An Olive Branch from Far, Far Away

Colonel Paul Tibbets flew over the coast of Japan towards the city of Hiroshima.  The top secret plan, as detailed by his superior officer was to bring the nation of Japan to its knees with this new, super-weapon.   The discussion of the weapon had been kept on a need-to-know basis by the Pentagon.  Only the President and a select few were aware of the bomb and the destructive power that it possessed. 

The 9,700 pound bomb was said to have an explosive power of 18 kilotons of dynamite.  Colonel Paul Tibbets did not understand the magnitude of 18 kilotons of dynamite until it was translated to him into laymen’s terms.  His commander quantified it to him:  the 9,700 pound bomb contained the capacity of 36 million pounds of dynamite.  Explained in these terms, the true destructive force of the bomb was comprehended.

On the ominous journey off the coast of Japan towards the city of Hiroshima a sense of nervousness and awe was felt by all.  More top secret than the bomb itself was the source of the super-weapon.  Outside a few privileged power positions including General Eisenhower, President Truman, the Secretary of State, and the Secretary of Defense, nobody was aware of the true source of the bomb.  The official account of the bomb’s source was that it had been created by a highly educated team of American scientists, mostly refugees from Europe.  However, the truth, which was maintained as a secret for many years to come, was that it was, in actuality a product of Alien technology.

The pilot and crew of the American B-29 bomber had considered themselves to be among the honored elite just to be aware of the bomb.  Yet, they were unaware of the sheer magnitude of the destructive capability that the bomb maintained, and, thus the responsibility entrusted to them.  They, along with their commanders, were unaware of the Alien technology and, moreover, were told that the bomb had not been tested.  They were simply told that it was a super-weapon and that they could not fathom the magnitude of its destructive potential. 

During the unnerving flight somebody was sure to ask and the co-pilot did.  “Do you think this will work?”  He probed reflecting his own anxiety. 

Another one of the crew answered, “They say the one bomb could blow-up the whole city.  How is that possible?  We’ve been bombing mainland Japan for over a year now.  What difference is one bomb going to make?”

They continued their flight over the shoreline of Japan.  They crossed into mainland Japan’s airspace.  They were not worried about Japanese fighter planes taking aim; the Japanese air-force had been all but decimated.  They now knew it was the time.  They opened the hatch and dropped the bomb.  It floated down to the city on a parachute and at approximately 8:15 in the morning on August 6, 1945, when it was about a mile over the city, the first atomic bomb exploded.  The American B-29 Bomber was over 10 miles away when the explosion was set off.  Although they had been told, they could not grasp the shear force of the explosion that took place.  As they were flying away they were horrified of the mushroom cloud that formed.

One of the crew of the Bomber exclaimed, more out of personal fear then from joy that the war would now soon end.  He said, with a trembling voice, “It really did blow up the whole city.  They said it would and it did.”  It was with his realization that the dropping of this bomb represented the beginning of the nuclear age.

“What if they get one too?” He asked his other crew members.  “A few of those could destroy New York City.”

“We’re the only ones that have one?  Aren’t we?”  Another asked.

The discussion on the plane as it flew away from mainland Japan was not ecstatic, instead it was consumed on the massive destructive capability of our own making.  The sentiment in the plane centered on that same proposition. 

“What if they get one?  What if everybody gets one?  Where is it going to stop?  It could be the end of everything.”

Another one of the crew members remarked, “Is that explosion ever going to end?”  

They were all unaware, as were the President and the Pentagon that the destructive power which was released from the bomb was from a mere 960 mg. of mass transformed to energy.  Thus, the power of the bomb, equivalent to 36 million pounds of dynamite was approximately contained within the dimensions of the top of a clothes pin.  Later it was discovered that over 100,000 people died in Hiroshima as a result of that one bomb.

The President and a few trusted advisers were the only one’s aware of the super-weapon’s true origination.  From the early years of the Roosevelt administration, unbeknownst to not only most of the country but to most in the higher levels of United States government, secret negotiations had been in the process between the United States and “The Aliens” as they were known for lack of a better name. 

“The Aliens” were from a nearby solar system which was only a few hundred thousand light-years away.  However, their place of origin was not relevant in this precarious time in the history of man.  What was relevant was what they had to offer the United States and the Earth. 

“The Aliens” had been secretly negotiating with the United States for more than 10 years.  However, empowering the United States was not all that they were doing here on Earth; they also had their own itinerary.  As a highly advanced civilization that had achieved peace and prosperity on their own planet and had recognized it was now time to bring a higher level of existence to the people of Earth.  Thus, they delivered the United States the A-Bomb knowing it would end the war and knowing that it would secure democracy in the world in years to come.

On September 15, 1933 “the Aliens” made themselves known to the President of the United States.  They did not do so with a grand announcement to the people of the Earth, but by a closely situated ambassador sent to the White House as a result of previous, clandestine negotiation. 

“The Aliens” brought with them the promise of peace and a wish for a liberating future for the entirety of the planet.  They systematically were to help, through negotiations with the United States, in the freeing of the planet in the course of the next 100 years.  The technology which brought them here through a perilous journey through space was not a result of the attainment of light-speed or the use of a warm-whole; rather, it was from a highly-coordinated bending of space which enabled a spacecraft to travel the distance that amounted to light-years in seconds.  However, they had no intention of sharing this technology with the United States.  Yet, in addition to the atomic bomb, they had other technology which they were willing to share.  Most notably, later in the century, technologies such as super-computing and the technology for the first primitive rockets that brought man to the moon were gifts by “The Aliens.”  However, their goal at this point in time was simply to end the war and secure victory for the Allies, and thus, the eventual freedom of democracy to the world.

“The Aliens” not only guided the United States and Allies to victory in World War II, but they also supervised the Cold War and eventual downfall of the Soviet Union which led to democracy to Eastern Europe.  They also oversaw the complicated road to freedom in East Asia. 

Today, in the year 2025, the world is all but at peace.  Democracy has been brought to the greater part of the Earth.  Moreover, in the next 10 or 15 years these other areas too will be liberated.  With the freedom of democracy also comes the benefit of an affluent society.  “The Aliens” concluded that they would oversee the final democratic victory in the world and then return to their own solar system.  It was not to build and empire that they came here, it was to welcome freedom, democracy, and prosperity to the world.  When they finally leave, few will know that they were ever here.

A NIght at the Bar

     * previously published on Yahoo Contributor

Michael walked into the bar.  It was a small dive bar on the side of the road frequented by working people, mostly in their thirties.  There were several tables, but he picked a seat at the bar, choosing a seat without consequence to who he was near.  He placed a twenty dollar bill in front of him and as the barmaid flashed him a smile he ordered a bottle of Budweiser.

He noticed the barmaid whispering something to a small group of female patrons and they all looked into his direction.

He had never been to this bar, but it was similar to others that he had visited.  There was a jukebox across the room playing a selection of hip-hop.  It was not his music of choice so he got up and put five dollars’ worth of his own assortment.

As he walked up to the jukebox, he noticed a couple of the other female patrons cast their eyes upon him.  The jukebox had a fine collection of country music and he sorted through to find a grouping of Garth Brooks, George Strait, and Alan Jackson as well as a few of his more pop orientated favorites.

He made his way back to the bar, lit a cigarette, and took a swig of his beer.

He had never been to this bar before and he did not recognize any of the patrons, but he was quick to start up a conversation with the guy sitting next to him at the bar. 

His drinking acquaintance took a swig of his beer and pointed to the small group of women who had been gazing at Michael as he had walked in. 

His drinking cohort asked rhetorically, “Do you see that tall red-head over there?  I’ve been coming into this bar for over six months now and I can’t even get her to talk to me.”

Michael shrugged it off as inconsequential.  He knew that this bar wasn’t a place to pick up women even in consideration of the beauty of the tall red-head across the room.  This was mostly a place to sit down and have a few beers outside of the confines of his apartment.  Solitary drinking can be very depressing which is why Michael often frequented small establishments such as this.

Without so much as casual eye contact, the attractive red-head got up off her seat and walked up to Michael.  She was tall, but not too tall.  She was very alluring with sultry green as and all of the other assets which draw a man to a woman.  Michael had not been planning for a date or for any romantic involvement when he had walked into the bar, but she walked up to him and without a word of foreplay asked him to dance.

 An Alan Jackson song which he had chosen was now playing on the jukebox and they danced the Texas Two Step to the song A Song for the Life.

The inconsequential meeting between the two led to nowhere.  Their discussion was trivial at best and as they held each other close, he shared no interest in her other than shear attraction.

Through their discussion Michael discovered that her name was Rhonda and that she was a secretary in a local law firm.  Her mundane banter highlighted her lack of education which was more than apparent.  However, she was very beautiful and he thought it might be wise to ignore that fact and let the night lead were it may.

She invited herself over to share a drink with him.  It was a casual request.  As their conversation continued he was at odds with  himself over where he might want this night to lead.  She had a thick accent of guttural English.

"I'll have a long island ice-tea," she announced to the bartender as they sat down.  It was her understanding that it was a lavish drink reserved for the extravagantly wealthy.

The conversation bit against his nerves.  He vowed that he would find an exit to the trite and somewhat painful conversation.

Finally, after more than an hour of conversation with each other, he made his exit.  Relatively sober, he told her that he had to be to work early in the morning and that he would see her again.  He asked her for her phone number and made his departure.

Upon leaving, he made a pledge to himself that he would never visit that bar again.

A Moment of Inspiration

* previously published on Foliate Oak Magazine

The evening news played on the television in the midst of his drunken fog.  He had gotten off work at 5 o’clock from a dead-end job flipping hamburgers at the local grill.  Just like any other night he stopped by the liquor store on the way home and bought a 12-pack of cold beer.


“Doesn’t really matter what I watch,” he thought to himself when he got home to his apartment.  

“All the same anyway.”  The news featured a story on the Libyan conflict as it was called now.  

Apparently Kaddafi operatives were planning a terrorist attack on Times Square in New York City coinciding with Super Bowl Sunday.  He took another gulp of beer. 

In an inebriated haze he lit up a cigarette.   “Not much on TV,” he thought so he changed the channel.  It was a remarkable invention cable TV.  He had a host of 15 movie channels to choose from for a movie, or he could watch a sit-com on one of the network channels.  What he really wanted to find was a new action-adventure movie that he hadn't seen yet.  It was hard to mix self-pity, a 12-pack of beer, and an action-adventure movie, but he would try.

“Here it is,” he thought to himself.  

It was an old Clint Eastwood movie that he had never seen.  He could remember his friends talking about it way back in high school when he still had friends.  

“It was one of those, what do you call it, spaghetti westerns.”  He had always preferred Clint Eastwood’s cop movies but between a 12-pack of beer and himself this would be good enough.

It had been a typical day at work.  He had woken up around eight in the morning with an unenviable hangover.  He drove to the local mini-mart and picked up an egg and bacon sandwich.  Along with a couple of cups of coffee it got him out of bed and ready for a new day.

He had been drinking all night the night before, but it hadn’t been an action-adventure movie night.  Instead, he had chosen a deep and suspenseful drama in an attempt to spur his interest.  He was remembering back to high school; it didn’t seem like too long ago.  He had a seemingly limitless number of friends.  Every night of the week back then he was drinking with his friends.  Now it was an endless stream of an alcoholic solace shared with nobody but himself.  He didn’t do too well in high school but that didn’t matter because he was having fun and he had a lot of friends.

Here he was.  He was a 32 year-old unmarried bum with no kids.  He kept thinking he might try again at submitting an application to a bank teller jobs.  He had tried a couple years back but they had insisted that he would need at least a high school degree and most likely a college degree.  So now, he was a 32 year-old man flipping burgers all day at the local grill without any other prospects.

Yesterday wasn’t special either.  He got to work at about 9 a.m. in the morning.  He preferred the breakfast shift to the lunch and early dinner shifts. Working the breakfast shift he didn’t have to sweat over hot, greasy cheeseburgers in the sweltering summer heat.  Instead he was able to hang around all day supervising as he was the head cook in charge of the breakfast help.  He had somebody else cutting the potatoes for the hash browns and he was able to serve more as a manager than a cook.  It certainly paid a lot more than cutting up potatoes.  When he had started here more than ten years ago he had been an unemployed high school drop-out in dire need of an income.  His father and his mother had insisted that he find work.  Soon after securing the job at the grille he was able to move out on his own and get his own car and his own apartment.  His parents always told him throughout high school that he would not be able to live with them forever so he had guessed that it was time to start living his life on his own.  Besides, he had just broken up with his girlfriend at the time and he had once heard somebody say that such a situation called for a fresh start.  He had been working at the grille since.  Incidentally, he thought to himself, he had not had a girlfriend since.

He had arrived at work the day before at about 9 o’clock.  The waitresses from the night shift were just going home and the waitresses from the day shift were just showing up.  They didn’t pay him much notice, but it beat staying at home all day alone in front of the television. 

He usually was not in the smiley mood and this morning was not an exception.   He hated getting up early every day hung over and ill-prepared for a new day but he knew nothing else.  They greeted each other like they did every morning, but to him it was just going through the motions.  One of the waitresses who worked the early morning shift gave him a half-hearted smile that was more like a grimace. 

He got home earlier today.  Yesterday’s obsession with a crime drama on TV was replaced by the comfort and solace of beer for some other venue of entertainment.   It was a small one-room, studio apartment but it was in the neighborhood where he had grown up.  The Clint Eastwood movie was on television.  He took another chug of beer.

The desert-feel of the movie did not agree with his now inebriated haze so he decided to change the channel.  

"Remote controls were cool," he thought to himself.  

He couldn’t find anything that he wanted to watch but he kept trying.  He finally settled on a station.  It was the music channel.  He never really considered himself a music-lover.  There had been dance parties when he was in high school but other than that he never paid much attention to music.  He had always figured that a good beat and a party atmosphere were the only purpose that it served.

He listened and watched anyway.  No reason in particular, it just caught his attention.  It was a singer that he had noticed people talking about lately.  That is not what made him stop and see what it was.  Instead it was only a vague feeling that it merited his attention.

The lyrics were striking, not that he had ever listened closely to the lyrics of songs.  The singer sang a line about the hope that can be found from leaving the bottle and searching for a fulfilling life.  For a second he almost threw the remote control across the room in protest of a sort of vindictiveness that he almost felt was directed specifically in his direction. 

The song played on.  

“What was the worth of a song,” he thought to himself.  

Yet, it engaged him.  

The chorus played on, “Just when it’s at its worst, then is when you open your eyes.  Just when it’s at its worst, then is when you know they’re right.”  

It had a mellow sounding melody playing along with the lyrics and guitar riffs that soothed his soul.

He changed the channel and the news was on again.  There had been a recall of all the ground beef produced in the central valley of California.  He switched the channel.  A loud laugh track highlighted the puns and trite misunderstandings of an old Three’s Company episode.  He changed the channel.  

The song on the music channel was just ending.  “Just when it’s at its worst, all you have is to start trying.” 

He did not know why, but he had to fight off tears from entering his eyes.  One trickled down his cheek.  He finished his beer and passed out devoid of hope and inspiration for the day to come.