Divinton's retribution

The sunset clouds are not just reserved for dusk time. The skies are bathed in a deep yellow hue, that disproportanetly skews the landscape into a hellscape like no other. Coughing and wheezing of the old and new can be heard within earshot. No physician can truly know the long-term repercussions of living in this environment. By the time a body meets the coroner, they select one cause of death to list on the certificate anyway. 

This is Divinton, a city that once had many of the positive superlatives you can find in the dictionary. But now it is a chimera of ills too horrendous to be describable. The last three generations have found themselves acquiescing to conditions borderline subhuman. Very few of the thousands who begrudgingly call this place home have lived experience of it at its height. And those that do quickly pass on, taking their tales to the grave. Men and women resonated with the last aspects of joy they could savor individually. 

Frederick Michaels, Orson Michaels's grandfather, was no such man. A writer and architectural designer spoke profusely about the city he once grew up. A place where no one had to sacrifice their morals for money. A place where the skyscrapers weren’t just indicators of professional achievements, but roadmaps on how to be successful in an upright way. Values such as these and many more were passed to Orson from his grandfather. Beautiful tales of his childhood wrapped in a gift given to his own descendants. Not as mere nocturnal stories to tell the young. But to imbue the physically and spiritually youthful with the understanding of what was lost and can be regained. 

These ideas governed Orson’s mind from childhood to adolescence. Now he is in young adulthood. Entrenched in the world his grandfather longed to return to, but physically in a landscape wreaking havoc on him and his loved ones. Orson’s mind goes astray to all of this as he obtains his haircut. A twenty-nine dollar penalty to look decent, twenty-nine dollars he doesn’t have. He returns to the here and now every time his barber coughs. 

Bloodcurdling exhalations of the lungs make a listener's chest twist like a staircase. Orson’s eyes were fixated on the outside. No discussion was needed between the two men, no talk of the newest get-rich-quick scheme, or celebrity gossip. There were periods like those where examinations of the means to escape this situation, could no longer suffice and inspire hope. 

Orson returned home to a house empty of the values of a home. Poverty had clipped the wings of the love birds that were his parents. All three stayed awake late, sometimes every night sometimes every other night. Thinking about how exactly the other two ended up in the predicament they were currently in. Or in translation of the mind of the dysfunctional “Who is to blame for my suffering?” 

Tonight was no different; Orson’s coughs lulled him to sleep. The abrupt movements to croak out an exhale became more rhythmic. He entered a trance within less than an hour. A much-needed rest for a week of havoc. 

What was supposed to be a long drawn-out sleep eroded in what felt like mere seconds. The sun was breaking through the lopsided window of the younger Michaels’ Room. A phenomenon that never occurred. He asked himself why was the sun out. He ran out of his home, only to meet a pair of armed guards outside. Reassuring them of his safety he ran to the street. Staring in the sky directly above to the amazement of passers-by. 

He looked around trying to find symbols of a changed world. There wasn’t garbage piling on the streets, no jagged sidewalks that it would sit upon. Trees blossomed and grew into strong handsome displays of Mother Nature’s prowess. Running around aimlessly not only confused his attendants, but began to make them feel existsential dread. Perhaps he was more sick than they realized

With a respectful yet bewildered disposition, his guards all had informed him, that he was slated to engage in a dialogue with the young not of his generation but the next one. Children essentially grow into the understanding of the knowledge of how the world truly functions. All this understanding before they were prepared to handle it. The minds of the youth were indoctrinated not by the lesson plans of teachers out of touch. But by the lived experience they and their family endured. 

Orson began to reflect on what he would tell them. He has some experience working with young school-age children in the summer but felt he was ill-equipped to authenticate deep concepts to young listeners. He pondered these ideas as he went about his routine to get ready. Perhaps in his zeal at seeing the sun dance in the sky, he never checked the landscape of his room. A new cabinet where his clothes were located. And in his closet hung several black jackets, boots, satchels, pouches, and bullet-proof vests. 

Orson now was mortified. Who was he, he asked himself. Was he some sort of militant revolutionary? Why would he need a bulletproof vest of all things? All these questions dampened the moment he was in. What was once joy and exuberance was flooded with a set of fears as to what had transpired. This moment didn’t feel real but at some points felt too true to be taken for granted. 

Orson’s daze continued as he and his attendants made their way to the bookstore for his talk. A plethora of people cross all the racial groups imaginable. Men stood firmly in attention desperately pushing their sons forward to get a handshake. Women reached out, one grabbing Michaels's hand and kissing it. The young Orson no longer felt as though he was a militant. He felt like a cult leader. The power and influence these people showed had seemed gaudy. Some could argue it looked perverted and carnally sexually in nature. 

He couldn’t resonate in this in good faith. His grandfather’s words seemed to ring in his ear like a town bell. “That power can be a disease that corrupts all, none are immune to its symptoms. Not even you or me.” As Orson walked firmly to the podium, the cheers continued to play out with the adulation became more fervent. The attendants began to usher the listeners to be more subdued and quiet, so the event could continue. In all honesty, the young man hoped it would continue. He needed to channel something from his experiences and concoct an idea from the setting of this bookstore to reward the people. Not for their antics, but for coming out to see him. 

He scoured the shelves for some semblance of inspiration. And the word “forgotten” spilled into his mind. He had no paper, he had no plan. Orson would just allow his emotions to take the wheel and drive his point home. 

“There are a lot of forgotten people hear today. The word forgotten transcends race, religion, gender, or any form of orientation. No longer are we going to allow that forgetfulness to continue.” The crowd began to roar in agreement giving Orson the consent to continue. “An honest decent man once told me that Divinton needs to be a place, where the success of the uprighteousness is the only form of success we care about. We need a place where the values we profess to our children are evident in the world they come up in. Those values of decency, order, kindness, and equal respect for all people. And to the children…” 

Orson’s gaze met a little girl sitting on her mother’s lap in the audience. Her toothless smile reminded him of all that is true and worth fighting for. She fueled him to play the part that he felt he was cast in and yet felt so perfectly represented him. He continued with the utmost confidence behind him. 

“And to the children, we will not abandon you in this fight for the soul of this city. This generation will not be the one to quit the fight and leave it in the hands of the young, zealous, and underprepared. We will be with you no matter the conflict. No matter where it may go. 

Suddenly as Orson spoke a loud bang was heard. The sound of metal clanging against an equally hard surface filled the airwaves. Orson’s blink in surprise and fear transported him. His eyes bolted open. Rushedly scanning his room. He saw a lopsided window and looked outside of it. The sky was a yellow hue, reminiscent of all the days of his life.

Orson realized the painful reality. It was all a dream. There never was a revolutionary. He checked his closets, and there were no black jackets. No bulletproof vests to adorn them. No combat boots to walk the battles of life. Just typical clothes. He ran downstairs to the sight of a dented pot on the floor of his kitchen. Orson’s mother crying at the dining room table. Walking up to her, their eyes met hers filled with tears and his reddened with dreams he wished were reality. She uttered an apology for the commotion. And told him that his father wanted to divorce her. Orson immediately held her firmly in an embrace as she wept. He shed a few tears as well. Not only for her but for the man in his dreams he wishes he could be.