I’m walking in the dark filtered night. There’s a big moon out there somewhere, hanging low in the sky. I can’t see it, though I feel it behind a low gray veil of stratus clouds. Christmas decorations shine from neighborhood windows. Distant farmhouse lights, across the valley, twinkle through bare winter woods. I walk along a thinly paved lane, one I never tread before. This rural land is a mosaic of rich farm fields, hedgerows, and woodlots, all draped over a high rolling plateau. When I pause, the squishy sounds of my spongy, synthetic soles stop. The silence is erie, punctuated by a light, cool breeze that saunters along whispering above my jacket collar. In the background there’s a nearly imperceptible hum of crickets, and occasionally the distant groan of a solitary truck on an unknown highway. The woods on my left give way to open fields traced by modest power lines. Open exposed road on both sides now. This land is tame and settled. It could be vicious I’m sure, when wicked wind precedes a winter storm. Locals say that fury is marching into memory. A barn, tastefully lit, displays a Christmas wreath. Its bow, and candles in the window, are symbols of goodwill. The road turns left on a grid but I take the lesser track to the right, still paved but hemmed in with trees. The horizon to the east glows from the lights of Freeville and possibly with the first leading edge of Dawn.

A friend asked me if I might try writing long form fiction. I feel the idea pulling on me but its an unknown path. I’d need some guidance. I desire a mentor, even as my wandering mind probes the first steps of that journey. I should sign up for an online writing class. But my impatient mind begins to turn over stones. I examine each angled facet, their smooth faces. These characters do not have names yet.

What’s in a name? I recall my botany professor, “botanical nomenclature may be descriptive, place-based, or commemorative.” The first are practical but I believe the latter more suited to a literary purpose. So many writers have gone before me, I must acknowledge their wisdom and experience. My protagonist, a zygote in the realm of ideas, takes form. I try names out loud in the predawn air, exploring the associations and implications. Adam… Joe… Samuel? Was it Samuel the wise? Probably not, but he had deep conviction, and courage. There’s Biblical implications for sure, Hannah’s boy. I don’t know that reference yet. Then the beer of course, Samuel Adams. And the agitator, deftly played by Paul Giamatti on the HBO miniseries. No, that’s John Adams, but what a masterful performance!

My insecure ego tells me I don’t know how to write a story but my wandering mind knows better. Laying in bed, earlier this morning, my anxious half-woke brain wrote a tragedy. I want to alter that trajectory, the story that ends in loneliness, despair, and death. The cold moon gently pulls back the covers, like a worried lover waking me from a bad dream. She calls me outside into her dark wake. Instead of laying in bed, wallowing in my fears, I walk the road to change the story. A small unseen mammal scurries among the weeds in the ditch as I pass by. I walk to sooth my eager mind. On the horizon, the distant blinking lights of a radio tower is a beacon, calling me forward into the valley below. This dawn holds the potential for drama, for comedy, for criticism and romance. Perhaps there’s room for a bit of tragedy too. If so, I hope its passing, empowering, that it’s not at the end. The power-line overhead crosses the road nearly within my reach. Coyotes scurry at my foot fall. The sound of the highway comes closer.

And so our story begins. It’s like a tree among the gray shades of late autumn. It stands in a shrinking patchwork of cornfields, left alone by random regulations. The straight trunk of this mature elm shoots skyward before it forks. The dendritic structure spreads overhead, first vase like, then becoming a fountain of growth. The crown forms a wide arc of tiny twigs, each pointing to the light. Every branch a plot line. Each bud a potential outcome. As we leave this predawn landscape one thing is certain. Any of these buds may open; but I don’t know to which one we are bound. The eastern skyline glows brightly now. And in this dim, diffuse light, even a puddle’s muddy reflection is magical.

Part 1

Samuel must be middle-aged by now. His efforts at self improvement begin to pay off. Meditation eases his rigid need for control. In the garden, his formal boxy hedgerow became a loose border of shrubs and perennial wildflowers. His belly still protrudes beyond his buckle, but he’s drinking less. He keeps it under control. There were irresponsible periods of his youth, as with many of us, when he drank excessively. He wouldn’t continue those habits into adulthood. He wouldn’t allow the pleasure, the abandon, to interrupt his steady path. Samuel has a plan. That’s why he works in IT.
“It’s not programming mother.” Samuel points this out to her at graduation.
“Well, if your father was here he would be so proud of you.” she responds redundantly. Samuel had recently acquired a job in a small private college outside Greensboro. He does hardware: switches, routers, cables, innumerable piles of metal boxes. Assembled correctly they perform miracles. Occasionally they cast seeds of destruction in this experimental artifact we call society.
In junior high, Sam was the boy teachers wanted when the projector malfunctioned. Every week, the loud speaker barked, “Samuel Berry, please report to the art room..crackle…Ms Smith needs help with her light box.” The students giggled, bouncing in their hard plastic seats.
Samuel liked hardware because it’s physical, concrete. He could swap out a motherboard in minutes. Software, he thought, was too trendy, ephemeral, and code especially bothered him. The idea that a keystroke, a virtual string of text on a microchip in Virginia, could shutdown a pipeline from the Gulf, that made him uneasy.

This note may be awkward. Samuel does not know God. In his universe, God has also aged. Matured. No longer the hovering, helicopter parent of the old testament, God grows wise and patient. The angry, narcissistic tinkering has given way to a longer view. In the dawn of a new millennia the human project appears off track, and accelerating. In Samuel’s story we shall take a closer, contrarian look. A shift is happening slowly, imperceptibly. Like starch turning to sugar in a long buried mullein seed, a recent upheaval cast it to the light.
Look at gender for example. Even God thought it might never change. “Our Father who art in heaven.” or “He gave His only Son.” Those antiquated ideas would have to go before the turning begins, but how? People are so fixed, so rigidly set in their ways. Blurring biological sex was easy. God practiced with Arum flowers and its clever inflorescence. Frogs were a little bit harder. Altering gender is even more complex but our patient God persists. When They planted the idea with humans the process got messy. The grownups were upset. As with any of the great accomplishments in human history: rock music, chocolate, even housing, if you can get the youth on board, that’s all you need. The others will perish in time.

Samuel likes to drink on Sunday morning. That time belongs to him. He won’t be called by his employer. No one will knock at his door. And no one will judge him. He sits in a cozy armchair in the parlor, sipping beer and looking out the window to the yard. Viburnum buds swell under the busy feeder. He studies his garden, the manicured azalea species setting bud for next spring. Across the soggy lawn, and above the cracks in the pavement, he sees his neighbors house. Muted shadows move behind muslin curtains; Ms Bloom packs a casserole in preparation for Sunday fellowship.
Samuel isn’t lonely or sad, he’s content. Perhaps he’s a little bored but he’s comfortable. Don’t pity this man. God doesn’t manage the minor details of his life. They don’t fret or worry, and neither should you. Samuel drinks on Sunday morning because he can, that’s all. He likes the way it feels, the bitter bubbly substance confronts his tongue and tickles his gut going down. He likes the way his muscles relax and his arms drape on the chair. He likes the way it loosens his mind, allows him to daydream. He imagines Miss Bloom after church, enjoying the attention of a handsome retiree. An affluent man invites her to pickle-ball, or perhaps a history lecture about the forgotten lessons of the industrial revolution.
Samuel returns from his daydream as the cat brushes against his leg. “I just fed you an hour ago.” There’s more rubbing. “Oh, okay, just a little kibble I suppose.” He rises from the chair, a little lightheaded. Crossing the rustic pine floor, onto the linoleum tiles of the kitchen, he grabs a handful of Friskies from the jar in the cupboard. He enjoys the melodious chime as each piece drops onto the porcelain plate. His cat, Mr. Grover rushes in.
Samuel goes to the fridge for his third and final beer. He checks the expiration date on the mustard as he reaches around. The fridge is not empty but sparse, with a few condiments and staples: dairy, apples, eggs, lettuce. The top shelf is clear. Later that day he’ll place five tupperware containers with the week’s lunches. Turkey sandwiches, three bean salad, and a pickle wedge. It’s efficient, providing more time to watch comedy programs or tend his garden.
Samuel opens the bottle, takes a swig, and walks back to his chair. As he sits and looks out, he notices Ms Bloom. She’s dressed for church but frantically searching the ground beside her car. Her basket sits atop the sedan. She darts quickly into the house for a minute, then rushes back out. She tries the car doors but they are locked. The look on her face brings a dull pain to Samuel’s stomach. A frown spreads down from the corners of his pursed lips.
He checks the clock, 9:45. She’s usually gone by now. He’s been waiting for her to leave so he can go get the newspaper. His desire to help complements his sense of obligation. It overrides his social fear. He downs his beer, goes out to the porch and follows the stepping stones to the street. Across the road he greets Ms Bloom.
“Oh Sam, I don’t know what to do,” she frets. “I’m locked out and the church service starts in 25 minutes!” He scans the interior of the car for keys: ignition, seat, floorboard. No keys. He checks the trunk latch. Ms Bloom chatters on nervously, “I made corn pudding that to go in the oven during the service. Alicia Worthy gave the recipe and I wanted to show her how much I…”
Sam has tuned her out. He is following her path to the side door. “You have to retrace your steps,” he says. “What did you do when you got home yesterday?” They enter the side door and go through a mud room to the kitchen. Ms Bloom recounts her trip to the Fresh Mart. Samuel is scanning the windowsills, where spider plants and begonia cuttings sit in mason jars and cut crystal glasses of water. He crosses a threadbare Persian rug. A coffee table is covered with travel magazines. A self-help book declares Embrace your shortcomings to overcome trauma. In the dining room alcove, a jade plant lounges luxuriantly among an amethyst shrine. But no keys.
The beer Samuel drank is passing through him, bringing pressure to his groin. “May I use your bathroom, Ms B?”
“Of course,” She replies. “Use the one in the back.”
He lifts the seat, relieves himself, and scans the vanity. A full bottle of Adderall sits beside an empty mimosa tincture. Samuel shakes the last drops, flushes, and closes the toilet lid. Turning to wash his hands, he glances out the window. On the sill sits a wild yam salve, and a set of keys. They’re on a large brass ring like jailers use in an old slap-stick comedy. “I think I found them Ms B,” he shouts as he exits the bathroom.
“Oh Sam, thank God. And thank you. I can still make it in time for Pastor Brownfield’s sermon. What can I do to show my gratitude. I know, there’s a dish of corn pudding in the fridge.” She goes to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and hesitates as she’s reaching in. Another thought took hold. “Sam dear,” she queried with a pregnant pause. “Will you come with me, to church? It would be good to get out and meet some people. I mean, besides the tech boys at work.” she added.
Samuel felt his stomach clench. “Uh, no mam. That wont be necessary. I…um. I mean, you don’t have to do anything for me.”
He knew she wanted to help. Sometimes she brought him herbal remedies. She introduced him to a lady from yoga class. Samuel was content with his simple life. He did not know it was dull, had nothing to compare it to. He felt desire, for pretty women in the grocery. He enjoyed the caring touch of his dental hygienist. But the idea of dating was so uncomfortable, so daunting, that he quickly detached from those feelings. He clung to the comfort and safety of predictable days at home. “I’m sorry Ms B. I cant. I need to prune my blueberries today. There’s a big project starting at work and they want it finished by the holidays.”
“Oh nonsense, Sam. You know it’s high time to shine. Work will take everything they can from you. I want to introduce you to our new outreach director, she just moved to town.” She thought Samuel was stuck, always clinging to habit. She did a tarot reading for him last summer, it said a woman would pry him from his routine. He was going to dig in his heels so she doubled down. “You know those berries are fine ‘till spring. Remember that conference you went to? Macro-processor what was it? You asked me to water the seedlings in the sun-room. Even offered to pay me, that was the silliest thing. Well this is how you can pay me back Samuel. Come to church and break bread with me. Please Sam.”
His eyes were wide open, panicked, like cornered prey. He did not want to go but felt obligated, not wanting to appear ungrateful. He looked at the amethyst alter. A bundle of dried herbs lay in the center, tied together, and bound tight with rough cord. One end was charred black with use. Sam did not want to get burnt. But he had a buzz from the alcohol. Detached from his distant body, he heard himself saying, “What would I wear?”
“You look fine” she lied. “Here put on this sport coat.” Ms Bloom fetched her late husband’s charcoal wool dress coat from the closet. It fit. “There. You look handsome.” With his light stubble, and a tee shirt under the jacket, he looked surprisingly hip, for a computer geek.

“What the hell are you doing here?
Samuel chokes on his coffee. “Pardon me?”
“You don’t belong here, whats your excuse?” The girl said again. She sits cross legged on the floor back against the wall in the long, bright commercial kitchen. At the other end of the room, two elderly church ladies are chatting. They peel plastic wrap from plates of deviled eggs and reheat casseroles before setting them out, buffet style, on the counter window that opens to the dining room.
The girl’s hands are preoccupied with a mirror, and the makeup she dabs in thick black bands around her eyes. Then she unfurls her long gangly adolescent legs, shifts her weight forward, and without using her hands, she slowly, effortlessly stands up. A tall waif, like a wading bird in Halloween garb. She’s decorated in silver chains and studs, pinned to a black wool sweater above a prim white petticoat. Her jet black hair is a tangle of sticks, held high like an osprey nest in a dead snag, overlooking the river. Her dark blue combat boots shed little clumps of dried clay on the linoleum floor. As she takes a step toward Samuel, she silently raises an eyebrow at him.
Across the room, one of the elderly ladies shoots a disapproving glance, rolls her eyes, and begins to arrange condiments beside the white sliced bread. Samuel gulps. He adds another spoonful of powdered non-dairy creamer to his coffee and stirs it nervously. “Um, what do you mean I don’t belong here?”
The girl responds mockingly, “Um…your pricey running shoes, a polyester t-shirt… jeez, your nails are perfect, clean and filed. You’re in IT, aren’t you?’ He looks at his shoes. “You are, I nailed it!” she says. “That’s not a good start for salvation, ya know.” She chuckles inaudibly to herself and snaps her mirror shut for effect, as if she had just struck the killing blow in a barrel shoot. “Beside you smell like beer. Whats up with that?”
“I am not a drunk!” he blurts unconsciously. “I only drink on…” He stops, realizing he is only making her case. “Well what about you? You don’t exactly fit in here.”
“Oh, touche. You noticed.” She tucks her mirror and eyeliner into a leather satchel, then slowly extracts a cheap chain necklace adorned with dangly charms, chrome skeletons and red enameled peppers. She connects the clasp, above a patch of downy blond hairs on the nape of her neck. Her icy blue eyes soften and she bites her lower lip. “Isn’t this lit. Do you like it?” she asks, looking Samuel in the eye, seeking connection for a brief moment. Then she looks away.
“I’m not here by choice.” She says. “My fam thinks I’m lost, but I’m just a reject of your oppressive capitalist system. It took my body, years ago, to suit your needs. Then it gathered all the genders, like coins dropped in a piggy bank. But I smashed it. And used the loot to buy a Monster. Now you’re colonizing youth itself. You’ve got your shimmery phones, your mind numbing modules. But you don’t have me, this birds flown the coop.” She makes a hand gesture like wings, turns and props the door to the sanctuary with a heavy boot, before looking back. “TTYL boomer,” she says, and enters the chapel.

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