I'm Sorry Momma

The young man with shoulder-length dreads stops in front of the stationary store, extracts a crumpled five-dollar bill from his front pocket and sighs. He works as many hours as he can at a fast food place near the community college where he attends night classes. His old man took off when he was four, and his mom got hurt working off the books for some rich asshole, and until her disability comes through, they scrimp and save every penny. It is a struggle to buy food and pay the rent and utilities, not to mention his mom’s prescription drugs the insurance company won’t cover. The richest country in the world, my ass. If we were so rich, then why can’t I afford to buy my mom a goddamn Christmas gift? The crumpled five-dollar bill was all he had to buy his mom’s present. He looked at the window display of old books, special paper, and the most beautiful leather-bound journal with the fanciest pen he had ever seen. His mom would love that journal and pen.

Mumbling to no one in particular, he rationalizes, “The journal and pen must be marked up, and the store is just a big corporate chain; they won’t miss it.” The young man walks into the store, scoops up the journal and pen, shoves them into his backpack, and in their place, he lays down the crumpled five-dollar bill. The security guard watches and pursues the young man. He yells out, “Hey, you! Stop!” The young man glances over his shoulder and takes off running. Speed and agility are on the side of the youth. He escapes the mall and enters the parking lot where he sees a police car with its flashing lights blocking the main exit. He slows and tries to act casual, but the police officer spots him and starts walking toward him. He panics and takes off across the parking lot, heading toward a thick grove of trees where he stands a better chance of eluding the cops. He is just about to make it to the edge of the thick tree line when he feels a sharp sting in the middle of his shoulder blades. A split second later, he hears the crack of a gunshot fill the air. His brain finally registers that he has been shot. The bullet went through the boy’s backpack, the leather-bound journal, and, finally, through the boy’s heart. He falls to the ground and whispers, I’m sorry, Momma, before drifting into an eternal sleep.

If energy can be neither created nor destroyed, and we are comprised of energy, where does our energy go after we die? Where did the energy from the slain youth go? Is our energy absorbed into our surroundings, or do we live on? This, of course, is the great debate. While millions believe in ghosts, very few of us know about this unseen realm. While modern science can neither prove nor disprove the existence of ghosts, one thing is certain: Strange phenomena exist in our universe—phenomena that cannot be explained and warrant further investigation.

Many have made it their life’s work to explore claims of the paranormal, and these “ghost hunters” have uncovered some interesting theories based on their paranormal research. For example, spirits no longer possess a physical body; therefore, these entities don’t require food or sleep to exist in our universe, but they do require energy. So, if a ghost is pure energy and stands next to a piece of equipment that monitors changes in energy, then perhaps it is possible to communicate with these spirits using such devices. We may never know where our energy goes when we die, but in the case of the young man in this story, let us hope he is not an earthbound spirit. Let us hope that he has instead found the collective ball of energy we all aspire to join after our earthly forms fail.

This story was chosen as a winner in the weekly writing contest sponsored by

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