Selected Short Stories Featuring Analog Memory

by Nicolas Wilson

into her purse, rather than take them (I only ever found out they were “poop pills” prescribed by the “poop nazis,” and never why she hated them). And she’d affectionately curse her “goddamn kids” for trying to make her take the Prednisone they couldn’t wean her off of.

  I don’t want to sound like I’m romanticizing. It was that same stubbornness that caused her to keep smoking most her life. It was that same stubbornness that made her refuse help at every turn as long as she could, increasing her pain in her last few moments, and inadvertently hurting those of us who stood by, helpless.

  And she taught us well. My father remained fiercely independent when it came to her care, reluctant to give up any of his responsibilities, even to sleep, and he remained stubbornly determined to keep smoking, even as that same habit killed his mother in another room. I don’t mean to condemn, or even disparage. We cling to her example with the utmost affection, and because, for her faults, it’s an example worth following.

  She was a wonderful lady, who rode into the sunset of this world with her head held high, even if she could no longer hold it up on her own.

  The Courage of Our Convictions

  The skull belonged to a child, less than ten. It was baked and scorched in the bombing, picked clean by scavenger birds before we arrived. A specialist steps through the skull like it's nothing, like it's more earth beneath his feet. It’s his first time out of country, and I can’t say I blame him; you can see in his eyes he’s fighting back puppy-dog excitement- he smells the hunt even if he doesn’t know that’s what his body’s telling him.

  For me, death lost its rush years ago. I’m an old soldier, and not just counting the aging wars put you through. The fighter that dropped the bomb was likely one of the Fantans stationed out of Nyala that the Sudanese bought from China right before the embargo. A Fantan is 1980s tech, old even by my standards, and laughable to any modern army. Of course, the Sudanese Fantans weren’t challenged in the air by any modern army; they weren’t challenged at all.

  The “conflict” here started February of ’03, just a month before we were in Iraq; we had barely taken Baghdad when the rebels attacked the Al-Fashir garrison. They were faring better in the next few months than we were in Iraq, although, I suppose, the Sudanese government would have said they were us in that situation, and the rebels were the insurgency. Then the Janjaweed, who had been involved in abuses when they “quelled” a Masalit “uprising” in ’96-99, were brought into play by the Sudanese government. Militarily it was brilliant, or at least bright; they understood that the only way to stop a guerilla campaign was the utter decimation of the population the guerillas are blending into in their downtime, and the Janjaweed were happy to engage in the campaign of horror to accomplish just that.

  I pause to look at the shattered remains of a woman on the ground. 23 mm gunfire doesn’t leave much that resembles a human being behind, but from the pattern of blood spattered against a wall, similar to the burnt-in shadows of Hiroshima, I can make out where she stood. There’s a round in the wall, about stomach height, with flecks of bone scattered at its foot. I assume it was her spine until I see the gaping wound in her torso, and what’s left of the infant inside. The bullet struck the child, probably in the head, and the child shattered out his mother’s belly as shrapnel. I take a picture with the HD camera, even though I know it won’t do a damn thing. I wish I could have the remains bronzed, and plunked at the feet of the UN building in New York. Because we need to remember the cost of our failures. But I get up, and move on.

  And we did fail. All of us. People marched across the world, wore “Never Again” and “Remember Rwanda” t-shirts, which of course irritated Rwanda’s politicians (I imagine for the same reason modern Germans bristle when Nazism comes up in conversation- but hell, they gave Kagame immunity); some of us even donated money. Of course it didn’t do a damn bit of good. Bashir was smart enough to recognize the paralysis of the world. The UN force never emerged with enough strength to check the violence, and after the ICC tried to indict Bashir for his crimes even most of the nations who pledged to support the effort disappeared. Our president and his tame congress declared this mess a genocide, and then ignored his obligations under international law to stop it. Of course, they had already started two wars, one of which was unnecessary at best, and frankly, we had our hands in as many pies as we could handle.

  Which is about the one thing I can say about this goddamn thing: this wasn’t America’s fault. Because we, for all of our fool damn mistakes these last few years- and they have been legion and legendary- we stuck it out, and fought the fights that needed fighting. And I’ll punch any Vietnam-bating bastard who tries to confuse otherwise.

  The world sat holding its breath for us to do something, and now we finally can. We’re here- only it’s too goddamned late to be of any good to these people. Of course, now that there’s not much of a Darfur left, even the Chinese and Russians are here on the ground; in fact, it’s the most diverse collection of “peacekeepers” in the history of mankind. The only thing in the world strong enough to have united us all was our collective culpability in what transpired here. I wish I was fool enough to mistake it for the last.

  Medicine

  A while ago, you told me you were addicted to Vicodin. I remember when you got through rehab, you were so proud (and ashamed you needed it in the first place)- and you were so damn pissed off when House didn’t kick his Vicodin habit when you did- even when he had the chance. That was months ago; has it been a year?

  Normally, I don’t think I would have thought anything of it. I think it was proximity; it wasn’t a week since you told me you’d started taking your mother’s OxyContin. It’d been going on for months. You'd been depressed, for months, and your mother started offering it to you, because she couldn’t stand to see you in pain.

  In that same conversation, you told me what it was like detoxing, how it made you nauseous, how it was the worst pain you could ever imagine. And you told me how Suboxone killed the withdrawal completely, which was why you needed to get checked into rehab. Suboxone’s heavily regulated, because it’s another opioid- but with a longer duration action, letting the body detox slowly, without the pain.

  It was less than a week after that, like I said. We were just hanging out, watching some Dexter. You said you hadn’t planned to be out that long, that you had to go home, that there was medicine you needed to keep from getting sick. I remember the pained expression on your face; it was a lie you felt you had to tell, even if we both knew the truth.

  A few days passed. You flaked on some plans, but whatever, it’s not the first time either of us has done that. Then you didn’t show up at work, and I put two and two together. Your mother called me, and said you’d be gone two weeks; she couldn’t bring herself to say it, she just said you’d gone to “that place.”

  It’s a few more days, now, and I’m in my car; I was halfway to your house before I turned around. I was going to talk to your mother, to intervene; I don’t know if it was prudence or cowardice that convinced me that letting others fight your battles was part of what landed you back where you are.

  I’d like to go home and drink for a while, but under the circumstances that seems inappropriate. I push the accelerator as I get back on the damn freeway; it’s the only prescription I’ve got.

  The Cost of Being Me

  The taste of blood’s familiar to me- and perhaps that’s a commentary on the life I’ve led- but it’s the amount that’s troubling. A moment ago, it was a warm tickle at the back of my throat, then a trickle, coating like cough syrup, only not as thick. Now it’s getting in the way of breathing, but I can’t bring myself to spit it up, because, it’s blood, damnit, and I’m pretty sure I need it.

  My body falls back to the rocks, and in my head I note that it should have hurt, but didn’t; it’s becoming harder to feel in general, a sign that should be worrying, but I’m finding it harder to care. I’m not quite at peace, but an analytical calm washes over me like a mi
st on a warm day, and I soak in it, breathe it in.

  Perhaps it’s a bit late, but I start to consider my options. I’m not perfect, but there seem to be two schools of thought on that (at least two extremes, anyway). The Buddhists say that every life you live towards perfection, and that your reincarnations show how far you’ve moved towards or away from the ideal. In essence, it’s evolution through a philosophical mirror.

  What bugs me most about the Buddhist idea is the transience of consciousness. If you were a lousy person, you’ll be reincarnated as a butterfly, but you’re not an angsty, guilt-ridden butterfly who feels bad for living lousily, you’re just a butterfly; there’s absolutely no motivation to make right on your next attempt, and hell, no awareness that it is your next attempt. You could, potentially, live out a billion existences without ever being aware that you weren’t making progress.

  Now, the Mormon idea is different- some might say less pleasant- and certainly it’s less complicated. Their perfection, or Heaven, as they’d have it, is divided into three separate kingdoms. There’s the celestial and terrestrial, but they’re reserved for participants only; when it came to