The Attic      When the City Protection Troops stormed the house and discovered the attic completely sealed, I was called immediately.  I gave them specific instruction not to disturb the room until I arrived.      My work at the University gave me the informal title of historian.  I am, for the most part, a professor of science but occasionally called for my extensive knowledge of rare artifacts.  I refuse to be titled historian, for historians have been noted as ‘complications to The State’.  There have been rumors of historians taken away in the middle of the night.  Those who found links to our past and explain who we are or where we come from.  Human beings have a tendency to shift the blame to better explain their motives.   Historians play a key role in discovering truth, however, truth isn’t always best for a society rebuilding itself from the ashes.  I keep to myself.  I write my findings in my notebook then copy them verbatim to the registered key card that goes directly into Central Computer.  What happens after that?, I have no idea.  I prefer to keep it that way.      Hard to imagine this old house not harmed by the bombings and hundreds of fires that caught during the last great war.  High above the ground floor, the attic was hidden behind two secret doors.  It was originally designed to be a safe house for Arab Americans during the days of the ‘round-up’;  A desperate attempt to feel safe in an uncontrollable spiral leading to the first nuclear invasion.  Many innocent people were put to death.  The State doesn’t teach this, it represses it out of shame.  Even the term American isn’t used.  It’ s a nation long gone and forgotten.  It’s previous boarders don’t exist on any current map.  My grandparents told me stories and drew maps of how the world used to look.  And those of us who know, made promises to pass on that knowledge to the next generation.      I was the first to unseal the door and push open the phony wall.  There was a suck of air, like the room itself was taking a breath.  A few Troops took a step back, startled by the gasp.  We were all wearing oxygen masks, fearing the possibility of contamination.   Several Troops, weapons raised, cautiously kept guard as I entered the room.  Behind my mask I could see the making of a perfectly kept time capsule.  A room undisturbed.  Everything neatly kept under a thin layer of dust.  Protected behind just a few inches of wall.  With the few steps I had taken into the room, I had already disturbed the perfect balance of time.        I motioned for one of the Troops.  He entered the room holding a radiation meter.  He flicked a switch and a thin red needle bounced over scattered numbers on a small screen.  A light flashed green.  He looked up and nodded.  I closed my eyes and without pause, lifted off my mask.  Taking a deep breath, I waited, then breathed again.  The air was rich with age.  If the room had radiation it was in the scent of memories.    This room had known stillness for years only now to be violated.  An old attic, at its core, is a time machine.  I took another deep breath relishing the rooms sweet ambrosial quality.  It was intoxicating.  All the treasures that lay in front of me did not compare to the rich fragrance I could inhale.  Because the smell would eventually fade and be lost forever, it meant more to me than any rare artifact nestled in the corner of this forgotten room.  The air itself holds more truth than any long lost bible or history book.  The air speaks truth.  Within every breath is the breath of a thousand men before. Their history and truth becomes a part of you.  The air does not lie.  It will tell you, if you listen, what human history is.  And if you can smell carefully it might even tell you our future.        Over the course of just a few hours, the Troops carried every piece down to a holding facility.  Each item, carefully contained and sterilized.  It’s the same every time;  Whenever something of the old world is discovered it is carefully analyzed and determined to be profitable or worthless.  If it is profitable it will be sold at auction to wealthy collectors.  If it is worthless, it will be burned.  Sometimes an item will be classified as ‘dangerous’ and will be sealed in a special box and shipped someplace unknown.  In this particular attic there were few dangerous items.  Primarily books with authors named Poe, Bradbury and Shakespeare.  Less obvious are personal letters, a stack of Daily Chronicle newspapers,  a diary and a music-box.  I wanted the music box for myself, however, impossible to take.  Some items I can put in my pocket without anyone batting an eye, however, a music-box is high on the list of dangerous items.  I suppose that is what makes it so alluring.            Among the many benign objects was a box of seven empty Coca-Cola bottles.  Two of the seven were exactly alike, in so far as their shape, size and printing.  Seven total and in perfect condition.  Simple old Coke bottles that date back to 2025.  Back when it was legal to still use glass.  The Coca- Cola empire still makes these same style bottles today, but out of Neoprofolene.  It’s the only material the State will allow because it’s completely recyclable.  It’s no question these seven bottles will sell for a lot of money at auction.        I glanced around.  For a moment, I was alone in the attic.  I quickly searched for something to plug the hole in the bottle.  I found a handkerchief in my pocket and stuffed one end tightly sealing any air from escaping.  I imagine I have one breath of attic air trapped inside.  It’s better than nothing and something to drift me off to sleep.  The sweet smell of another era.  The last bits of a time machine locked inside a glass bottle.  I gently slipped the bottle into my jacket pocket and imagine the ephemeral moment when I pull the handkerchief out and take a deep breath and fall back in time into a thousand yesteryears.      Once the attic was cleared and all troops evacuated, the house was burnt to the ground in one giant controlled explosion.  It’s not really open to opinion.   The State decides what is good for the future of the people.  History is erased as are the minds of society, which seems to be an intrinsic part of any successful government.  The ruling political party had arrogated to itself complete, total control of this country and its people.        The sun was setting in the west and the fireball was quite beautiful with black billowing smoke rising above.  Several other fires are burning in the same neighborhood.  There are so few people to fill these homes, it almost makes sense to get rid of all these empty suburban neighborhoods.  I put my hand in my pocket and feel the cold glass bottle.  I wonder what secrets are trapped in there.  History comes and goes as involuntary as your breath.  No control, yet it keeps me well fed with a roof above my head.  As I watch the homes burn, I’m thankful I’m alive.