the zamerida transmissions



watched the waitress stroll away, his smile slowly dissolving. He brought the phone back to his ear, cleared his throat. “Things are happening, yes,” he said, scanning the patio. “But what’s next…I just don’t know.”

             His eyes paused on a middle-aged couple a few tables over. He waited.

            “You don’t need to,” said the steady voice on the line. “Things are happening. We’re in motion, Cobbur.”

            “I know that, but,” Cobbur began, then noticed a pair of officers patrolling the sidewalk across the street. “Will it catch?”

            “Look around you,” said the voice. “What’s happening in Bolphurzon is symptomatic. Consider what we’ve seen.”

            Cobbur glanced up the sidewalk, spotted a young man sitting on a bench at the corner. He wore a T-shirt and jeans and a backpack was next to him. He’d already spotted the cers.

            “For the second time in five months the occupiers have faced massive opposition in the streets. The focus may be off of what went down at Wahzel Ranch but the sentiment is alive and well in Bolphurzon.”

            The young man was leaning forward, elbows on his knees. The officers swaggered on, chatting, oblivious to the boy or anything else.

            “They are pointing their guns at us and we are staring back at them. For days, Cobbur. For weeks.”  

            He hung his head between his knees as the cers passed him.

            “There is momentum.”

            The boy glanced up as the cers turned the corner. He was cracking the knuckles of his left hand.

            “Yes,” said Cobbor. He looked away. “I see it. Long dormant, but…rising.”

            His waitress was moving toward him.

            “Perhaps, Cobbur,” the voice slowly said.

            She was a lovely girl. Amber hair, brown eyes.


            The line went dead and Cobbur put his datacell away. The silly smile was back in place as he gave the waitress, Fyla, his order. Twenty minutes later he