January 1st, 2010
The streets hummed with the aftermath of the party. New Year’s Day had dawned, and the city was still shaking off its champagne-induced daze. As I steered my car toward the fire station, I couldn’t help but notice the bars, taverns, and restaurants packed with patrons. Their laughter and clinking glasses echoed through the frosty air, a testament to the night’s excesses.
My new workplace stood in stark contrast to the rowdy scenes outside. Forget grandiose structures—this was a modest, unassuming brick building. A single story, it nestled inconspicuously among its taller neighbors. The apparatus bay housed the fire trucks, their red exteriors gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Lockers lined one wall, each bearing the weight of seasoned firefighters’ gear.
Adjacent to the bay, two side rooms held secrets of their own. The first, a narrow space, served as our sleeping quarters. Rows of bunk beds stood like silent sentinels, their occupants catching precious rest between emergencies. The second room, tucked away discreetly, was our makeshift kitchen. Here, camaraderie brewed alongside coffee, and late-night meals were shared over stories.
But this place had a history—a past that clung to its walls like smoke residue. Once, it had been a grungy mechanic’s shop, grease-stained floors and all. The two side rooms? Mere offices back then, housing paperwork, and mundane tasks. Now, they bore witness to our lives—their transformation a testament to adaptability.
As I stepped into the station, my academy instructor’s voice echoed in my mind, “If you’re not thinking about the consequences; you’re not paying attention to the situation.” His words had been etched into our brains during training. Here in Eastside, they took on a new gravity. Firefighters swapped tales of danger—the kind that didn’t make headlines. Homemade security systems rigged with gasoline-filled balloons and tripwires—ingenious yet lethal.
Then there were the apartments—the shiny new ones rising like steel-and-glass sentinels. But my instructor had warned us: steel could warp, melt, twist, and lose its strength. These buildings, he said, would be semi-combustible—a paradoxical blend of safety and vulnerability.
But there was more to this place than architecture and fire drills. Claire, my girlfriend, had whispered about the Fire Department City of Empire’s unwritten code. Complaints—whether legitimate or false—rippled through our ranks. We were a brotherhood, a sisterhood, bound by duty and loyalty. Snitches? They were met with suspicion, like Aesop’s fabled boy who cried wolf. Trust was fragile, and secrets held the power to ignite more than just flames.
When the Company Captain posed the question, “Why do you want to be a firefighter?” I found myself reflecting on the selfless nature of the job. It’s about a group of individuals who band together to protect and serve people they’ve never met. This sense of duty was what drew me to the fire service, and it was also how I met Lusty. The closure of Squad Co 141 by the city led to a fire at the Riverview Rec Center, where Lusty and I crossed paths for the first time. The irony wasn’t lost on me when city hall claimed they weren’t ordered to respond because their company was shut down, while the community argued that the Rec Center would have stood if their Rescue Engine hadn’t been disbanded.
At the table, conversations often turned to the weather, particularly tornadoes. In Little Bird, tornadoes are a common occurrence, forming mostly from late winter to early summer. It’s said that tornadoes can happen anywhere on Earth, except for Antarctica. Despite this knowledge, I confessed to my colleagues that tornadoes instilled in me a mix of fear and respect. Having lived through numerous tornado outbreaks, including the ones on November 21–23, 1992, Palm Sunday in 1994, the Thanksgiving Weekend outbreak in 1994, the extensive sequence from May 5 27, 1995, the Selma, Alabama tornado on March 6, 1996, the outbreak of January 23-24, 1997, the April 6–9, 1998 outbreak, the December 16th, 2000 outbreak, and the November 14, 2006 outbreak, I’ve witnessed firsthand the devastating power of Mother Nature.
The conversation at the station turned to the tornado of July 5th, 1996—a day etched in the collective memory of Empire. The guys were debunking the old myths: opening windows to lessen tornado damage, the supposed safety of fleeing in a vehicle, and the urban legend that large cities are immune to tornado strikes. I chimed in, dispelling these misconceptions with the truth—they're just myths, nothing more. We all knew the reality; tornadoes in Empire were infrequent and intermittent, but not impossible.
Before I could voice my thoughts further, a seasoned member interjected with a tale from his rookie days in '76. His first call? A scene straight out of a movie—a first-generation fighter jet had crashed into an ice cream parlor. By some miracle, the timing was such that the parlor had just emptied, the children from a birthday party having left merely half an hour prior. The jet had torn through the spot where families would have enjoyed their desserts. Thankfully, the staff was unharmed, having been on the opposite side of the building.
Before I could say something he just said that it was one of those kinds of aircraft where the nose cannot be raised too quickly or it’ll cause the engine to stall and that what caused it to crash was that the pilot raised the nose too quickly and it caused the engine to stall and that’s what the Little Bird Aviation Committee came to the same conclusion of the engine stalling.
They talked about how commonly in Little Bird the months vary between January and February there’s a total of 83 tornados, from March to April it’s 269 tornadoes, May has the highest usually 270, June it’s 200, July and August it’s around 180, September to October it’s 112, and November and December it’s 93 but a few times it varies of it either being more or less. But I said that I’m from the region of the United States called Dixie Alley which is next to Tornado Alley in which in Dixie Alley it’s Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Georgia, Tennessee and Alabama.
They talked about how once on Little Bird the word Tornado was outdated for a while. The term “Hellcats” was once synonymous with the fury of tornadoes, a name that perhaps drew inspiration from the formidable American F6F Hellcat fighter aircraft. The moniker captured the raw power and unpredictability of these natural phenomena that swept through our town between 1943 and 1960.
As conversations often do, ours meandered to the subject of leisure and personal lives. I shared my fondness for spending time with my dad, my girlfriend, and the simple pleasure of shooting guns. Each of us had our own ways to unwind, our unique escapes from the demands of our profession.
My father’s story, however, was tinged with the somber hues of the 2007-08 financial crisis. It was a time that tested him, costing him his jobs and leaving him with few options but to seek refuge in the company of me. He owned a house, a structure he had managed to pay off just before the economic storm hit. Yet, it was more than bricks and mortar; it was a vessel of memories, some cherished, others painful. The house stood as a reminder of a marriage devoid of affection, a union that, despite its coldness, gave him the greatest gift—me.
Growing up, I was thrust into maturity far sooner than my peers. While they lived carefree and youthful, I navigated a world where my father worked tirelessly, and my mother’s presence was more of an absence. My childhood was a sacrifice, a price paid for the realities of life. Yet, it shaped me, and molded me into someone capable of facing life head-on, even as a teenager.
Our family history is rich with tales of dual citizenship, a legacy carried forward by my great-granduncles Clark and Bobby. They bore the ambition to serve in the military, to fight in Vietnam, but fate had other plans. Labeled as 4F, they were deemed unfit for service due to Bobby’s shaky hands and Clark’s hypertropia. Now, after forty-four years, I carry the torch of dual citizenship, labeled as 4C—an alien or dual national. It’s a stark contrast to the rest of my family, who have always been deemed 1A, ready and able for unrestricted military service.
“Has the Marine Naval Air Station ever been hit by Mother Nature before?” I asked.
That was somewhat of a topic that almost everyone knew where the first time it was back in the 1730s when it was destroyed by a lava flow then the volcano had been dormant for the past almost three hundred years and still is dormant. Then later in 1942 a bolt of lightning struck the ammo dump with another bolt of lightning striking a fuel silo where the fuel silos contained the fuel for the Little Bird Marine Corps, Third Marine Division Marine Air Corps for their then fighter-bombers and again in 1952 during the Korean War that a Tornado struck the Marine-Naval Air Base completely flattening it but it happened at night the only people there were the Marine’s MP guarding the base while the Marines and Navy were over in Korea during the Korean war. The Air part was built in 1919 but wasn’t expanded until 1941 because those heavy long-range bombers didn’t have the runway range for take-off and would keep crashing through the chain link fence so they expanded the runway for the bombers.
When they talked about why they had different reasons for joining the department I told them that a combat soldier should always be ready to drop everything and fight, and just because it's raining doesn't mean a soldier should get complacent and assume everything is postponed. War isn't like a baseball game that gets called off due to weather. That’s how I see the department about us being soldiers that have to drop everything when the call comes in, then we have to go out in any kind of weather and just can’t say no if it’s raining or not.
The company then went on to talk about their favorite holiday which mine is Christmas. But I have some family members who don’t like Holidays. My great-granduncle Stanley, a stoic veteran of the 101st Airborne, bears the weight of memories from '42 to '45, particularly those haunting days in Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge. The echoes of that time cast a long shadow over his holiday season, darkening the days from the 16th to the 27th. Charlie, too, who served with the 82nd Airborne, shares a similar aversion, the toll of war leaving a bitter taste where sweetness once resided. Despite this, the Waterson family never let their personal battles overshadow the gatherings. My father, who missed the merriment of Christmas during Operation Just Cause and the Gulf War, found the strength to celebrate for the sake of me.
In the quiet of the kitchen, as the aroma of sizzling sausages and bacon filled the air, I stood with my phone in hand, delving into the annals of history. The crackling of the pan was a comforting soundtrack to tales of yesteryear, but as I stepped away to rejoin my companions, a question lingered on my lips, one that would cast a shadow over the room.
“What was the deadliest tornado in Little Bird’s history?” I asked, my curiosity piquing their interest. Their gazes met mine, wide-eyed and somber, as if I had conjured spirits from the past. The silence spoke volumes; it was a dark day, both literally and metaphorically, etched into the collective memory of our town.
The tale began with a journey, a stretch of 520 miles from Empire to Clearlake, with Pine Valley nestled 487 miles from Clearlake or a daunting 1007 miles from Empire. It was on Black Friday, October 18th, 1929, a date overshadowed by the infamous Stock Market Crash that would follow just six days later. On that fateful day, a massive thunderstorm brewed, unleashing a tornado that emerged from the outskirts of Pine Valley.
The small town, a quaint rural haven with a few hundred souls, a local factory, the only church downtown, a radio station, and a general store, was ravaged. The tornado showed no mercy, erasing the town from the map, and leaving nothing but memories in its wake.
The tempest’s fury then descended upon Las Adventure, sparing only half of the city, yet the Residential District of Blackjack was not so fortunate. Las Adventure, known for its districts named with gambling puns, bore the brunt of nature’s gamble.
The tornado’s wrath continued, obliterating the town of Crystal, the administrative heart of the State/Borough/County/Commonwealth of Mountain. Clearlake, too, felt the storm’s touch, suffering immense damage before the tornado marched on to Cozy, Moonlight Cove, Sunset Vale, and finally, the city of Empire.
When the skies cleared, the toll was harrowing: 1,344 lives lost, a path of destruction spanning 1244 miles. Experts pondered whether it was the work of a single tornado or a series of them—a mystery that lingers to this day. But one thing was certain: Black Friday was aptly named, a day of darkness amidst the storms of history.
In my mind, I was thinking about the past men and women in my family who were squad leaders or officers in the past and present. They were and are a model leader who are calm and unflappable, care about their men, can hold their own in combat, excellent tacticians, and all-around good people even if they’re considered overly straight-laced by some.
In the heart of Little Bird, military training is known for its rigor, a crucible that forges warriors in the fires of discipline. My family, seasoned by this very system, speaks of it with a blend of respect and trepidation. They recount tales of grueling drills that pushed them to their limits, shaping them into a cohesive, formidable unit capable of surviving the harshest of wars.
Yet, there’s a line, they say, between forging strength and inflicting harm—a line that, at times, was crossed. The harshness sometimes veered into excess, the strictness into cruelty, transforming what was meant to be toughening into a form of mistreatment, even bullying.
But the ethos of the Little Bird Military is clear: War is unforgiving. It’s a brutal teacher who doesn’t coddle or comfort. Recruits are trained with this stark reality in mind, prepared to face adversaries who are swift, skilled in seeking cover, and sharpshooters with deadly aim. They learn to lob grenades with chilling precision, to blind fire with an efficiency that outmatches their foes, and to lay down suppressing fire that supports their comrades-in-arms.
This is no place for the stationary soldier, the one who doesn’t adapt or seek better protection. Here, in Little Bird, soldiers are molded to be dynamic, to be warriors who understand that survival means moving, adapting, and outmaneuvering an enemy who will do the same. It’s a tough lesson, but one that is essential for those who must face the unforgiving theater of war.
But that’s how the Little Bird Military trains all of its soldiers but I’m from the United States in the Navy.
In the kitchen, breakfast unfolds with a comforting rhythm. The pan, once sizzling with sausage and bacon, now rests to the side, its contents still simmering under the snug lid. Another pan takes its place, and eggs crackle as they meet the heat, flipped to over-well perfection. Toast pops up, golden and crisp, made the old-fashioned way.
As I lay the feast before my coworkers, I declare, “If you wish for your sandwich to be halved, the knife is yours to wield.”
As they contemplated their preferred cut, my thoughts drifted to the valor of my great-granduncles, Charlie and Stanley. They were men of the 502nd and 504th Parachute Infantry Regiments, respectively, their bravery etched into history through battles like Operation Husky, Operation Avalanche, and the Western Allied invasion of Germany. Their father, too, stood tall in the 16th Regiment, 1st Infantry Division, facing the tumult of war from Algeria-French Morocco to the Battle of Remagen.
The Company Chauffeur’s question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of war. “Do you have any family who’s fighting?” he inquired, his eyes searching mine for a glimpse into my world.
I met his gaze, the image of my family vivid in my mind. “Yes,” I began, my voice steady, "but they’re carved from resilience. The veterans in my family have seen the face of conflict and remain unshaken by its brutality. There’s a story they tell, you know—about the time they encountered enemy soldiers on the roadside. As they carried out the grim task, I heard some were struck with horror, their souls recoiling at the act. Yet, when they turned to their comrades, seeking solace or perhaps shared dismay, they were met with nothing more than indifferent shrugs, as if to say, ‘Such is war.’
But my cousin Midnight, she’s different. Amidst the chaos, she finds solace in the simple things—a baseball tossed from hand to hand, the click of a flip lighter. It’s her way of holding onto a piece of home, a flicker of normalcy in a world turned upside down."
I paused, the words of Shakespeare whispering through the silence, a testament to our bond. “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.” The quote lingered, a solemn vow of unity and courage in the face of adversity.
After breakfast, I put the dishes into the dishwasher and went over to a photograph on the wall next the photograph was black and white. It was dated June 6, 1946, and I noticed all of the people in the photograph were women and wearing an olive drab military uniform with a beret.
The photograph says that they’re “Sapphire Commandos” and they got that nickname because their berets are a Sapphire blue hence their nickname. But the 120 women were posing with captured German, and Italian weapons; they were just sent into combat at night to capture enemy weapons.
I remember a history lesson with my loving girlfriend that Little Bird in the 1930s was faced with a dilemma because of the Japanese invasion of Manchuria and many veterans of the First World War. The Little Bird Military was severely understaffed due to the First World War and a lot of men left the military to readjust to civilian life but Little Bird’s population had women who outnumbered the men in a ratio of two to one aka two women to one man so the government and the military had to either stay understaffed or start to accept women.
They started to do the latte,g that in 1936 the Little Bird Army did a series of trials to compare battle hardened soldiers against women whom the Army was disappointed that their sharpshooters and snipers who were the best shots at the Company level were beaten by a 19-2424-year-old boy women who grew up on farms hunting for food like wild turkeys, deers, and bears for meat. So in the same year as the readvised 1910 Little Bird Integration Act the 1937 readvised version allowed women to join combative units and did not restrict them to administrative, medical, communications, and horseback messengers. But in 1937 it allowed women to join combative units like tank crews, snipers, sharpshooters, machine gun crews, artillery crews, mortar crews, Anti-tank gunners, Anti-Air Gunners, Mechanics, Military Police, Logistical Officers, and as Intelligence Specialists.
However, the Little Bird Marine Corps were still hesitant to allow women into Combatant roles but kept them in Administrative, Communications, and Medical roles until 1941 when they allowed women to join their ranks. The 21st Airborne Division had two nicknames which were “Sapphire Commandos” because of their berets were Sapphire blue but their other nickname was “All Female Division” because 89% of the volunteers were females ranging from 18-to 23 females from the countryside some have gone on record saying that one reason they volunteered was that the Average Little Birden soldier was paid $50 a month, the Marines were paid $75 a month while the newly formed Airborne would be paid $100 a month.
But as I continued to stare at the photograph. I remember what my cousin Midnight said about how back in the 1930s the Little Bird Army’s officers were putting it lightly that they were incompetent unlike the Rangers, Airborne and Marines who had a Centralized Fire Control, Forward Observers, Tactical Control, trained in Branch Inter-operations that increased coordination between different branches of the military to work better in combined arms operations, Central Planning that allows Officers to contribute to the planning of a given operation, and have Effective staff officers ensure the flow of Command, Control, Communications & Intelligence between a commanding officer and the units they control.
The Army had to adapt the Rangers, Marines, Airborne, and Air Forces officer's way. Not adding that every company in the Rangers, Marines, and Airborne was organized the same of having Three Rifle platoons (3 Lieutenants, 9 Sergeants, 78 Semiautomatic Riflemen), 1 LMG Squad (1 Machine gunner, 2 Semiautomatic Riflemen), 2 Assault Teams (2 Sergeants, 18 Automatic Riflemen and Submachine Gunners), 1 Sniper, 3 Radiotelephone Operators.
The shrill ring of the fire bell sliced through the casual hum of the bar, a stark reminder of duty amidst the clatter of billiard balls and the murmur of patrons. We sprang into action, our boots thudding against the worn floor as we navigated through the crowd. The scene at the bar was all too familiar—a patron nursing a head wound, the result of an unfortunate encounter with the unforgiving edge of the counter.
With practiced hands, we cleaned the cut with peroxide, the fizzing bubbles a small spectacle for the onlookers who tore their gaze away from the televised sports. A gauze pad was neatly taped, and our job was done. The man insisted on staying, his pride perhaps more bruised than his head, refusing to go to the hospital.
As the crowd returned to their distractions, I couldn’t help but reminisce about my academy days. This very bar had been a refuge of sorts, a place where I could unwind with a game of pool, a cold drink, and the comforting greasiness of mozzarella sticks. It was a bargain at a buck fifty a game, a small price for a slice of normalcy in life often punctuated by alarms and urgency.
The bartender, a guardian in his own right, would sometimes call my girlfriend to escort me home. He knew the city’s darker corners all too well and understood that after the buses halted their routes at half-past eight, the streets became a stage for the less savory characters. It was a gesture of camaraderie, a silent acknowledgment that even those who rush into danger need a guiding hand now and then.
For some reason, I remember I was with Madeleine “Dynamite” Harmony, a female firefighter on Squad Co 141 with my girlfriend Lieutenant Claire “Lusty” Johnson. Dynamite told me that when she was in the Marines for the Little Bird 1st Marine Division Christmas Dinner was the total opposite of a normal Christmas dinner in which the 1st Marine Division had 20,000 pounds of pizza and 20,000 gallons of soda and she said that the 1st Division had made every single pizza made homemade and made every single kind of pizza known to man both thick and thin slices, all types of toppings, both thick, thin and stuff crusted and so on. But on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day that the 1st Marine Division had Ham, Turkey, Macaroni and Cheese, homemade mashed potatoes, Roasts, and all kinds of Chicken for said days but she did say that just a Regiment of 5500 Soldiers/Marines go through 590 pounds of hash browns, 380 pounds of eggs, 100 pounds of bacon, 155 gallons of milk, 30 cases of cereal, 369 pounds of fruits and veggies, and 20,000 gallons of coffee per day just for breakfast alone
But to me, I think Mariana "Avalanche" Azure and Madeleine "Dynamite" Harmon would make a cute couple, the former being a Marine Combat Engineer and the latter she was a Military Mountaineer.
When we returned back to our firehouse I overheard the guys talk about how Carter over on 525 fits the stereotype that men cannot keep places clean and cannot cook. Carter fits those stereotypes to a capital T. I then told them that the males in my family are the total opposite. I said that the men who dress properly, care for their small families, don't vote for no commie beatniks, and don't take kindly to strangers using bad language where the kids can hear. But I first came to the city of Empire that Carter caught the Kitchen and Dining room of Squad 525 on fire with his cooking with said company prohibiting him from cooking again.
Before they could say something about it soon the fire bell went off again for a fire at Squad Co 525 so we went.
***
Squad Co 525 Firehouse
“Probably a meat fire,” said the Company Captain.
I replied, “Meat fire?”
“A kitchen fire,” said the Company Captain, “At least it’s not a Prairie fire aka a Brush fire.”
It was a boilover but I turned off the stove and moved the pot outside and we used a 1 ¾ inch attack line to put out the fire on the ceiling while using a baking soda fire extinguisher to put out the fire on the stove.
We then heard the 18th Battalion Chief tell 525 that he was going to go and talk to the City’s Fire Commissioner and the Director of the Little Bird Fire Bureau before they called him and went on and say that it was not as interesting thing that happened in the city of Empire. The last interesting thing in the city was the 1989 Little Bird National Baseball Series which was a fight. Some people thought the Las Adventure Cannons cheated against the Empire Sharks before they changed their name to the Empire Bazookas in 1992 to commemorate the 50th year of the invention of the Bazooka.
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Back at the firehouse, The TV, which we usually keep on for background noise, suddenly grabbed our attention. The Anchor Woman’s solemn face fills the screen, her voice cutting through the hum of the station with an urgent bulletin. “We interrupt your regular programming with a critical alert from the Little Bird National Weather Service,” she announces. A PDS—Particularly Dangerous Situation Watch—has been declared across all of Emerald Vale. Tornadoes, howling winds, severe thunderstorms, and the threat of flash floods.
Emerald Vale, stretches from the southeast to the east of Little Bird. It’s a tapestry of small towns and expansive, wild beauty. Each town is a unique jewel in this crown of nature:
* Clearlake: Its lake mirrors the sky, a canvas of ever-changing blues.
* Cozy: Where every face is a friend and every handshake, a promise.
* Crystal: Its river, a liquid diamond, and the mines, Earth’s buried treasure.
* Moonlight Cove: Where the sea whispers secrets under a silver-glowing sky.
* Sunset Vale: Its hills, an artist’s palette at dusk, aflame with colors.
* Wheatstone: Golden fields sway like waves in an ocean of grain.
* Angel Pines: A forest sanctuary, where peace is the language of the pines.
* Starlight Haven: A stargazer’s dream, where the universe feels within reach.
* Emerald Hollow: Enveloped in forests that breathe life into the air.
* Whispering Pines: Where the wind tells tales in hushed tones.
* Moonbeam Meadows: Its meadows dance with moonlight, a nocturnal ballet.
* Crystal Cove: Its waters are as clear as the name suggests, a window to the deep.
* Harmony Heights: A symphony of community at the base of majestic hills.
* Sapphire Springs: Springs that rival the gemstone’s brilliance.
* Golden Grove: Where autumn whispers through leaves of gold.
* Twilight Terrace: Bathed in a lingering twilight, a town caught between day and night.
* Empire: The pulsing heart of commerce, culture, and the promise of tomorrow.
I open my mouth to speak, to share my awe of this place, but I hold back. My new colleagues, seasoned by the whims of nature—El Niño, La Niña, cyclones, monsoons, earthquakes, wildfires—they’ve seen it all.
Squad 769 just split up. They all had a job to do like shutting off public utilities like gas and power while my job was that I went over to the far back of the firehouse. I opened up two cellar doors which led down to a deep underground fallout shelter meant to hold 1500 people.
We then closed our apparatus bay door where the Captain soon gave us booklets that said “LITTLE BIRD BUREAU OF HUMAN SAFETY, LITTLE BIRD BUREAU OF FIRE, LITTLE BIRD CIVIL DEFENSE ADMINISTRATION” The first booklet had an F2-looking twister on it, the second booklet has a bolt of lightning and a raindrop and a drop of hail, the third booklet has flowing water, and the final one just had wind blows representing strong winds.
Soon some people ran into the far back left of the firehouse in which those few lockers had a dark blue circle with a white triangle with a red “CD” on them. But the people grabbed their black trenchcoats, WW2-era helmets painted all dark olive drab with the blue circle, white triangle, and red “CD” on the center of the helmet. The Little Bird Civil Defense Administration is like the Fire Department Cities of Empire, Las Adventure, Chocolate, Fort Sunction, Fort Carson and Fort Flurry are all Combination departments meaning they have both trained professionals and volunteers. The Volunteers have their own companies but said volunteers have normal jobs that they do and when their pager singles them of an emergency then they drop what they’re doing and race to their volunteer company.
But according to my girlfriend Claire and my cousin Dave, they say that the Little Bird Civil Defense Administration has trained volunteers but said volunteers are just normal people who are trained in Nuclear, Biological, Chemical, Radiological, Nerve Agent, Man-made, and Natural Disasters but they’re just normal people just bakers, candy store workers, office workers, road workers, general laborers who just drop what they’re doing and go to a fire station, police station, hospital or shelter to get their belongings and go out after whatever hits passes over. But their paid workers are just administrative workers who do the paperwork and monitor things.
The winds outside howled like ancient spirits, but beneath the earth, in our subterranean haven, there was a hush. I found solace in the calm, my heartbeat steady against the storm’s crescendo. In my hands, the worn pages of a Bible whispered wisdom from ages past. As I read, my mind silently offered gratitude to the science and research that granted us these precious minutes of warning—fifteen, sometimes even an hour when the conditions are just right.
It’s New Year’s Day, a time of celebration, yet I know many will be oblivious to the danger, the TV and radio mere background to their festivities. My thoughts drift to my family back in the States, in the heart of Tornado Alley. The elders often reminisce, preferring the clarity of war to the capriciousness of nature. Those who served in World War II used their GI Bills to forge new paths—education, vocational schools, or farms while they got married and started families of their own. But my great-granddad took his GI Bill money and bought land for a farm in Upstate New York and when he retired from the New York City Fire Department in 1966 he moved to the farm to get out of the city so he could have a patch of heaven to live on.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Out loud, I found myself reciting, “Oh, that I had wings like a dove! I would fly away and be at rest. Behold, I would wander far away, I would lodge in the wilderness. Selah. I would hasten to my place of refuge from the stormy wind and tempest.”
The Captain’s voice broke through my reverie. “What are you reading?”
“The Bible,” I answered. “My dad took me to church every Sunday. On Wednesdays, there was a study group. None of the other kids wanted to be there, but I did. It was an escape, a respite from my mother. The longer I was away, the better I felt.”
The winds grew louder and louder but after a few hours soon the winds died down after a few minutes I was the one who opened the door. The weather was calm now but my experience says that it could be moving on or breaking up. But I just told my Captain that people have been killed thinking a storm has passed only for it to come back because they think that the main threat is over but the storm is still there and never knew if it’ll spawn a tornado again while the winds are still blowing hard.
When I reentered the shelter I saw some people helping their children with Arithmetic because the Little Bird Bureau of Education has it mandatory to teach kids and teenagers basic math so they can move into adulthood with a grasp of math and get along in life so they can pay bills and count money. But to me how since I was taught Algebra I say that Math stands for “Mental Abuse To Humans” because that is what Algebra is.
After an hour passed I then got out of the shelter again with the storm still there but it was breaking up with the winds dying down.
After an hour I then checked the weather was dying down and safe for people to start coming out.
We then got dressed up and headed out and we just went to work right away. I just used a grappling hook so I swung it up to a balcony to a railing where I then climbed it to the top floor of the apartment building. According to the Fire Department City of Empire, I’m a “Scout” and on Little Bird “Scouts” are light enough firefighters who can use grappling hooks to climb to reach places if a ladder company isn’t on the scene or if a ladder company is too busy that they can’t spare someone so the “Scout” would perform Search and Rescue on the inside.
But this building was a U-shaped brick apartment building with ten floors with each floor having twelve apartments on each floor or one hundred and twenty apartments altogether. But I saw them go down a one-way street to a parking lot for the building. The chauffeur got out with one of the members getting on the deck gun while the Captain ran around the parking lot where he went to an underground thing.
I just went to check every apartment where I would try the door knob first while if it was unlocked it was easy. If not I would have to find a way to force it open like kicking it open. For each apartment, I would check underneath beds, in the cabinets, and in the closets and I’ve done that for every apartment working my way down but a majority of the apartment building was deserted. I guessed that a majority of the people were gone and were with family elsewhere celebrating New Year's Day. But many of the people in Eastside weren’t home where they had gone either they took shelter or weren’t in the city.
Squad 769 battled the blaze outside while I scoured the apartments. They were deserted, a ghostly silence filling the spaces where life once thrived. The windows on the south and west sides were shattered, testament to the storm’s fury.
After an exhaustive search, the call came. We were to leave Empire behind and make for Moonlight Cove.
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Moonlight Cove, is a picturesque town where life revolves around the Central Park. Here, laughter mingled with the sounds of nature as people picnicked, fished, or simply enjoyed a leisurely walk. The town boasted a cinema, a gym, eateries, boutiques, pools, and more, all blending futuristic designs with a touch of '50s nostalgia.
But today, Moonlight Cove was eerily quiet. The storm had struck with little warning, and now, much of the town lay in ruins. Only a few structures stood defiantly against the chaos: some homes, the fire and police stations, a research lab, and the distant Fort Cadenza Military Depot, nestled safely in the mountains.
Even though my cousin Lieutenant Mitchell “Mitzy” Waterson and his wife Visala live in the town. Knowing them they were long gone because they left to go for a winter camping trip but that’s the one thing about Little Bird is that the country has Spring, and Summer weather all year round.
The roar of the Little Bird UH-80 “Hawk” sliced through the air, heralding the arrival of a platoon from the 39th Airborne “Thunderbolt” Regiment. Their name, a legacy of stealth and might, was born from a night in 1943 when the Third Platoon of Baker Company used the cover of thunder to mask their assault on an enemy encampment.
Amidst the chaos, I found myself at a collapsed house, where an elderly woman lay trapped, her walker a makeshift shield against the crushing weight of debris. Carefully, I began to lift the rubble, piece by piece, freeing her from her concrete prison.
Sergeant Mitchell, my cousin, joined me in the rescue. As we worked, he mused on the irony of Mother Nature’s wrath, likening it to a breach of the Geneva Convention’s protection of medical facilities. His words, though spoken in jest, underscored the indiscriminate fury of the storm that had torn through the town, sparing no one, not even the places of healing.
“So what was the war like?” I asked.
Mitchell replied, “If it wasn’t for the winterized combat armor then we would’ve frozen our butts off. But when the Reds were here on Little Bird I think our War Department and all of the higher-ups drew inspiration of what not to do so they wouldn’t follow in the same mistakes as Nepolian and the Third Reich led by The Führer. But in September of 05 was when the Combat Armor appeared and in October the first week was when the Winter Combat Armor appeared. It kept the warmth inside which kept the wearer warm throughout the Soviet Winter. We somehow kept the Engines warmed in our vehicles so the cold weather couldn’t freeze the oil or the Gas-Diesel-Electric engines. But here’s an Interesting battle I was in back in January of 2006.”
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January 1st, 2006 (Sgt Mitchell Waterson POV)
In a barn, I walked up to a table with a map on it with Lieutenant Luna next to me. The Company Commander told us that four Soviet long-range artillery had been causing problems and could not call down an air strike due to the amount of SAM sites in the area preventing the Little Bird Air Force and the Little Bird Army Air Forces from just using their rockets or Air to Ground missiles to destroy them.
The Battalion Commander said they needed to take out the guns so the 39/5 aka the 39th Airborne 5th Airborne Artillery Company. For some reason the Little Bird Military each Division and Regiment has an Artillery Company but each Division their artillery company is labeled with the Division or Regiment number and a number but there’s no 6th or 13th.
Lieutenant Luna, said that her Platoon would get it done either way. So they just set out on foot but my job as a mix of a TACOM (Tactical Command), Forward Observer, and Forward Air Controller my job was a mix of keeping the radio protected to keep in contact with the Company Level, and be an observer for both the Artillery and Aircraft.
I switched my X16 from Safety to Semiautomatic while everyone else in the platoon had it set to full automatic even though a majority of Third Platoon fire in three-four round bursts but we just kept walking before getting close.
When we got close Lieutenant Luna ordered the platoon to break up into their individual squads of course each squad is different with First Squad having a Heavy Machine Gun team of four Paratroopers and an Anti-Armor team of four Paratroopers with an Anti-Armor launcher. But Third Squad aka the Squad I’m in we’re a Base of Fire team which means our job is just to fix the enemy with suppressive fire so Second Squad aka the Assault Squad which is armed with Submachine Guns, Shotguns, and Assault Carbines they flank the suppressed enemy and kill them.
We were able to secure the first gun very rapidly and destroyed it where I heard Lieutenant Luna order Squad 2 to go for the second artillery gun while the First Squad and the Third Squad which I’m to lay down enough suppressive fire for them.
Soon a squad of Army Rangers showed up. It was my cousin Lieutenant-Colonel Midnight who said, “Thought y’all might need some additional ammo?”
First Squad the two Machine Gunner assistants grabbed the box ammo for the machine gun and grabbed a few magazines of ammo for their assault rifles.
“Mind if my company takes the next gun?” asked Lt-Col Midnight.
Luna replied, “Go for it. Third Squad give the Rangers some suppressive fire!”
Soon Midnight said, “Let’s go Rangers!” before jumping over the legs for the artillery gun with another Army Ranger saying “Let’s get into the fight Rangers!”
The Rangers ran through the trench to the third artillery gun where I somewhat saw my cousin throw in a stick of TNT with a lit fuse and it blew up. So we just concentrated fire on the final artillery gun but I just put a 40mm high explosive grenade into my underbarrel grenade launcher and fired the grenade which dislodged several enemy soldiers but the final gun was destroyed as well.
For me whenever I had to reload my X16 rifle I would just fire the 29 out of 30 rounds but I taped my magazines together by having them taped. The mags come in pairs with one taped or fixed to another. But it allows for faster reloads and carries double the ammo than the standard soldier.
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(Mackenzie ‘Macaroni’ Waterson POV), January 1st, 2010
We saved the elderly woman but just went to another destroyed house to help. Some of the houses were emptied and many people were either over at friends' or relatives' houses or just not home. But my company just went to fight a few fires as well.
“So what do you do Mitchell?” I asked.
Mitchell replied, “Also a cop well a rookie cop. But also married my childhood sweetheart and while I know that you didn’t come to our wedding due to you being in the Navy but you were there in spirit even though you’re alive, not dead.”
My cousin and I found ourselves amidst the chaos, extending a helping hand to those caught in the storm’s merciless path. As we moved through the wreckage, my cousin, with a steadiness born from a childhood by loss, affixed triage tags to the injured. His voice was firm as he explained the grim code of colors: green for the lightly wounded, yellow for those in pain, red for the critically injured, and black for the people beyond our help or those tragically lost.
To some, his candor may have seemed harsh, but life had stripped him of the luxury of sugarcoating truths. Orphaned on his sixth birthday, he and his siblings were thrust into the care of Aunt and Uncle Orange, whose cold authoritarianism left little room for warmth. They imposed a harsh ‘sink or swim’ philosophy, expecting him to navigate life’s turbulent waters alone, while his sisters were subjected to a dismissive yet equally strict upbringing.
Despite the odds, he emerged with a resilience that saw him master crafts not meant for a child’s hands. By junior high, he was adept in leatherwork, metalwork, and woodworking, skills that predated any formal education in shop class. By ninth grade, he was already versed in the intricacies of bike and car mechanics.
In Little Bird, where the Department of Education still champions vocational training, he stands as a living example of their success. The statistics speak: eight in ten pursue careers in the trades, while a mere fraction advance to college.
But now I’m thinking about why his sister Twilight was named after a TV show that was an American fantasy science fiction horror anthology television series and ran from 1959 to 1964 said show asked about unintended consequences and the loss of control that people were willing to accept in the name of progress.
But Mitchell my cousin is a product of said TV show as well because while he’s not a Luddite he likes technology like TV and radio. But he finds himself more often in books, carpentry, and sports like baseball where to him people don’t have conversations but watch talk shows, they don’t play games but watch game shows, people don’t play sports they watch sports shows where many people on Little Bird of those in the middle class are drawn time and time again to television and radios to escape reality.
But my cousin Mitchell likes to say "Even if you are a good and decent man, you can still have horrible things continually happen to you and end up with no hope at all" he has some friends who are the most wonderful of people. He has one friend named Samual Hartstock or Sam for short he’s the friendliest person in the town but that didn’t stop his parents from divorcing because his mother just got tired around him and his dad. But that didn’t stop Sam from running off and joining the Marines. Sam always worked in his dad’s restaurant but Sam found his peace with a loving special someone. But that’s according to Mitchell.
In the heart of Moonlight Cove, amidst the tornado's aftermath, my cousin and I navigated the debris-strewn streets with a singular focus: to rescue those we could. As we worked, the idyllic image of Moonlight Cove lingered in my thoughts—a town seemingly plucked from the pages of a storybook, where neighbors greeted each other by name, and children’s laughter echoed freely without the watchful eyes of parents.
It was a place where life revolved around the verdant park at the town’s center, a hub of activity for jobs and jubilation alike. The houses, spaced with neighborly precision, stood as silent sentinels around this communal heart. Here, every holiday brought the community together, be it Christmas, Halloween, or Valentine’s Day, each celebration a vibrant testament to the town’s spirit.
Moonlight Cove, with its singular educational institution bearing the town’s name, embodied the quintessence of small-town charm. Its main street, lined with family-owned shops and the town square, was the stage for simple daily pleasures. The scent of hot dogs, hamburgers, and apple pie wafted through the air, as the townsfolk, united in their love for these classic comforts, navigated the streets in their trusty four-door sedans.
Yet, beneath this picturesque veneer, the reality of nature’s fury had imposed a stark contrast. But even as we faced the harrowing task at hand, the essence of Moonlight Cove—a place of enduring community and shared values.
Empire, once a quaint shopping town teeming with sailors and the whispers of smugglers, has undergone a metamorphosis. The Aurora Strand, its solitary beach, lies against a modest stretch of the Pacific, a silent witness to the city’s transformation. As the film industry’s bright lights and the hum of factories took root, Empire’s skyline reached for the stars, morphing into a forest of high-rises.
The city’s pulse now beats to the rhythm of nightlife; its veins are the bars, clubs, lounges, and penthouses that glow with the promise of escape. Yet, beneath the allure lies a relentless cycle: the grind of day jobs followed by nocturnal revelries, a pattern of sleepless nights and fleeting rest, repeated ad infinitum. Empire, a tapestry of ambition and indulgence, continues to dance long after the sun has set.
Moonlight Cove, with its quaint curfews of 9:00 PM for children and 10:00 PM for teenagers, paints a picture of a community that values safety and tradition. The town's police gently enforce these rules, ensuring that the young are either safely home or under the watchful eye of a guardian after dark.
The town's charm is further enriched by its residents' penchant for cultivating their own gardens, where herbs like peppermint, licorice, ginseng, chamomile, and lavender flourish. These fragrant plots are more than just a source of seasoning; they're a symbol of the town's connection to the earth and to each other.
Mitchell's perspective on Little Bird starkly contrasts the bustling cities. He speaks of a place where integrity and camaraderie are the fabric of society, a stark departure from the cutthroat dynamics he perceives in urban environments. In Little Bird, success is often a communal effort, celebrated and shared, rather than a solitary climb marked by betrayal.
The recent end of a prolonged conflict with the USSR has left its mark on Little Bird, fostering a collective mindset reminiscent of the anti-communist sentiments that once permeated American politics.
The homes we encountered in our relief efforts were a testament to post-war ingenuity and the American dream. Designed for the modern family, these 1,140-square-foot dwellings were built to stand the test of time with minimal upkeep. Each house boasted separate living and dining areas, a master bedroom with a built-in vanity, and a bathroom echoing the same practical elegance. The living room’s bay window invited the outside in, while some homes featured a convenient China pass-through from kitchen to dining room and windows in tripartite design. The floors varied, some laid with hardwood, others with ceramic, checkered, or porcelain tiles, each reflecting the homeowner’s personal taste.
Mitchell shared that these houses were constructed for the heroes returning from the Second World War—G.I.s, Rangers, Marines, Sailors, and Pilots—who sought refuge from city life in the burgeoning suburbs. They were drawn to towns like Moonlight Cove, Sunset Vale, and Clearlake, where the Little Bird Armed Forces Compensation Act, akin to the 1944 G.I. Bill, provided them with the means to start anew. Here, they could live quietly among those who valued privacy and the unspoken respect for one’s past.
Mitchell himself resides in Clearlake with his wife Cadence, in a two-story farmhouse nestled among an orchard that yields citrus, bananas, and apples. Despite the self-sufficiency of their homestead, Cadence, like the women of the Waterson lineage, enjoys the freedom to shop and engage with the community, embodying her husband’s family’s belief in equality and partnership, regardless of societal norms or religious doctrines. In the Waterson family, relationships are built on mutual respect and autonomy.
Mitchell’s response was simple and heartfelt. “Cadence? She’s the heart of our home,” he said with a gentle smile. “She tends to our farm and keeps our house a home. Her mind may not be measured by conventional standards, but her spirit is immeasurable. She finds joy in the rhythm of daily tasks, the kind that keeps her engaged without overwhelming her. And yes, she loves to shop—it’s her way of connecting with the world beyond our fields. Some might label her a ‘housewife,’ but to Cadence, titles don’t define her contentment. She chose this life, and I respect her for it. We’re partners in every sense, and her happiness is my own.”
To me, it’s a different story. Mitchell and Cadence love each other and in the past, there was a Waterson whom she was married to a guy who was the love of her life until he showed his true colors. Once her brother saw her have a black eye and to make a long story short well the police found her husband’s body fifteen years later submerged in a car trunk with his bones broken so many times that there was hardly any bone left.
But to me, some of my friends parents always taught me to turn the other cheek but my dad taught me that the world doesn’t work like that and how we treat each other. Compassion is a sign of weakness, but greed is a virtue. The poor are considered morally corrupt, while every excess of the powerful is celebrated. We sent kids off to die, for what? So someone can make a few bucks? My dad was right. He was always right. There ain't never gonna be another Dr. King or Bobby Kennedy but there’s always going to be someone that the history books will write as evil like Stalin. We are a cruel and wicked people
It’s somewhat like what my great-granduncle Charlie said about the war in Vietnam he said that US draftees are sent to fight a hopeless conflict in Vietnam and that if Vietnam falls to the communists, no one will care while the soldiers return home only to suffer from PTSD or watch their life change for the worse and the people they are fighting are impoverished farmers and most don't even have shoes. Charlie fought in the Second World War and the Korean War.
Pops always had a way with words, a sort of fire-and-brimstone charm. "The Lord will keep His own, but all the Wicked He will destroy," he'd say with a thunderous voice that could shake the heavens. I reckon he's talking about the divine sorting hat, where the good folks get a pass and the baddies get the boot.
But us Watersons we all have nicknames to help standout especially when there’s multiple with the same first name so nicknames kinda help standout with some are based on occupation, some are based on embarrassment or something random. Like how there’s me and thirteen other Mackenzie’s where there’s Mackenzie "Sturmgewehr" Waterson. She's a spitfire, that one, clutching her Assault Rifle 1944 like it's her firstborn. It's a relic, sure, but in her hands, it's poetry in motion. The Little Birden's answer to the German StG44, and boy, does she make it sing.
But that's the Waterson way – we're a motley crew, each with a moniker more colorful than the last. There's me, Macaroni, and a baker's dozen of kin, all with names that tell a tale. Like "Pastry," with a sweet tooth that could outlast a nuclear winter, or "Ruby," who's got a ring that means business and ain't keen on chitchat.
Then there's "Sausage," who's never met a link she didn't like, and "Cola," the soda-swigging champ of the clan. "Blackjack" is a gambler at heart, while "Rampage" is a walking, talking force of nature and the living embodiment of hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
Don't get me started on "Reaper," who's as deadly as they come, or "Lightningfeet," the fleetest runner this side of the world. "BFG" is our heavy hitter, with an autocannon that's as precise as it is terrifying. And "Hellbringer"? She's got a way with fire that'll clear out any thicket or threat.
Lastly, there's "Bread," she’s always turning flour, yeast, water, and other ingredients into bread every morning and evening, with rolls so divine they'd make the angels weep, especially when slathered with her fresh strawberry jam.
Almost forgot about Nighthawk she got her nickname because she used to be Nocturnal in her youth so Night and she’s a pilot for the Little Bird Army so there’s Hawk but she got the nickname and callsign of Nighthawk. But she got Hawk because she will fly her helicopter into dangerous areas that would be too dangerous to fly a military helicopter to either bring reinforcements or supplies to allied forces behind enemy lines or to go and bring said soldiers behind enemy lines back to the frontlines or back to base. While not popular with higher ups she’s popular with the average soldier/marine though because no matter what the odds even stacked against her one million to one she’s still going to come in even if it’s a suicide run. But like many military officers in the Little Bird Military, Nighthawk is called a “FILO” or First in Last Out
Mitchell and I just went house to house checking for survivors. Some of the remaining houses that survived we didn’t know if they were safe or not to enter but we took caution as we entered to make sure if they were structurally sound or not. We made sure we treaded where we were walking but a majority of the houses still standing the people weren’t there. I said that they could’ve been out running errands when the tornado hit but Mitchell said something but when I opened my mouth he finished his sentence that a majority of people could’ve been over at friends houses or out of town visiting distant family or distant friends who live in other towns or cities.
I know he wanted to say what was on his mind but I guess he wants to be positive rather than be negative or pessimistic. But when I was at the academy I was told that I would see a lot of things that not everybody gets to see but I was also told that I would need to have a poor imagination because if I could start to imagine all the things I could see then I couldn’t be able to do this job so I usually try not to imagine all of the things that I would see on the job well the academy instructor said “Firefighters need to have poor imaginations but fast reactions” and I somewhat agree because if you can just imagine every negative thing that can or would happen then you’re not going to be able to do the job. But according to my cousin Dave that he laid off a few members of his company due to the ones that he fired they started to think about what could happen and couldn’t focus on the job because they were thinking about what could happen that they couldn’t focus on the job. Of course, he and his wife been firefighters for fifteen years and never know what they’re going into because according to Linda she says “Once you start to get confident in doing your job then you’re throw a curveball” or Dave says “You can have the most experienced guys on the scene but there are situations that are outside of their control”
But we just searched for those whom we thought we could find even though we know that we wouldn’t find some people alive but it’s something I know from experience from dealing with tornados back in Alabama.
But according to Mitchell a lot of towns are the same but each have a setting of the 40s, 50s or 60s but that’s Little Bird in a nutshell because of the fashion, music, prices, and cars are from the 1940s, 50s and 60s but everyone lives equally without segregation but that’s because it was a demand from the Natives in the Government at the time who had to say that everyone is created equal and can’t shame or separate others based on race, gender, or religious views because the Natives knew that when they decided to unite into a single country than just being five warning tribes against each other well four warning tribes because they left the Blueberry Tribe alone because of them being able to grow plenty of food to feed their people ten times over in a single harvest.
My cousin and I just went and made sure to double check where he would use a marker he has and write on the door or I would use a piece of cloth to tie it around the porch or mailbox to signal that the house had already been checked and to move on to the next.
“In this entire family the only one I would be afraid to fight is Midnight,” I said.
Mitchell replied, “You don’t become a Ranger by playing patty cake. The LBAR don’t accept draftees nor greenhorn recruits. Midnight survived the 1990-92 Korean War by going above and beyond and when the war ended she took the Indroductionary Ranger training of fourteen weeks of hell or as she puts it ‘You only get twenty-eight hours of sleep per week’ and while the Indroductionary training was a nightmare she said that it was hard but the other 14 weeks of training after the introductory training was a lot rougher than that. Well, the answer is no and no they don’t use teenagers shooting blanks where they have Rangers fire live rounds above you not adding having hot bullet casing fall on you. But when you’re the second oldest special forces whos job is to clear out objectives before the main army arrives you have to be better than the best of the best. While us Paras, the Marines, and Special Forces Group including the Marine Commandos and Silent Serpents/Golden Talons/Operations Department Specialized Troopers are considered Special Forces but the Rangers are trained to be more elite than us.”
“Well yeah, I mean…” I said, “No wait, that was the US Army Rangers for D-Day, not the Little Bird Army Rangers. But hey there’s only been one other Waterson who was a Ranger and that was Terrence Charlie Waterson Jr who landed on the Dog Green Sector of Omaha while his father landed at the Fox Green sector of the same beach. But the only thing I’m confused about is that if my great granddad was a Squad leader in the 1st Infantry Division why did he have a B.A.R that you have while his second eldest son or first legit son who was also a Squad leader had an M1A1 Thompson? That’s what I’m trying to wrap my head around.”
Mitchell replied, “Don’t know. Maybe he was originally a machine gunner before being promoted to a Squad leader and refused to surrender the BAR for a Tommy gun. Or he just liked the BAR after all he did fight in both World Wars and the Korean War. But honestly, I don’t know why but I wouldn’t ask you to go back to the United States to ask him in which my guess too many painful memories for him so he probably wouldn’t say after all he was in his early 40s in World War 2 and tasked with ordering kids you know 18-20 year olds to their deaths. But he was in the British Army in World War 1 before emigrating to the US in 1919 because his teenage hood was taken away from the horrors of the First World War. He was in the First and Second Battle of Ypres.”
I then slipped on a pile of wet leaves. Mitchell didn’t laugh because he really doesn’t have a sense of humor. But that’s because of his strict environment that makes him unable to laugh because he doesn’t find comedy or anything funny to be funny.
Not even when he was a kid he didn’t find cartoons to be funny because his Aunt and Uncle Orange forced his youthfulness and laughter out of him making him grow up too fast and miss the luxury of childhood. I know a lot of people who would’ve laughed at someone slipping and falling on wet leaves or just falling in general. While average children were out playing with their friends Mitchell was inside of a garage learning woodcrafting, metal crafting, leathercrafting than having a normal childhood where the only time he could be his age was when his friends would come over.
He wished they came over everyday but they had lives so they couldn’t but he cherished the times that his friends came over to get him so they could play baseball or football but according to him that even his friends parents felt sorry for him. But I guess is that he doesn’t want to have kids because out of fear of being how his aunt and uncle raised him he probably fears he’ll be like them because his Aunt and Uncle were and are the Authoritarian type of parents while I have a feeling that if he was a father he would be Authoritative of setting rules, and explain why there are rules instead of being like his Aunt and Uncle who just said “Do what I say because I said so” and that even minor things that kids do like being annoying that was good enough reason for his Aunt and Uncle to get the belt or paddle while his Aunt and Uncle were Authoritarian with his sister and baby half sisters where they were still too young so they could’ve molded them into how they should be even though with his sister Twilight it backfired and she gained a rebellious streak a bit.
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The next day.
In the quiet sanctuary of my apartment, I was reading the pages of a rustic bread-making cookbook. As I went into the kitchen I reached for the refrigerator, a sharp rap at the door jolted me from my culinary reverie. I laid the butcher knife down on the cutting board with a clatter and made my way to the door.
Swinging it open, I was met with a sight I hadn’t prepared for—my so-called mother, standing there with that all-too-familiar look of expectancy.
“Mackenzie, it’s you,” she exclaimed, peering past me as if searching for someone else. “Where are your children at?”
My words curled into a snarl as they left my lips, “What are you doing here?”
“Is that any way to treat your mother?” she retorted, her voice laced with feigned hurt.
“You’re not my mother,” I shot back, the words sharp as a knife and unyielding. “You’re the woman who gave birth to me, and that’s where your role ended. My aunts, grandaunts, and female cousins—they showed me what it means to stand on my own two feet. They taught me the value of a dollar, the art of cooking, the skill of cleaning, and the knack for fixing what’s broken. My father—he taught me the discipline of living within means, of distinguishing need from want. And you? You’ve been nothing but a shadow, lounging on the couch, consumed by your vices. So I suggest you leave before I call the cops.”
But she stepped in, uninvited, her presence an intrusion in my space.
“So when can I expect to have grandchildren from you?” she prodded, ignoring the tension.
“When I decide it’s time,” I declared firmly. “And if that day comes, know this—you won’t hear of it. There won’t be any announcements or signs. I won’t let you near them, to guilt-trip or manipulate them. They won’t even know you exist. If they ever ask about their grandmother, they’ll hear that she passed long ago.” My voice was ironclad, my boundaries non-negotiable. This was my life, and I would live it on my terms, without her shadow looming over me.
Her question hung in the air, a challenge to the authority I knew all too well. “And what are the cops going to do?” she sneered.
I fixed her with a steely gaze, the kind that had seen the worst of humanity and the best of valor on Little Bird. “You might recall the clashes during the Vietnam War,” I began, my voice low and even. “Well, here on Little Bird, our officers make those days seem tame. They’re a force to be reckoned with, and they don’t take kindly to disturbances.”
I paused, letting the gravity of my words sink in. “Their methods are… old school, to put it mildly. Baton meets flesh, water cannons like tempests, and the dogs… well, let’s just say they’re not here to play fetch unless you count the dogs getting ahold of your arm or leg.”
With a firm grip, I escorted her out, my movements deliberate and authoritative, ensuring the door closed silently behind her. I wasn’t about to make a scene; the neighbors didn’t need to be part of this drama. They had their own lives, their own realities to contend with. I, Mackenzie “Macaroni” Waterson, had my peace to keep.
Back in the solace of my kitchen, I set about crafting a salad as vibrant as the organic farms they came from. It was a ritual taught by my father, a balance to life's indulgences—a medley of fresh fruits and crisp vegetables to accompany the evening's meal. His lessons were always practical, a counterweight to the excesses of life.
The television droned on, a low hum of nostalgia from the Little Bird airwaves. The stringent regulations of our island's film industry meant a steady diet of operas, sitcoms, and family-centric shows that echoed the sensibilities of the '50s and '60s. They were a tableau of innocence and simplicity, married couples slept in separate beds and kisses were but a chaste peck on the cheek. Yet, amidst this backdrop of bygone eras, the Saturday morning cartoons brought a dash of color and laughter with their slapstick antics—a reminder that, even in the most disciplined of worlds, there is a place for joy and silliness.
But I like Little Bird. It's a nice country where its edicts are Universal Health care for the impoverished, Right to Arms, a festival like Mardi Gras, agricultural subsidies, a Literacy Program, Vaccination, and Organic farming. Of course, each one has its pros and cons but I’m a supporter of the Agricultural Subsidies because it helps farmers to get supplies or equipment for the farms they run to grow healthy and organic food that aren’t filled with chemicals. But for all of them, the Nationalists like Universal Healthcare, Agricultural, and Organic farming while the Militarists like the Right to Arms for both groups. The reasons are there.
But I just went and made a salad and went back to the task of making a loaf of homemade bread. But there’s a first time for everything. But while making the homemade bread and homemade salad I thought for a minute about hosting a Waterson get-together like a family reunion but the ones who usually host it usually have a house so they have the land for it while my apartment ain’t the size of my girlfriend’s penthouse but it’s big enough for a small family, not twenty or thirty people or more.
But I then left to run a quick errand but I stopped at a street vendor and got an Original Empire Dog of it being an Italian sausage on a Chicago-style bun with mustard, onion, and bacon.
But when I returned to my apartment I just got the mail and went into the kitchen. I just wrote a check for my energy bill of 130 bucks because having an electrical stove costs more to use. Of course, after I did write a check I then called the power company saying I’m sending in a check so it doesn’t show up unsurprised and that they don’t unintentionally throw it away. But I just wrote checks for my other bills as well and called those companies to tell them I’m sending a check even though it would’ve been better if I just went and paid in cash by going to the company but I have other stuff to do.
But the moment I got done writing checks and putting them into the envelopes I was about to head out to put them in the corner mail dropbox but the moment I opened my apartment door to find Carter and my mom standing there.
“Hey Mackenzie I found someone for you,” my mom said.
I replied, “A shotgun it is.”
I closed my apartment door and got my Baker 380 Marine Combat Shotgun from my bedroom where I performed a brass check by sliding the pump back a little bit to see if there was a shell in it with a twelve gauge magnum buckshot in it.
I then opened the apartment door.
“This is a shotgun and has a twelve gauge buckshot shell in it,” I said, “I’m giving you the count of three for you ma’am and Mr. Dick to fuck off or I’ll shoot first and let the cops figure it out later!”
Before I could even count Carter tried to get my shotgun but I pulled the trigger sending a barrage of shells into his left leg making him fall.
“I did warn you two to fuck off!” I said, “Now you need to go to the hospital!”
Mom replied, “Mackenzie I brought him here so he can give you a child so I can be a grandmother!”
“I know who he is!” I snapped back, “He’s a misogynist patriarch pig! Listen to me you crazy old coot when I’m ready I’ll have a kid. But you’re never going to meet the child that I have and I’ll choose who I want to have a child by or if I just adopt a child when I’m ready! Now leave me alone and fuck off! Sometimes you make me wish that the Axis powers won the Second World War while I’m thankful that they didn’t and lost but you… you’re just straight-up annoying.”
I then shut the door again and went back to making dinner. But after some time there was another knock on my apartment door so I answered it. I thought it was going to be my mom again but it was a Girl Scout selling cookies so I bought eight boxes of cookies and one box of brownies for twenty bucks. Well the total was eleven bucks but hey to me the scouts always made delicious cookies.
After that, I just went and put the boxes onto the granite countertop and went back to making dinner. I just decided to use the cookies and brownies I just bought as dessert instead. But soon there was another knock. It was Lusty and her children who came over because it’s somewhat like a date, well a family date or something like that but I even told Lusty what happened with my mom showing up unexpectedly and returned with Carter and how I shot Carter with a shotgun because he deserved it.
But when Lusty asked me how the new company was, I lied and said that we were like cheetahs but she told me that I’m a terrible liar. She looked me right in the eyes and I told her the truth about how it feels like it’s a clubhouse and she did say that Squad 769 quarters used to be like a mechanic shop in the past and that it closed down. So the city bought it and renovated it into a single story firehouse even though the common room is right behind Squad 769 apparatus by a few feet but they weren’t going to argue because they would make do with what they got.