HOW THE WORLD BECAME A BOMB

It's time to decide.

I want a baby…

It was either air or mud. I chose air.

Now she must choose.

Decades disintegrated to minutes and dissolved imperceptibly; tons of black powder were packed, a billion ball bearings gathered, and wires connected, a timer for each. Crude. Devastating, Replicated. Desolation ready and waiting, incendiary explosive devices concealed in schools, churches, board rooms, an army of smooth brains, polished by sly, silent, industrious hands, slumber, awaiting activation.

An agreed-upon long, forgotten standard neglected, mangled, lowered, and what it was like to be upright, spines now replaced by pliant minds. I barely recall that time.

I must have abandoned my post. That's all I can surmise. I must have. To let all this evil in. Asleep, I was Rumpelstiltskin in silk sheets. Distracted. Indifferent. I was all those things and terrified, too. My lamentations only for me, selfishly, and I failed, predictably, and from the depths of a pit of my own making, I gathered myself, the slow carnage too much, and I crawled, up, up, up, mud packing my mouth, synapses stirring. At the top, finally free from an underground dungeon, I aspirated unease and indolence and gulped air with my original lungs.

I am wide awake now, vigilant. My perch is elevated, my words reek of old iron, and my friends and compatriots lift me as I build my clan. They are my armor, devotion, love, and hope. I owe. I have debts to pay—feats to complete. My heart overflows, and I am naked, exposed, vibrating, and alive.

I share all of this, my transformation, with a friend.

Why would I bring life into this creation?

It’s a reasonable question, she asks, but our ticking world has tilted, and we are beyond practical concerns. We require unpolluted blood and kinship, and courage. There is no retreat. Be brave, I tell her. You are a goddess, a warrior in your soul. We need you, your spirit, your true heart, fervor—your savage strength. Your progeny will level immovable mountains and tame boiling skies. Believe it, I tell her. Teach it.

I do, I do, I want a child…

I gesture to the meek figure on the sofa, a hollow man, still pajama-clad, teeth unclean, vacant, lost in unsteady blue light, head bowed, praying to an artificial God. It is 1:48 PM, according to my impatient watch. But not with him. Never with him. I am close to her ear.

You’d only be lighting the fuse.