I do have some resolutions planned for the year, but they mostly consist of doing more of the things I already do. I want to be healthier, happier, more balanced. I'm already endeavoring to be a better version of myself, so why not keep going, keep growing?
But that's enough about me. You all know the drill. My author page is facebook.com/authoremilyblue and you can find me @Miss_Emily_Blue.
Now, it's time for... "General Holladay's Resolution"
The man on the screen swept out his arm, a glowing
field of blue energy blasting through the room, shattering equipment and
sending shrapnel flying. Shards of metal punctured through the skin of the humanoid
creature on the other end of the room, high-pressured jets of blood spurting
from the wounds in its carapace. The scene dissolved into a kaleidoscopic mist,
an image of a vast galaxy forming from the swirling blur of color.
Words drifted into existence, superimposed on the
white-gold elliptical.
“I didn’t answer the call. The call answered me.”
After ten years playing General Holladay, ten years
being voted the Most Heroic Man in the Universe, I still had no idea what the
hell that catchphrase was. What the shit did it mean? The recruitment call for
the Planet Alliance Force, and it sounded as angst-riddled and self-important as
something a 14-year-old thought up for an imaginary argument that would never
happen.
“What do you think, Bradlee?” asked the man sitting in
front of the screen, wearing his favorite hat and fashionably-rumpled suit. “I
feel like we can do better.” He sighed.
“It’s raw and gritty, Director,” I said, telling him
what I knew he wanted to hear. “They’ll eat it up.”
Director Mark Jacobson nodded and pressed his lips
together. He had that unsatisfied expression he wore as often as his suit,
which meant he would hound the editors and animators to polish this next broadcast
until the first of the new year, when the entire world would watch under the
belief it was all happening real-time.
Only those in the know were aware of the truth, that
this fear-mongering production had been engineered by the Society to keep the
general population under control. When threats came from all around, strange
beasts and unimaginable technology pulled from the darkest recesses of the
human imagination, combatted only by a small force of specialized space
soldiers, no one bothered to argue with their government.
“There won’t be anything to worry about.” I consoled
Mark, knowing the words were really for me.
I might be an actor, a liar for profit, but I had also
become husband to Cynthia Holo, “Captain of the Third Squad,” and now father to
our daughter, Merry.
This frightened world was not one I wanted my daughter
to live in.
I patted Mark on the shoulder. “Are we done here?”
“What?” he said, absently. “Yes. Thank you, Bradley.
Your input is as invaluable as always.”
I left the screening room, walking through the
light-studded studio hallways. The illumination used to make me feel so
important, but now I huddled my shoulders around my neck and hurried to my
private room, where the lights could not reveal the secrets I felt were written
so apparently on my face.
A bottle of spiced whiskey and a canister of Calm
capsules awaited me on the dressing table where I placed them earlier. By
dinnertime tonight, when a series of scheduled messages launched from my
computer, containing months of gathered evidence as to the falsehood created
here in the Society’s hidden settlement, I would be beyond any sort of medical
assistance.
Cynthia could find someone better to raise Merry. The
revolution this evidence would create could find a better figurehead than an
aging actor.
I went to my room, my death chamber, sad, but also
satisfied.
And thirsty.
The End
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