthest figure was beautiful with a golden radiance and held the finished part of the tapestry while the plainer-looking middle one wove the threads with bare fingers. The third figure was difficult to see, becoming clearer as I neared. She was feeding in the multi-colored threads as needed.

Of course, they were the Norns from Norse mythology: Past, Present, and Future. At the time, I didn’t know that. All I knew was fear and hunger. My approach went unnoticed by the weavers, intent on their creation. The thread-feeder, who I now know was Future, was coming into focus. Vague features appeared under the hood and the misty semblance of hands holding the thread-ends.

But then my attention was caught by a single, gleaming black thread lying on the ground just to the side of Future. It called to me. I ached to pick it up, to let my hands follow the thread from end to end.

Suddenly, Future was shrieking and I realized I HAD picked up the thread just as Future was reaching for it. Stunned, I froze as she reached toward me. The semblance of a hand suddenly clarified into a grasping skeletal hand. Terror broke my paralysis but not before she managed to clutch at my hair. A numbing shock hit my head where the hair was attached and Future slowly pulled me back. My frantic struggling caused her to jostle Present and the tapestry was suddenly in danger of being dropped. Taking advantage of the distraction, I wrenched backward with all my strength. Stumbling away, the last I saw of them was Future sitting with my long black hair entwined in her fingers. I sensed her rage at having to choose between weaving and chasing me. Turning, I fled the cavern.

Returning to the surface was simple. The black thread I still clutched, in some way enabled me to discern which of the paths was the best. Which had the best future, perhaps. In any case, I quickly returned home to my distraught father. His relief was doubled because, as he told me then, the President and the Soviet leader had just reached an accord on the missiles in Cuba. “It was the End of the World, little girl. I don’t know what turned it around.”

---

So now, 43 years later, time is stuck repeating the same day. I'm the only one who knows because it's my hair being used as threads in the tapestry of time. Only now the weavers have used all my hair and need that final thread; the black Armageddon thread that should’ve been woven in 1962.

Time cannot progress to the next day because Future has left the Norns and is coming for the thread. I know because, like a bum knee sensing rain, my scalp has started to ache where Future stole my hair. The closer she gets, the more painful the ache. Though my hair eventually grew back in stark white, it seems to still have a connection to Future.

I’ll flee, of course, or the world will end tomorrow.

But where can you hide from the Future?

Jim sat and stared at the block. No matter how he looked at it, it was always the same old, uncolored block of stone he had been staring at for twenty-four hours now. At first, he thought it was an exaggeration, but looking at his watch confirmed it. Twenty-four hours had passed, his “Single Day Sculpture Exhibit with Jim Huddleston” was about to flop and he would be seriously short on funds for the near future. Wondering what had inspired him to actually think about trying this kind of stunt, he realized until yesterday, he had never suffered “creative block”. He giggled inwardly at his own bad pun.

The chunk of stone continued to stare at him. Jim knew if a flash of inspiration would hit, he could do something in the last five minutes to at least limp through this show barely scathed, but nothing was coming to mind. He held his hammer and chisel in hand, but continued to sit in the chair, his mind blank. He tried every technique he could think of: Imagining corners missing or shaped oddly. Imagining every shape he could think of that might fit inside the cube, looking at the block from every angle, turning his head upside down, looking at it in a mirror and shoving with all of his might to rotate it in place, but nothing every generated a spark of art-to-be.

The curtain at the side of the room billowed. Jim looked at it, knowing a crowd was gathering on the other side, anxious to see his creative impulse and rapid artistic talent. They had paid a considerable price to be here when it was unveiled and have the first chance to bid on the wonderful, creative and soon-to-be classic work of art. The prestige in the room would be enough to destroy his life as an artist forever. His mind started to fill with thoughts of new job possibilities, but all he could think of was driving a gravel truck, or smashing rocks on a chain gang, or laying stone walkways and paths. Stone would continue to haunt him for years to come.

Laying his tools on his chair, he took one last look at the curtain, shook his head remorsefully and moved through the door leading out of the room. Stepping through the doorway, he stepped to the side and leaned his back against the wall next to the door. Only seconds remained until the curtain was pulled back, and his failure was put on public display.

What had happened? Where had his creativity gone? He felt like an utter and complete failure and life was about to take a turn for the worst. The sound of the curtain retracting distracted him from his useless wallowings in self-pity. The silence that followed was deafening.

Slowly, a gentle murmur began to drift to Jim’s ears. The chatter was constant, but unintelligible from his current location, but the sound began to grow and intensify. The crowd was definitely getting stirred about something, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the negative reviews would begin to become clear.

Suddenly, Jim began to understand the occasional word, and the sounds stunned him. They were prices, climbing higher and higher, into figures that left him weak in the knees. Other words began to filter in and Jim just shook his head at the gullibility of some people. “Amazing”… “awe-inspiring”… “Such clarity”... As the throng became more excited, the mob mentality of the “incredible artwork” began to make the clammer louder and more understandable. Whole phrases began to make their way to Jim’s ears. “It makes such an incredible statement”… “The message is so clear and distinct”… “A marvelous work that will stand for the generations to follow and truly appreciate”…

Jim’s grin grew in proportion to the sound. He was amazed at how the mental attitude of large groups can be swayed by a few simple comments. Someone must have thought the blank stone was intentional, and made a grand statement. From there, no one wanted to feel left out of the “worth” this piece demanded. Jim continued to shake his head.

As far as he was concerned, his creativity could continue to be away. His new talent had manifested itself, and somehow Jim knew he would be able to perform exceptionally in this new role.

It was a perfect fall day. Summer’s luscious green had fled from the maples, replaced by the brilliant crimson and orange that signals the coming winter. My breath hung on the air like tiny wisps of smoke, gently swirling before lazily drifting away. Yet despite this beauty, something wasn't quite right.

I glanced around, but it seemed like any other morning. I waved at Mrs. Jones as she took her trash to the curb, then I quickly stepped out of the way as the Murphy kids raced to school on their bikes. Shrugging off the feeling, I started walking to work.

At the deli on the corner, I made my morning coffee stop.

“Good morning, Mrs. Alberts,” came a cheerful greeting.

“Good morning, Jamie,” I replied. “I’ll have my usual.”

Within minutes, a hot cup of coffee and a freshly toasted bagel were ready for me. As Jamie handed me my change, I automatically started to drop the pennies in the “give-a-penny, take-a-penny” cup next to the register. But instead of hearing the dull clank of copper on copper, they skittered around the countertop. Laughing, I scrambled to corral the errant change.

“Where’d the penny cup go?” I asked with a smile.

“The penny cup?” she asked.

“You know, for the spare change, in case somebody else is a penny short,” I replied.

Jamie gave me a quizzical look.

“Why would you leave your change for them? If they’re short, then that’s their problem.”

Puzzled, I thanked her for the coffee and left.

As I stepped out of the deli, I was again struck by a sense of “wrongness.” The sky was blue, the birds were singing, yet something was missing.

Suddenly, I found myself in front of an empty lot. I looked around, thinking I might have taken a wrong turn. Glancing behind me, I could still see the deli, and I recognized the gas station at the next corner. But if I wasn’t lost, then where was the church?

I was still in shock when I saw a man walking towards me. I approached him, hoping he’d know the answer to my question.

“Excuse me, but what happened to the church?” I asked him.

“Church?”

“St. John’s, the church that used to be here. I walked by yesterday and it was here. What happened?”

He looked at me so strangely that I wondered if he even spoke English. He finally asked his own question.

“What’s a church?”

Now it was my turn to hesitate. How can you not know what a church is? I tried to explain it to him.

“It’s a place where people worship, and where the needy in the community can come for help. You know – a church.”

“Never heard of one,” he replied. “How does it make money?”

“People give money to the church, and they use it to help others."

“Give money? Lady, I don’t know what’s in your coffee, but people don’t just give away money. You must be crazy.” With that pronouncement, he left.

Now I was really confused. First the penny cup, now a church. How can things disappear?

I slowly started to walk down the sidewalk, thinking about the strange morning. Was my mind playing tricks on me? I was deep in thought as I approached Rosie.

Rosie is one of those people who fall between the cracks. Mentally ill but harmless, she’s not stable enough to work, but not sick enough to be hospitalized. So she frequents the soup kitchen and shelter at St. John’s, and somehow manages to survive. Out of habit, I reached into my pocket for some spare change.

But as I approached her, I noticed something different. She seemed thinner, almost gaunt. Bending down, I gently shook her. She looked at me with unfocused eyes. A horrible thought struck me.

“Rosie, when was the last time you ate?” Without St. John’s, she didn’t have a way to survive.

Her lips were dry and cracked. I saw their blue tinge, and for the first time noticed the chill in the air. I took off my jacket and wrapped her in it.

We were on a busy corner, yet everybody ignored us. I tried to get someone to call for help, but they looked the other way. I wrapped my arms around her shaking body, trying to warm her up.

Rosie’s eyes closed, then her shaking stopped.

At that moment, I knew what was wrong.

I had woken up in a world without charity.

Sometimes it’s just not worth taking a day off. It’s great while it lasts, especially if you can somehow manage to get the job out of your head; but when you go back to work, all the stress just comes crashing back over you, like an anxiety tsunami. If you’re lucky, nobody has tried to do any of your work while you’re out. Then all you have is double the load for a while. If you aren’t lucky, someone has stepped in and royally mucked things up, and you, upon your return, get the pleasure of cleaning up the mess. So, when people ask me why I haven’t taken a personal day in almost 400 years, I simply relate the story of what happened the last time.

It was November of 1632, and we were having a record year. Thanks in large part to my top three specialists, I had already exceeded the goals for soul collection that year. I hadn’t taken a day off in almost a century, and with business going so well I figured it was high time for a vacation. To make things a little easier on myself, I decided to take my top producers along with me. After all, Death can hardly take the day off if War, Famine, and Pestilence still have their noses to the proverbial grindstone. Little did I know, others within the company would see this as an opportunity to make an impression.

The four of us were enjoying ourselves in the Underworld, drinking tequila shooters with four abstracts of the more attractive persuasion. We had planned it all out, so that our absence would have minimal impact. Hordes of gravely ill people would be miraculously, if temporarily, cured of their debilitating diseases. Thousands would discover that, when you are hungry enough, dirt doesn’t actually taste so bad. And, various armies across the globe would lay in ambush waiting for the enemy to strike. Of course, the enemy would be doing exactly the same thing. We figured as dense and stubborn as humans are, it would take them at least a day to figure out that no one was going to show up to have their gizzards perforated by surprise.

While we partied on the astral plane, a crisis developed on Earth. A few individuals with more ambition than intelligence saw our absence as a chance to demonstrate their talent. That morning a cadre of wannabes from the Pranks and Practical Jokes Department and the Trips and Falls Division took a field trip.

They started simply. A guard walking his post tumbled into a pool of muddy water as his pants dropped to his ankles. An officer donning a helmet was surprised to find it filled with horse manure. Unfortunately, these small successes emboldened the upstarts to greater aspirations. Soon, matchlocks were backfiring into faces, horses were trampling cavalrymen, and infantrymen were impaling themselves on their weapons. On that day, there were as many fatal wounds as an actual battle might have inflicted. Of course, with Death on vacation, no injury is mortal.

I was in the middle of a slow dance with Lust, when I felt the tug on my robes. As my minion explained the reason for the interruption, I reluctantly disentangled myself from my partner and followed.

The scene that greeted my arrival quickly dissipated my anger. I had been ready to dispatch the meddlers to purgatory, but the hilarity of the situation dissolved my rage like ice in boiling brimstone. Everywhere I looked, I saw men in various states of disrepair. Most bore standard wounds, but several men carried, in their flesh, the implement responsible. Some had swords jutting from back or stomach; At least two had axes protruding from their heads. An officer was trying to bellow orders from the severed head he carried in his hands. The setting was ghoulish and ghastly; yet, so bizarre was it, I found myself laughing uproariously.

It took weeks to sort through the chaos. The paperwork filled dozens of file cabinets. Amazingly, after the investigation and the disciplinary hearing, the perpetrators of that offense were not punished. In time, they actually moved up within the ranks to the point where, now, their numbers have begun to rival those of the former “big three.”

Sure, I’d love a day off, but I can’t imagine what mischief might occur, or who might instigate it. The Darwin Awards are bad enough; try to imagine Gluttony or Sloth as leading causes of death.

This city invented soul.

There was a time, not so long ago, when you could feel it just by walking down the street. Maybe there wasn't even a jazz club within earshot, but you could feel it just the same when you sat under the live oaks, all hung with their rich tapestries of Spanish Moss. Perhaps you felt it in the vivid contrasts you could see all around: old and new; jazz and blues; black and white.

I'm looking around now, and this city's soul has been ripped out and washed away by a soulless flood. Those contrasts are all gone, all blended into a uniformly filthy lake of grey water. The live oaks still standing are dead, painted in ghastly rainbows by the oil that drowned them.

Who thinks of soul in times like these, when a whole city is engulfed by an imminent, inevitable threat to life, when liberty becomes the unattainable ability to walk on dry ground, and when the pursuit of happiness is reduced to the basest pursuit of survival?

In these days, weeks, months of watery sorrow, when the bones of the city lie half-buried in the mire and its people are scattered elsewhere, soul will be far away. There will be many tears and heavy hearts, and there will be precious little joi de vivre to ease the burden. Life will lose its spark, and the city will be alone in the darkness, drowned by its sorrows.

But soul will not be dead. Soul only ever sleeps for a season.

One day, after enough blood, sweat and tears have been shed, a portly gentleman will go to that place he always went to. There he will lovingly uncase his beat up old horn, raise the mouthpiece to his lips and savor for a moment the old scent of smoke and bourbon, and the memories of happier times.

Then the man will sound a note so beautiful that all who hear it will weep with joy. His music will resound in the very roots of the city, and the sleeping soul will wake. Far away, the diaspora will feel their hearts leap as the spirit of the city fills them with a fresh yearning to go home.

There will still be much work to be done, for the city will still be licking its many wounds. But, like the first birdsong in the spring heralds the departure of winter, so the first horn in the Quarter will announce the return of soul. Like a carpet of wildflowers in the fields, signs of life and hope will spring up in the city overnight.

Yes. When the soul man starts to play again, you'll know that everything is going to be alright.

Who could’ve anticipated that hate could be a positive force?

The day we lost it was the day humanity died, but I shall make it live again.

Throughout humanity hate has always been there. It was there during the Roman Era, it was there during the Dark Ages, and of course it was there during World War Two. Hate has always been there. It saturated our very being; it infested our politics, our religions, and our way of life. “Love conquers all” was a fairy tale. Hate is what drives us to do great…and terrible things.

It was thought that hate would eventually cause us to destroy ourselves, and it nearly did in 2096. It was a time when the Earth was a complete war zone, but it was also when THEY came. The Keslak. A race of conquerors from the stars. It was then when we learned what hate could truly accomplish.

Their first attacks came without warning. We were unprepared, still engaged in our petty self-hatred and fighting each other. More bombings occurring, then invasions, then worse…

And that’s when hate really kicked in. It united us in a way that had never been done before. We didn’t care about our petty differences anymore. We weren’t black, white, gay, straight, Jewish, or Muslim, we were human.

And we all hated the Keslak.

We struck back with everything we could, never giving up, and driven by hate. We didn’t just kill them, we butchered them. We didn’t just drive them from our planet; we took their technology so we could take the fight to them. And we didn’t just kill a few million, we killed them all.

The Keslak were nothing more than a memory and at last the dream of idealistic fools had come true. World Peace had occurred, and it was all thanks to hate. Our hate achieved peace; it made us strong, made us survive.

Humanity didn’t fight itself anymore. Now it was a galactic power, it had plenty of others to fight. It started with annexing a planet here, enslaving a race there, and the usual. We were only trying to protect ourselves and maintain our peace. We’d be damned if we were going to let some Godless Aliens take that away from us. No, they all were the enemy and we hated them all. Even those “peaceful” ones were merely trying to buy time to attack us and destroy our peace later. We knew that, after all it’s what we’d been doing to each other for centuries. As time went on, several of these treacherous alien species formed a grand intergalactic alliance against us. We laughed and waged a war of peace on them. It was only a matter of time anyway. We fought and they fought, hate was strong on both sides, but ours was stronger. It always had been.

And then came the day it disappeared. Some say it was caused by a new weapon, others even say it was some sort of punishment from a divine being. We’ll never know I suppose. It just disappeared.

We still fought, but for some reason we just didn’t feel the hate anymore. We were just going through the motions. We were just mindlessly killing like robots. There wasn’t any emotion behind it. We all knew it was missing, but we couldn’t do anything about it. We were like eunuchs. Even when entire populations of us were killed, entire planets blown into dust, we still couldn’t feel that same hate that we used to.

We’d lost our edge. We’d lost our weapon. We’d lost our peace.

When the Alliance invaded our world they made us pay for what we’d done, but some reason they didn’t end us as we did the Keslak. Instead we were confined to our ravaged planet and held under constant watch from space. We became an example to be mocked, and worse…pitied. We were disorganized without hate. We became wandering nomads on our planet, with no goal other than to exist. Every now and then some overzealous Alliance members come down and hunt a few hundred of us to make sure the population doesn’t get too big.

Now I remain here as one of the defeated once hateful race. Trying to get that old feeling back that eluded us and caused our fall, because I know that one human full of hate can achieve much.

We shall know peace again.

I’m starting to feel the hate come back.

And it feels…human.

Pestilence moved swiftly across the land, at last reaching the sea. The blue waves glittered in the morning sun; the sky was a clear, cloudless egg-blue bowl; the sand a warm, golden carpet between the water and the land. The palms along the beach added a gentle susurrus to the quiet “shoooosh” of the waves.

Looking around at the peaceful scene, Pestilence paused. Being a particularly fickle and unpredictable Abstract, she said (almost, but not quite, under her breath) “I never have any time to myself! I always have to do everything! I think it’s time I did something for ME!”

She looked around again. “That’s it! I’m taking some time off! To H*ll with them all, it’s MY turn to have some time out!!”

So saying, Pestilence shrugged out of her drab robe, displaying a pasty, white, slug-like body, almost wearing a bright orange bikini. She grunted painfully as she lowered her loathsome carcass onto the warm sand, stretched her flabby arms around behind her, and untied the greatly over-stressed ties of her top. Freed from holding back the twin burden of her bosom, the ties of the bikini lashed the beach, raising a pair of small dust devils, before relaxing onto the tormented sand, finally at rest. Pestilence squirmed for a few moments, getting comfortable, before dropping her head onto her arms, and closing her eyes.

Eventually, the living inhabitants of the beach returned to their day-to-day business, carefully avoiding one small area of beach, without actually noticing that they were.

-----------------

Elsewhere around the World, life continued unabated.

In fact, without Pestilence on the job, life continued pretty much without change for a very great many.

Certainly, lives ended as Death carried on his work, but a large number of potential customers of his services simply did not sign on to his customer plan. The Death Loyalty Programme became seriously under-subscribed as long-time customers checked out, whilst only a few joined, mostly as a result of their participation in partner programmes run by Accident, Malice and War.

With mounting concern, Death looked at the stats. As usual, lives were checking out at a steady rate, but where were their replacements? Oh, sure, there were a few, but it was clear that a large segment of Death’s target audience were not taking up the opportunity to join the Death Club.

After a moment’s thought, Death headed off to the Conceptual Café, where he knew he would find Misery.

“Misery, me old mate! How’s it going with you?” Death boomed in a jolly manner. “Anything interesting happening in your patch?”

Misery, a cheery, trendy café-hound, raised his head up from his PDA, a look of mild concern on his face. “Well now, it is strange that you should ask that! I was just checking my market reports and I’ve noticed that there seems to be a sudden fall off in my figures. The Misery Ticker is showing a distinct downward trend in the amount of misery in the world.” He held up the PDA so that Death could see the multi-coloured trend graph it was displaying.

“I was just about to start to enquire as to the cause,” Misery continued. “Do you have any ideas?”

“Hhhhmmmmm,” Death mused. “I wonder if there is some connection with my little mystery?” He then explained his concern.

“Well now, that is odd!” Misery commented. “Let’s check if any of the others have similar problems.”

A quick walk around those at the cafe soon established that some of had, some hadn’t. Lust and Jealousy had seen no real change, but Greed and Indifference were both experiencing a slight drop-off in their results.

“It’s almost as if something isn’t working as it should,” suggested Indifference in her usual intense, enthusiastic way.

“Or maybe someone,” countered Kindness maliciously, looking around as if to find someone to blame.

“If we don’t correct this trend soon, the market may never recover,” added the lugubrious Joy. “We need to get onto this pretty quickly, or some of us will be out of business.”

-----------------

Pestilence rolled over, disturbing that segment of beach-life that possessed eyes. Many of them went temporarily blind, some went insane. The sun sank steadily towards the horizon, wishing it could speed up its journey.

As the day drew to a close, Pestilence rose, refitting her protesting garments to her body, and looked around.

“Typical, bloody typical!” she grumbled. “No-one even noticed I wasn’t working! They just EXPECT me to be doing it all for them!!”

She turned, and looking into the dying day, reached out and laid her gift on the first life she saw ...

I sit here and stare at the water. There is not so much as a ripple in its glass-like surface. I didn’t realize the consequences of my actions until much later. I can’t tell you how much later because nobody really knows. I do know that I’ve never been to the ocean and not seen waves crash upon the shore. Not until now, that is.

I can tell you when it happened. Everyone knows when it happened. It was 4:27 PM on September 2, 2005. Everyone knows because every clock in the world is stopped on that time. Every calendar has that date circled.

The effects were noticeable by everyone; power outages everywhere, cars and trucks stalling and coasting along the freeways, every analog and digital clock frozen in time.

Frozen in time. What an unbelievable concept. There is nothing frozen about a 93 degree day with no electricity. However, it took awhile before people realized the full extent of what happened.

Not only did the clocks stop, but so did everything else. Everything that could be used to mark the passage of time…from the movement of the Sun to alternating current, to microprocessors… all frozen in time.

While I don’t know all the affects personally, every person you pass on the street has a new story. Rumors of equipment failure in the hospitals accompany the strange tails of terminal patients not dying when their heart pump or iron lung failed. There are also stories of pregnant women who aren’t going into labor.

However, it seems the biggest fear on the streets is food. With no electricity, frozen or refrigerated foods are spoiling. Canned foods are in short supply. What is going to happen when we run out? If terminal patients aren’t dying, what will happen to those that are starving?

We can only assume that this incident is global. There is no communication whatsoever. Without the solar and lunar pull, there is no wind, so travel has to be completely man power – bicycles, rowboats, roller skates and such. News from different areas could be pretty old when it gets here. How old is anybody’s guess.

But the one thing that only I know is why it happened.

I didn’t mean to hit the old man with my car. He appeared as if from nowhere in front of me. I slammed on my brakes, but it was not soon enough. The old man flew off the front of my fender. I could see the shock in his eyes. I tried to help him, but he was dead before hit the ground.

He was a very old man with a long white beard wearing nothing more than a simple robe and leather sandals. The only other item near him was a shattered hourglass.

I don’t know how long it was before I realized who he was. Since then I’ve spent eternity trying to figure out what to do.

Do you know how hard it is to sweep up the sands of time?

In the shadow of a shattered building, an ancient creature stirred. It unfurled ebon wings, creating an inky stain that was darker than the shadow in which it stood. Slowly it turned its head from side to side, drinking in the desolate landscape. Devastated skyscrapers stretched like broken skeletal fingers pointing at a dust-filled sky. The Sun, seeming red and swollen, warmed nothing with its rays and left a crimson stain on anything it touched. These images drew a smile to the demon’s face; causing it to do something that it had not done in ages: laugh.

The destruction was the result of millennia of manipulation. His favorite part of the long wait had been in listening to theologians and scholars debate prophecy that was over three thousand years old. In particular, he enjoyed anything that concerned the ‘time of no faith’. The fools had treated faith as if it was the sole province of religion. It wasn’t. Straining their eyes they watched for signs and wonders and missed the mundane implications right in front of them.

When faith had finally fled, it wasn’t just belief in a higher power that it had touched, it was everything. When they lost faith in themselves, they became, suspicious, vicious, and uncaring. When they lost faith in loved ones and family they became, lonely, disillusioned, and distrustful of any motive that did not benefit them. When they lost faith in community and government, the riots began. Then when faith had totally fled, the wars had started. Wave after wave of destruction had woven a blanket of death that settled over the Earth, leaving mankind on the brink of extinction and this once lush and verdant planet nothing more than another lifeless rock, spinning in the vastness of space.

Echoes of human suffering sent power coursing through the demon. Still laughing, he bent to examine the remains of a bleached skull that rested near him. A harsh grinding noise issued as talons, the size of railroad spikes, slid into empty and dry sockets. Lifting it up he gazed at it, so weak, so frail and yet so important.

A growl issued as it clenched its fist in anger. The skull exploded into a cloud of white powder as it slowly drifted down onto the scorched dirt.

Quickly the demon’s thoughts focused, without faith; there could be no hope. Without hope they would continue to prey on one another and soon the few survivors left would succumb to disease, despair or violence. The end would be glorious, with him and those like him reigning supreme on the Earth.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Half a world away a small band of humans sat huddled and clinging to life despite their despair and shock. Unseen on a rock above them stood a being of light. She watched the group, but mainly focused on one small listless child. Her dark skin and tight curly hair was filthy, but what bothered the watcher the most, were her eyes. Dead and empty, they betrayed no emotion or longing for life that a child of her age should have. The angel shuddered, this place was too important to lose.

Reaching down an invisible hand, the angelic being touched the ragged child’s head. To those who watched her, it seemed as if a shaft of light had briefly illuminated the young girl. The angel felt her power flow into the child. She felt her power showing the young girl things that she had forgotten, images of humans working together, of a place where people could sleep in peace without fear of murder or worse, and above it all, a feeling that she was loved and cherished even if she had no proof of it.

“Faith is a gift child. Take it, and be strong,” the angel said to herself as she pulled her hand away.

Yes, this planet and its inhabitants were much too precious to lose. She had done what she came to do, return faith and make sure the unseen war was not lost.

SCENE: The news desk of a typical evening news TV broadcast. A female reporter sits at the desk at looks into the camera.

REPORTER: Good evening. I’m Tiffany Takaguchi and this is your Action News report. In our top story, the world’s population thinned considerably today as Common Sense officially announced its retirement this morning in a press conference.

CUT TO video of a press conference. Common Sense, in the form of a man with sunken eyes and a pale complexion stands at a podium and addresses a crowd of reporters.

COMMON SENSE: Too many people ignore me and that neglect is putting too much strain on my well-being. Therefore, I have decided to retire before the problem gets worse.

CUT BACK TO news desk.

REPORTER: In the hours after the announcement, hospital emergency rooms worldwide were filled with people seeking treatment for self-inflicted injuries.

CUT TO outside of a hospital. A long line of people seeking treatment stretches out the door and down the block. A woman with frazzled hair and charred appearance speaks to a reporter holding a microphone just off-camera.

WOMAN: My toaster was dirty, so I put it in the sink to clean it. They really should put warning labels on toasters telling you to unplug them before washing them! I’m seriously considering a lawsuit against the manufacturer.

MAN (off camera, faintly in the background): Hey! Look what I’m doing! AAAAAGGGGHHHH!!!

CUT BACK TO news desk.

REPORTER: Recent reports, however, indicate that Common Sense is reconsidering his decision and may return to work as early as tomorrow morning. This news came shortly after Personal Responsibility announced plans to go on a hunger strike if Common Sense remained retired.

CUT TO video of a nearly transparent man standing outside a run-down house.

PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY: Common Sense thinks he has it tough? What about me? People not only neglect Personal Responsibility, they go out of their way to avoid me! Well, I’ll show everyone. I intend to stop eating until people start accepting me or until I waste away to nothing. And if I die… well, it’ll be EVERYONE ELSE’S FAULT!

CUT BACK TO news desk.

REPORTER: Until a final decision is made by Common Sense, people are urged to partake in activities that do not require any use of Common Sense whatsoever. Suggested activities include sleeping, eating soft foods, and watching old Dukes of Hazzard reruns. And now, I’m going to bang my forehead repeatedly against the desk to see what it feels like.

The REPORTER proceeds to do so.

REPORTER: *thud*… ouch… *thud*… ouch… *thud*… ouch…

FADE to black