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When I was going-on-six we nearly blew up the railroad station. By my birthday, we’d managed it. I only know because it’s gone. The rest, including these scars, is fog in the attic. Back then we got explosives easier than rum. The ten-year-olds figured out how to render the volatile agent from unexploded land mines in boiling water and pack it into cakes they could ignite with an improvised fuse, knowledge I had to earn with heroics. That I remember like a verse. A stand of birch trees loomed like soldiers to our West. We chopped them down with submachine guns cleaner than chainsaws. The woods we defended were chunky with abandoned munitions. Once gathered and sorted, to keep them from rivals, we stowed them under floorboards in a shed outside barracks that were once a country church. We’d meet after school, grab arms, wrestle with their rusty actions, and hike down to the tracks. Grenades were for kids with all their fingers, but I had my own Uzi and a Colt sidearm nobody else wanted with plenty of bullets. If we’d been school shooters, the mothers would have wailed about who armed the killer instead of where he got his motivation. We played with the toys we were given. For the freight station exercise, the older boys set blast cakes beneath the stationmaster’s desk and laid a powder trail as a fuse. They wouldn’t let me see. Survivors say I took it badly, that I fired into the treetops, that something crashed through the branches, that it thudded onto the roof. They wouldn’t let me see. Next they say I threw my pistol to the ground, a round discharged, another thud. Again I demanded to see. But then the blast. Then here. Then now. Wherever whenever this is.

Original Copyright © February 13, 2007
Revised Copyright © February 07, 2026

Only three directions matter: Above, Deeper, and the slightly curved Goodness that extends forever in two dimensions neither Above nor Deeper. Above is the direction of peril but also of food. Deeper is oblivion and loss. Some have been retrieved from the Deep, but only as food. Goodness is home, the warm thin blanket between two extremes. As you know, our situation is cyclical and currently critical. We’ve let you measure our food stock, heft it, smell it, thump it for edibility. You know how much the group requires, so you know there’s not enough, not nearly. Sacrifices inevitably follow. Most of us will not survive, you yourself may not survive except as food, not even if we fast, find more, swallow slowly, waste none, lose nothing. We delay reproducing in such seasons of course. How would we raise an infant now? On regurgitant, surely, but regurgitated what? You’re too young to understand the seasons, but between Famine and Plenty, this is the time that tests our community. Take heart. We will not all perish, and that’s all the love we need in the Goodness. When forays Above produce too little, our soldiers take their chances pressing against the frontiers of the perilous unfamiliar to skirmish with dangerous prey. They don’t expect to be welcomed back should they present a threat. As much as we prize soldiers, we can’t afford to coddle individuals returning wounded, trailing scent, leading others to our tunnels. You’ve been trained to seal the entrances against such volunteers. Naturally, your body will resonate with their pleas, just as it vibrates in the presence of food, or rain, or a passage toward Above, but they would shake off your vibrations if you were the threat, because sacrifice is love, and because it points toward the Good.

Original Copyright © January 27, 2007
Revised Copyright © January 30, 2026

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Behind the Pseudonym

The pen name davidbdale honors my mother Beatrice (Bea) and my father Dale

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