Let’s be honest: Wilson was, is, a boring place. It seemed like someone took the Manhattan grid, ripped its soul out, and over the old brownstones and tenements built uniform McMansions and tract homes. Yes, soulless–that’s a good word for the place; a suburb where the New York businessmen kept their things and their families during the day and where they slept at night, nothing more. But Sam was too young to understand that. That’s the thing about being a child, right, even the most tedious of places are far bigger than you and offer a far greater adventure than you can fathom.
H
e woke up, as usual on Saturday morning, hours before his parents would, when it was still almost dark out. Though this Saturday trip had become a ritual, the young boy still never knew if going so far away from home on his own was ok with his Mom; so he removed his bicycle very quietly from the garage, filled a water bottle even more quietly, and then sped off away from his home as the first rays of sun hit the powerwashed Wilson pavement.
Today was a big day for Sam. This weekend morning adventure, which had become something to look forward to all week, always had one limitation: Don’t go left on Tennent Rd. No, his parents hadn’t said this–again, they might not even know he does these long bike rides every Saturday–but Sam himself had been too scared by his own lack of knowledge to venture down that way, having never gone to the left even in the safety of his parent’s car. But now he had explored endlessly every road, every street, every small patch of woods (those few left), and every pond and lake that the right of Tennent Rd could offer, the eight year old could have drawn you a map, from memory, of that entire part of Wilson. If these bike rides were to continue being adventurous, he needed to turn left.
He glided his bike smoothly down Pension Rd, a street that was still home. Then he crossed over to Greenbriar, where the maze-like streets of the Retirement Community offered the best way between two points if you knew them well, and he did. Then he rode through the vast field of Wilson’s last farm (which just got bought a few months ago) and from there he went down the one or two streets in Wilson which could still be called rural. That last one Intersected with Tennent. The boy now found himself at the crossroads of a rite of passage he himself had made–which was a good feeling in itself.
But it actually took a moment. The left side of the road was in the complete opposite direction of his home. He didn’t know how far it led, or if there was any natural progression back to where he began–like the right had, or if he would just have to turn around at some point and hope that he could reverse himself without getting lost. But unlike us, children
don’t
think too
hard on these
things, thank God children don’t think too hard on these things, thank God, and before the sun had raised itself over the trees, Sam sped off down this new and entirely unknown road.
What was down there? What mysteries? Nothing. None. Just another boring Wilson street, of course, though thankfully it would take him some time, years even, to realize that. And the older Sam, long having gotten rid of his bike, wouldn’t remember the pleasure of rising down Tennent, but only the excitement of standing at its crossroad, just wondering. To not know is sometimes much better than knowing.
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.