Every once in a while, a person catches a glimpse. Out of the corner of an eye, or a fleeting glimmer, a person sees them. Not spirits, but what I call memory ghosts. From there when they pass through into our here and now.

Memory burns into the cosmos. Gazing at the stars is looking at memory. The light traveling across the galaxy spanning years transfers information reaching the observer forming new memories. From a painting of an artist, bits of information travel to the eyes speaking to the viewer. The dead continue their ghosts caught within the information. Everything passes through the fabric of the cosmos. Like fingerprints in the information, memories leave their mark.

I see her still, my little girl. In the passenger seat on the way to school, or sitting at her desk, studying, she fills my life with joy as I view the world through her eyes. Many memories cling like the beaming smile of a child opening her birthday present finding all her wishes, charms in life worth remembering. Even if the world forgets my little pumpkin, I see her memory ghost.

They say I never had a daughter. The world forgets. Her fingerprint is there, like everything else, caught within the information. But sometimes, memory changes.

From the moment a memory blossoms in the mind, the brain works connecting the patterns. Information not immediately connected to any known pattern dives into the abyss. Other details fade as more information flows linking related patterns together. Connections build a network of memories, blurring some details while reinforcing others. Memories change. Blue becomes gray, tall becomes average. And sometimes something out of the ordinary blazes like the sun floating above the other memories, an interpretation hiding other details, always there.

Does the tapestry of reality mutate altering memory?

Even if the tapestry changes, and only I see her, my girl is here. The information holds all the ghosts. One only needs to look, and interpret.

They never leave, these cosmic fingerprints.

Standing between wagon ruts, Draco Torre considers the sign announcing Hope Hill. Stars meet prairie, flat horizons. Hope without a hill.

Following ruts, Torre scans dark buildings. Nothing stirs. Blasted heat carries the stench of death.

At the far end of Hope Hill, light flows from an open doorway, down three steps splashing the road. The church casts a sullen look. Catcalls of rapists, howls of murderers pour from the doorway. A scream shatters the night.

Not even the hottest summer on record matches the blazing eyes of Draco Torre. Throwing open duster, Torre grasps guns. Last hope for Hope Hill.

The building is alive, music pounding into the stone walls its beating heart, the vibrating steel its rumbling stomach, the buzzing neon sign its voice singing into the night. Doors open swallowing patrons feeding its hunger.

Searching for the music, Mike descends the steel staircase feeling like a feather floating on a current. Lights zip through the haze splashing the sea of dancers. Purple rods lining stone columns, black light, illuminate the waving neon bracelets and flowing white shirts breaking between the storming mass of dark clothing. Stepping onto the dance floor, Mike soaks in the music and begins bouncing to the beat.

Atop the stage, a banshee with blue hair screams into the microphone, her voice switching between demonic thunder and angelic cries. A crash of drums rolls into a new song, the banshee wails about pain and anger.

Goth girls move aside turning their gazes on Mike like predators sizing up their prey. Some of their eyes glow, special lenses catching the black light. Others snarl exposing sharp teeth. They wear costumes celebrating the creatures of the night. The goth girls, even some boys, swarm around Mike, their lulling dance pulling him deeper into the horde.

The pack opens up into a ring, a sinuous wall grooving to the music. Howls and laughter cry out. Electric guitars grind into a chant, the beat met by stomping feet and nodding heads. Fists pump into the air. The banshee screams.

Dispatching from the ring, a woman dances into the center, gyrating hips sending her into a grooving spin. She runs her fingers through her pink hair. Her palms run down her sides hugging herself.

Mike dances close, his steps complimenting hers. Her eyes blaze, a blue simmer in the black light flashing to deep crimson in the shadows. Arms wrapping around each other, hips meeting, they grind to the beat. He breathes in her sweat, tastes her licorice lips. His insides burn like fire. Peering into her intense gaze, he asks for her name, but his voice is lost to the music.

She smiles revealing her fangs. Closing in, her cheek grazes his. Her breath tickles his ear. “Candy,” she says. Squeezing against him, she licks his lips and closes in on his other ear. “Sweet as candy.” She licks his ear.

The sounds of the club fade, the howling voices growing distant. The music is a distant thunder. Mike dances, his cheek against hers, moving in a swirling wave to the music of their own feet tapping the wood floor. They dance into the shadow world.

The club takes a breath, a cool breeze.

Mike finds his arms empty. Glancing around, he finds the dance floor empty. The club is dark. Silence rings shattering thought. Peering down, he finds his shirt covered in blood. No pain. He tastes licorice lipstick on his lips.

Movement catches his eye.

Like moonlight reflecting off the rolling sea, shapes move about the dance floor becoming hazy forms. Apparitions dance in slow motion. As their features become more discernible, their movements increase in speed.

Mike hears the music, slow and quiet at first. Watching the others, noticing their vibrant faces, their sweat, he realizes he is the ghost gazing back at the world. Touching his throat, he finds torn flesh, cold and dry.

The music explodes into Mike’s thoughts, and he dances. The others barely notice him, if at all. This is Club Necropolis where the dead never dance alone.

Sad Stats

• “Most U.S. youths unfit to serve, data shows” Pentagon study reveals 35% age 18-34 physically unfit, was 6% in 1987.
• Obesity.org says “no state met the Healthy People 2010 objective of 15 percent”
• “Study Finds that Sitting May Increase Risk of Disease” (2007) stating, “Only 28 percent of Americans are getting the minimal amount of recommended exercise” and “exercising, even for an hour a day, was not sufficient to reverse the effect [of physical inactivity.]“
• “Rising obesity will cost U.S. health care $344 billion a year” by 2018 eating 21% of costs for the physically unfit.

Background

A few months ago I sought out a new desk with adjustable legs so I could ensure proper keyboard height. The thought of standing while working crossed my mind, but table heights never reach high enough. I purchased a Gallant desk with extension from Ikea. Besides adjustable height, I liked the ability to connect parts to vary length including corners. The maximum height of the tabletop is 32 inches, too short for anyone standing taller than 66 inches.

My primary job places me at a desk working on a computer for 9 hours each weekday and sometimes a few hours on weekends. I also write stories and do artwork placing me at a desk in my free time which quickly loses appeal. My previous positions kept me moving about, so my current occupation is my first experience at office lifestyle. Even though I bicycle every day, I’ve noticed my health declining during the last 4 years. My cholesterol is up, my weight increased, and I’m tired more often. To compensate for a sore rear, cramped legs, and increasing tiredness I find myself walking around interrupting work. I sometimes kneel at my desk or march up and down the stairs trying to save my body from breaking down.

The article “Stand Up While You Read This” on New York Times points out that “your chair is your enemy.” At the bottom the opinion article sites studies that show that even daily jogging fails to offset the heart problems and obesity of sitting for too long. After my recent work experience, I agree. Bicycling everyday fails to offset the negative impact of sitting for 9 hours.

Modern jobs place many of us at a desk. American’s are in poor physical condition (not just obesity) driving up the cost of health care. Just look at the statistics. From 6% to 35% physically unfit youth in less than 30 years? We are a nation in poor health depending on older citizens to defend our country.

Do something about it. Get off your butt!

I accept the uniform, folded neat upon my arms. The soldier tells me blue is my color. Or is it gray? Another war, another battle—it is always the same—another uniform, nothing ever changes. A warrior only knows one color.

Blue or gray, I don my uniform holding me hot and tight. I stand in line with the others, mercenaries carrying scars of battle upon their faces. Some pale, some dark, the warriors hold two traits in common, their color and death in their eyes.

The mercenaries march, boots crushing the ground. The slinking centipede cuts through the army into the front line. Musket in left hand, sword in my right, I stand gazing over rolling green. A mercenary tells us to remember our color. Remember, the man beside me says tugging at his uniform.

Darkness arrives with the thunder of boots. I hold no argument, no ill between warriors. This is our way. The one beside me speaks again. He wishes me luck, find death at last. I thank him and shake my head. Another field, nothing ever changes. Perhaps my time passed me long ago. I wish him a good death and to remember our color.

Cannon fire announces the battle. Blue meets gray. Cries of war twist into howls of dread. I dance to the music of anguish, the beat of torment. I attack blue. Or is it gray? Dropping the musket, I carry my sword, cutting my way up the hill.

The soldiers are farmers and masons, not warriors. Blue and gray are their colors before the reaping. Some turn away in fear, others stand frozen clenching weapons. I clear first the ones with strength in their eyes. Weapons falling, death calling, a warrior only knows one color.

Blue or gray I forget, but their faces burn into memory. Color flees their cheeks, light departs their eyes. They shed crimson tears upon my dress. Even the mercenaries cry for me. I envy them, their freedom.

On the hilltop I stand alone gazing down over the field. Blue or gray matter no more. All of the fallen wear the same color—my color—flowing down the hill. Death and carrion are my companions.

Red is my color, the only color I know.