Free Double Exposure by Michael Lister

coming from a voice he no longer recognizes, visible breaths bathed in moonlight:
    You see a dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. Every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there—on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.
    A ntique Christmas lights. Snowfall on a black night.
    The Voyager image and Sagan’s words trigger thoughts of another cosmic image.
    The deepest view of the visible universe so far looks like old-fashioned Christmas lights seen through a snowstorm. The image resembles two scenes from the film
It’s A Wonderful Life
—the beginning when conversing angels are depicted by stars blinking and, near the end, thick snow falling on George Bailey as he stands on the bridge.
    The photo is composed of two separate images taken by Hubble’s Advanced Camera for Surveys, and the Near Infrared and Multi-Object Spectrometer. It shows not only over ten thousand galaxies, but the first of them to emerge from the big bang some four to eight hundred million years ago, burning stars reheating the cold, dark universe.
    P assionate.
    Taking.
    Swooning.
    Elegant Arc.
    Sculpturesque.
    Planting one on her.
    1945.
    V-J Day.
    Alfred Eisenstaedt’s photograph for Life Magazine of a sailor kissing a nurse in Times Square on V-J Day is perhaps the second most iconic of World War II.
    The people.
    The contrast of his navy blue sailor suit and her white nurse’s uniform.
    The place.
    The heart of America’s city.
    The time.
    The day of Japan’s surrender.
    The onlookers.
    The excitement of the crowd, the white dots of litter on the blacktop. The way she leans into him, the arch of her back, the bend of her right leg, the hint of the tops of her stockings peeking out beneath the bottom of her skirt. The grip of his right hand on her waist, the crook of his left cradling her head.
    The intensity.
    The boldness.
    The commitment.
    The surrender.
    “The Kiss.”
    G ray cloud and smoke.
    Six figures atop a craggy heap of war-torn debris.
    Lifting.
    Hoisting.
    Planting.
    Staking.
    Marines.
    Mount Suribachi.
    The only image from World War II more iconic than “The Kiss” is “Raising The Flag On Iwo Jima,” the Pulitzer prize-winning photograph taken by Joe Rosenthal on February 23, 1945.
    The slanting angle of the pole, the stop-action of the men, the windswept unfurling of the American flag.
    — Y ou out there, killer?
    Gauge’s voice is so calm, so flat and even, it chills Remington far more than the cold.
    —I’m here if you need to talk.
    Remington doesn’t respond.
    —You ever killed before? Not very pleasant, is it? But you had to do it, didn’t you? See, there are times when you just don’t have any other options. And when it’s you or them, well, it’s got to be them, right? Hey, I understand. I’ve been there. Earlier today, in fact.
    Jerking the radio to his mouth, depressing the button, speaking—no thought, no filter, no way to stop himself now.
    —Who was she and why’d you have to kill her?
    He hadn’t planned to. It just came out, as if independent of him, a rogue bypassing his decision-making process.
    —Not knowing really bothers you, doesn’t it?
    —She wasn’t trying to kill you.
    —There’s more than one way to die. And some shit’s worse than death. A lot worse.
    —Such as?
    —Things that kill a man’s soul.
    —Such as?
    —Well, I’m sure there’re lots of things. Ruinin’ a man’s reputation comes to mind. Destroying his family. Taking away everything he’s