Taking a Life.

I took my first life a few years back in Florida.

My family and I decided to go on a family vacation for Christmas to this small island in Florida back in 2010. The island was called San Marco Island, and it's one of my favorite places I've ever been. We stayed in this huge hotel/spa right on the ocean. The place was a maze.

Most of our trip was spent playing bocci ball on the beach, taking those cliche' long walks on the beach. It was the middle of December, so even though it was perfectly nice out, the water was too cold to take a swim in. That was disappointing, but we made due.

Then one sunny day, my dad decided it was time to switch things up--he wanted to go fishing. My brother, sister, and I had never been fishing. We took a nice boat ride over to some secluded beach, and then we set up to start out fish catching.

Being a complete noob, I really didn't know what to expect. I was completely wrapped up in what I'm doing, so I honestly don't remember at all what anybody else was doing. There were only three things in my world--me, that ocean, and that thin line connecting the stick to the ocean. Absolutely nothing was happening, but even so, it was one of the most intense times of my life.
I could have been standing there for hours, but it also could have been mere minutes. I honestly don't know.
What I do know is that all the sudden, things started happening.

First, right out in front of where my line hit the water, I saw a group of dolphins swimming up and down in and out of the water like they're want to do. It was exciting to see them so close to the shore.
Second, right as they passed my line I got a bite. It was one of the most thrilling, yet terrifying feelings I've experienced. All I ever hear from people that are experience fishers is that you never catch something your first time, that you have to sit out there all day to even get a bite, etc.
But I got a bite. My first time.
And then the terror. It's embarrassing, but my mind connected the dots that weren't even there. The dolphins passed my line. Then I got a bite. Had I just accidentally hooked a dolphin? My stomach was in knots.
I yelled for my dad, and he came over and helped me start reeling it in.

Of course, it wasn't a dolphin. I think we found out it was called a sheepshead fish or something.

It was an absolutely beautiful fish. I wanted to put it back so it could continue on with its life. Apparently that wasn't the plan though. I tried to get the hook out without hurting it, but the fish had swallowed to hook entirely, and it wasn't coming back out. My next plan was to just cut the line, put the fish back in the water and hope for the best.
Then, out of nowhere, this scruffy, old fisherman in the usual overalls that you always imagine fisherman wearing walked up. In his incredibly thick accent, he said "Hey, lemme help ya with that." He had this big construction gloves on and grabbed the fish.
Then he proceeded to stick some needle nose pliers down the fish's throat and rip the hook right out from its flesh.
My jaw dropped to the sand. He handed the fish back to me and walked off.
So I was holding a dying fish. It was bleeding everywhere. It was still flopping about, trying to free itself.
I wanted it to live, so I walked back to the shore, and I set the bleeding creature down in the water, hoping it would "get back up" and swim away. I was still hopeful, if not traumatized. It flopped around a little bit, the blood starting to spread through the water. The water was getting deeper. Then, it suddenly stopped flopping and moving. After that, it sank down into the darkness. I don't know how deep it was, but it was deep enough that I could no longer see the being which I had just helped brutally murder.
Eventually we left.
Got back on the boat.
Walked to the car.
Drove back to our hotel.
I didn't really have much of anything to say for the rest of the night. I was too horrified at the murder I had just committed.
For just being my first experience with fishing/murder, I really don't like it very much.
And that's the story of how I took my first life.

A Different Perspective

I look up at the giant neon red clock.

11:30.

It’s dark outside. It’s dark inside.

The shops are all closed down; only the security lights are turned on. The permanently sleeping dinosaurs have finished showing off for the day. The ticket kiosk and its TVs sit quietly in the middle of the room, having been left by their attendants hours ago.

I push through the silver doors and am greeted by warmth and utter silence. It bears the feeling of an old cathedral, yet not one that celebrates an all-powerful God above, but one that remembers history. The thought of making a noise in the silence almost seems like a crime.

A few silent figures sit at their food courts, presumably waiting for a train to whisk them away from the city. Some of them are with friends or family, some sit alone in the dimly lit room.

The stores and kiosks and exhibits all around are locked up and put to bed for the night, no refreshments for the latecomers. A lone janitor walks from door to door checking the locks. Even though the room is dark and silent, the colors and mosaic on the walls and ceilings are vibrant and loud.

A generator hums quietly from somewhere in the room. You can almost feel the atmosphere of the building slowing down after a long day of kids and parents and students running in and out. Having been to the building during the day, it’s almost surprising that there aren’t still echoes from the activities of the day.

Suddenly, noise! The sound of a train rushing into the station down the hall, coming to a stop.

The scattered people, once again kids, parents, and students stand up, almost simultaneously, and walk as if in a trance towards the sound, and then they’re gone. Their voices are not. Laughs and conversations bounce down the massive hall as they excitedly head towards their train.

Only the men, women, and children on the mosaic on the ceiling accompany me now.

I follow the retro signs down the hall. Unlike during the day, I only have one choice of where to go due to all the barriers and locked doors—the train station itself.

I follow the path set before me and push through the metal doors to the ticketing room. I’m instantly greeted by the sound of conversation. In comparison to the silence in the previous room, the sound is booming. People asking about ticket information, what it’s like in Chicago, train ride lengths. A toddler follows his mother into the baggage check.

In two minutes it will be midnight.

As I walk to the seats in front of me, I stop and look to my left and right—mirrors, their reflections create an endless tunnel. The room ahead of me is miniscule compared to the entrance to the museum—the ceiling is short and the wooden, train-decaled walls are much more crowded. The rows of chairs would make it feel like a theater, if not for the noise.

There are phone booths in the back of the room, long out of use, and the phones all ripped out. The cords are just left, dangling there, like a small child’s tooth that’s about to fall out.

A train horn cries out in the distance. Maybe some of these folks are waiting for a ride, maybe they’re waiting for the train to bring back their loved ones.

People continue filing into the room as time passes. There are no more than ten people, but the room somehow still feels crowded.

Another train horn and another rush as a train pulls into the station down the hall. The room begins to empty as the nightriders walk down the long hallway to catch their ride, but a few remain.

Then, it starts to refill. There are hugs, laughter, and yelling as friends and family are reunited. As they regain their composure, the room empties.

Once again, I’m alone, and once again, the museum and train station are silent.

It’s the same building as it is during the day, but somehow it’s a completely different place. While it explodes with excitement during the day, it’s quiet, almost lonely and melancholy during the night.

I walk back through the mirrored hallway, down past all the closed off corridors and staircases and more old timey phone booths, back into the entryway where I started. As I walk past the ticketing kiosk and the empty food court tables and closed down shops towards the silver doors, the only sound I’m followed by is the echoing of my footsteps.

I look up at the giant neon red clock as I walk back out into the cold.

12:20.

Just a Playset

It was a playset in the clearing in the woods by the creek.

A swingset. A rainbow roof. A small sandbox area on the lower level.
You could climb the wooden ladder to get upstairs, or you could climb the rope ladder. If you were particularly daring, you could try climbing up the knotted, black rope to get up there.

That's all it was. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a playset.
Unless you knew how to look at it.

It was also a time machine, the knots in the wood were out dials and buttons. The woods around us-the untravelled land of the dinosaurs.

It was a pirate ship. You could climb up the rope ladder to the crows nest on the rainbow-flagged roof and look out over the creek that was as vast as the seven seas.

It was a spaceship. You could look out at the endless, dark space all around through the gaps in the wood planks that were our shuttles windows. You could walk off the shuttle, down the steps and be the first person ever on an uncharted forest planet. Occasionally, our shuttle would lose power and we would have to escape in the escape pod-swings.

The lower level sandbox wasn't merely a sandbox...it was a battle torn desert in the war between the green and tan plastic armies.

The swings were our fighter planes. If the enemy pilots ever shot one of us down, we would eject and land hard in the thick of battle in the enemy jungles.

The playset can take you to other worlds, and it can also turn you into other people. Some days, it would turn you into a Power Ranger; the next you were Spider-man or one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Yeah, it was just a playset in the clearing in the woods by the creek. But it was also so much more.