The last thousand years had been pretty good. Those who'd been around for any of the previous thousand still harped on about what a relief it was to finally have a government that cared and knew how to. It was so nice, they intoned, not to go hungry unless you wanted to, not to get shot while out shopping, not to have to change channels mid-movie because the dominant aesthetic called for a salutary stirring of the baser passions.
Loosh was of age and he wanted a divorce. When his parents asked why, he said, “I don’t have to tell you, but I will.” When he’d told them, his mother said, “Are you sure about this, dear?” and his father said, “You ungrateful little—!”
When the conversation was over, Loosh called his lawyer, who arranged lodging for the night and set aside half an hour to meet with him the next day.
“That boarding house stinks!” Loosh commented when admitted to his lawyer’s cubicle the next morning.
Praise God, whose is the might. If any should read this, be it known, when I returned from evening prayer, the last of my life, I found a man standing in my room. His skin was blackened and he smelled of smoke, but when I looked closely I could see his face and stature were my own. Upon his chest he wore a flaming sword.
Sione could tell the wind was blowing. Through his classroom window, he could see the thick band of vegetation marking the perimeter. The aspens, each exactly the same height, shape and shade, glittered and sent beads of light dancing along the manicured grass surrounding their trunks.
He slipped from the room, sliding his hand up under his shirt to detatch the tube from the medication shunt imbedded in his side between the bottom two ribs. Carefully he worked his way along the hall into the shadowy corner by the school’s sanitation facility.