but tell it slant

Sometimes . . .

2009-10-22T20:04:00.001-04:00

I miss the people I never knew the most.

Life in the Woods

2009-09-23T17:10:00.002-04:00

Genre: Journalism (Profile)
Date written: 02/24/2009
Word count: 1717

“’Stop! Thief! Coward!’ I chased him into the woods shouting that. I was about to tackle him, and he dropped the backpack.” Dr. Wagner’s eyes glisten with a boyish eagerness as he recounts to me his encounter with a machete wielding man in Guatemala this past summer. He suddenly gets up and walks across the room towards his coffee pot. I see on his desk a small basket of dried apples picked from his own farm. A battered gray briefcase leans against his desk. Interspersed with several travel books, various textbooks ranging from modern physics to environmental science line his bookshelves. The very bottom shelf contains a collection of National Geographic—some dating back to the 1980’s. On his computer, he has open a Wikipedia page about grapefruit.

With his scraggly beard and slightly unkempt hair, Wagner bears a slight resemblance to the great philosopher Henry David Thoreau. “I got a lot of ideas from him [Thoreau] when I was in junior high,” Wagner admits, “I read him again after I got out of college, and he’s right. Simplify your life, and things will be better for you. Buddha taught that suffering is caused by desires and to the extent you can reduce your desires, you can reduce your suffering. I’ve found it to be true.” Highly critical of the modern consumerist age, Wagner has lived up to his goal of living life simply. He resides in a modest home on a farm with a monthly $15 electric bill. Living without air conditioning, central heat, a computer, or a cell phone, Wagner opts to heat and cool his home with a simple wood stove and fan during the winter and summer months. Roy Flannagan, a friend and colleague of Wagner, notes that “his house is empty. It’s almost creepy.” Despite his minimalist approach to living, Wagner admits to having some creature comforts. “I do have lights, a radio, a TV, and a ghetto blaster so I can listen to music.”

Although more commonly known as the thrifty, economically-savvy chemistry teacher at the Governor’s School for Science and Mathematics (GSSM), Dr. Kurt Collins Wagner leads a second life of adventure aside from his teaching career. Student Anna Capps recalls a time when Dr. Wagner admitted to wearing his swim suit under his work clothes so that he could leave immediately after class to go surfing. Although still thoroughly entrenched in the world of academia, Dr. Wagner has managed to balance his active outdoorsman lifestyle by traveling the world during his months off work. “I always wanted to be a scientist, and I got to do that. I wanted to be sailor, and I’ve done that. I wanted to have adventures, and I’ve had an awful lot of them,” he replied when I asked about his childhood goals. “I’ve always enjoyed the outdoors,” Wagner continues, “When I got out of college, I dropped out. I didn’t want to have to do anything with modern society. I basically thought it was evil. I lived in a cabin in the woods and lived by hunting, fishing, and foraging. In my senior year in high school, I got a tent and lived in the woods. After I got my doctorate, I went wandering around in the Rocky Mountains for a while.”

Despite his modest way of life, Dr. Wagner is at the age of 56, a self-made millionaire. Gifted with an eye for financial opportunities, Wagner through the years has accumulated a respectable fortune through thrifty spending habits and a series of lucrative investments. In his chemistry class, students can look forward to his “Economic Minute,” a series of daily tips ranging from investment advice to legal tax evasion. He admits that making money is “kind of a habit at this point. I hope that some of this information will rub off on my students, who are presumably interested in money. Materially, I have everything I want already. At some point, the only reason to make money is to give it away prudently, and that’s what I want to do.” When I ask him why he continues teaching, he replies, “Well, I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing. I don’t really need the money anymore, but hey, it’s a pretty nice job.”

In 1994, Dr. Wagner had been in midst of what he likes to call his “wandering chemist phase” when he met Bob Trowell, a former chemistry teacher at GSSM who suggested that Wagner apply for a job at the school. “I was working at the University of Rochester and ended up in a dorm with Bob Trowell. We were both teachers and both into long distance bicycle riding. Six months later, I get a phone call saying, ‘Guess what? Joe quit. Want to apply for his job?’ So here I am.” Dr. Wagner continues on to tell me that the students are his favorite part of teaching at GSSM. “I like the fact that I can teach, and that I have to spend little time maintaining order.” However, he does admit that teaching does have its downsides. “Teaching is so schizophrenic in that you work all the time, twelve to fourteen hours a day, six days a week, and then have two months completely off. Sometimes I wish I had a more normal existence.” He rocks back and forth on his worn swivel chair as he waves his arm over a stack of paper. “And I really hate grading,” he adds, “I should hire someone to do it for me.”

After a full day at work, Wagner returns to his 67 acre farm in the small town of Bishopsville and participates in what he likes to call “aerobic work.” “I just mess around on the farm. Cut brush, or cut firewood. I grow all my vegetables and most of my fruit.” He gets up and pours more water into his coffee pot as he adds, “Oh, another thing I do for exercise is, I walk. I like to walk. I walk a lot. I walk the perimeter of my land because I know it well and can find my way in the dark. I walk during my vacations. I call these summer expeditions my ‘walkabouts.’ I’m open to whatever presents itself. Be it an opportunity to be robbed or whatever. I set forth with no particular plan and make it up as I go along. No schedule. If you have a schedule, it’s too much like work. You just go wander around and experience new stuff.”

From these “walkabouts” Wagner over the years has collected an impressive collection of personal stories. He tells me about his recent trip to Guatemala. “I met this woman from Texas in Guatemala. I was looking for somewhere to eat breakfast, and she was doing the same thing. We decided to walk over the next village to get away from the tourists. We’re walking on the road and some guy comes walking in the opposite direction carrying a machete. I didn’t think much of it, but he walked across the road to where we were at. Robin immediately takes off her backpack and gives it to him. The guy looks at me and says, ‘Give me your backpack.’ I took it off, looked him squarely in the eye and said, ‘No.’ So he starts swinging his machete around and I block it with my backpack. Then, I punched him in the nose. He swung the machete several times, and I just hit him again and again. Finally, he turned and ran. So, I chased him into the woods, and when I was about to tackle him, he drops the backpack. Robin comes running and says, ‘There’s two more [men] coming.’ So we ran.” He adjusts the collar of his wrinkled blue shirt and takes a sip of his coffee as he adds, “I went to the police later and identified the guy from a mug shot.” After a moment’s pause Wagner’s blue eyes turn cold as he says, “Thieves are cowards. They’re looking for a victim. I am not a victim. I do plan on hurting them. At least.”

As an afterthought he adds, “Well, I haven’t been killed or seriously injured yet. One wonders how long the good luck can hold.” He smiles mischievously as he begins shelling pecans he picked from his farm the week before. While telling me of a time when a horse had fallen out under him at a full gallop, he adds, “It was exciting. As long as you don’t get hurt, it’s fun. At this point, I’ve almost lost completely all interest in fiction. I just don’t care. It’s all made up crap. Reality is interesting enough.”

Pragmatic and very much grounded in the real world, Wagner’s students and colleagues alike testify to his strong opinions and beliefs. One can often find a student in his office debating about politics or the economy. “I’m for minimal government and maximum freedom,” he notes with a small laugh. His voice suddenly turns serious, however, as he adds, “Keep in mind that the flip side of freedom is responsibility. If you decide to smoke, don’t ask me to help you pay for a new set of lungs.” Wagner holds equally practical opinions regarding religion. Describing his retreat into the woods after college, he tells me, “At the time, religion had caused a great deal of confusion in my mind. I went to the woods and lived there for seven years without electricity. I explored and read all the religious texts, and certain things became clear to me.” As I start packing away my notebook and pens, he asks me, “What’s the difference between religion and mythology? Mythology is religion that’s died out, and religion is a myth that hasn’t died yet. But I shy away from the word ‘atheist.’”

On my way out, I see his travel books and ask him about all the countries he has visited. “This past summer, I was in Guatemala. I’ve also been to Mexico, Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, Nicaragua, Belize, and Honduras.” I ask him about his plans for the coming summer. Without skipping a beat he replies, “I might just go wander around pointlessly. Or I saw an opportunity to go research medicinal use of plants in the Caribbean. I might do that.”

The Drones

2009-09-14T13:10:00.002-04:00

Genre: Fantasy

Word Count: 687

He was running—feet pumping wildly, tripping, hands circling in a dance for balance; the golden stalks whipped his body mercilessly as he thrashed by. Why? Why, why, why? Why had it happened?

The slaving workers all around, but only spots of color in his eyes; they never turned from their harvesting. Why?

The field burst into a clearing, a small shack at the edge of the estate, a blur in his wet vision. He stopped, a man sobbing for breath, legs gasping for support, arms thrusting the lashing whips aside. His body was spent, but for some reason, that reality barely lurked in his grieving mind.

It was over.

He had never thought it would be like this, a mad panic descending, a sudden disregard for reason, a pause for contemplation, a spark of hope—

He hadn’t thought he would lose control, but he had; he clearly had. The unsolved weights were pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe, making it hard to think. His vision blurred; and then the shed was right in front of him, a squat cube of wood and tin smashed next to the woods, yellow straws just tickling the corrugated sides. Inside, was the answer.

In a sudden rush, his breath returned, his lungs gasped, his limbs burned from the heat of exertion. A bitter laugh almost rebelled—he was really doing it, was really going to end it all.

A stumbling step, a clumsy fumble with the parched door, and he was in—in the encompassing darkness within. The sounds of the laborers faded away; his hands pawed the cabinet as his eyes adjusted.

He looked at the vial. Fragile. Innocent.—Who would have guessed that it held so much power?

“Karil,” a voice from behind him, a wisp of tender hair, a whiff of soft perfume, “what are you doing?”

She had come, but he didn’t reply, didn’t turn around. His fingers slowly rotated the glass, tired eyes intently watching the clear, colorless liquid within swirl gently about.

“Karil.” A little louder, a little concerned, “What are you doing?”

The solution to all his problems was in his hands, he knew. There were the stirrings of a smile.

“Karil,” she brushed gently against his side.

Did he have the strength to drink it? Did he have the strength to give up?

“Karil!”

No, no. It wasn’t giving up. Not everything. He would still be useful to society, to his friends, to his family.

Her hands flew out, grasped the vial, nearly taking it completely from his grip.

“Karil! What are you doing?”

He snatched the precious flask back. “It’s for the best.”

“What do you mean? You can do so much more the way you are now.”

He looked away, out the window, toward the mindless, toiling workers in the fields. “The drones are happy,” he said with a hint of bitterness.

“They don’t know any better!” she made another lunge. “You don’t want to be like that!”

“Don’t I?”

“What are you saying? Weren’t you laughing at them yesterday?”

He didn’t answer.

“Think about it, Karil. Think about what you’re doing.”

Slowly, “I have.”

“Then why? Didn’t you weigh the positives and negatives? Can’t you see the benefits of staying yourself?”

He fingered the stopper.

“What about me? What about me, Karil?” A desperate voice, a begging voice, a voice on the verge of collapse.

He paused. Froze. He paused and then slowly lifted the vial, slowly lifted it to his lips. She watched, crying, not daring to reach out, not daring enough to stop him.

“What about me?” a whisper, an unbelieving whisper. The answer was too obvious, painfully obvious, heart-wrenchingly obvious.

One drop was enough, a mere mist on his lips. One drop and the vial was lowered again, a glittering phial of liquid crystal. One drop and he was gone, standing stiffly in the center of the room, awaiting an order.

One drop and it was all over.

Slowly, so slowly, she reached for the glass still clutched in his undead hands, reached for the container holding the sparkling liquid,—reached for freedom.

The Garbage Man

2009-09-09T21:55:00.001-04:00

Genre: Short story
Written: August 29, 2009
Word count: 728

At 3:00 AM I met the garbage man, and by 3:11 he was just another memory. I was sitting on the cold pavement of the curb, blowing soft clouds of white vapor with my mouth when he came. He drove up the street in an eerily quiet truck and shuddered to a stop in front of my apartment. He was humming softly to the tune of "Amazing Grace" as he picked up my putrid can of leftover dinners, unpaid bills, and molding yogurt containers. He sniffed the air with vigor, and smiled with a modest satisfaction.

"Yes, sir. It's a good day. Yes, sir it is."

I stirred a little, not knowing if he had just addressed me.

"Yes, sir, I can see ya. Yes, sir I can."

He started humming again. The night decided to throw a little chill in the air, and I tugged my jacket closer to my chest.

"Whatcha doin' on a night like this? Lonely as hell. Dark as hell. Hell! You're probably the only one out here. Yes, sir, just you and me on the streets. On the streets all alone."

I sat there mute, not knowing how to respond, and feeling a strange sensation of wanting to bare my soul to an utter stranger who collected all the unwanted things of life. He stood there for a moment, decided I was not going to answer, turned around and started walking towards his truck.

"Yes, sir, it's an excellent day for the garbage man. But a man shouldn't be alone. A fine man like yourself shouldn't be alone. No, sir, fine men should not be alone on a night like this."

He suddenly turned around and faced me with a violent grin that made a small part of my stomach fold.

"No, sir, you should not be alone."

His oily face was framed by his slightly matted, damp hair that fumed with the vapors of the city. His clothes were stained by every excrement no one wanted, and his shoes were damp with the juices of week-old lunches and spoiled milk. His entire being reeked of the garbage of the cities, and he repulsed me. I turned away, ashamed at my disgust. When I looked up, his smile had gone. Some part of me knew that I would never see it again.

"I do this for you, ya know. Yes, sir, I do this for everyone. Someone's gotta do it, and yes, sir, I suppose it's gotta be me. You learn a lot about people through their trash, ya know that? Yes, sir what everyone doesn't want, is what everyone does truly want deep inside. I know more about every one of ya than any of ya ever care to admit. Yes, sir, I'm a goddamn factory of information on you all. That apartment right there," he yelled as he pointed to the complex above mine, "They're going through a divorce. They don't even bother to shred those types of papers! Yes, sir, they're going through some tough times and I bet you didn't even know it. You see that one over there?" He continued to yell, his volume swelling, "Yes, sir, I suspect that there be some abuse goin' on in that place. That one, sir! Yes, that one! Someone just died there. Ya know that? Ya know that someone died there?" He panted slightly with exertion and wiped the bead of sweat that had formed near his hairline with the back of his wrist. “No, sir, I bet you didn’t know a damn thing about anyone.”

He gave me one final look of disdain, jumped in his truck, and drove away. I sat on the curb, horribly ashamed at the one way conversation that had transpired between me and this man I had never met. I looked up at the apartments he had pointed out, and became repulsive in my own eyes. It was a lonely night, and I was an abhorrence to myself. I wondered who had died, and cursed that no names came to mind. I cursed into the air and knew that I was alone. For the next week I stood on the curb, waiting for the garbage man, but he never came back. He never came back, and the garbage of my life sat festering, rotting on the curb, and I knew that I was alone.

Wrong Choice, Try Again

2009-09-04T10:47:00.009-04:00

Genre: Science Fiction
Word Count: 3918

A/N: Might be my last post for a while, who knows. I'll have to see how my schedule settles out to in college. :)

Wrong choice, try again.

My surroundings fade out and reset themselves. The tracks in front. The oncoming train. The five people tied to the track, like something out of a corny Western movie. The smug man standing next to me, watching the whole scene unfold without any expression of emotion. Oh yeah, and the never-ending miles and miles of empty desert around. What’s the point of this place again?

The train barrels closer.

What the heck is going on, anyway? One second, I’m at the office, about to sign the document that would fire the people responsible for the recent fiasco. The next, here I am, standing on this station platform, watching the train chug closer, closer, ever closer to running over the people on the track. How’d they get there in the first place?

Closer.

The man next to me glances at his watch, checking the time. What the heck is he doing? Why doesn’t he go and do something about the people? Like, something along the lines of saving them?

“I’m not the one being tested.” He looks up. He must have read my mind. No, can’t be. Just coincidence.

And closer. Fifty feet away. Forty. Thirty. Twenty. Ten.

And there go the people… again. For like the billionth time. Blood and limbs and who-knows-what flying everywhere. What can I do? There’s no convenient switch, no way to signal. And it’s not like I want to be here.

The train slows… and slows… and stops. A bit late there.

I wait for the voice.

Wrong choice, try again.

It booms from everywhere, nowhere, like some stereotypical god. Hold a sec. What did I just say? Stereotypical god… how does that work? Oh, never mind.

The scene fades out again, reappears. The train whistles in the distance… again. This is getting to be too familiar.

The man next to me casually examines his fingernails. “Well? Are you going to do something this time?”

Me? Do something? Why don’t you? I ought to punch that smug loser in the nose. Might make him rethink his words a bit. What a jerk.

“I’m not the one being tested.” He rummages through his black clothes and pulls out a monocle. The stereotypical gentleman from who-knows-what time period. I don’t know. I’m just an office worker. Black shoes, black pants, black jacket, black top hat. I’d give more descriptive words, but I don’t know much about old-fashioned clothing. Heck, who would? Some random aspiring writer in the middle of nowhere who really needs to get a life, no doubt. Oh yeah, don’t forget that bushy, white mustache. Can’t forget the mustache.

And what’s this about a test?

“You’re being tested. I’d suggest you do something.” He musses around with the golden monocle, shifting its position constantly. The glaring sun burns down on us. Oh yeah, the sun, something else I forgot in my earlier description. Anyways, wasn’t he hot? Heck, I’m feeling a bit warm, but he’s wearing all black… and all long-sleeved at that! He ought to be melting. Of course, I ought to be, too, but the place keeps resetting itself every five minutes or so. Thankfully, that includes the heat as well.

I glance over at the incoming train. Getting closer again. Ah well, nothing else to do but talk to that condescending loser.

“What can I do?” I finally ask.

He shrugs. “Do something. Save the people.”

I’m in some crazy, weird time loop in some crazy, alternate reality, and this guy expects me to go all hero. Yeah, I’ll just bust out that Superman costume and throw that train out to Timbuktu. Just another normal day at work.

“How?” My voice was scathing. Can’t keep the sarcasm out. I’m bad at that. Almost got into some real trouble back with my old boss about that. Hey, nobody can be perfect, right?

He shrugs again. “I’d suggest stopping the train.”

No really? I can feel the sarcasm struggling to break out again. Got to work on that self-control. Anyways, what’s the point of saving those people? They probably don’t exist—definitely don’t exist anyway. Just like this whole place doesn’t exist. I mean, what place do you know that keeps repeating itself after every five minutes? Oh yeah, and that weird booming voice. Nope, definitely not real. I must have fallen asleep or something—this is all just some weird, bizarre dream.

Time to try that good-old, clichéd way to wake up. I raise my finger… and pinch. It hurts. Dang. If this is following any of those crazy rules of really bad fiction, it means this is real. And I’m not dreaming.

“The people are real.”

Dang, he read my mind… again! How’d he do that if this is real? He was a bit slower on it this time though…

“I’d try to do something if I were you.” The gentleman smiles and checks his watch again. A fancy, gold, pocket watch, of course. Nothing less for Mr. Prim-and-Proper.

I look back at the train. Getting closer. Smoke pours out from the funnel. What the heck.

I half-run, half-walk towards the train, feeling really stupid. Whoo hoo. Over here! I wave my hands in the air. Maybe the train’s driver will actually see me and stop. What a laugh. “Hey! Stop!”

I can tell I’m doing this half-heartedly. I mean, who wouldn’t? And what’s going on here anyway? If only my boss could see me now… or not. He’d get a kick out of it for sure.

“Hey! You! Driver person! Stop!”

The train moves closer. Is it slowing? Nope, not slowing. I wince slightly as it runs over the people again. Blood splatters around. Fake, I tell myself. Blood doesn’t really splatter that much in real life. Then again, you don’t really see people get run over by a train in real life either. Well, at least where I live people don’t.

The train stops. A bit late there. Just a bit.

Wrong choice, try again.

Here we go again.

I’m back where I started, next to the gentleman. Mr. Prim-and-Proper. Cool, teleportation. I take that back. It’s only almost cool, since I’m stuck here in the middle of nowhere.

“Nice idea, but there’s no driver.”

“What do you mean, no driver?” How does a train go without someone to start it?

He shrugs.

Great answer, bud. Helps a whole lot. How does that work? Does the train just move all by itself? Somewhere inside me, I guess yes. Well, what now, genius? How’re you supposed to stop the train? Heck, why do I even need to stop the train. To save five very very real people? Just let them die. It’s not worth the effort on my part. Except… that I might be stuck here for all eternity if I don’t do something. I seem to be in some sort of infinite loop… or at least until I do something to get out of it. And standing here watching the train plow into the five retards who got themselves strapped to the stupid track obviously isn’t the trigger to getting out of here. What now?

“Think.” Mr. Prim-and-Proper pulls out a toothpick and starts picking away at those pearly whites. Or, more like not-so-pearly yellows on his part. Ick. “You’re supposed to be a good thinker. Think up a way out of this.”

Out of what? Oh well, might as well try. How can I stop the train? Tear up the track? It might work, if I had half an eternity to attempt to chip away at the steel with my bare hands. Or, at least I think it’s steel. I mean, how many other shiny, silvery metals can there be?

Anyways, that won’t work. Gotta think of something else. Push the train over? Yeah, right, with that superhuman strength I’ve been saving all along just for this moment. What else?

I’m thinking too deep. What’s the easy solution? Oh yeah, duh, untie the people. I’m so stupid.

Or… not. They’re tied down with… steel bands? How’d that happen? This is stupid. Really stupid. Oh crap, the train’s getting close again, better move away.

I’m back next to the gentleman, still picking away at those teeth. Just admit it, buddy, it’s a lost cause. And… there goes the train, plowing into those people again. And slowing… and stopping. Too late, of course.

Wait a second. There’s no driver, so the train must’ve stopped on its own. How? Why?

The people. Hitting the people must slow it down. Ugh, this makes me thinks of physics back in high school. Not a good memory. Anyways, what am I going to do? Chuck stuff at the train and hope it’s enough to slow it down to a stop?

I look around the platform for stuff to throw. Nothing. Well, there goes that idea.

The train chugs cheerfully along. Well, maybe not cheerfully, but, well, you get the point.

And then I spot Mr. Prim-and-Proper again out of the corner of my eye. Well, more like he attracts my attention—by nearly impaling me with that spear of a contaminated toothpick after he’s finally given up with his little dental hygiene streak. Now he’s powdering his face, of all things. Don’t ask me why.

And then the idea hits me. Not literally, but, eh, what’s the point.

I size him up. Looks light enough. If I can’t carry him, I could always just drag him or something. Hmm, I can just see his face when I throw him in front of that train…

Hey! Nothing wrong with that, right? I’m trading one life to save five! Not a bad bargain. Sure does make sense, right?

I pick him up. Lighter than I expected. Or maybe I’m just stronger than I thought. I prefer the latter.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Some not-too-gentlemanly words follow.

I walk over to the track and the incoming train. Will it be enough? The train seems to be going awfully fast. Ah well, no great loss to me if it doesn’t work anyway. Heck, the way I see it, I’d almost be doing the world a favor.

I put him down, next to the edge.

“What was the idea of that anyway?” he brushes angrily at his disheveled clothes. No need to do that where you’re going.

I smile. Hey, who wouldn’t? And I push him out in front of the train. “Bon voyage!” Can’t resist saying that. French? Spanish? Eh, who cares? Just another one of those weird languages no one really cares about.

I step back. I don’t want to get caught too close to the train when it passes. I dunno why, but that’s just the way it works, I guess. I remember all those nice, yellow lines at the subway stations. No yellow lines here, but why take the risk?

The train plows into him, still firing insults. No great loss. I wait to see if my plan will work. Slower…slower…

Darn, still squished a few guys. Two lived. Hey, that’s only four dead. Better than five, eh?

Close, try again.

Drat. I’m not out of this yet. Okay, I’ll just push Mr. Prim-and-Proper in earlier. And further away from the people. Should work. Besides, I don’t mind getting to enjoy that particular part again.

I pick him up… again. Who knew someone who looks like him could be so ticklish? Oh well. Have fun getting run over, mister!

And… it works! I just saved the people. Whoo hoo! What a hero. Just don’t mention that unlucky dude who got clobbered beyond recognition in the papers.

At least I’ll get to get out of here now.

Good job. On to Level Two.

Or not. What is this, some sort of video game?

Everything fades out and fades in again. Nothing’s changed, except that Mr. Prim-and-Proper is gone and there’s some random black guy in his place.

Hey! Don’t make it this easy!

I wave as the poor guy meets the same fate as Mr. Prim-and-Proper. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oh well, no bad feelings.

Level Three.

Asian guy.

I do some weird bowing thing to honor his ancestors, or whatever. This is getting annoying. When am I going to get out?

Level Four.

Native American.

Level Five.

Some guy who looks like he took a bit too much pot. Not my problem.

Level Six.

Some Russian lady.

Level Seven.

Some random hobo off the streets. Ehck. Any Purell around here?

Level Eight.

Pregnant woman.

Level Ni—

Wait, what? Pregnant woman? Oops…

Eh, a bit late to think about it now. Back to my job of saving those five retards from dying again.

Level Nine.

Two kids. Two kids. Guess one wouldn’t be enough. I send them both to heaven. Or hell. Depends on how you think of it. Hey, I’m still saving lives, right? Two for five? Sounds like a deal to me. Two hundred and fifty percent return value!

Level Ten.

Einstein. I think a bit about this one. Then, I do away with him like all the others. You would’ve thought that he’d be smart enough to think up some way to break out of my grip. Guess not. Who needs any of that fancy shmancy relativity stuff anyways?

My life as a serial murderer. Hey, I have to get myself out of here, right?

The rules are changing. You have reached the final level.

About time. I wonder what’s changed.

The five people have been changed.

I look over the edge at the poor victims. Dang, they did change. How’d Mr. Deity do that so fast? Hmm, and that new lady lying there on the tracks almost looks like someone I know. The light brown hair, the dark eyes. Oh, I know! She reminds me of my wife!

Oh wait a second. Clara! What are you doing here? I look at the other people. My son Jered. My daughter Jane. My brother-in-law What’s-his-name. And Aunt Polly.

Well, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll just reach for whomever they provide this time and…

Oh yeah, by the way, notice the whomever. I’m just smart like that.

“Hello, son.”

Dad? My own, old father, standing next to me. Isn’t he supposed to be in a nursing home somewhere? Far, far away from me?

Oh crap. This brings up a few issues. Moral issues. And I thought I left those pesky things behind back when I stopped going to church. Do I kill my dad to save five other family members?

Well, he’s old, and they’re young. Well, younger anyway. Mostly. With the exception of Aunt Polly, but she doesn’t count. Hold on a second, how come she isn’t in a nursing home either?

Back to the issue. Old Papa’s probably going to die soon anyway, considering he’s had a stroke and can’t even talk—hold on a minute. He definitely talked to me.

Ah well, just forget that. Nothing here makes much sense anyway. I guess everything’s pretty clear. I’ll just have to kill—err… accidentally trip my old pater here to save everyone else. He’d probably do it himself anyway. He was always the hero type. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.

And of course, there’s also the inheritance. Yup. Choice made for sure.

And there he goes… and the train’s slowing… and there, stopped. Just barely in time to keep from squishing poor Clara. She better be grateful. I got to cut down on my thinking time a bit. That was a bit too close for comfort.

At least it’s over now. Everything fades out, just as I expected, and I’m looking to find myself sitting back at my desk, none the wiser from this stupid excursion. I really needed to finish writing that report. I mean, those people down at Accounting were waiting for their destinies here, those poor bastards. The blame’s got to go somewhere, eh? And everyone knows I’m too precious a commodity to lose just because of some careless mistake. I mean, who wouldn’t have tried investing in that startup? It was like a dream come true! Well... almost. Not quite, but, hey! At least I tried, right?

The train barrels closer.

“Hey! What’s this? I thought you said that was the final level!”

I lied.

That’s not fair. What now?

I glance back over at the five prisoners. Poor Clara. Who did they provide this time?

Old Ma-mah. Great. Just what I needed. No regrets there.

“Now am I done?”

Not yet.

That stupid condescending voice is really starting to make me angry. Okay, I lied. I’m ready to rip out someone’s voice box… or just throw a certain someone in front of a certain train. No specifics. No names. Cough. Cough. Wink. Wink.

Some random person holding a sign that says: Don’t throw me in front of the train.

Sorry bud. What did you think you were doing? Using reverse psychology?

Nope. Guess not. I watch his body crumple as it is crushed. The train slows as expected. I swear this God-thing that’s keeping me here is getting a sense of humor.

And you know what? This is actually sort of fun, in a twisted this-is-so-much-better-than-typing-out-a-stupid-report-for-my-stupid-boss sort of way. Notice my use of than. Not then. Than. That’s me. Mr. Grammatically-Correct. Yeah, right.

Maybe this mass-murder, killing-spree is getting to me.

Next Level.

Mr. Senator? Take your stupid pork-barrel legislation with you while you’re at it!

The President? See ya later. I didn’t vote for you anyway.

What’s up with this? Am I just going to be stuck here forever?

“Hey you! Mr. Voice-in-the-sky! Are you having enough fun watching me?”

No answer. Besides, he probably isn’t just having fun. This is probably part of some weird government conspiracy to freak out the populace. Yeah, that sounds about right. It’s all their fault I killed all those people.

Oh wait, I killed the president.

Ooooo… that’s even worse. The president isn’t even in control of the government anymore! What’s this world coming to?

“Say. I’m tired of this. I’m just gonna stop if you don’t let me out soon.”

Fine. This will be the last one.

“Really?” Like I’m going to believe him. Her. It. Whatever.

Well, I might change my mind.

Great. What can I say to that?

This will most likely be the last one.

Fun. Fun. For everyone! Okay, not really. I think I’m going insane. I wonder how much money I can get out of suing the government for that. Hmm, maybe I should call up a personal injury lawyer.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd… there comes the train. Too easy. You’d have thought Mr. Deity would replace it with some sort of monster or something. I reach without even turning to snatch my next victim and…

Nothing.

I’m the only one here.

Should’ve seen this coming. Perverted pseudo-god. What do I do now? Throw myself into the path of the train?

Yeah. Right. To save my wife, son, daughter, some brother-in-law, and Aunt Polly. Is it worth it? Hmmm, should I leave my children without a father, or just solve the problem by having no more children. I’m liking the second choice. Saves them a lot of trouble.

That’s right, I’m a stinking, self-centered bastard. I’m definitely worth at least a trillion other people. What’s the choice, save a trillion, or save five? What are you going to do about it, huh?

I will stop time to allow you more time to think.

Oh great. Extend the time. Give me more chance to start having doubts. There goes my plan of delaying until it’s too late to save them even if I jumped. Tricky, huh. I’m a tricky guy. You’ve got to be tricky to shunt all the blame from that scandal down to those five poor guys in Accounting who are going to get fired and then sued until they drop dead because the company just about steamrolls over them with lawsuits.

Hmm. Is Clara really worth it? Sure, she’s pretty, and not bad in bed, but I think I can get along fine without her. I can always just find another woman. Less people to pay for, too. Sounds good to me. Oh yeah, there’s also that life insurance. Can’t forget the life insurance.

Jered. Well, that one’s easy. He’s just an arrogant, egotistical prick. Just like me. No wonder I hate him so much. I’m sure if I were in his place, he wouldn’t hesitate either.

Jane. She doesn’t bother me as much as Jered, but she’s still pretty annoying. You got to admit, spending all my hard-earned cash on stuff like hair spray, lip-stick, who-knows-what. And there’s also that annoying boyfriend. And that time she just about totaled my car. I still have her driver’s license in my briefcase. Anyways, strike three. You’re out.

Unknown brother-in-law. Only saw you once at a family reunion thing anyway. I think we talked about sausages. Think I care anything for you? Think again.

And finally, Aunt Polly. Weird hair. Ugly glasses. Big, fat, wet lips. Get away from me!

Okay Mr. God. Decision made. You can stop the time-freeze now. Let me go back to my office so I can enjoy my nice, hot coffee.

Come on, please? I’ll even share some with you.

Fine, fine. You can have all the coffee. Just take it all. Steal all of a poor, innocent man’s lifeblood.

Okay, this isn’t working. Fine. I’ll just stand here. I’m not playing your game anymore. It’s stupid anyway. S-T-O-O-P-I-D. That’s right. Stupid.

I whistle for about thirty seconds.

Fine. You must have infinite patience or something. I give up. Just let me go. You win. I lose.

Oh! I have an idea. Let’s flip a coin. Heads, you win, tails, I lose. Deal? Oh, wait a second… I take that back! Heads, I win, tails, you lose. Much better. What do you say?

Oh come on.

Fine, fine. You win. I’ll just walk up to the edge and jump. Happy?

I’m standing at the edge. You have to be dreaming if you think I’ll jump willingly.

Oh wait, what am I thinking? Why commit suicide when you can just run? Gosh was I really losing it there.

Wait a second... why isn’t the platform getting any further away?

Don’t try to run away.

Looks like there’s no choice. I look over at Clara. You better be grateful for this. Enjoy the insurance money while it lasts. I know you have a thing for finding scams on the internet.

I look up into the sky. Dang, that sun is bright. This better not hurt, Mr. God-person.

I close my eyes. Jump.

The train leaps forward.

---

Whew, my office. What was that all about? Hmm, weird daydream. Nothing really happened. What a waste of time… oh wait, no time has passed. Figures. I get tortured in some time loop and don’t miss out on any work. Life sucks… and… hey! Where’s my coffee!

I’ll get the person who stole it after I finish these forms. Just need to fill out the names and sign it. Sucks for those guys down in Accounting. I feel for you… not.

I sign…and… done! Wish I could see the look on their faces when they find out. Oh well, can’t have everything you wish for.

They’ll protest, that’s a given, but it’s hard to win when all the evidence points towards you. Too bad I guess.

Now, about that coffee…

(Wistfully) Wrong choice, try again.

Written: Before 6/20/2008

Mack

2009-08-31T14:18:00.004-04:00

Genre: General

Word Count: 2278

I stop at stop signs in the middle of nowhere. I’m just a cautious guy, I guess. Jack says I’m a bit too careful sometimes, but I disagree. You can never be too careful.

But I have to admit, I do wonder sometimes how things would be if I were different, if I weren’t so picky about rushing into things. I hate that, getting into something without any preparation whatsoever. I mean, don’t you hate it, too? I like to know what I’m getting myself into before I volunteer. Jack says winging it is fun. I don’t know what he’s talking about.

When I was young, I remember this one time that there was this old lady who fell into the lake. We were at this sort of picnic, I dunno for what, but apparently my parents had been invited. So there I was, standing at the edge of the lake—there’s this like tall-ass concrete wall at the side of the lake, it’s sort of like a dam, but not, I suppose—up on the top at the end, and I was just sort of chucking rocks in and watching them splash in the water. I was bored, you know, because of course, I was just about the only kid there. There was this one other boy, but he wouldn’t let me play with his toys, so of course, I was off on my own.

So this old lady, I suppose she must have lost her step or something, but she fell into the lake—like twenty feet into the water. You could hear her screaming the whole way, and of course, everyone comes to see what happened.

And there was this guy, maybe it was her son or something, but he just sort of kicked off his shoes and jumped in after her. I guess maybe he thought he would be the hero or something. Someone went to call the police, but by the time they got there, it was too late. I guess maybe the guy overestimated his own ability to swim or something, but there was no way they were getting out of the water without help anyway. That wall was smooth as heck and straight up. Afterwards, the city put ladders down the side like every twenty feet. That didn’t work out so hot either because the kids would all dare each other to climb down and, well, you can probably guess. I think they just took the whole wall down in the end. There’s just a gentle slope down now—almost a beach, I suppose.

But that guy, I remember watching him come up with the lady—she was just kicking all over and he was trying to calm her down or something. But they came up and got to the wall and then he just sort of stopped, like he just had the realization that he had no way to get out of the water. I guess he must’ve just figured that he’d think of something, like maybe there’d be a mini-dock or something like that.

We all just sort of stood there and watched while just the sort of floundered around desperately—some people were throwing stuff down, sort of hoping it would float or something, but it really didn’t help much. When my parents found me after the police came and told everyone to leave, I remember feeling really sad.

I think I decided to think before I jumped then. You know how it is with childhood memories. They’re just sort of hazy and you’re never quite sure of anything, even when they seem clear. I think that’s where it started. All I know now is that, well, I’m a cautious guy.

But back to the present. So there was this party last night—well, no, I suppose you can’t really call it a party, but who cares—and Jack and I were just sort of sitting around. I didn’t know all that many people there, see—

Alright, alright, I’ll tell you. Truth is, I don’t really get out all that much. I felt awkward enough being there in the first place, but Jack dragged me along.

So we just sort of sat there on the couch. Jack kept telling me to get up and meet some people, but I didn’t really want to—well, I wanted to meet people, but I didn’t want to mess up and say something stupid at the same time—so we just stayed there.

But this friend of Jack’s came up, said his name was Alex. Apparently, he was buying a game from Jack or something. They talked about that for a bit, and then Alex told Jack to hold up for a second, he wanted to introduce a couple of friends.

Jack just sort of shrugged. “Sure,” he said.

“I’ll be right back,” and Alex disappeared through a door.

Jack flipped open his phone. “So,” his fingers worked on the keypad, “having fun yet, Mack?”

“Loads,” I told him. “Who ya texting?”

“Oh this one girl from Kent. She goes to St. Thomas’s.

“You’ve told me already, Rachel?”

“Oh, well, you know,” he finished and slipped his cell phone back into his pocket. “Nothing special, of course—“ he turned and winked, “yet.”

“Right—”

And Alex returned with his friends, two girls who just looked short next to him. But then I guess you had to remember that he’s Alex, the basketball player. They weren’t really that short. The latter one—she was a brunette—might have looked a little interested, but the other one—a redhead, though sort of brownish, too. I don’t remember what that’s called, auburn, maybe? Yeah, but anyway, I could definitely get the impression of boredom from her. Jack sat up quickly.

“Back, Jack,” and then Alex grinned, as though he noticed that the two words rhymed. Very amusing.

The brown-haired girl yawned. “Are these the bozos you wanted us to meet?”

“I’m Jack.” Jack moved aside on the couch, closer to me. “You want to sit?” He didn’t seem to register that the girl had called us bozos.

“No, it’s alrigh—” she started, but Alex had different plans.

“Move,” he said to the people sitting in the couch across from ours.

“Make us,” one replied.

“Come on, let’s go,” his friend stood up.

Alex sat down. “Come on.”

“I thought you said you just wanted to introduce us to someone.” The brown-haired girl was wearing a shirt from Regal Cinemas with a big crown emblazoned across the front. She must have worked there.

“Just sit down,” Alex patted the cushion next to him. The red-head sat down. “Come on, Jess, you don’t want to play video games that badly, do you?”

“Hey, it’s the new Ring.”

Jack looked interested. “I don’t think I’ve ever known a girl who liked to play Ring.”

“I call on the spirits to unsex me when I play,” she grinned.

“What?”

“It’s from Macbeth,” I said quickly.

“What?” Jack looked at me blankly.

“I don’t think I’ve met you before,” the girl shook her head slowly.

The thought came to me that I had probably not made the kind of first impression I wanted to. “I’m Mackenzie, Mack.”

“Oh!”

“I’m Jack.”

“Mack and Jack, huh?”

“What, what was that about being sexist?” Alex frowned.

“I said unsex, not sexist,” the girl replied. She flopped down on the couch. “I’m Jess, by the way. Jess White.” She paused. “Are you really Mack Johnson?”

“Uh…” What do you say to that? “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“I suppose so,” she laughed. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

I could feel myself sinking down deeper. “Really?”

“Yeah, I have a friend at Invers—“ she crossed her legs. “She says you’re really smart.”

I briefly wondered who she could be talking about. The thought was cut short by the realization that I had basically been called “smart” at a party. Wonderful. “Umm… I’m not that smart.” Wrong.

“Oh, sure you are! Right, Melissa?” she turned to the red-head. “Oh, this is Melissa.”

“Hi, I’m Jack.” Jack waved in their direction.

“Umm… hi?” Melissa gave a short returning wave.

I felt sort of awkward. I mean, we’re sitting about three feet away from each other. Seriously.

“So, you like to play Ring?” Jack started.

Melissa was quick to reply. “Not me, her.”

“I like watching them get mad when I beat them,” Jess grinned and mimicked firing a gun. “Bam! Headshot.” She looked at Jack. “So you go to Invers?”

“Unfortunately.”

She laughed. “You gotta admit. Dunsnin is soooo much better.” Adressing me, “You still go to Invers too, right?”

I nodded.

She clasped her hands together. “It’s so Shakespeare don’t you think? That’s why I can’t ever resist Lady Macbeth’s little monologue.”

I think the two of us both knew that no one else really understood. Jack was the one who interrupted at last, “Lady Macbeth’s little what?”

“Monologue.” She stuck a dramatic pose. “Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood; stop up my—“

“I get enough Shakespeare at school without you quoting it,” Alex complained. “Jesus Christ!”

“You just don’t appreciate his genius,” she sat back.

“Whatever.”

Jack’s phone rang. I was guessing Rachael from Kent who went to St. Thomas’s.

“Hello?...O-oh, hey, I’m sort of busy right now, could we talk later?...Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m out with some friends… what?! You’ve got to tell me later. Alright, bye!” He hung up.

I gave him a questioning look, but he ignored it. “Sorry, go on.”

“With what?” Jess blinked innocently. “The quote?”

“No, let’s not,” Alex stood up. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Naw, I’ll just stay and talk.”

Alex wrinkled his nose, but sat back down. “No more Shakespeare.”

“Oh, come on, who says you can make rules like that? You’re not like my boyfriend or anything. Mack and I can do Shakespeare if we want to.”

Jack almost looked relieved. “We’re playing you guys for the homecoming game.”

“Oh, I know!” She smiled devilishly. “I can’t wait to see you guys get slaughtered—you going with someone to the dance?”

“Uh, no, no one yet,” Jack fingered his cell phone. I gave him a puzzled look.

“Aww, got someone in mind?” she smiled.

“Uh… not exa—” I gave him another look.

“Oh! That reminds me, Mack!” she turned back excitedly, “I heard you were in the choir?”

Oh, wonderful, bring that up, too, “It’s my first year.”

“Well, it’s never too late to start,” she smiled. “That’s great though! We’ll get to sing the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ together at the game. We can be choir buddies.”

“Great.” Somehow, I wished that I could have at least sounded a bit more enthusiastic, but you have to know I was wondering what the heck “choir buddies” meant.

“Want to get a drink?” Alex stretched up to his full six feet eight inches. The red-head—Marissa?—got up as well.

“Oooh!” Jess clapped her hands, “Get me a Pepsi, please. Thanks!”

“I’ll have a Pepsi, too,” Jack asked.

“Alex scowled, but I don’t think anyone else noticed.

“You’re a Pepsi fan?” Jack asked.

Jess threw up her hands. “Pepsi, Coke, whatever. Caffeine, sugar, water, same thing.”

“Oh.”

Alex came back. “Hey, Jess. Ashley’s looking for you.”

“Ashley’s wha—oh.” She seemed to think for a moment and then got up. “Well, nice meeting you guys! See you at the game, maybe?” She gave a little wink and then walked out after Alex.

“Dude, Mack,” Jack sounded almost unbelieving. “She was all over you, man.”

I asked him if the call had been from Rachael from Kent who goes to St. Thomas’s. He wouldn’t tell me. He wouldn’t tell me why he had told her he didn’t have anyone to go to Homecoming with either.

“But seriously, Mack,” he said as we left, “I think she liked you.”

“Are you trying to tell me to do something?” I finally demanded.

He shut up after that.

Truth is, I searched her up on Facebook when I got home. Turned out I didn’t really have to since she’d already sent me a friend offer. She’s sure on top of things. I looked at her profile and noticed that she had writing poetry down as one of her activities. It really made me wonder what kind of stuff she wrote and the level she was at. To tell the truth, I’m a bit of a writer myself, so the curiousity was only natural, right?

I dunno what I’m going to do. I mean, I’ve never really experienced anything like this—I’m a loser, I know—Jack kept bugging me about her all night, too. He said he knew how these things worked, already called me this other name every time he remembers to. But seriously, we already match up in two things right? Reading and writing, choir… Jack said he would kill to be me right now. I mean, this might just be my big chance to get out in the world, be a little more social.

But I’m already talking like it’s a done deal. I mean, it’s going to be rather rushed already, getting two tickets and all, but, well, who knows?

So I sent a text message. She answered when I was driving home from work and I didn’t even realize that I’d ran the stop sign until I got home—I was that excited. It’s all right. It’s just once, and no one noticed. And, well, things are looking up, right?

A/N: Really more of a character sketch than a story, but you've probably noticed how corny the ending is already. :P

A Letter To You

2009-08-29T10:25:00.003-04:00

Genre: Journal
Word count: 334
Written: March 4, 2009

This was a journal entry that I wrote last year. I re-read it recently, and for some reason, it seems to resonate with my thoughts this past week. I no longer remember who the 'you' at the end of the entry refers to, but I suppose it could be versatile.

Throughout the years, my mother has occasionally self-declared a holiday for herself. Whether it be just a night on the town with her friends, or a two week trek to a foreign country, she would take some well deserved time off from her daily duties of taking care of the family. When she got back, I would always ask her what she did or if she enjoyed herself. She would always smile and tell me, "Yes, I had a good time, but it would have been better if you and your father had come with me."

I always assumed that she was playing the game of politeness when she told me this.

Only recently have I grasped this notion. This past weekend I found myself sitting on the shores of Myrtle Beach in the neigh hours of the night. I could barely see the water. I only felt it, tasted it, heard it. As I looked over into the black horizon, I felt a degree of euphoria and catharsis. I only wanted the water to swallow me whole, take me back to its origins where the stress and pressures of society could not reach me. Then I stumbled across a mental stifle. I thought, if only there was someone here to share the experience with me! I was not alone on the beach that night. A group of my friends stood a mere 20 feet away, jumping and singing and taking part in frivolous gaieties.

But I could not cry with them. We could not sit in dark and appreciate the silence.

I thought of my parents. Us three, sitting on the shore. Not talking. Just sitting and staring out into the abyss. In no way would this be awkward. The silence itself would be a stronger bond than any amount of conversation.

Then I thought about you. How nice it would be. Just sitting. Not talking. Just sitting and staring. And as we have many times in the past, let the silence speak for itself.

in a world without suffering

2009-08-28T01:15:00.002-04:00

Genre: Poetry
Word Count: 19

in a world without suffering
I saw a girl smashing her fingers in a door
while eating pineapple compote

A/N: Pineapple compote is a reference to Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov. Reading the book is not necessary to understanding the poem, it just pays tribute to the inspiration.

Written: 6/1/09

Flirt

2009-08-26T11:22:00.006-04:00

Genre: Poetry
Word Count: 44

A/N: I really want to keep this blog updated more, so I think I'm going to try for a goal of updating at least once every two or three days. To meet such a goal, I guess I'm going to start posting some random poetry. Just to let you guys know, for some reason, I seem to enjoy more archaic limitations on my verse. o.O

Flirt

The dune, see how she trembles so
upon exposure of her countenance,
the tiny, trembling, pallid grains
all powerless before the coming breeze.
How delicately those imperfect spheres
endure their own incompetence
in dancing leaps and sighing slides
against the blushing wind’s continual tease!

Me, Just Me

2009-08-24T16:57:00.012-04:00

Genre: General

Word Count: 5159

It was like the first time I was raped.

No, not physically. It’s not what you would think it sounds like. I don’t want your sympathy. I’m using the word because that’s exactly what it was like—being violated completely, helpless, humiliated. I’m using the word for the violence, for the power. There’s a power in that word that you don’t get from other words. You tell others you were violated, it’s not the same. You tell others you were taken advantage of, it’s not the same. It was rape, pure and simple, and not any of that smutty sexual nonsense either. No, it was mental rape, reading those words, being completely unable to stop the thoughts from coming, from sweeping through and cleaning out. The mental pictures, all the most extreme I could, in my limited experience and memory, conjure up. The little girl I had once seen half-naked in the alley when my parents had taken me to Philadelphia. I had wanted to point and say something, but they just pulled and kept me going. We’re going to be late. We’re going to be late.

Late for what?

That little girl and then some dark negro slaves I could later tell I retrieved from watching Roots in history class. Blood and sweat, ragged flesh and unrequited tears. I could see myself, too, that one time in the girl’s bathroom after school, Laura and Chrissy and their friends all laughing and pointing, me in the corner leaking tears, even after they had left, leaking tears. These were the characters in the cinema of my head. The most extreme things my subconscious could come up with and more, fighting and living and losing while in the background O Fortuna and Rachmaninoff and Scriabin and maybe even a voice recording of some terrifying part of the Bible played all superimposed.

It’s hard to describe, you can see now, right? It’s hard to describe, because it was so intensely me. Me. My rape. Not yours. Mine. My most intense experiences, all condensed and concentrated into one long, inescapable daydream, just from reading.

You see why I call it rape now? Everything I thought about the world shattered, everything I’d tried to hide myself in discredited, hanging in tatters around my exposed self. I couldn’t think of anything else, no matter how hard I tried. All I could see was that poor, poor horse, legs moving frantically, desperately, trying with all its might to move the wagonload of drunken people, and the whip flashing up and down, up and down, then the shovel coming up and down on the horse’s back, up and down, rippling flesh every time it made impact, the sickening sense of breaking bone even though you can’t see it, even though you can’t hear it. The laughter, the amused laughter as the man continued to strike the horse, the poor, poor horse, and I could see myself there among them, almost as if from third person, standing there and laughing, and then the horse was that little girl in the alley, and then the slaves, and then me, and then the people had dissolved into laughing faces, and then just into pure emotions—I’m not sure how to describe them, but I could feel all of them, pure undiluted emotions just taking their turns lashing and hitting and striking. And it hurt, oh how it hurt.

My heart felt about to burst, I was so humiliated. This was the world. This was the way things were. Even the smallest things, a small joke at someone’s expense, just flogging that horse, over and over and over and over again.

That was Dostoevsky. That was my rape.

You’re probably looking at me funny now. Blinking. Incredulous. Alright, Sarah, you can calm down now. No, no, I can’t. It’s the trauma you see. I’ve been traumatized. People look at me funny and say things like, I know books can be powerful, I know you were touched, but it’s just a book. It’s just a story. It’s not real.

It is real. Let me tell you now. The trauma is real. The rape was real. I had always appreciated books before but now… the power they have, don’t underestimate them. I wonder sometimes if Dostoevsky considered it when he was writing. Was it with malice? Was it with regret? He knew what he was wielding. The words he chose, the words he probed with, penetrated with.

In a way, it might have been worse than rape. I don’t know. I’ve never been raped in that way, yet. Who knows. People are terrible things.

I don’t know. I never feel like I know anything anymore. All I know is that it hurt, and it was embarrassing, and that somehow, something was wrong. Nothing was right. Nothing was ever right. I remember just curling up there, crying, another dead horse on the side of the road. I stopped trying in school, stopped reading, stopped painting, stopped everything. What did it matter?

There were a lot of doctors. A lot of tears. My poor, poor mother. Somehow I knew what I was doing was horrible, the pain it was bringing her, but then at the same time, I just didn’t seem to care anymore.

I ran away and went to the city, though I didn’t know why then. I know now. I went around like a bum, scrounged around for food, was taken to child services a couple of times, but always managed to find a way to escape. I threw myself into it, life, threw myself into the misery. Oh, I had the horrible stomach cramps of hunger, the horrible feeling of unbelievable thirst, the cramps of raw, defiled food lurching in the body. I felt them. They were real, but I just didn’t seem to care.

I wanted to care. I wanted to care so badly, but somehow I couldn’t. All I could see was that horse. That poor, poor horse. So I would just go back to sleeping in the shelters, searching the alleys, walking the streets, not even begging, but always having some change shoved in my hands somehow.

I hung out a lot in the alleys, especially the dark ones. I’d hang around the ones with the broken streetlights, so that as the light faded away at twilight, you could just see and sense the shadows growing around you. I’d just stand there, leaning against the filthy bricks, watching people as they hurried by, all possessed by a sense of nervousness.

I wasn’t nervous. I’d just stand there and watch, feeling empty, feeling bored, but yet, feeling a desperate desire to live on still, even through all the misery and meaninglessness of it. I knew why I was hanging about the alleys. I knew why I watched the people. I was always attracted to the shady ones, the ones who would glance around furtively. A few would look up and see me, seem to size me up, consider me, but they would just go on. I knew why.

I wanted to get raped. I wanted it to happen. I can’t exactly tell you why, but for some reason, I wanted it to happen. I wanted to be utterly, completely violated, left exposed and unprotected among the garbage of the city. I wanted to suffer it all and then more, because… because that was what it meant to be human, right? I wanted to be hurt. I wanted to be rejected. I wanted to be treated like nothing.

I would go to the fancy part of the city every once in a while, the place with the ritzy apartments and penthouses and the place with the money and where the beggars always congregated even though they were always forced away when the police would be called—they’d always come back anyway because there was the hope. There was still that hope lingering—only two weeks ago Thomas had gotten a hundred dollars… a hundred dollars! All in one go!

I’d go there and walk right up to the door—I’d get myself there somehow, one way or another. I’d make my way to a door, and then wait there, just wait there for the owners to come home. And when they would come home and see me there, they’d just give me this look of utter contempt. Some of them would have pity, first, maybe hand me some money, but I’d just let it fall and keep staring, and keep sitting there, not moving, and always, always the contempt would come. They’d hate me, and yell at me, and call the police, and yell at me some more, and the police would be all apologetic, and then yell at me, and then I’d move, I’d run away with the whole apartment complex yelling at me, and the police wouldn’t even chase me because I didn’t matter, because I was so worthless.

I only really did it once, stay there long enough to be kicked at and have the police called, but I did do it, and no one chased me. I went back to my alley, the darkest, shadiest one, the one where every once in a while, there’d be a drug deal or whatnot, but not anymore, because I guess they knew I was there and because they knew I didn’t care, and maybe even because they didn’t even think to even rape me, I was that worthless. All dirty and filthy although my hair was usually half-decent and I always somehow managed to be forced into a shower and new clothes, I don’t know how. I went back there to lean by the wall close to the opening, close to where the scratched, old cars were parked far too close to each other, where the parking meter was bent in a near 180 loop towards the ground in a feat of super-human strength, where the rats poked around the litter and old gum and who-knows-whats around the ground. I was leaning there, and watching and waiting, and then I noticed this old, old guy in front of the closed down antique shop across the street standing there and watching me, not just taking a look, but watching me, an old geezer who looked as if he should have been in some nursing home somewhere, hunched over and leaning on his cane that probably should have been a walker.

He just stood there for a long time. Even in the dark when I couldn’t see him anymore, I could sense him still there, watching me. I just left after a while, found a different alley. He bothered me, I couldn’t tell you why.

The next day I hiked up to the suburbs, took me most of the day. By the time I got there, it was almost dinnertime, but that didn’t stop me. I just picked a neighborhood, picked a street, picked a house, and then there I was, standing at the door, ringing the doorbell like a madwoman.

The woman who came to answer the door wasn’t quite sure what to say. She never really opened the door completely, but even so, having the door slammed through that half-crack of space still felt good. I just turned around, moved down the sidewalk, and up to the next house. I had five doors slammed in my face before the police came and I made my escape.

The old man came back, though. When I finally dragged myself back to the city, he came back. A different alley, a different place, but he came slowly limping down the street, and when he saw me, he just stopped and stared. I stared back at first, but for some reason, I couldn’t hold it. His eyes were so empty, completely devoid of any sort of emotion it was too awkward.

He didn’t go away either. I mean, of course, after he stared for a minute or two, then he’d turn around and limp away, but it wasn’t as if he disappeared from my life. Every couple of nights or so, he’d show up and watch, but he wouldn’t ever do anything, so I just left him alone, and tried not to worry about it. It wasn’t too hard. I’d stopped worrying about just about everything else, so it wasn’t as if it were something I wasn’t used to doing.

After a few weeks, though, he brought along a few others. A young man and young lady, maybe boyfriend and girlfriend, maybe even his grandkid and his—or her, I dunno—fiancé. They’d just stand there and watch. The girl would keep turning and saying something, maybe even trying to say that she wanted to help me or something, but they never actually did anything… until now.

Now, the boy turned to look at me, and for the first time—it’s hard to believe, I know, but somehow, I’d managed to make contact with him for any length of time—our eyes met and, well, it was like being raped all over again. I don’t even know why. There wasn’t compassion in them. There wasn’t pity. There wasn’t even disdain or contempt. There wasn’t really anything, just impassive and everything, and all of a sudden, I was having mental doors slammed and mental kicks and hallucination-stage visions in my head. The agony, all over again, and I didn’t even want it to stop.

When the tears were finally clearing, they were standing over me, the three of them, looking down, still completely impassive. The boy prodded his grandfather—for some reason I could sort of see the resemblance now—and the grandfather opened his and said something.

He said something, I’m not sure what, but he said something in that raspy voice of his. When it was clear that I didn’t understand a thing, he cleared his throat and tried again.

“You know, there was a time when I would have raped you.”

From an ancient old man, probably in his mid-eighties or something. I didn’t know how to react.

“He used to be a Nazi death camp guard,” the boy said finally. “Since the first time he saw you, he’s wanted to talk to you, but his voice is about gone now.”

The girl helped me sit up, and I didn’t protest for some reason.

“He told me that he thought he could help you.”

“I don’t want help,” I told him.

“You’re only running away. You’re trying to get away from it all, but you can’t and there’s still a part of you that won’t let you.”

I couldn’t say anything to that. It was true. Incredibly true.

The old man cleared his throat again. “I was a Nazi death camp guard.”

The girl said something to him in German, probably encouraging him not to talk.

“He’s being deported tomorrow,” the boy said. “They want to try him in Israel.”

I got up. They weren’t making sense. None of it really concerned me.

“Don’t go,” the girl said, alarmed. “He wants to tell you something, but he can’t. It’s very frustrating for him. He told Ben, so Ben could tell you, please stay and listen.”

The near-incoherent voice: “There was a time when I would have raped you.”

“What makes you think I want that?” I protested automatically, protecting my own lack of dignity. How ironic.

“You stay near the dark alleys, follow suspicious men, I’m surprised you’ve survived intact. God was watching over you,” the boy said, but he wasn’t really talking from himself. I could tell somehow that he was using the old man’s words, that the old man was speaking through him.

“What do you know about God?”

“I would say that he loves you very much, but you would only laugh at me.”

I laughed. “You just said it.”

“You’re not a beggar, I can tell. You’re just here. You’re disillusioned about life.”

“I’m not disillusioned.” I told him. “You’re disillusioned. I see things as they are.”

He smiled. I didn’t understand it. Why did he smile?

“You’re right. You’re not the one disillusioned. You see things as they are, but not completely.”

“What do you mean?”

“You saw suffering once. You saw it and you were moved by it. You understood the way very few others understand it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You understood that something was wrong. You got that. A lot of people see that something is wrong, but they don’t understand it. They keep saying to themselves, no, no, that’s just a special case. That’s not how it really is. That’s not how it should be.” The boy paused. “And that’s not how it should be. You feel that way, too, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that I don’t care, but yet, I keep caring.” And it was true. I didn’t know why I didn’t care and yet cared at the same time. I’d always wondered why I didn’t just end it all and commit suicide. I’d always had a feeling that it wouldn’t really be ending it all, that it was only a shadow of an escape. Escape wasn’t there. It had felt empty to me. Maybe I didn’t want to be romantic and see it as a final act of rebellion. Rebellion against life. No, that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to embrace life, but rebel against it. But to embrace life, I… I didn’t know how. “What did you want to tell me?” I addressed the old man. A long string of drool hung out of his mouth, and only after he had moved it several times did it detach itself and drip to the concrete.

“He was a Nazi death camp guard,” the boy said again, and then, he sighed and changed his voice slightly. “I was a Nazi death camp guard,” he said. “Sixty years ago, I was in Nazi Germany and I killed Jews.”

“What are you trying to say? You saw suffering? You caused suffering? So what? So do I. To survive, I eat. Someone else could have eaten what I ate. I probably just made someone else endure hunger for an extra hour or so. I’m causing suffering right now. My mother probably thinks I’m dead. So what, boo hoo, so maybe you actually actively killed a few people, maybe even tortured them, so what?”

“I did. I killed people.” For some reason, it didn’t seem weird to me at all that the boy had started speaking as if he were the doddering old man next to him, as if he were the half-dead man about to be deported to be tried for crimes that were committed more than half a century ago. Why didn’t they try themselves? They would say that this old man, who couldn’t even really say things anymore, committed crimes against humanity and that he probably deserved death, or maybe life in prison, whatever, for the remaining two years of his life. Justice is served. Yeah right. As if that was justice. As if all the suffering those judges themselves caused could warrant no punishment. All the children they probably could be feeding. All the violence they could be stopping.

The boy looked uncomfortable. “I killed people. I raped women. I separated families and forced mothers and fathers to watch as I threw their babies into the crematorium. I watched as they would disfigure their faces and bodies in horror and then I’d take the mother and rape her right in front of her husband.”

“Of course, this is what you’re going to be saying to the jurors.”

“I whipped people. I kicked people. I did all sorts of horrible things to people.”

“So what?” I laughed. “So what? I once told my mom I hated her, and she was terribly upset. She probably went and was in a bad mood when father came home and she probably said something that might have made him annoyed so that the next day, when a he got a caller with the wrong number, he might have been slightly rude and pissed off the caller and made him do something that made someone else do something and made someone else do something and made some perverted tramp on the street decide to end it all and rape the woman he’d been fantasizing of for years while choking her at the same time. So what? I’m a rapist, too.”

“I did these things, and I didn’t feel bad about them,” the boy continued.

“Oh yeah, I don’t feel bad about them either. Maybe some of them, I do, but there are plenty more things I’ve done that I don’t even remember or consider and those I sure don’t feel bad about. Maybe I even feel good about them sometimes, what’s it to you?”

“Don’t shout,” the girl hushed, “Don’t shout.”

“I can shout if I want,” I said, but I quieted down. There was no reason to shout. I had just gotten a bit out of control. I had probably made my voice heard by a random passerby in another alley who might have just thought that God was calling him to fight with his wife. God, what a laugh. God.

“You understand, I see. I had guessed, but you do understand.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Look, I’m probably causing you some suffering right now.” I couldn’t help it. I really couldn’t. For some reason, I was just so bitter and uncaring.

“But you understood, and just abandoned hope—”

“Hope. It’s that thing that you use as an excuse for your own filthiness. Hope doesn’t solve your problems. It only gives you an excuse to keep doing what you’re doing. To keep causing all this misery and suffering.” I laughed. “I suspected you’d try to throw this at me. Maybe some religion now, right? My God saves. If you believe in him, everything will be alright. No. It won’t be. Because you’re still human. You’re still a rapist. You’re still a murderer.”

“I won’t try to convert you,” the boy said, and there was a hint of annoyance now. For some reason, I was so delighted by that annoyance. I wanted nothing else but to make him even more annoyed, to make him lose his temper.

“Sure you won’t. Just like you said you wouldn’t say that God loved me very much. Mentioning by saying you won’t mention it. It’s still a mention. What a sly person you are.”

“I was with a group unloading a new batch of prisoners. These were politicals, not just Jews, but people against Nazism, ministers who wouldn’t bow to Hitler, opposition party leaders, anyone who looked suspicious. I was helping to unload them, and us guards decided to play a game. We lined them up, just like we would have the Jews. One big line, and at the end, we were there, judging, deciding. We wanted to figure out just how much these men wanted to live. Just how much they would do. Would he be willing to be castrated? Would he be willing to eat his own shit? Would she strip and fuck all of us right there in front of everyone? Listen to me, dammit! Listen to me, girl.”

I listened. I had nothing better to do anyway.

“You wouldn’t believe what people would do. You wouldn’t believe it. To live. To live someone would murder someone else. To live someone would cause someone else to suffer. Just to live! But then there were the others. The others would thought about it, and just decided to die. ‘It wasn’t worth it’, they would say. They were trying to preserve their dignity. ‘We’re human,’ they would say, ‘not animals’. And of course we laughed. What made humans any different than animals? All that mattered is that we were strong, and they were weak. That was how the world worked. We were strong, and we could do these things to them. They were weak and could not protest.”

“Hurry up and get to your point.”

The boy grabbed me and leaned forwards. “You don’t understand. This is my point! You know what I’m saying, but you’re still running away. Your whole life is running away. You see that this isn’t the way it ought to be, that this isn’t the way it should work. You’re living this life that you’re living, saying that you see that humans are like this, and yet you reject hope.”

“Why shouldn’t I? No one listens. The last thing anyone wants to hear and admit is that they do wrong things every once in a while. We hear the saying: we’re human. We make mistakes, but we don’t want to accept it. Sure, sometimes, we may make mistakes, but not all the time. We’re good most of the time, right? It’s not like all of a sudden, the world’s going to change and humans are going to see that. Even if people see it, what can we do about it? The most powerful people in the world have been trying to fix the world’s problems for hundreds of years, but yet they’re still there. What hope?”

“There were two men who got to the front of the line. Both were afraid. Both were trembling. Both had seen the horrors that had happened in front of them. Both wore crosses around their neck. We pointed and laughed. ‘Where is your God now?’ we asked. One stared wildly at his cross, and then tore it violently from it, took it in his hands, cast it to the ground, stepped on it and stomped it into the dirt. ‘There is no God,’ he said. We laughed. We mocked. The other suddenly was not afraid and was calm. He put his hand on the first man’s shoulders. ‘What do you mean, there is no God?’”

“You’re trying to convert me.” I tried to twist away.

The boy didn’t let go. “The first man turned back. ‘If there is a God, then I know nothing of him. He said he loved man. He said he cared for man. Bullshit! What is this then? What is this?’”

“Elie Wiesel said the same thing,” I told him. “I read it in a book. So what?”

“The second man smiled. ‘You fool! You don’t see him now? This is the proof. This is one demonstration of how much he loves us, this concentration camp here. He loved us so much he didn’t force us to love him back. He loved us so much he lets us stay here in our folly, even though he knows what is best for us. It is in our best interest to turn to him, but he loves us so much he won’t come unless we ask him to.’ ‘I already asked him. No answer. Where is your God?’ ‘He respects us so much he would let us do horrible things to one other, but yet not intervene. Intervening would do nothing. It would just be one disaster averted. Life would go on. People would ignore him. No, suffering is man’s choice. We chose suffering, so he allows us. He respects our choice. When we finally come around to choose him again, he is so happy. He will respect that choice, too. He will save us into his heavenly kingdom, where there are no more tears and no more sorrow and no more suffering. This is our God.’”

“So what? So suffering doesn’t disprove God, I never said that.”

The boy let go at last. The old man was crying, and his tears were dripping down his wrinkled face and onto my bare legs. “There is hope.”

“What? You believe that this hope can fix everything you did wrong and save you? So you’ll end up going to heaven after all the shit you’ve done?” I realized that I was talking to the boy and not the old man. I turned to the old man. “There’s no such thing as heaven. There can’t be. There’s no good place to go when you’re dead. There can’t be, because if there were even a single man there, it wouldn’t be the good place anymore. I can’t help it. Even if I were to run away and live in the middle of nowhere all by myself, I’d somehow manage to hurt someone else, I know it. How can there be a good place with that sort of person in it, huh?”

“The old man is crucified. We are being transformed. Jesus Christ paid it all.”

“Religious nuts,” I concluded. “It just doesn’t work that way. It’s not that simple. If it were that simple, everyone would be a wacko Christian and then Christ would return or whatever you guys say and then it’d be happily ever after. Except that’s not how it works. It can’t possibly work that way.”

“And why not?” the boy asked. “Why can’t it?”

I left. The boy kept yelling after me. “Why not? Why can’t it?” Idealists. Idealists, except ideas are just ideas. They don’t work. We say we want “justice”. There’s no such thing as justice, especially if man’s administering it. How can we make those people in the jury God? How can we expect them to do what’s right? Not just what they feel is right?—because what we feel is right isn’t usually wrong. I always thought I was right to keep trying to get the high scores on the test, not knowing that I was ruining some other girl’s life because her parents would always yell at her for never having the highest grades, no matter how hard she studied or tried. There isn’t anything that’s right. There isn’t anything that’s wrong. All that there is, is life. And life isn’t right or wrong. Some people go and commit suicide. Some people decide to keep living. Some people try to live “good” lives. Some people murder. Doesn’t matter. We’re making people suffer nonetheless, and that should be wrong. But is it? Is it wrong? It feels wrong, but does that make it wrong? If every person in the world thought murder was wrong except one person, does that say anything?

I wanted it to be true, you see? I wanted what the boy said to be true, but it just couldn’t be. It was just a delusion to explain away our sufferings, to explain away everything. But why? Why then? Why did I exist then? I’d asked myself that so many times now, but it just didn’t make sense. My very life itself justified its own existence, I wanted to say, but that made no sense whatsoever. I can create my own meaning, but that’s just so empty. I want to say that there are things that are just right. I want to say that there is a way this world was meant to be. But I can’t. I just can’t. Why not?

I shuddered. Why not?

Written: 8/24/2009

A/N: I literally just wrote this. It is very unpolished, I know, but as a whole, it does have some thoughts that I think really merit some thought. The thought of causing suffering to all is not really mine as it is Dostoevsky's and I will admit that I merely attempted to elaborate on it a bit more. This, I suppose, is one interpretation of the results of original sin. What is sin? A lot of people hear the word and instantly think "breaking the ten commandments" or "doing bad things" or something like that, but it really isn't just that. The book of Romans tells us that "all that is not out of faith is sin." In other words, everything that we do not turn to God for, but rather depend on ourselves for, is sin. Sin is selfishness, and this is within the entire human condition. Economic theory supports this completely. Everyone is acting for their own self-interest. The result of this selfishness is that people suffer. Something is not right with the world. We may say, oh, that's only if you're ambitious. That's only if you're really bad. We're all pretty bad. We all do things that lead to other things. We may not think it does, but what we do may have been the little bit needed to push someone to doing something else that eventually cascades into something really bad. It's not nature, it's the environment, we hear a lot. It's not only nature, it's nurture. Well, guess what? We are the environment. We are the nurture, and so it's our fault too.

This is why Jesus Christ is necessary. This is why God had to come. Man just wasn't good enough, so God had to do it. God cared so much about man that he didn't want to have to get rid of man when he got rid of all suffering and all evil. If he were to get rid of all evil, he would have to get rid of us, too, right? That's why Jesus Christ died as our substitute, so that, in effect, God DID get rid of us. He got rid of our sinful selves so that we can take up a new self that is no longer sinful in that day.

I know I'm preaching, but I think sometimes, there's this basis misunderstanding. All religions in the world basically say the same thing: something is wrong with man. All of them try to fix that problem. But only one of them says that the problem with man is so bad that man cannot possibly fix it himself. God had to come and fix the problem. This is Christianity. Not going to church. Not following the Ten Commandments, because no matter how hard you try, you're still going to fail. Love your neighbor as yourself? Yeah right. Not in this world. But in the next, because of Jesus Christ... yes... Christians are the ultimate idealists.

Evolution and Government

2009-08-18T13:57:00.004-04:00

Genre: Essay
Word Count: 1849
A/N: Yes, I wrote this a long time ago. Yes, it is probably riddled with logical fallacies. Yes, it was fun to write. That's what counts, right? o.O (Note: apparently, I seemed to lack appreciation of the two-party system before. That has changed now, but... meh, I'm too lazy to rewrite this. :P)

Evolution. Political theory. Two radically different things at first glance, but are they really that different?

Evolution concerns changes in living things over time; political theory, the structure and function of government. But let’s take this further. Let’s attempt to apply the principles of evolution to the workings of government. To do this, we must look at government as a living organism.

What is a living thing? Let’s look at the criteria:

1.) Living things are organized: their parts are specialized for specific functions

2.) Living things take materials and energy from the environment: they need an outside source of nutrients

3.) Living things are homeostatic: they stay just about the same internally despite changes in the external environment

4.) Living things respond to stimuli: they react to internal and external events

5.) Living things reproduce: they produce offspring that resemble themselves

6.) Living things grow and develop: during their lives they change, sometimes undergoing various stages from fertilization to death.

7.) Living things are adapted: they have modifications that make them suited to a particular way of life.

Now that we know the characteristics of living things, let’s try comparing a government to them. For the purposes of this essay, I will use the United States government.

1.) Living things are organized.

Is the government organized? Yes. Does it have specialized parts? Yes. Just think of the three branches, one for creating the laws, one for interpreting the laws, and one for enforcing the laws. Remember? That’s about all they teach you about the government from first to fourth grade. You want more evidence? How about the president’s Cabinet? The Senate’s committees? Who knew that being a living thing meant bureaucracy?

2.) Living things take materials and energy from the environment.
Need I explain this? The government leeches those tax dollars like a yeast squanders sugar! In case you don’t get what I mean, I’ll just explain that yeast produce energy in the form of ATP via fermentation, a horribly inefficient method compared to that of aerobic respiration, which is what we use most of the time. But I digress.

3.) Living things are homeostatic.

One word: bureaucracy. That’s making sure we aren’t going anywhere fast. And what does the government do but try to maintain the status quo?

4.) Living things respond to stimuli.

Islamic extremists attack the World Trade Center. Did the government react? Okay, that’s external stimuli. How about the Rodney King riots? There’s internal stimuli for you.

5.) Living things reproduce.

You’re probably wondering how I’m going to pull this one off. Well, I’m going to bring us over to Iraq. Yes, that place over there. Is the U.S. forcing a democracy onto the people over there? Yes. A little U.S. Jr. Granted, it may not resemble its parent exactly, but then, what child does?

And if that doesn’t work for you, there are plenty of other historical examples I can draw from. Think imperialism.

Now, I’m sure there’s someone out there who’s going to point out that the government isn’t completely reproducing without help. The U.S. is reproducing by knocking off another government. Sort of like a virus, actually. I concede that point. We can have a parasitic virus-government.

6.) Living things grow and develop.

Was the government of the late 18th century the same as it is now? No. It wasn’t. Apparently, the U.S. government has changed since then. Instead of developing new cells and tissues like we multi-cellular organisms do, it grows with the addition of new laws and amendments, new immigrants and newly fledged voters.

7.) Living things are adapted.

Finally, the last point. Let’s go back in that time machine of the mind to September 11th. Obviously, the U.S. became more aware that it needed a new way of operating to fit the new order of life. The Department of Homeland Security. The Patriot Act. These are just a few of the modifications made by the government to make it more suited to surviving in the 21st century. Adapted? I think so.

Now, we have established that government can qualify as a living thing, albeit a parasitic, virus-like one. One can now reasonably conclude that it must be subject to evolutionary forces.

What are these forces? Let’s list the prerequisites for a particular form of evolution, Darwinian, governed by natural selection. This requires four factors:

1.) Variation: individual members of a species vary in physical characteristics

2.) Struggle for existence: members of all species compete with each other for limited resources.

3.) Survival of the fittest: unequal reproduction

4.) Adaptation: natural selection causes a population to adapt to its environment

As with before, let’s apply this to government. We will replace species with government and individuals with politicians.

1.) Variation

As we all know, those pesky politicians all differ from each other… physically. We know that they’re all about the same inside: loving, kind, caring, altruistic—oh wait a second…

2.) Struggle for existence

Think Cold War. Competition? I think so. Or just think economically. What country isn’t trying to boost their economy?

3.) Survival of the fittest

Again, think Cold War. What happened to the USSR?

4.) Adaptation

This was already covered before, but this time, it applies more to government-government interaction. Yes. Diplomats. ‘Nuff said.

So, government can be governed by natural selection. Then what kind of government would be best fit?

Generally speaking, the ones that can adapt the fastest win out, but one can’t forget those that are just plain, dumb lucky.

This brings us closer to my main point, but not quite. Let’s look at the following question: How can a government adapt quickly?

Obviously, a government with just one part will be able to move faster than one that involves a million parts. Let’s just say, a dictatorship versus a direct democracy.

Let’s also just say that, theoretically, some unknown third party just suddenly decides to get medieval on the two countries.

Who is going to react faster? By the time the direct democracy can gather everyone together for a vote, they’re done for.

But, as we all know, dictatorships tend to get corrupted, making them less feasible there. So, we’ll settle on a nice, in-between representative democracy that strikes an acceptable balance between pure bureaucracy and corruption.

You’re probably wondering if I’ll ever get to my point. Well, I will… eventually. I thought it would be ready to be introduced by now, but apparently, it got held up by the airport security. Random background checks, yeah right.

Anyway, now we have to decide how to choose those who will represent the people. Here in the good U.S. of A., we do it by a simple vote. The politician who has the most votes wins.

Now, this brings up a few problems. I’ll try to address the most pressing ones in turn.

The first is what is often known as the “tyranny of the majority”. With the current system, all one of those scheming politicians has to do is get 50.1% of the votes and he or she in! What about the other 49.9%? Do they just lose their representation? This particularly applies to minorities, who are usually the ones who lose out in this form of election.

A second issue is the concern of money. Campaigns cost money. Lots of it. I’m sure if someone looks at the data, there will probably be a strong positive correlation between money spent and success of the campaign. Now, who has this kind of money?

I’m sure how people have noticed that politics is primarily dominated by the same patrician, upper-class people, year after year. Sure, there may be the occasional oddball, but generally, it works this way. So, the same type of people are dominating the representation spots.

In evolution, we would probably refer to this as inbreeding, which is usually regarded as a no-no.

I’m sure there are more issues, but we are just going to deal with these two.

We are slowly getting closer to my proposal. Yes, it concerns election reform.

As we know, randomness is something essential to life. Otherwise, an organism or species runs the risk of completely folding in the face of some unforeseen change in the environment. In the same way, randomness can benefit government, although the consequences may not be as dire as species extinction. All we need now is to find a way to generate this randomness. Living things have genetic mutations; representative democracies have elections.

Are elections random? Yes, maybe slightly. You have to realize that we have to look at this from a larger point of view: Are the type of people in power changing? Yes. But is this enough? Let’s look back a few years into history. For much of the life of the U.S., this country has been dominated by a two-party system. So basically, power is just constantly shifting between these two parties, back and forth. Is that a lot of randomness? I don’t think so. We need some new blood, more than just the sprinkling of independents one sees every once in a while.

How can we fix this? Let’s look at the elections, standard majority rule. What if we have an election based on chance? How is that possible, you ask? Well, allow me to present a possibility.

Imagine an election in which every vote is thrown into a giant lottery. The politician who was voted for on the ballot that is randomly drawn out wins. Maybe it can be a bit more high tech that that, but the principle remains the same.

What does this do? Firstly, this increases randomness. Secondly, well, let’s go back to those two issues we discussed earlier.

The tyranny of the majority fact is eliminated, or at least greatly reduced. Even if the politician gets the majority of the vote, the other candidate still has a chance to win. In addition, politicians can’t be happy with just 50.1% of the vote anymore. That’s just not good enough to hope for an outright win.

Also, this gives lesser known people a chance to win an election, the occasional wild-card candidate, bringing new blood into the system. And under this election system, he or she may actually have a chance at winning without having to spend gobs and gobs of money. Of course, money will still be a factor, but the near-complete dominance it had over politics now may be greatly weakened.

Of course, this also brings up the chance that some complete psychopath would get lucky and win. Simple measures can be taken to reduce this possibility, such as counting every 500 votes as one “vote” in the lottery. In the rare occasion that a psychopath is elected anyway, chances are, one psychopath won’t be enough to really affect the normal functioning of the government.

And there it is. The principles of evolution applied to government. Would this be good enough to decrease the apathy of today’s representatives? They are always the same type of people, always pushing the same views, always presenting the same proposals.

What about it, eh?

Serial

2009-08-10T19:52:00.005-04:00

Genre: General
Word Count: 464
A/N: Another something I wrote long back. Sorry I haven't been posting much lately. I haven't been doing much writing lately partly due to all the stuff I've been doing and places I've been going. o.O

“So,” I tried to keep the emotion out of my voice as I looked down at him, tied securely to a chair in front of me. The room was empty except for the two of us, uncomfortably devoid of almost all furnishings. “It was you.”

He tried to rock the seat, but it barely budged. “Hey, let me out of here, Marc.”

I felt the feeling of distaste in my mouth. He tried to undo the knots holding his hands back, but failed. None of his struggling affected me. I knew it was all an act, all a ploy. He had had plenty of time to try to escape already.

“Come on, Marc,” he looked up pleadingly, looking rather pitiful. “Won’t you help a friend?”

“I don’t think so.” My voice was shaking slightly, and he blinked. He seemed to reevaluate.

He leaned as far forwards as the ropes would let him. “It wasn’t my fault, Marc. It wasn’t my fault. They forced me to—they forced me. I didn’t have a choice, can’t you see? I didn’t have a—”

“You killed her!” I cut in, and he stopped.
There was silence.

I swallowed uncomfortably, my face feeling uncomfortably warm. “You killed her.” I closed my eyes and opened them again, trying to imagine what could have been, trying to pretend that he wasn’t sitting there, tied in front of me, trying to hope that, maybe, just maybe, he was innocent.

But he was there, face twisted in some sort of grimace—almost as if he were feeling my pain. I could feel the anger returning.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “It wasn’t my fault… I was forced to do it.”

“Even if you were, you could’ve refused it—you could have just fought them!” I stepped back, almost in surprise, almost in fear of what had just escaped.

I turned away. Looking at him was too painful—the duel emotions of hate and confusion jockeying back and forth had become unbearable.

“I’m sorry,” was all he said. It almost sounded truthful. It almost sounded sincere. A half-sob. “It was a mistake—it was all a horrible mistake. I was wrong… terribly wrong. You know how strong that pull for self-preservation is… I… I couldn’t fight it.”

It was too much. I couldn’t take it anymore.

“He’s a real mess, that one,” the homeowner commented as I came out of the room. “I’m glad the police’ll be here soon. About time he gets what he deserves.”

“Good thing you caught him, eh?” I forced the words to sound as normal as possible.

The man shuddered. “A good thing for us all.”

I left the house, and for the longest time, I could not get my mind off the subject of murder.

Written: 1/19/2008

The Love Test

2009-07-29T23:58:00.003-04:00

Genre: General
Word Count: 291
(A/N: Man, I haven't posted here for a long time and I feel sort of bad about it. Here's a short little piece I wrote back during school. I hope you like it.)

I had never really noticed the photograph before, but when I asked about it, Ellen said that it had been there since the day after the funeral three weeks before we had gotten married. I guess I ought to believe her, but still I can’t quite reconcile that I could have missed it all these years.

There was that lithe body stretched along the grass, melding artistically into the gentle curve of the hill. The laughing face, the bouncing hair—almost pushing against the clear plastic of the picture frame—the careless eyes wide with mirth. Her mouth was spread, lips ringing that effortless smile, so full and moist.

Her body was smooth and slender, the bare legs crescendoing into that healthy, developed frame on which her fierce intellect rested confidently.

The sun shone warmly, the wind blew softly; the shoots of grass all around bowed their pointed heads. She was just as I had remembered her.

I could sense Ellen coming up from behind me, and I could feel her eyes gazing along with mine.

“It’s a pity she died so young,” she said finally, and there was a tone of silent contentment that I had never quite heard in all our years.

“Why is this picture up?” I asked, at last banishing all the sweet fantasies evoked.

“You never took it down,” she said, as if that was explanation enough for the oddity.

“I’d never noticed it before,” I told her.

“I know that now,” she said, and then there was a sort of warmness in her voice that enfolded everything in its ecstasy. “I’ll take it down, if you want.”

“Yes,” I decided, letting it all go with a sigh, “that would be best.”

The Theory of Relativity

2009-07-03T11:25:00.006-04:00

Genre: Essay
Word Count: 700

Everything is relative. That’s what we seem to hear all around us now. Morals, standards, dreams, goals—don’t judge me, we say. What I think is just what I think. What you think is just what you think. We don’t need any pushing around. Everyone has their own truths. Nothing is intrinsically right, and nothing is intrinsically wrong. It’s decided by the individual or by society. Each person can come up with his or her own philosophies, his or her own beliefs, and his or her own right and wrongs. I can do this if I want. You don’t have to do it if you don’t want. Spread the love… right?

This is the mindset we seem to live in, that all reality is relative. Things can only be judged in respect to other things. People point out all the different religions. So many ways, so many truths! Every one can be right or wrong. Your spirituality is essentially completely up to you. It’s the ultimate response to any sort of contention—everything is relative. You think homosexuality is wrong? Well, that’s nice, because I don’t. You think big government is good? Well, that’s nice, but you’re not going to convince me because I believe that small government is best.

It seems to have penetrated so deeply into our society that we don’t even seem to question it anymore. Reality is relative. Everything comes down to a person’s core beliefs, and everyone’s own core beliefs are a kind of truth in themselves. It’s the Theory of Relativity—but wait, isn’t there already a theory of relativity? It seems awfully similar; one person moving at a certain velocity sees an object moving at the same velocity and says it’s at rest. Another person at rest looks out and says that the object is in motion. Two different observations, two different reference points, and yet, two different truths.

The thing is, though, so often, we leave it just at that. We reach a seemingly true statement and take off from there—Everything is relative—and off we go! But we’re forgetting something… not everything is relative, at least in the Theory of Relativity. In the maelstrom of observers and objects, time dilation and contraction, mathematical formulas and ever-shifting variables, we find one constant around which everything is evaluated: the speed of light. It sets an eternal, unmoving standard, one from which all other things depend on, no matter what frame of reference. The person in motion sees light at the speed of light. The person at rest sees light at the speed of light. How? It seems a paradox but it happens. Light is light, the constant, and other seemingly unrelated things—mass, time, length—all depend upon how fast something is moving compared to the speed of light. It is the absolute by which everything else is judged.

But what’s this? Isn’t everything supposed to be relative?

No. Or, at least, scientifically it isn’t. Truthwise, I won’t say anything. But the thing really is, we can’t just come a certain way, see certain things, experience certain things, and just come to a conclusion that everything seems relative and stop there. We aren’t going out far enough. Everything can only be all relative if there is no absolute by which other things can be evaluated. If there is an absolute, it doesn’t matter how relative everything else seems—there is a benchmark by which to measure by. Maybe everything seems permitted. Maybe absolute good and absolute evil don’t seem to exist. But if even one thing that is intrinsically good or evil exists, it creates a bellwether from which we can judge all other things. How good is it compared to our absolute? How evil is it compared to our absolute? We can’t say it’s all relative anymore.

We can’t say that everything is relative before first asking ourselves whether any absolute exists or not. Only after we have ascertained the answer to the first question can we make any confident statements on relativity. And just to provide a hint… absolutes are rather difficult to confirm. Just ask the philosophers.

This is the theory of relativity.

(Written on 6/30/09, 7/2/09)

The Locket

2009-06-26T12:13:00.003-04:00

Genre: General
Word Count: 1640

You meet a lot of strange people when you work the night shift out in a gas station just outside of town. It’s an experience, I’ll tell you, and one I’ll probably never forget.

It’s a rare feeling to look out the recently cleaned windows and spot those two glaring lights turning in for a stop at two in the morning. If anyone’s out at all, they aren’t stopping their car unless they really need to.

It’s a slow job, I’ll say, and most nights, after I’ve finished cleaning and rearranging the displays, after I’ve given up trying to get the ‘four’ in the ‘Open Twenty-Four Hours” sign to work, after I’ve counted and recounted the money in the old register, when there’s just about nothing else to do, I’d sit back in the plastic lawn chair I found out back and count the cars that went by.

It was a waiting game, one of those things that just tests your patience. You’d be just about ready to give up, just about ready to go back through and count the cash again when there’d be the faint glow in the distance, slowly coming closer, slowly getting brighter until those glowing eyes pass by, beams pooling ahead like some sort of crazy cones of light.

Sometimes, I’d guess how long it’d be before the next one passed. Some nights, it’d be half-an-hour. Others, two or three. If I was really bored, I’d keep track of my score, trying to figure how much I was off by every time those headlights came in the distance and the soft purr of the engine brushed by.

And then, of course, there was the occasional stopper, someone who was just so low on gas that they didn’t think they could make it over to the next city, to somewhere where there were actually other people, to some other station with their polished, automatically-opening, sliding doors and their bright signs screaming out the latest prices and bargains. Buy one get one free. Twenty percent off a new bottle of antifreeze. Twenty-four ounce fountain drinks for only a buck.

There was nothing like that here, just a bored night-worker and a small convenience store filled with the various trinkets and curios that had piled up over the years.

An authentic baseball hit by the Great Bambino over in the last game he played. A broken guitar string from some artist I’ve never heard about before I took the job. Some holographic trading card apparently worth thousands of dollars. But most special, to me at least, was this small chain of linked golden rings—not even the whole necklace, just a bit of it.

It had joined the stack of stuff at the shop only about six months ago, when he had said that he would return in about half a year. I took the fragile-looking chain and closed my hand tightly around it so I could feel those little golden rings pressing into the inside of my hand. I tried to remember that man’s face, his tired eyes, the wild, untamed wilderness of his hair.

I’ll be back, he had said.

When I had asked when, he only shrugged his shoulders, adjusted his scraggly jacket and reached out to stroke the chain he had just put onto the freakishly clean counter. Three months, two years, it makes no difference to me. He grasped the chain and let a thoughtful look slide onto his face. It came gently, as if it had been pushing all along and the man had only just given in. ‘Bout six months, I suppose. Look for me in about six months.

“You’ll be coming from the West again?”

The thoughtful look disappeared and his eyes returned to that smooth, glassy dullness. Finally, his shoulders rose, and then lowered. He let go of the chain and let it slide gently through his rugged hands onto the counter, like a quaint, golden waterfall over the beaten rocks. The West, the East, it doesn’t matter. When you don’t care where you’re going, any road will get you there.

I didn’t understand completely, but I took his chain and slipped it into a drawer, keeping it as he had asked. No doubt I thought he was just a bit odd then—most who stopped to talk were. I probably figured I’d never see him again.

Man, was I surprised when that letter came two weeks ago. Only five simple words, but they stopped my heart for a moment. Do you still have it?

Five simple words. No return address. There was nothing to do but wait.

I opened my hand and stared curiously at the nice little imprints the rings had left. For some reason, they seemed to beckon, almost as if there was some kind of hidden message to be found in those little grooves.

I looked up, and there, almost as if it had been planned, there was that tell-tale glow on the horizon, a small ghostly form, almost, stretching out and out until it became obvious that there was something coming.

The lights slowed, and then almost passed completely by, but not quite. The dark shape behind the lights made a turn into the lot, and I had a feeling that it was him.

A tall, thick form stepped out of the vehicle, and I left the chain on the counter and stopped out the door, going to offer whoever it was my help, just doing my job. He stepped into the dim light coming from the single bulb by the pump and my suspicions were confirmed. He was almost unrecognizable in the near-complete darkness.

I stopped walking, not wanting to move too far from the comforting oasis of light I had left behind me.

He looked up and saw me, and for the first time, his face was more exposed to the light. His beard had gotten slightly longer, and perhaps his hair as well, although I couldn’t really tell his dark, nearly black strands from the darkness around.

“You still have it?” the voice was surprisingly hoarse, almost guttural.

I started nodding before I realized how hard it would be for him to see my movements. I was about to say something, but he seemed to have gotten the message.

He took a step towards the small store. “’Kin you get it out?”

“Alright,” and I turned and made my way back towards the door I had just stepped through barely a minute before. I heard the door of the car slam behind me and then the sound of his heavy boots on the gravel.

He stepped into the store right behind me and homed in on the short length of chain on the counter right away. He looked as if he was about to say something, but only a sort of gulping noise came out of his mouth. He walked up to the counter and I followed him, wondering what he was doing here a second time.

In one quick movement, he had reached into one of the folds of his jacket and produced a small pendant hanging from some of an identical chain. The rings at the ends were popped open.

He dropped it next to the chain on the counter.

He was blocking my view of the two pieces now, and I could only make out a short length of part of the broken necklace. There was a glint of gold in the bare light as, for a moment, he lifted both together before him. A heart-shaped locket hung open along the chain—I thought there was a picture in it for a moment, but he had moved it too quickly for me to judge for sure.

“You found the rest,” I said, breaking the silence. The words seem to hang awkwardly in the air.

“I’ve always had the other part,” he said heavily, setting the now-completed necklace back onto the counter. I heard the soft clink of metal hitting porcelain.
He sighed heavily. “I had hoped it could be fixed but…” his voice died off into some sort of croak.

In one swift movement, he produced a hammer from somewhere and smashed it down onto the counter.

I stood, frozen, as the last waves of the blow faded away.

He slid the tool back into a loop in his pants, where it must have been hanging before. He turned slowly towards me, all of a sudden seeming completely exhausted. “Thank you,” he said tiredly. He stumbled past me to the door.

The remains of the necklace were still left on the counter. Most of the links were still intact, but the locket had been completely pulverized, the precious gold pressed into a heart-shaped foil on the counter. There was a barely visible rectangle raised slightly in the center, just about the size of a small picture.

Outside, a car started. With a cautious finger, I brushed the top of the flattened gold, feeling the barely perceptible bump as my finger passed over where a picture must have been entombed. It was a disquieting feeling, one that sent some sensations through my spine, not a chill, but more like a feeling of clearance, a feeling of completion.

Finally, I thought I understood the words he had told me half a year ago. Finally, I understood the reason the man had been driving so late at night in the middle of nowhere.

I lifted my finger from the gold, lifted my finger from the final monument to the now-destroyed love that must have brought the chain here in the first place.

I have loved, and I have lost, the words stared back at me from the small scrap of paper left on the counter.

It was a melancholy hand that finally threw the crumpled note into the wastebasket.

Written: Before 12/17/2007

Citrus Tea

2009-06-18T13:53:00.005-04:00

Written: 17 June, 2009
Word count: 732

He visits frequently and just sporadically enough to keep me on my toes. I'll be watching from my fire escape, spraying my flowers, and he's standing there, the bottom of his Levi's slightly damp from the evening dew. My gut always gives a slight lurch, not wholly unpleasant, every time I turn and say, "Oh, you're here." Sometimes he flashes me his crooked smile or gives a slight shrug. Other times, he turns and walks away. Some nights he comes in, and I boil two citrus peels in honey water for him and watch him as he drinks.

Other nights, we sit on the fire escape and talk until we hear the first honks of the morning delivery trucks. We admire the unstable silence of the New York streets at dawn. I keep him talking. The week's late night soaps, the sporadic wars of the world, the woman across the street with an affinity for exotic herbs, the man downstairs with the peculiar tattoo, the mythology behind Orion's belt. I keep him talking in hopes of hearing him utter my name, ever so quietly into the heavy night air.

"Where do you go off every morning, Dave? So early in the morning. . . "
"I'll take you someday." He jokingly pushes my shoulder causing me to spill my tea. I run to the kitchen, and when I return with a patterned towel, Dave is gone, his cup untouched. No footsteps touch the stairs for the rest of the week. I keep a cup of citrus tea on the table every night, just in case.

My vigilance pays off when I hear a creak on my fire escape. I knock over one of my petunia pots in my fervor to open the door and shout, "Oh, you're back!"

"Say my name," I whisper, scared I'll frighten him.

"Why?"

"Just do it. Please."

"Karen."

The name drifts into the air and settles somewhere up higher than I can reach. Hoping to snatch a measly vowel or consonant, I desperately grasp for something tangible to keep.

"Say it again."

"I can't keep coming back."

My stupor breaks.

"Why not?"

"You haven't left the apartment in a year."

"I'm always waiting for you." I try not to sound like a child.

"I can't come back. It's been a year. I can't keep coming back for you."

He slowly makes his way to the bookshelf and grabs a pile of newspaper clippings. He flips past last week's garden club tips and the month before's book recommendations. Past the erotic horoscopes and crossword puzzles. Past the stock market quotes, the weather predictions. In a flash his hands sift through one years worth of useless information and delicately pick out one lone slip of paper. A rogue neuron in my brain fires, and I realize what he's trying to show me.

"No! No! We can keep going like this! Nobody can say my name like you. Please keep coming, Dave. We still have so many constellations to look at! Too many cups of tea to drink! You're all I have."

"I was all you had."

He drops the tattered article to the ground. I can barely make out the words and the accompanying photo through my tear glands now in overdrive. My hand involuntarily picks up the crumpled wad reading. I blot out the words with my tears until no one can ever read them anymore.

"No! Take me with you, please, Dave. Take me with you! Please!" I grab a corner of his blue striped polo in a fit of mental abandon.

"I can't, Karen."

I hit my side on a table corner and fall to the ground, wincing. I catch a last glimpse of him in the door, and the creak of his feet on the fire escape.

******

"Is this Karen Alexander's house?"

"Yes, this is. I'm Karen's mother. Please come in."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I can't. I just came to give my condolences. I live downstairs. I heard about the suici-- well, I'm very sorry about, well, I'll be glad to help if you need anything. Just down the stairs. Uh, yes, well, nice to meet you."

Karen's mother walks back inside and sits in the kitchen, staring out the window, a cup of citrus tea in hand.

Heaven's Messenger

2009-06-15T18:30:00.005-04:00

Genre: General/Sci-fi?
Word Count: 1412

It was a cold night to be out, but I wasn’t going to be the one complaining.

“How much farther?” Hal asked, his breath coming out in a mist from his mouth. He thumped his gloved hands together. “It’s cold out.”

“It is,” Angela huddled close to me. She wrapped her hands around her as she walked.

“Oh, come on, Angie,” Hal thumped his hands again, “You have a hat and everything—coat, scarf, gloves, earmuffs—”

“My legs are freezing,” she huddled closer to me, and I put a hand over her shoulder, bringing her in.

Hal threw up his hands. “Oh, come on, you even have Joel to cuddle with.”

“Quiet,” Nolan stopped moving and shone his flashlight at the trees all around us. I finally saw that the path split ahead, and the light danced between the two trails. I almost considered losing face and going back to grab another layer, but finally, the beam stopped on the left path. “Alright,” he said calmly, and started walking again.

The three of us followed him, I on the left, a bit behind him, Angela next to me, and Hal on her right, a little behind.

“Damn, it’s cold,” Hal said finally, breaking the repetitive crunching sound of our feet stepping on the woodchip-covered path.

“It’s going to snow tomorrow,” Nolan said calmly without turning around.

“Ugh,” I stuffed my hands into my pockets, but Angela relocated my arm so she could hang on to it, “Snow. I hate it. It gets everything—shoes, floor, the bottom of my jeans—ugh!” She shivered. “I wish I lived somewhere else.”

“Really.” I thought I might have sounded a bit too unconcerned. Too late to go back now.

“Well, I wish you were there, too, of course,” she smiled at me, looking almost like a completely different person all wrapped up in her winter-wear.

“How much longer?” Hal’s voice came out again.

“Oh, not long now, I think,” Nolan’s reply was prompt. He flashed his light around, and showed that the woods were starting to thin. “We’re almost there.”

“Good.”

“Oh, come on, Hal,” Angela imitated. “You have a coat and everything. Joel’s only got a jacket.”

Hal wasn’t deterred at all. “That’s only because I’m not dumb enough to walk out here wearing that little. I mean, come on.”

I was freezing. I wasn’t even sure I could feel my ears anymore. Angela seemed to be looking at me expectantly, though, so I tried to ignore all of that. “I’m fine.”

“See?” she turned triumphantly. “He’s fine.”

I tried to keep my teeth from chattering. It’s an odd thing, something you’d never think could actually happen sometimes. It’s just one of those things that you read about in stories and that’s about it. You’d never expect it to actually happen. I tried to move my hands around inside the pockets to make sure they were still attached—they were, thankfully enough.

Below, the woodchips were more sparsely layered, and there were some dark stalks of grass poking through now and then.

Angela sighed loudly. “Look at the sky. It’s amazing.”

I looked up at the vast expanse of lights shining above us. The tree cover had dropped away behind us, and we could see the night sky naked before our eyes.

“There’re so many of them,” she breathed. “I never thought you could see so many.”

“It’s the lights in the city,” Nolan said, pausing for a moment to look up. “There’s too much light around to see the stars real well.”

The sky was like an inviting dark blanket with little sparkles thrown all over it. It was just full of stars, burning spheres of light, almost inviting —nothing like the sky I had grown so used to. I thought about how the first humans must have seen the heavens, resting around the fire after stuffing themselves with that day’s hunt. Warm. Comfortable. I almost asked to borrow a hat.

Angela took my arm again. “Thinking about something?”

“Nothing really,” I caught Hal in the corner of my vision, looking as if he were about to echo me mockingly, but he noticed that I had seen him and said nothing. “I was just thinking about how it must have been before…” I thought for another moment, “before electricity and cities and cars and all that.”

“Of course,” Hal said scathingly.

“Hal!”

“What?”

Nolan cleared his throat. “We’re almost there—we don’t want to miss it.”

“What time is it?” Hal looked to me questioningly.

“Time for you to get a watch,” Angela said quickly.

He ignored her. Reluctantly, I jerked my left hand out of my pocket and tried to make out the numbers in the dark. I brought my other hand out quickly and jabbed at the button to make the numbers light up. I stuffed the hand back. “Eleven fifty.”

“A few more minutes, huh?” Hal looked back into the sky.

I slid my left hand back into the pockets. I could barely tell the difference in temperature. Somehow, I didn’t think that was a good sign. Either my pockets were pretty cold—which they were bound to be—or my hands were starting to lose their feeling. For a moment, I tried to remember the symptoms of frostbite and the conditions needed, but I just couldn’t recall them. That only made me feel colder.

Nolan stopped and switched off his light. “Here we are.”

Hal looked around. I could make out his figure in the starlight. “We’re on a hill.”

“Yeah,” Nolan answered.

“We walked all the way out here to sit on a hill.”

“That sounds about right,” Nolan nodded. “Yeah.”

Hal looked confused. “Is there something really special about this hill?”

“Not really, no. We can go to another one if you want. What time is it now?”

I checked my watch again. “Fifty-six.”

Angela intercepted my hands before they could make it back to their shelters. She clutched them in her gloves. “Cold?”

I thought I saw Hal look gloatingly over. “A little bit,” I admitted.

“Want to borrow my hat?” she started taking off the pink, red, and white hat she was wearing. “I’ve got a hood on my coat.” She shoved the thing into my hand.

It felt warm, and I let some of the heat pass into my freezing hands.

“Well,” she put her earmuffs back on and then flipped the hood of her coat over her head. “Put it on.”

“Put it on!” Hall imitated.

“Oh, shut up, Hal,” she punched at him, but he skipped lightly away.

“You missed.”

Angela didn’t answer. I pulled the woolen hat onto my head, glad it was dark and glad that I couldn’t see myself wearing it. It made me feel warmer for a bit, but then the heat seemed to fade away and I couldn’t help but notice that I was trembling slightly.

“It should be about time,” Nolan stared up into the sky.

I checked my watch again. Twelve one, it blinked. Any time now.

“Where do you think it’ll be?” Hal asked.

Nolan took a few seconds to answer. “I don’t know.”

Angela pressed towards me. “Aren’t you glad it’s going to miss us?” she whispered, so that only I could hear.

“Yeah,” I breathed softly, watching the light mist of my breath disappear quickly in the night air. “But we were lucky.”

She suddenly pointed out into the sky a little above the tree line. “Is that it?”

As I looked out at the horizon, I saw a narrow streak of light burning through the night sky.

“There it is,” Nolan pointed as well.

Hal was surprisingly silent.

For a moment, I almost forgot about being cold as I watched the streak of light move across the sky. The line grew thicker and brighter as the asteroid moved deeper into the atmosphere. It would only miss by a few hundred miles. I shivered, nearly asked for the scarf.

The front end of the line ignited and now it glowed a glaringly bright white, obscuring the long tail of heat it left behind. The spectacle passed out of view behind the trees.

I realized that I had been holding my breath and let it rush out. “It’s over then.”

Nolan seemed to be nodding. “Thank God it’s over.”

“Amen,” Hal said quietly.

We turned and started walking back towards the car. I was in a mood for hot chocolate.

Written: Before 12/8/2007

Progress

2009-06-08T01:00:00.002-04:00

Genre: Unknown
Word Count: 804

A/N: I haven't posted anything for ages... ugh. So I dug up this work from a LONG time ago in my writing history... from my days when I was a lot less subtle and skilled with writing. >.<

The door opened with barely a creak, and the president turned to face his assailant.

“I’ve been expecting you,” the tired-looking man slowly lowered himself into the expensive chair behind the desk. He faced the stranger.

The young assassin removed the remains of the guards’ uniform he had been using as a disguise. “If you knew I was coming, you should know what I have come to do.” He raised a gun.

“I do,” the president said impassively.

“And yet you did nothing to stop it,” the young man aimed his weapon, shifting from one eye to the other. He did not believe that his task would be this easy. “You are not an imposter?”

“And would I tell you even if I was?” the president reclined in the chair. “But that is not the case. I am the president.”

“The president of a land in turmoil.”

“Nonetheless, I am still president.”

“For the moment,” the assassin chose the right eye and prepared to fire.

“But,” the soon-to-be-dead man raised a hand, buying more time. He let the word linger slightly, gambling upon the curiosity of the killer. “Realize what you are doing with your bullet.”

“I am doing a great deed for the people,” the man replied mechanically, as if the answer had been drilled into his brain. Inculcated.

The president looked closely at the man holding a gun. He is little more than a boy. He should not be involved in this conflict. “Are you?” He replied questioningly.

“I am ridding the land of a tyrant. I am preparing the way for a bright new future—a rebirth in the history of our nation,” the reply was automatic.

“What makes you think the future will be brighter?” the president pressed, his charismatic face filled with a look that instilled doubt into the boy. “What do you think killing me will accomplish?” He waited for an answer.

“I will end the suffering of the people. I will bring a new, glorious age to our—”

“Suffering?” the president interrupted unexpectedly. “You will end suffering?” He laughed bitterly. “There will be no end to suffering, ever!” The president stared the boy in the eyes, unblinking, unmoving. The boy dropped his gaze. “Human beings are the definition of suffering.”

“You’re wrong!” the finger tightened on the trigger, but the president showed no fear.

“What has our race produced? All the years—decades, centuries, millennia—all those years of human civilization. What have we produced? What have we reaped?” He laughed again, mockingly. “The dominant trait of the human race is suffering.”

“That will change!”

“Will it?” the leader continued, nonplussed. “What will you accomplish? What will you bring?”

“I will bring freedom, prosperity, an end to suffering—”

“An end to suffering?” the well-known man shook his head. “People will suffer under a democracy and under a dictatorship alike. The suffering may come in different forms—physical suffering, emotional suffering, mental suffering—but there will still be suffering. Prosperity?” The leader’s voice increased in intensity. “How can there be riches without the poor? One cannot coexist without the other.”

“Plato says—”

“Yes, Plato. Your self-named leader. Does he envision utopia? Does he see better times? Progress, even?” the dictator clenched his fists. “Does he see himself in power?”

“The power will be shared by the people—” the boy began.

“Ahh… but there will be power nonetheless. Tell me. What is power, but the ability to cause suffering?”

“I…I…don’t—” the aim of the gun wavered, but held firm.

“Nothing is accomplished by your empty dreams. You seek progress? Progress is just the delusion that things are getting better. But suffering is still there… will always be there. Problems are still there—what will you have accomplished?”
“We will solve the problems!” The aim faltered again.

The dictator’s eyes followed the gun closely. “Will you?” he shook his head again. “Problems are never solved—can never be solved. They are only postponed. All solutions are only temporary—only problems are eternal.”

“Our lives will be better!” The boy exclaimed vehemently, but it was clear that he was weakening, becoming confused.

“Will it? What will the people live like in the instability after the fall of this government? What of your family, when there is no law? No one to tell the murderer to stop. No one to keep order.”

“It…will…be…better,” the gunman’s arm faltered and the barrel of the gun slipped down for a moment. The despot noticed and gave the signal. Behind the young assassin, two guards burst out and disarmed the boy.

“What is life,” the man who had murdered millions stood up triumphantly, “without suffering?” He threw his head back and laughed.

---

Outside, the sounds of the slaving people continued, never ceasing as the screams from the torture rooms began.

Written: Before 9/21/2007, exact date unknown (I might be able to find it, but it would involve a lot of searching into random piles of notebook paper for the original draft.

And We Think We Know Better

2009-05-21T23:38:00.002-04:00

Genre: General
Word Count: 440

“I hate them all,” he told me quietly as he passed by. “I’ll tell you at dinner. They’re all so shallow!”

And he was gone, stalking off into the distance. It took me a moment before I recovered from his onslaught, though, intense words piercing me with his anguish and longing.

---

That night, he smashed his violin, all forty-thousand dollars of it. “It’s been through enough humiliation,” he told me. He stomped on the body a few times, and then fell down crying, picking up the pieces and stroking them. I attended the funeral and put roses on the grave.

---

The next week, he wore earplugs. I didn’t ask why, but he wrote me an answer on the board he carried around anyway. It’s too painful, the shaky letters said. He wouldn’t speak at all. I listened to Rachmaninoff. He pretended not to notice.

---

Yesterday, he refused to get out of bed. I found him there in the afternoon after visiting my boyfriend. He wouldn’t even shake his head until I poured ice water all over him. Then I dragged him down the stairs and across the street. We took the bus into the city, to the slums of Edmont Street, where my mother still lived.

We didn’t talk. Words wouldn’t have worked.

I took him by the hand and led him to the apartment, number four, room two. The lock didn’t work.

I opened the door a crack and made him peek in as I removed the earplugs. He didn’t protest.

I knew my mother didn’t work Sundays, and I knew the old piano was out of tune. When she started playing it was almost painful to me, but he didn’t move, just as I thought. My mother wasn’t very good, and the dripping water from the leaking pipes was almost as loud, but I left him there anyway and went back down the corrugated stairs and past the overgrown alley. I had a paper to write.

---

This morning he woke me up with his crying. Thank you, thank you, he seemed to say, but I kicked him away. My roommate was sounding an alarm, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I fixed my violin,” he said, and showed me a twisted monstrosity of an instrument.

“That’s nice,” I told him, and showed him out. He was arrested and booked, but not charged. He would return to a gaily wrapped parcel, all colorful ribbons and lace.

---

I know I’m going to need to take another job, but tonight I still hear the musicians laughing at me, and the phones are ringing Holden Caulfield.

(Written: 1/26/09. This one really wasn't written because I wanted to write a good story. This minimal work actually probably played a pretty important role in my development as a human being, although it might be hard to tell. I wonder what you guys make of it.)