A short excerpt from a WIP
I sat on the seventh floor of Sutter Hospital, Sacramento, Geriactic Care Unit looking out the window. Outstretched below in the dappled midsummer shaddows lay the fort from which the hospital took its name. A century or so ago, if you were a blood lusting europhile looking to exorsice some post-Industrial Revolution based rage, this was the place to be. In 1839, the Swiss German John Sutter set up camp in the California Valley, enlisting the locals through fear or coercion to build high walls and stacks of adobe bricks. His dream was to create an agricultural utopia and, as it turns out, draining the virgin land of its natural resources worked out pretty well for him. The fort I saw, as I perched myself on the window radiator of the hospital, no longer resemble the Wild West men’s club I’m sure it once was. My nostrils dilated to the scent of isopropyl as I split the shade blinders with two fingers. Below the fort was a buzz. Men in stretchy pants scampered skipping over cobblestones to generously extend food and blankets to proverbial Native Americans. The blazing guns of manifest destiny had been neutered by progress. I turned from the glare of natural midday light to the dim of the heart monitor and the dying adult next to me.