He came to again for what seemed the 40th time in the last hour. It was amazing how little time actually passed between episodes of consciousness, even though he was sure–each time–that he had been ‘out’ for a year. He sighed, but then–almost–smiled, happy that he had sighed. From the moment he realized that life would one day end (roughly around age six) the fear of the final hour had consumed his life, had effected his view of everything and, sadly, had left it’s mark on every minute of his not-long-enough existence. But now, with near-death not a possibility, but a certainty his only concern was one of impatience. And as his heavy eyes opened once more in the hospital bed, returning from wherever it is the sick go when they drift off, his only question for god/fate/etc was ‘why am I still here?’ (a question shared by the hospital staff). He had asked this many times in the last week (which was/is to be his last), but only now did a voice answer, although much too young to be God.
“Any hour now. That’s what they said at the nurses’ station.” a young man said. He was sitting in the dark hospital room on one of the guest chairs.
“Do I know you?” the dying man asked, with the few aching parts of his body that hadn’t yet shut down, half-wondering if this was the person who comes to take you.
“No. And I don’t know you. But I know you’re going to die. Any hour–”
“Yes, any hour now.” he said, cutting the young man off (who clearly was not employed by a higher power).
Between the two of them it was the young healthy one whose face was filled with fear. His voice shuddered as he went on, “Before you go I need to ask you…for a favor.”
“A–”, he wasn’t sure if he had disappeared again.
“A promise. I need to know what happens.”
“I…die. I go–”
“But where? What comes next? I need you to tell me. Wherever it is, I need you to find me.” The young man recoiled a little, having finally gotten it out. The dying man, however, didn’t need this.
“What do you want from me? Why are you asking me this? Why should I….” he was using too much breath and it was all he had left.
“I picked you because the nurse said ‘any hour now’, it could’ve been anybody. But it’s not really a favor, I can give you something in return.”
“You can’t have anything I want.”
“But I do. I have one thing that you don’t: a future. I have time, lots of it, and I’ll give it to you. I’ll carry on your name. I’ll fix your mistakes. I’ll find the girls you knew in high school and get to know them, and their children. I’ll look for all your forgotten passions and I’ll take them up. Everything you left unfinished, I’ll finish. I’ll give you a decade more on this earth and all you need to do is contact me, once, during that time.”, as he finished he leaned in closer to the bed.
“What do you want from me?”, the dying man repeated, but now in earnest, not bothered.
“Just to tell me what it’s like afterwards. Where you are. Is it beautiful? Horrible? Dark? Light? Anything. Come back, somehow, and tell me. That’s all. Just one sentence even. Or one word: Good or Bad.”
“But what if there’s…nothing?”, here the dying man gave a sad smile, happy that even this didn’t scare him anymore. But the young man trembled.
“Then you
won’t
come, and
I’ll know that
that’s it.”“Then you won’t come, and I’ll know that that’s it.” he put his head down.
The other one’s eyes had shut again, but he was still there. “Okay”, he said softly. “Take my…”, he pointed to the chart on the wall. He added, “Go to her and…”, but realized he would never be able to explain it all during these last minutes, “You’ll figure it out. Start with what’s in there.”
“I will!” he jumped out of the chair into the darkness, almost excited, “and–no matter what–you’ll come to me, you’ll explain–”
“Yes”, the moments and dreams of his life, good and bad, that the young man had mentioned, started to project on to the walls and ceiling. It had all been tainted by regret lately; but with the hope that the boy would really give it new life, he felt able to enjoy his memories one last time. But they needed space. “You have to leave now. I promise. But go.”
The young man left, taking the chart from the door, but never looking back.
The dying man started drifting again as the images filled his head. He was aching and ready. What if it is nothing afterwards?, he thought. But as his heavy eyelids closed (for the last time), he thought that nothing sounded relaxing.
Have you considered Subscribing to all of this madness?
Here, in the beginning was the word. And the word said 'here' and here he was. He knew not why he was here (do any of us?), but he was here and there was nothing else here, only darkness--though lacking even the quantity called 'darkness'. And though there was not yet loneliness, terror, or cold; the being found himself terribly lonely and cold. Before the being could utter a magic word or a command, light raised up to the sky and illumination seeped onto the earth causing the being to smile for a moment, but then again he found himself crying because the light had only further lit up and revealed the full extent of nothingness.
The old men of the village had their eyes firmly focused on politics again. And the economy. And property values. And sports. But not their wives; their wives were safe at home now--safe and unlooked on. The candlelit dinners and music, the awkward dancing and even more awkward reading of poetry had stopped when the young men left. No need for it anymore. Yes, the old leaders of the village no longer had to watch their spouses like hawks--even though they sat at home all day, bored. So, though there was a war going on, the elders were all noticeably calmer than during peacetime and the council meeting had a relaxed air to it.
"Liberty Univer..." Mark stopped. It was the first time either of them had said that, the word "kill". Madison Square was completely dark now except for a few people at the enclosed dog-run. 
Kyle thought as he went for a better arrangement of the list. His structure still seemed off and taking it out of alphabetical order hadn't fixed the problem. He scribbled down on his notepad again: Homosexuals, blacks, Aisans, lesbians...
Both the young teenager and the old officer were terribly embarrassed as the Police cruiser careened through some of Wilson's earliest paved roads. 
There was nothing that crazy about the nickname; Americans are a practical, simple, right-to-the-point kind of people: And quite simply, practically, that's what it was good at. Well, of course, planes are, first and foremost, good at flying, but this one was particularly well suited for killing Arabs. It was untraceable on radar, could effectively dodge either a bullet or a missile--while it's own projectiles were effectively unstoppable, and so precise that, according to one Army pilot, they could take out a towelhead without disrupting a hair on his goat's ass (his words, not mine). This was the fear of God, or Allah, or whatever.
Summer in the city. The grid is lit up like a dirty grill, hot and red, caking on the filth and the remnants of last night's meat. It's the weekend, but who cares, we have places to go, the atoms say, stretching apart, thrown together, brushing up against eachother's agendas. A week ago, a crane fell and killed two and we stood on the cool breezy street, talking and complaining to absolute strangers, calling for Mike's resignation, for action, for bureaucratic blood. Now the papers report that a crane operator had been bribed and, so long as the AC works, let's bribe him some more and move, move, keep moving, the city is swell, though it feels like hell.