18 Feet and Counting

Major Richard Barnham had overshot. There was no going back and only a long journey forward. "Fuck" into his whiskey.

Juniper Richard Barnham was born in a four story house in East London in the early seventies. Depending how you counted, there were five families living in the building. Parentage was a fluid notion in those parts. The kids all played together as brothers and sisters and the adults, not as brothers and sisters.

Schooling was non-traditional but Richard was smart. He took in the Buddhist lessons and data from the outside world equally. Through a cloud of marijuana fog he alone saw clearly, he thought.

The extended family weren't isolated of course. Much of their time was spent out at workshops or handing out flyers at marches against the military industrial complex, the inhuman and unnatural complex whose sole purpose was to enslave the living. Failing this the nukes would fly.

The latter option was what concerned Richard the most. Even could the military industial complex be properley identified and described, he found it unclear what strategy could possibly be used to dismantle it. He was big on clarity and strategy. What was clear was that the nukes could fly unless stopped. From an early age Richard was realistic about the challenge ahead. He couldn't eradicate the nuclear threat, nor did his voice add much to the protest he regarded so highly.

When he signed up for the military not a word could placate the family. He tried desperately to explain but in their eyes he was lost to the great satan and would most likely be the one to destroy them.

The life suited Richard, in fact he excelled. His strategy he kept in mind but, lost in the moment, he was a loyal servant to his men, to the forces. It wasn't easy to chart a course towards the button. Circumstances took over but he plotted a course until, when his career needed levelling, he made his mistake. It was a small thing, only small, but the military industrial complex took notice of his potential and before he could protest, promotion, and the button was behind him and receding.

He watched it, aghast. He watched it disappear even as the weight of his failure became apparent; the men killed, the men sent to die, the lives destroyed. By him.

"Fuck" into his whiskey.