Maquisards
A micro-story written by Daniel J. Neumann
We all knew it was a suicide mission, but I’m not sure if it registered on an emotional level what that truly meant—were the worst to happen. For my part, I wasn’t ready to die. I would tell people that I was. I would tell people I would fight to the last breath against the Nazi pigs to defend France.
Re: Petition of the Select
(a short story by Daniel J. Neumann)
“The Moon is so beautiful,” I said as I gazed at her. “So sterile… glowing… distant.”
“It won’t be in about 5 hours for you, big guy.” My co-pilot, Hans Wagner, didn’t like me because I was landing on the Moon while he had to stay behind in the orbiter. The jealousy hung in the air.
I figured we shouldn’t speak anymore. Instead, I turned my thoughts to the mission. The idea of being the first man to step on the Moon scared the hell out of me. What if I botched the landing and stranded myself or blew myself up in a crash landing? How might that failure affect our entire species? Our Great Nation values the evolution of humanity, and I felt like I was the bearer of that ideal. This demonstration of ingenuity and ambition might have enlightened humanity and connected us together. The world’s states could put aside their paranoia and realize a globally stable world. I considered the posturing between nuclear powers as the possible end to everything, the economy encouraging cruel and unhealthy practices, and people all across the world consequentially revolting against their governments. Our world was tearing at the seams. I would have liked my part to stop mankind from self-annihilation.
“We’re in stable orbit, near your site. Time to get in the landing module.”
I concentrated on my antique lamp, carefully analyzing the dust coating its base. It felt like me, I assumed. I felt like dust clung to me. “Yet it’s brighter than I’ll ever be.”
Everything I had to do that day, and tomorrow, seemed overwhelming. It was hopeless. It was repeated torture.
“Today is the day I do it. I’m really going to.”
I looked out the window—the sun piercing my swollen eyes.
