P'sall Senji
A cool breeze carried with it the cinnamon scent of turning leaves. Orange and yellow blurs ambled through the air, dislodged from
their moorings in the branches of trees surrounding the Capitol Mall. When the noon hour arrived, the crowd ceased its murmuring and all eyes scanned the heavens, seeking out the ship carrying beings from another world.
Sergeant Henry Willoughby glided a hand over his right coat pocket, feeling for the bulge of the revolver. He thought about what he needed to do, and the risks. After twenty-five years on the police force he was a creature of habit and method. Steps away from the
presidential podium, he kept his position among the undulating spectators, and in his mind's eye pictured drawing the revolver and firing it. Satisfied that his aim would be unobstructed, his hand continued down to the hem of the coat to brush off a bit of lint. A shout followed by raised arms lifted his gaze. Here they come, he thought. This is going to be an interesting day.
A week earlier.
Henry Willoughby was walking his Lincoln Memorial beat, ostensibly looking out for trouble, but in reality watching for cars parked illegally along the drive. It was something he'd done thousands of times before. Each day more of his thoughts revolved around his
pending retirement, a forced retirement. Rules were rules, and though he understood the logic, he felt it was too early, too soon for someone with his experience to be put out to pasture, to be made invisible. He sucked in a few deep breaths as he reached the columns atop the worn marble steps.
It was a Monday evening, already dark at seven, with few tourists about. A heavy dampness in the air hinted at wet autumn weather. Henry glanced up at Lincoln's seated frame. The white marble face, chiseled from beneath by an array of spotlights, stared out at the narrow reflecting pool. He followed its gaze in an unconscious urge to see what drew Lincoln's attention this evening. Maybe the saucers were back. They were the hot topic on the news, seen for months now. Homemade videos and cell phones caught their appearances day and night over a number of US cities, including Washington, DC. Tonight there were only stars, flickering, but unmoving. Wavelets in the pool carried off thin slices of the glowing image of the Washington Monument in the distance.
As Henry began his trek down to the road below, a flash caught his eye. It came from the wooded area bordering the nearby Korean War Memorial. Maybe it was someone taking pictures. He clambered over the stone treads, skipped across the street, and took the asphalt trail leading to the Memorial.
their moorings in the branches of trees surrounding the Capitol Mall. When the noon hour arrived, the crowd ceased its murmuring and all eyes scanned the heavens, seeking out the ship carrying beings from another world.
Sergeant Henry Willoughby glided a hand over his right coat pocket, feeling for the bulge of the revolver. He thought about what he needed to do, and the risks. After twenty-five years on the police force he was a creature of habit and method. Steps away from the
presidential podium, he kept his position among the undulating spectators, and in his mind's eye pictured drawing the revolver and firing it. Satisfied that his aim would be unobstructed, his hand continued down to the hem of the coat to brush off a bit of lint. A shout followed by raised arms lifted his gaze. Here they come, he thought. This is going to be an interesting day.
A week earlier.
Henry Willoughby was walking his Lincoln Memorial beat, ostensibly looking out for trouble, but in reality watching for cars parked illegally along the drive. It was something he'd done thousands of times before. Each day more of his thoughts revolved around his
pending retirement, a forced retirement. Rules were rules, and though he understood the logic, he felt it was too early, too soon for someone with his experience to be put out to pasture, to be made invisible. He sucked in a few deep breaths as he reached the columns atop the worn marble steps.
It was a Monday evening, already dark at seven, with few tourists about. A heavy dampness in the air hinted at wet autumn weather. Henry glanced up at Lincoln's seated frame. The white marble face, chiseled from beneath by an array of spotlights, stared out at the narrow reflecting pool. He followed its gaze in an unconscious urge to see what drew Lincoln's attention this evening. Maybe the saucers were back. They were the hot topic on the news, seen for months now. Homemade videos and cell phones caught their appearances day and night over a number of US cities, including Washington, DC. Tonight there were only stars, flickering, but unmoving. Wavelets in the pool carried off thin slices of the glowing image of the Washington Monument in the distance.
As Henry began his trek down to the road below, a flash caught his eye. It came from the wooded area bordering the nearby Korean War Memorial. Maybe it was someone taking pictures. He clambered over the stone treads, skipped across the street, and took the asphalt trail leading to the Memorial.