Young Writers Society

Wide shoulders, rock-solid chest, big, strong arms, square face... Every girl would say that Brock Stewarts, a.k.a Magnitude, is the perfect guy. I think it is getting a little repetitive. Especially when you see him on billboards, magazines, and even on TV. Can't I watch Good Morning America in peace? I'm sick to death of seeing his face.

And now I'm staring at him, I notice the creases on his tall forehead and the crinkles beside his eyes. He carries me off, flying hurriedly away from impeding danger. I groan inwardly, thinking of tomorrow's headline: Belinda Carlyle saved by heroic hunk. Again.

The city had faced yet another attack from The Oblivionator and his schemes, and again I was caught up in it. That mad genius set an eleven story building on fire with his special ray gun. Every second watching that fire was allowing my heart to burn with it. Magnitude came and blew it out with his almighty breath, blah blah blah... he saved the day, and tied the baddy up. Then, while I'm reporting, a remaining piece of the building crumbled, almost crushing me.

And he rescued me. Again. Nearly every single week I am the damsel in distress. I'm an ordinary tv reporter, not some girl who swoons every time he smiles. Ugh. That smile of his. So fake. Never in my whole career have I met anyone so original. Where has 'be your self' gone?

And here I am. Soaring through the clouds, collapsed into his buff arms, awkwardly pressed against him. I can feel his chest as he exhales, and his warm breath tickles my face. I wish he'd drop me. This is too clique. Any minute now he's going to lay a kiss on me.

He gives into gravities urges and the wind howls as he goes into land. Air resistances blows my hair this way and that, making me feel self-conscious. His feet touch the ground and soon my hair and his cape drop, suddenly I feel safe. We've landed in a park.

Brock places me on the bench and I heave a sigh. Sitting beside me, he puts his arm across the back of the bench, making my chest tighten. Please, whatever you do, don't try anything.

"Don't you just wish that the press wouldn't presume we're a couple?" says Brock, looking up at the sky. His bold features soften and he looks awfully thoughtful.

A hearty laugh blurts out of my mouth and I reply, "Do I ever!"

Brock glances at me, a surprised look on in his handsome face, taken aback by my comment. He asks, "Do you really think I'm such a shallow guy?"

In return, I am shocked, not expecting him to come out with such a question. Does this man really believe I think that? Do I?

I mull over the right words and answer, "I'm not sure. I mean... don't judge a book by it's cover right?"

"Or a magazine by it's front page," mutters the distant Brock. He's not such a simple guy. Beneath that mask is a man who has thoughts and feelings.

"Maybe I'd like to get to know you," I say, the words coming straight out of my mouth. I'm diving before I'm considering the water I'm plunging into. It may be rocky below the surface.

"Maybe I would too," he says. Then he stands and flies off.

I guess that's a date then.

Broad shoulders, firm chest, big, strong arms, muscular face... Every girl would automatically say that Brock Stewarts, a.k.a Magnitude, is the perfect guy. Apart from me. Personally, I think it is getting a little repetitive. Especially when you see him on billboards, magazines, and even on TV. Can't I watch Good Morning America in peace? I'm peeved when seeing his face.

Staring at his angular chin and his solid, bold facial features, I notice the creases on his tall forehead and the crinkles beside his almond eyes that are not seen usually. The creases run deep, telling a story of how much pain and suffering he has faced. And how many lives he couldn't save. He carries me off, flying through the vast blue sky, hurrying away from impeding danger. I groan inwardly, thinking of tomorrow's ready-to-be-printed headline: Belinda Carlyle saved by heroic hunk. Again.

The city had faced yet another attack from The Oblivionator and his crazy schemes, and as predicted I was caught up the mayhem. That mad genius set an eleven story building on fire with his special ray gun, making the flames roar and the smoke choke out our words. It was horrible. Every second watching that monstrous fire was allowing my heart to burn with it. Thankfully, Magnitude came and blew it out with his almighty breath, blah blah blah... he saved the day and tied the baddy up. Then, while I'm reporting, a piece of the building crumbled from the remains, almost crushing me.

And he rescued me. Again. Nearly every single week I am the damsel in distress. I'm an ordinary tv reporter, not some life-sized barbie who swoons every time he flashes a smile. Ugh. That sickly, plastic smile of his. So fake. Never in my whole career have I met anyone so original. It's like he's just been torn him out of a comic book. Where has 'be your self' gone?

And here I am. Soaring through the clouds, collapsed into his buff arms, awkwardly pressed against him. I can feel his chest move as his exhales, and his warm breath tickles my face. I wish he's drop me. This is too clique. Any minute now he's going to lay a kiss on me.

He gives into gravities urges and the wind howls as he goes into land. Air resistances blows my hair about, forcing it to dance and twirl. His feet touch the ground and soon my hair and his cape drop, suddenly I feel safe. We've landed in a park.

Brock places me on the wooden bench and I heave a sigh. Slumping beside me, slips his arm across the back of the bench, making my chest tighten. Please, whatever you do, don't try anything.

"Don't you just wish that the press wouldn't presume we're a couple?" says Brock, gazing up at the azure sky. His bold features soften and he looks awfully thoughtful.

A hearty laugh blurts out of my mouth and I reply, "Do I ever!"

Brock glances at me, a surprised look smudged onto in his handsome face, taken aback by my comment. He asks, "Do you really think I'm such a shallow guy?"

In return, I am shocked, not expecting him to come out with such a question. Does this man really believe I think that? Do I?

I mull over the right words and answer, "I'm not sure. I mean... don't judge a book by it's cover right?"

"Or a magazine by it's front page," mutters the distant Brock. He's not such a simple guy. Beneath that mask is a complex man who has real thoughts and feelings in contrast to the media.

"Maybe I'd like to get to know you," I say, the words flying straight out of my mouth. I'm diving before I'm considering the water I'm plunging into. It may be rocky below the surface.

"Maybe I would too," he says. Then he stands and flies off, becoming a mere dot in the distance.

I guess that's a date then.

lost lilly of Lilliput
layers of talcum powder beautified her broken face.
a punch of blood red blush blossomed under her pale white cheeks.
black coal streaked linearly under her swollen teary eyes.
hair pulled up in a bun nesting the raven.
bitter cherry lips whispering to the deaf.
fingers twirling, calculating the distance
distance, a mere number, I say.
like a pop of a bubble, she snorts.
Distance…… you’ll never know if they miss you or forget you.
"were you forgotten?" I ask.
she stares at the miraged horizon, lost.
the carved golden frame held her posture
as she hung loosely on the wall of spotlight
caring less to be bought

lost Lilly
layers of talcum powder beautified her broken face.
a punch of blood red blush blossomed under her pale white cheeks.
black coal smeared under her swollen teary eyes.
hair pulled up in a bun nesting the raven.
bitter cherry lips whispering to the deaf.
fingers twirling, calculating the distance
the distance, that repulsed faith and trust
replaced by the rules
for believers and worshipers
“distance, a mere number”, I say.
Like the pop of a bubble, she snorts.
Distance…..is designed by the imposters
Distance…… you’ll never know if they miss you or forget you.
were you forgotten? I ask.
she stares at the miraged horizon, lost.
the carved golden frame held her posture
as she hung loosely on the wall of spotlight
caring less to be bought

Once I Was A Sweet Potato Farmer: Just Once

Sweet potatoes. Yams. Gloves with rubber grip fingers. Old baby blue hair handkerchiefs. Tennis shoes with platform soles. Straight black hair. Spade shovels. Black plastic bags, already wrinkled and dusty. Green hoses with crystal patterns in the weave and metallic tasting nozzles in copper. Jeans with high waists on old Korean women. Garden claws. Weeds. Clumps of dirt. Rows of dirt piles, furrowed eyebrows. Brown wooden fence. Far off forest. Farm house – wooden white. Green houses with opaque plastic and hints of dark green, tables inside. Dirt road stretching away to curves into the trees. Sun. Bright, cold sun in a clear sky. The chill of November. Pebbles in tan, brown, beiges the color of caramel, the color of Caucasian skin, Asian skin. Dirt that turns to dust when you walk down the road. Dirt.
The smell of the earth as you move it. Dirt hiding in your fingernails, black hats to peach nubs. Pressure of the dirt as you kneel and feel it seeping between the fabric, staining black, rich dirt, a moist cool feeling. The sun on the back of your neck, warm, so that even your hair radiates gold. Tugging at your belt loops: slight give of tough fabric.
And the sweet potatoes are bunched together. When you dig for the first time, you are blind until you stumble upon the deep red skin and then you uncover it carefully, as if you are an archaeologist. You want to stand up and ask for a brush. You feel the root snap as it separates, and it is free now. In your gloved hands it is just a weight, a mass, not a texture, but you imagine it feels gritty, wet. It's covered in dirt. It slips into your bag with a crackle. You dig blindly a few more times until you find that they grow in patterns, in circles, underneath green spade leaves. You know how to dig sideways to find one instead of strip mining.
Imagined sweet potatoes pies. Can you bake them into chips? Cut them into slices and serve them savory? Sweet potato casserole. Sweet potato surprise. Porridge. Boiled and then mashed. You can feel the orange slip and melt between your fingers. Creamy yellow on toxic orange. Candied sweet potatoes. Sweet potato soup. Sweet potato souffle. Caribbean sweet potato salad. Baked sweet potato sticks. Sweet potato fries. Sweet potato salad. Sweet potato latkes. Twice baked. Fried in batter. Onion roasted. Baked. Toasted. Cooked on a grill over coals that smoke black.
I see them in the corner of my room, sitting in the black crinkle bag, sitting, sitting. I don't like to eat them unless they're roasted over a fire in tin foil and the air around me is biting at my cheeks and we all, together, huddle into our sweatshirts. Our teeth reveal the orange, the creamy inside, and orange and maroon are partners in toasted crime. These ones came from the dirt. I pulled these up myself. We break bottles on the rocks and I keep a pair of garden gloves in my closet for later.

Once I Was A Sweet Potato Farmer: Just Once

Sweet potatoes. Yams. Gloves with rubber grip fingers. Old baby blue hair handkerchiefs. Tennis shoes with platform soles. Straight black hair. Spade shovels. Black plastic bags, wrinkled and dusty. Green hoses with crystal patterns in the weave. Metallic tasting nozzles in copper. Jeans with high waists on old Korean women. Garden claws. Weeds. Clumps of dirt. Rows of dirt piles, furrowed eyebrows. Brown wooden fence. Far off forest. Farm house – wooden white. Green houses of opaque plastic, tables inside. Dirt road dissolving to curves in the trees.
Sun. Bright, cold sun in a clear sky. Sun on the back of your neck. Warm. Your hair shines gold, too. The chill of November. Pebbles in tan, brown, beiges. The color of caramel. Dirt that turns to dust when you walk down the road. Dirt.
Dirt. The smell of the earth as you move it. Dirt as you kneel: seeping in the fabric, staining black. Rich dirt. Moist. Cool. And inside, the sweet potatoes are bunched together. You dig for the first time. You are blind. You stumble upon the deep red skin without knowing. You brush like an archaeologist, fingertips in gloves. The root snaps when it separates. It is free now. You do not touch it. It touches your gloves.
You find that sweet potatoes grow in patterns: in circles under green spade leaves. You dig sideways. You imagine.
Sweet potatoes pies. Baked into chips. Cut into slices and served savory. Sweet potato casserole. Sweet potato surprise. Porridge. Boiled and then mashed. You can feel the orange slip and melt between your fingers. Creamy yellow on toxic orange. Candied sweet potatoes. Sweet potato soup. Sweet potato souffle. Caribbean sweet potato salad. Baked sweet potato sticks. Sweet potato fries. Sweet potato salad. Sweet potato latkes. Twice baked. Fried in batter. Onion roasted. Baked. Toasted. Cooked on a grill over coals that smoke black.
When I am finished farming, I am given sweet potatoes in a black plastic bag.
It sits in the corner of my room until they go bad. Mold. White. Trash. And sun again. And dirt again.

THE BETTER PATH

Eric and Landon were heading home from a long and disheartening day at school. Their marks were nothing but painful memories and there would possibly be more pain when their parents found out. Landon tried conversation but it always slid back to the grim marks. Eric, in his frustration, stepped off the road into the ditch where he confronted a gorgeously displayed poplar tree. Leaning on the trunk he dug in his baggy pant's pocket and pulled out a well used Swiss Army knife.

Landon watched as his friend carved E.W. into the horrified tree, standing for Eric Warner. After that, they stayed silent, each boy abandoned in their own damp imagination. The clouds over head disapproved of this greatly and began drowning the cowering little town slowly, enjoying every cruel drop of clear black liquid that hit the dust of Rabbit Heel Valley like shiny marbles spilling out of a sack with a never ending space. The boys went on trudging, with heads hung, through the sticky, chocolate covered road.

“Hey Landon,” Eric shouted over the heavy spray of heart drenching rain. “Let's go this way today, maybe it won't be as wet.” He was pointing to their right, where a miserable path wound warily down and in between thick trunks of firmly grounded, green giants. As these trees bent their ear to eavesdrop on passing travellers, the path looked more as if it would bury it's sad face into an ocean of pillows and sob the whole night through. That didn't seem very dry to Landon, but Eric turned to the path and started down it. His blue jeans and splash jacket were half soaked and looked as though someone had thrown a particularly moist mud ball at them.

Wait!” Landon screeched, standing stubbornly in his place. “That trail goes past Innet's house, doesn’t it?”

Eric spun around to face Landon. “Ya, so, what's the deal?” Eric's voice was nonchalant as he said this, shoulders slumped and eyes glazed, then he spoke again. “You're not afraid of her are you?” He sounded more concerned than mocking, but it stiffed Landon up a bit.

“No.” Landon sighed as he rolled his eyes. “She's just weird is all and ... wait, are you?” Landon asked Eric, who had been looking thoughtfully at the path ahead of them in a longing sort of way.

“Hmm?” He glanced up at Landon. “Oh, of course not! Can you hear your own voice? Like seriously Lan, you're crazy.” And to top off the cake of drama, he turned away and continued down the path.

Landon hadn't enough stubbornness in him to tramp down the damp lonely road alone so he found himself helplessly chasing after Eric. “Wait up!” He whispered as he caught up to Eric. “This place gets eerie when it rains.”

“So, you are scared of her.” Eric's eye brows raised as he said this.

“NO!!! I'm NOT. She's creepy, alright! And you're telling me that you don't wonder about the rumours?”

“Wow Lan, really? You're basing your opinions on her off of gossip and rumours? Besides, she's cute.”

“WHAT!” Landon tried to contain his outrage, “You dragged me all the way down here because you've got a crush!? On the weird chick?! Keep in mind that she tried to curse old Mrs. Carson just last week. Do you really want that kind of relationship?” Then Landon sighed. “You don't really like her, right bro?” He was staring directly at Eric, who was still slowly making his way down the path.

“No, I don't think so,” Eric grumbled.

“So why are we here?” Landon pleaded.

“Because, its dryer.”

“But look, the rain's almost stopped completely.” He revealed his palm to the sky. “See, practically dry.”

“Yes, but we're nearly there.” Eric reported.

“Nearly where?” Landon's question sat motionless in the cold, clear, air.

“What do you mean, 'Nearly where...'”, Eric looked up to see a field, dark and daring. Eric and Landon were in the very centre of this field, waist high in thick grey fog.

“Eric?,” Landon said, trying to keep his head on his shoulders. “Where are we?... What happened? How did we get here?...”

Not far away a shrill scream broke the awkward silence of the blackened eve. But silence soon began stalking its prey once more, creeping around the ears of foes and making a deadly statement that couldn't be heard, or could it?

Landon felt his spine chill as the hair on the back of his neck prickled. “Wwwhat wass thaaaat?”, he managed out.

“I don't know bu... wait! Did you see that?” The words barely squeezed through Eric's teeth. He was looking off past the tree line, eyes wide.

“No,” Said Landon, “What was it?”, he asked in a suppressed voice.

“It was...a, it was...kind of like a...”

“What was it?!” Landon persisted.

“I think it was...”, Eric's voice was hardly a whisper. “I'm not sure, really, what it was... but it looked like a super tall, skinny... lady?”

“What?” It was cold enough that Landon could see his own breath as the word escaped his lips. “Some of the guys from school right? Just playing a trick on us, Eric? Right Eric? Landon started fiddling with his zipper pull, zipping his jacket up and down, up and down until finally it jammed.

Eric leaned slightly over to Landon and whispered. “On a count to three, we run, down that path as fast as we can, home. OK?”

Landon nodded.

“One.” Eric started.

“Two.” Landon breathed...

“THREE?” Eric whimpered, his voice sounded like a choked canary, but Landon took off running like he had just punched the bully next door. “Landon!”, Eric tried to yell as he felt rough spindly fingers dig into his leg.

Just into the woods, where the huge trunks huddled together, Landon thought he heard his best friend running behind him and then turning off to go to his house, so Landon continued home.

That night while Landon struggled to fall asleep, the evenings events played in his mind like a miniature theatre. Outside the forest swayed nervously and the trees whispered to one another about what had happened.

As Landon slumped to school the next day, he felt as though the skies were watching him and he realized with shock, that the proud poplar tree no longer displayed Eric's scratched - in initials. Landon circled around the poplar’s trunk but he couldn't see them anywhere. He shook his head in confusion, “I could have sworn it was that one,” he assured himself out loud.

After school Landon caught a kid in Eric's locker. Landon scolded the boy and asked him what he was doing. He innocently answered that he was “getting his lunch out of his locker,” and looked rather confused as to why anyone would want to know.

Landon was well past just being worried. He dashed out of the school's nagging atmosphere and sprinted down the road. He desperately needed to find Eric, who hadn't shown up for school. Maybe he had injured himself on the way home last night or maybe he had been told he had to stay home and rest up? Landon was still running at a pretty good clip, when he turned the corner into Eric's yard. A huge spruce towered over Landon and frowned down upon him as he slowed and then came to an abrupt stop. Landon stared in horror up at the magnificent tree. It was standing, roots planted deep into the earth, right in the drive way to Eric's house. Or to be more specific, right in the drive way to were Eric's house used to be. The spruce tree merely grinned at Landon, in satisfaction and swayed to the hum of the wind.

Tree's Revenge

“Crap!” Eric cursed, noticing he had stepped into a puddle. The murky water splashed onto his jeans as he quick-stepped it to the side.

“Way to go,” Landon said blandly, dodging the mess Eric had left behind.

Eric thought that the two of them should talk, but he couldn't think of what to say. After all, it had been his fault that they weren't at school on time for exams yesterday.
He'd been obsessing about the improved version of The Last of Us, and the two of them had decided to go to the early release the night before their exams. They hadn't got home until 3:00 am, and they'd stayed up the rest of the night playing the bloody game. As a result, Landon had slept through more than half of his exam time, and he barely answered the majority of the questions, most of which he probably got wrong. Eric had just been incapable of concentrating for any long period of time.

Frustrated, Eric stepped off the road into the ditch where he came face-to-face with a well displayed poplar tree. Leaning on the trunk, he dug in his baggy pant's pocket, and pulled out a well used Swiss Army knife.

Landon watched as his friend carved a frowny-face onto the horrified tree's body. After that, the two boys stayed silent, each one abandoned in their own damp imagination. The clouds over head disapproved of this and began drowning the little town slowly, enjoying every drop of clear black liquid that hit the dust of Rabbit Heel Valley.
The boys eventually began trudging, with heads hung, through the mushy road.

“Hey Landon,” Eric shouted over the heavy spray of heart drenching rain. “Let's go there today,” he pointed off to the side where a miserable path wound warily down and in between thick trunks of firmly grounded, green giants. “Maybe it won't be as wet.”
As these trees bent their ear to eavesdrop on passing travellers, the path looked more as if it would bury it's face into an ocean of pillows and sob the whole night through.
That didn't seem very dry to Landon, but Eric turned to the path and started down it. His blue jeans and splash jacket were half soaked and looked as though someone had thrown a particularly moist mud ball at them.

“Wait!” Landon yelled, hesitant to follow his friend. “That trail goes past Innet's house, doesn’t it?”

Eric spun around to face Landon. “Yeah, so, what's the deal?” Eric's voice was nonchalant as he said this, shoulders slumped and eyes glazed, then he spoke again. “You're not afraid of her, are you?” He sounded more concerned than mocking, but it made Landon's body go stiff.

“No,” Landon said, rolling his eyes, “she's just weird is all, and... wait, are you?” Landon asked Eric, who had been looking thoughtfully at the path ahead of them.

“Hmm?” He glanced up at Landon. “Oh, of course not! Can you hear your own voice? Like seriously, Lan, you're crazy.” He turned away and continued down the path.

Landon wasn't that stubborn, so he found himself chasing after Eric. “Wait up!” He whispered as he caught up to Eric. “This place gets eerie when it rains.”

“So you are scared of her,” Eric's eyebrows raised as he said this.

“No, no, I'm not afraid of the chic... She's creepy, alright! And you're telling me that you don't wonder about the rumours?”

“Wow Lan, really? You're basing your opinion on her off of gossip and rumours? She's not creepy, she's hot.”

“What...?”, Landon tried to contain his surprise, “You're dragging me down here because you've got a crush, on the weird chick no less! Remember she tried to curse Mrs. Carson just last year? Do you really want that kind of relationship?”, Then Landon sighed. “You don't really like her, right bro?”, He was staring directly at Eric, who was still slowly making his way down the path.

“No, I don't think so,” Eric grumbled.

“So why are we here?”, Landon whined.

“Because, its dryer.”

“But look, the rain's almost stopped completely.”, He revealed his palm to the sky. “See, practically dry.”

“Yes, but we're nearly there.”, Eric reported.

“Nearly where...?”, Landon's question sat motionless in the cold air, almost as if it had froze.

“What do you mean, nearly where?”, Eric looked up to see that they were in a dark field surrounded by thick, wispy, fog.

“Eric?,” Landon said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Where are we?... Where the hell did all this fog come from? How did we get here?...”

Not far away a shrill scream broke the silence of the blackened eve. Though just as soon as the silence left, it had returned with an even fiercer chill about it.

Landon felt his spine go cold as the hair on the back of his neck prickled. “What was that?”, he managed out.

“I don't know bu- did you see that?”, the words barely squeezed through Eric's teeth. He was looking off past the tree line, eyes wide.

“No,” said Landon, “What was it?”, he asked in a suppressed voice.

“It was...a, it was kind of like a...”

“What was it?”, Landon persisted.

“I think it was...”, Eric's voice was hardly a whisper. “I'm not sure, really, what it was... but it was creepy as hell.”

“What?”, it was cold enough that Landon could see his own breath as the word escaped his lips. “It's probably just someone from school playing a trick on us... right Eric?” Landon started fiddling with his zipper pull, zipping his jacket up and down, up and down...

Eric leaned slightly over to Landon and whispered. “On a count to three, we run, down that path as fast as we can. OK?”

Up and down, up and down... Landon nodded.

“One.” Eric started.

“Two.” Landon breathed... up and down, up and down...

“Three?” Eric whimpered as Landon's zipper jammed and he took off running, not waiting for another chance.

“Landon!” Eric tried to yell as he felt rough spindly fingers dig into his leg.

Just into the woods where the huge trunks huddled together, Landon thought he heard his best friend running behind him and then turning off to go to his house, so Landon continued home.

Landon barely slept that night, and as he slumped to school the next day, he felt as though the skies were watching him and he realized with shock, that the poplar tree no longer displayed Eric's frowny-face. Landon circled around the poplar’s trunk numerous times, but he couldn't see it anywhere. He shook his head in confusion. I could have sworn it was that one.

After school Landon caught a kid in Eric's locker. Landon scolded the boy and asked him what he was doing. He innocently answered saying he was “getting his lunch out of his locker,” and looked rather confused as to why anyone would want to know.

Landon was well past just being worried. He dashed out of the school, and sprinted down the road. He desperately needed to find Eric, who hadn't shown up for school.

Maybe he had injured himself on the way home last night, and maybe he had been told he had to stay home and rest up. Landon was still running at a pretty good clip when he turned the corner into Eric's yard.

A huge spruce towered over Landon and frowned down upon him as he slowed and then came to an abrupt stop. Landon stared in horror up at the magnificent tree. It was standing, as tall as it could, right in the driveway to Eric's house. Or to be more specific, right in the driveway to were Eric's house used to be.

Landon couldn't believe his eyes, but the spruce tree merely swayed to the hum of the wind.

“I want a story,” he said, looking at me with eyes too huge for his face.

“Which one?,” I ask as I tuck him into bed.

“The one with the genie!” he says. I climb into bed and curl up next to him.

“You promise to go to sleep after that?” He nods his head, holding out his little finger, “pinky promise”. I laugh, hooking my finger with his. The dark room is momentarily lighted by a bright beam passing over the house. I knew they belonged to copters patrolling the sky. Getting out of bed I drew the blinds over the window and got back to him. “We are safe for tonight”, mama had said before she had sent me to put Ali to sleep.

“Didi?” Ali says, waiting for me to begin.

“A really long time ago there was a poor boy called Munna,” I started.

“No, baba always said there was a boy called Ali,” he interrupts.

“Alright,” I said, “There was a boy called Ali. He had the kindest heart and everyone loved him a lot. Once a old king was visiting his village in disguise-“

“Baba said he was wearing a beard which reached up to his knee,” Ali says.

“Yes, that and torn cloths so that he could fit in,” Ali pulled up the quilt closer to his face, smiling in glee. He knew we were getting close to the genie.

“The king took of his shawl he was wearing, gave it to his minster and sat under an old tree. It was a cold day in the village and the king was shivering. He wanted to test the villagers, see who would come to his aid. He sat there for an hour, chilled to his bone. Then a boy came up to him. The king saw that the boy looked very poor.”

“Ali!” Ali exclaimed. I grinned at him.

“Yes, he was Ali. Ali saw the man shivering so he took off the shawl covering him and gave it to the old man. “Take it sir,” he said, “you might fall sick””

“The king was surprised. The boy was wearing nothing but a thin shirt and pants. And yet, he was offering him his shawl! The king was so moved by the act that he gifted Ali with a lamp.”

“He told him, “When you rub this lamp a genie will appear. He will grant you any wish you want.” Ali lived happily after that.”

A lone candle burns on a rickety table, the wax dripping steadily down its side and joining the mass at the stick’s base. She dragged the table soundlessly across the room until it stood at the head of the cot where a small boy watched her.

‘I want a story,’ he said, looking at her with eyes too huge for his face.

‘Which one?’ She asks as she tucked him into bed

‘The one with the genie!’ he said immediately, his voice coming muffled as he spoke from underneath the blanket. She climbed into the bed and curled up next to him.

‘You promise to go to sleep after that?’

He nods his head, holding out his little finger, ‘pinky promise.’

She laughed, hooking her finger with his. The dark room was momentarily lighted by a bright white beam passing over the house. She knew they belonged to copters patrolling the sky. Getting out of bed, she went to draw the blinds over the window. She imagined the hands of danger grazing against the glass pane, trying to get inside.

‘We are safe for tonight,’ mama had said before she had sent her to put Ali to sleep. The rebellion was getting out of hand. Why can’t people help us!? She thought desperately.

‘Didi?’ Ali called, waiting for her. She tried to push the thought from her mind and got back to him.

‘A really long time ago there was a poor boy called Munna,’ she started.

‘No, baba always said there was a boy called Ali,’ he interrupts.

‘Alright,’ she said. 'There was a boy called Ali. He had the kindest heart and everyone loved him a lot. Once a old king was visiting his village in disguise-'

‘Baba said he was wearing a beard which reached up to his knee,’ Ali said.

‘Yes, that and torn cloths so that he could look the part,’ Ali pulled up the quilt closer to his face, smiling in glee. He knew they were getting close to the genie.

‘The king took the shawl he was wearing, gave it to his minster, and sat under an old tree. It was a cold day in the village and the king was shivering. He wanted to test the villagers, see who would come to his aid. He sat there for an hour, chilled to his bone. Then a boy came up to him. The king saw that the boy looked very poor.’

‘Ali!’ Ali exclaimed. She grinned at him, his mood affecting her.

‘Yes, he was Ali. Ali saw the man shivering so he took off the shawl covering him and gave it to the old man. “Take it sir,” he said, “you might fall sick”.’

‘The king was surprised. The boy was wearing nothing but a flimsy shirt and pants too large for him. And yet, he was offering him his shawl! The king was so moved by the act that he gifted Ali a lamp.’

‘He told him, “When you rub this magic lamp a genie will appear. He will grant you any wish you want.” Ali used the gift wisely never asking for too much but only what was necessary. He lived happily after that.’

And it was that the house grew oppressive again,
and that I cowered under the covers
from the images in the back of my brain,
(the waterfall from the clogging toilet,
the spider nests in the dust floor of the barn,
and the mummified squirrel hanging in the rafters)
but it was too hot to hide;
I threw back the blankets,
clunking towards the idea of acceptance
in overlarge work boots
(my fears are made of clouds).

The house grew oppressive again.
A waterfall from the toilet
heralds monsters that live in the pipes,

and I cower under the covers,
dreading the spider nests in the dust floor
and the mummified squirrel hanging in the rafters.

But soon, it became too warm,
and throwing back the comforter,
I laced up my overlarge work books

and clunked outside.
The sun illuminated the demons;
somehow, they are made of clouds.

@Magpie @manisha @Holysocks @Hannah @IamTraunt

“Are we there yet, are we there yet?” I asked. “We are almost there.” said mom. I could tell because we were in the woods.

Finally the car parked in a parking spot. I ran down the hill. Then I saw Katya. “Hey Katya” I said. “Hi Katya” she said. Then I saw her dig a shell and some rocks. “Katya, are you digging for something?” I said. “I am diging for some shells and rocks” she said. “Do you want to go for a swim?” I asked. “No “ she said “Why” I asked”. “Because I saw a snake while I toke a walk with my dad and then he went on his bike and went really fast. I tied to ask him a question but dad just rode his bike. I tried to ask him a question but dad just rode his bike. Then I saw the snake under the bushes” she said. I was terrified because I hate snakes they bite and hurt people that are why I hate snakes. Then we looked for seashells and rocks. Then I said “Maybe it can not swim” I said. So we put on our swimming suits. When we got to the water, Katya showed me how to blow this float thing that can help you when you are about to sink into the water. Then I said “I did a under water handstand. I can show you my handstand.” So went to show her my under water hand stand. That is when I learned how to do a under hand stand. Then I went on this other float thing. It was shaped like a surf board. We took turns, even me and my brother shared. Then I asked “What if we both go on the board?”. So we what I asked, but then the float thing went upside down. “That was fun” I said. Then we went to shore, after a little relaxing we went to the lake, but first I put on my swim suit. Then we swam very far from our parents. Then they called us back to shore. Then we had an idea that we could make a sand factory. But when I tried to build a sand factory but I could not. But instead I made a sand castle. First I made a littlie sand castle. Then I asked “Can I go on the boat, dad?” “Sure” my dad said. So we went on the boat. I asked “Where is Katya?” “Katya is in the restroom” dad said. Then we roade all the way to the place where you shop for boats. My dad asked “Can you look for this guy that is Katya’s dad?” “Sure” I said. Then we looked all over the lake but I could find Katya’s dad. So we went back to shore. Then I asked “Can I go to the restroom?” “Yes you may” said mom. So we went to the restroom, flies were flying everywhere in the restroom. So I changed my mind.

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” I shrieked excitedly. I could not wait, impatience was tingling inside my stomach like a little bug trying to make its way out.

“Not yet,” my mother said, obviously annoyed by the noise that I was making. I look out the dirty car window and see that the foliage around us started to transform from the huge, vast country side to a dark, cool forest.

After an eternity of waiting, we finally reached our destination. My dad parked the Sienna and I jumped out of the car. In the distance, I saw the vast blue, shimmering lake. Nearby, there was a small sandy beach area, where several families sat on variously colored lounge chairs.

When my parents finally had gathered all our things, we went down to the beach, where I spotted Katia, one of my best friends, who would be moving away soon. I ran to her and we greeted each other, with happy hugs. She seemed to be playing with the sand for some reason. “What are you doing in the sand?” I asked.

Katia looked up from the sand and replied, “I’m looking for some shells so that later, we could build a sand castle!” I started to help her and put everything that I found, into a small bucket that Katia had brought.

After a period of digging, I started to become bored. “Hey, Katia. Maybe we should go swim in the lake, for a bit!” I advised.

“No. That is definitely not a good idea.” Katia answered. “Before you came here, I saw a snake in the bushes! He was this big!” Katia extends her arms dramatically to show how large the snake was. I shuddered in response. I hated and was quite afraid of snakes, because they could bite you. We went back to searching for shells for our sand castle and that’s when it hit me.

“What if the snake cannot swim?” I suggested. Katia looked at me thoughtfully and nodded. We decided to take the risk and go swim in the lake. We hopped into our lifejackets, put on our goggles and we waddled into the water.

We swam for a bit, splashing water at one another, playing underwater tag, and trying different tricks. One of the tricks that I showed Katia, was my underwater handstand. It was much easier to do underwater than on land, since the water was there to keep you in position.

Katia went out of the water for a couple minutes and brings back an inflatable surfboard. She showed me how it worked, you had to jump on it at the precise second so that you could stay afloat. Katia and I had this awesome idea to go on the surfboard at the same time. It was quite unsteady and so the board flipped over and we got knocked into the water. Laughing, we try this again and again, failing each time.

After a while, we became quite tried and so we went ashore to dry ourselves and rest a bit. It was also lunch time, so my mother got out the freezer and took out our ham sandwiches and delicious watermelon slices. I took a humongous bite out of my watermelon slice, juice dripping down my face. Bees flew around us, wanting a taste of the luscious fruit.

After we ate, Katia and I went back to swimming. We decided to have a competition on who would get to the deepest part of the lake. We swam and swam until we got to the floating barrier. We floated around that area, until we hear a faint shout. I looked out to shore and saw my mother waving for us to come back. I swam back and my mother starts scolding me for swimming too far away. She told me that it was dangerous to swim too far away, especially since there were no lifeguards. She decided that Katia and I had to stay ashore for a little longer.

To pass the time, Katia and I decided to build a sandcastle. We built a magnificent palace, with a huge ditch around filled with water. We took the shells and decorated it with them.

My dad was riding around on the motorboat and he invited me to join him. We lapped around the lake several times, enjoying the pleasant view, looking at the fish in the water, the seaweed floating on the surface. The mountains all around, purple at the tops.

When we came near the beach, I went back to our site. My mother asked if I wanted to go to the restroom and I realized that I wanted to go really badly. We went back up to the parking lot and up the restrooms. I walked into the restrooms that they provided. I go to the stalls and they were old and nasty. Flies were flying everywhere, the place smelled like an outhouse. I change my mind and decide to hold it in.

“It has become appallingly obvious that our Technology has exceeded our humanity.”
-Albert Einstein



































James walked through the crowd of people like he had his entire life. Head down, hands in his jacket pockets, feet shuffling across the concrete road below him. Only this time there was a large bag on his back. But other than that he was still the same drone he had been his entire life. A worn dark green sweat-shirt that he had worn since he first lived on his own, padded jeans, and reinforced work boots, all as he had always worn. Except for the bag. It weighed him down, he had to hunch over more than usual to just carry it along, but he knew it was important. His brother wouldn’t have told him it was such unless it was of the utmost importance to the cause, but that didn’t ease the pit in James’s stomach. He looked up and saw the fork in the road that led people to the various parts of the city. He had always gone straight his entire life. That way laid the Industrial Quarter, where all the factories and assembly lines he worked were located. But today was not like the rest of his life, and because of that, he did something he had never done: he stopped walking. He stood there in the center of the fork. The three streets laying in front and on either side of him. Everyone who passed him paid him no mind, no change from how it had been since his first day on the march.
He pulled up his sleeve and looked down at his watch, the worn leather and blackened glass giving him some comfort. He saw that he had 15 minutes until he had to be at the location given to him. He looked back up around him, wiping his forehead, looking down at his sleeve as he saw the droplets of sweat arranged across his arm. He looked to his left, the lift to the Commercial Quarter, then to his right; which held the lift to the Burrows, where the security officials were located. He knew he had a decision to make. To his left lay the way to his veneration in the eyes of the cause, what he had been waiting for years to do. To his right lay a way to perhaps spare himself the wrath of both the cause and the security forces on his family and friends if he turned himself in. He sat there for a moment, just a moment.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, he saw nothing. No thoughts, no noise, nothing. Not even his breathing, just the maddening silence he had gotten so used to lately. He opened his eyes again and remembered the promise he had made to his brother, and so he turned and walked to the left. He stepped inside the old steel of the lift as he looked up at the city above him, stretching up farther than he could see, platforms and walkways all across the way. There were bright lights all across the way- banners for things that he could never afford or care to even notice. set into the buildings themselves. He looked back down as the lift started moving down. Lights illuminating him and the roughly fifty others in that lift as they passed apartments, office buildings, brothels, or even the odd doctor’s office. They were moving too fast to take notice of, but James hardly noticed. He had more important things on his mind. The lift grinded to a halt as he and the other eight or so individuals on either side of him reached forward and pulled up the metal gate that held them inside the lift. James started forward and took in the Commercial Quarter like a small child in a store full of toys. There were moving banners all across the thousands of floors that made up the buildings in the quarter. The lift stood in an outlet of the quarter that led up to the Marching Grounds, buildings flanked either side of it that moved outwards roughly a kilometer and a half before moving towards the sides, the platform connecting them to the main platform of the quarter roughly four kilometers from the buildings. The platform was suspended by giant pieces of steel that held the smooth metal in place, almost as if it was hovering in mid-air. The quarter stretched forward in a rectangular shape with several outlets like the one he was standing in for several hundred kilometers. Vendors of all sorts offering foods, clothes, even cheap cyberware. James stepped out of the old lift onto the firm metal of the platform’s steps with the men on either side of him. Some of them women with their children, others were workers with free time who decided to buy some things with their friends. The thousands of vending area was only outnumbered by the tens of thousands of people walking through the quarter. James did his best to move into the crowd, vendors on either side of him yelling over each other, saying their products were better even if one vendor was selling cabbage and the other was selling pants. James craned his head to each vendor, noticing some had cybernetic arms and others were wearing strange robes he hadn’t seen before. He listened to each of their pleas before accidentally bumping shoulders with another man with a thick black leather jacket, worn jeans, and work boots like James. His face was unkept, a scruffy beard across his face, his eyes black with bags so deep and low that James thought he had seen a zombie; an undead that is.
“Watch your step, mate.” The man said before turning his head forward again and continuing to the lift James had just left. James wasn’t fast enough to react before the man joined the sea of bodies, so he kept forward. Seeing a medium sized fountain before him, though the water had long since run dry. Inside were clothes of all types, oddly enough. Discarded by those who didn’t need them anymore. James knew what to do, his brothers instructions had been clear. Once he reached the fountain, he was to place the bag on the ground and open it up, he would receive further instructions inside. James did just that, he set the bag down, knelt over it and slowly pulled the zipper down. What he saw made his heart beat hard with several pauses: it was a bomb. More specifically a bomb with a note attached. The note said only this:
“James, to activate the device simply input the code 6369, press the yellow and green buttons, and the timer will start. You will be remembered when we take back this city, brother.”
James sat there, standing over the bag before he saw a drop of sweat land on the murky green material. He tried to swallow a hard lump in his throat, but it was like trying to push a rock into a pipe half its size. James set the note next to the device, seeing the keypad and the buttons below it. He twisted a small switch on the side of it, which turned the display on. A large red line blinked, awaiting James’s input of numbers. For a moment his sight was so out of focus that he could see nothing except for the lit pixels that created that line. Watching them turn on and turn off, like the light in a child’s lamp who thinks he’s seen something in the dark. He raised his index finger shakily as he pressed the first six on the pad. It made a quiet click under his weight, he pulled it away and slid his finger across it to the nine. He pressed it before he heard a set of footsteps stop behind him. He heard someone’s shivering breaths over his shoulder before he heard a distinguishable gasp: he was caught. By the time he turned his head, the man was gone. He pressed the nine as quick as he could manage, sweat pouring down his face as he heard the man start yelling, what he was yelling was however not known to James. He heard people take notice and push others out of the way to get away from him. James quickly pressed the second six and moved his finger above the four.
“Corp-Sec!” He heard a voice yell from behind him, several others yelling things of the same sort, or simply telling people to move or get to a lift. He pressed the four as quickly as he could before pressing the yellow button with his other hand and holding his hand above the final green button, which was now dimly lit.
“You touch that bag one more time, drone, and I’ll crack your fucking skull!” One of the security officers said. He heard the sound of guns being drawn and loaded or cocked. He knew they were all pointed at him, he could feel the lasers on his back. He sunk his finger into the green button as he stood up, the display reading that he had 24 seconds until his demise. He turned to face the men, all of them appearing young to him, but his sight was still blurred. He could however see the glowing lines leading to his chest.
“All right, take one step forward and put your hands up, drone!” One of the men said.
23.
James did not immediately comply. He took a step forward dizzily after a moment before looking around.
22.
“I said hands up, you fucking drone!” The man said.
21.
James slowly raised his hands, holding them about half-way up as he felt his hoodie pull his shirt up, revealing part of his stomach. He felt the cold wind upon his skin.
20.
“Alright, now get down on your knees!” One of the men said.
19.
James lowered one of his hands as he almost collapsed onto the metal.
18.
One of the men walked over to James and pulled his arms together behind his back, placing a magnetic restraint on his arms.
17.
One of the other security officials ran to the bag and inspected it, realizing what it was and that the timer was going down he turned to the man who had been shouting orders at James and gave a look of absolute terror.
16.
“Listen here you little drone shit, how do we disarm the bomb?” The officer from before asked James as he pulled him up by his collar.
15.
“I-I don’t know.” James said nervously, showing a look of terror almost matching the security official’s.
14.
“Then maybe this will help!” The officer said as he pistol-whipped James. James felt his nose break.
13.
“I don’t know!” James yelled in a whimper, his face now covered in blood with tears streaming down his eyes.
12.
“You better tell me how to disarm that bomb or I’ll skin you alive and feed you to the gutter kids, drone!” The officer yelled as he grabbed James by the neck.
11.
“I don’t want to die!” James choked out, the tears washing some of the blood away in thin lines down his face as he started wheezing from the lack of air.
10.
“Leftenant, we have to get out of here!” One of the officials said.
9.
The officer let go of James and let him writhe on the floor.
8.
“Come on, let’s get to a lift, move!” The official by the bomb said as he stood up and started running.
7.
One of the officials followed after him, but the other three stayed there, stunned.
6.
James curled up in the fetal position and muttered to himself “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.” Shaking his head at the notion as tears ran down his face.
5.
The official that broke James’s nose stood up and looked at the closest lift, seeing that it was full of people and was departing, leaving a thousand others to die.
4.
James closed his eyes tightly and tried to imagine the place he had always loved going to as a child in his mind.
3.
The officials all looked at each other and moved to shake hands. Nodding and bowing their heads in a small circle as they closed their eyes and waited.
2.
“Not how I thought I’d go out.” One of the men said. The other two chuckled.
1.
“So, how are the-.”
And within thirty seconds, three thousand lives were lost, incinerated by a bomb the size of a small child. Three thousand people who had grown in a world that was against them, who had fought from birth to survive a few seconds longer than the next person. Three thousand people who lived and breathed and slept for years upon end, all extinguished in less than a half a minute, all because one man chose to walk one way instead of another, and because that man had two things: faith, and a bomb.










DYstopia:
Impetus

What is Dystopia?: Dystopia is a story set in a cyberpunk New York city, roughly 84 years in the future in 2098. It revolves around technology (as most cyberpunk stories do) and how it affects the human condition, and how it could; and in a lesser way, does change our way of life.

What is cyberpunk?: Cyberpunk is a background of storytelling in which a universe is built around the idea of two things: monumental technological advancements (minus androids in most cases), and how it may affect people and life. A common theme in cyberpunk stories is the idea of a corporate-owned world, since technology is a consumer-based business, there has to be a producer, and so corporations produce. But after a certain point even the government is in the pocket of the corporations who give them the cybernetic enhancements they so desperately need, so governments become obsolete and corporations take their place. Because of this, most cyberpunk stories are centered around a criminal element in a dystopian world where people can be whoever they want, for only the price of your humanity and $29.95 (plus tax where applicable).

“It has become appallingly obvious that our Technology has exceeded our humanity.”

-Albert Einstein

Impetus, noun:

The force that makes something happen or happen more quickly.

James walked through the crowd of people like he had his entire life, with his head down, hands in his jacket pockets, feet shuffling across the concrete road below him. Only this time there was a large bag on his back. But other than that he was still the same drone he had been his entire life. Worn dark green sweat-shirt that he had worn since he first lived on his own, padded jeans, and reinforced work boots, all as he had always worn. Except for the bag. It weighed him down, he had to hunch over more than usual to just carry it along, but he knew it was important. His brother wouldn’t have told him it was such unless it was of the utmost importance to the cause, but that didn’t ease the pit in James’s stomach. He looked up and saw the fork in the road that led people to the various parts of the city. He had always gone straight his entire life. That way laid the Industrial Quarter, where all the factories and assembly lines he worked were located. But today was not like the rest of his life, and because of that, he did something he had never done; he stopped walking. He stood there in the center of the fork. The three streets laying in front and on either side of him. Everyone who passed him paid him no mind, no change from how it had been since his first day on the March.

He pulled up his sleeve and looked down at his watch, the worn leather and blackened glass giving him some comfort. He saw that he had 15 minutes until he had to be at the location given to him. He looked back up around him, wiping his forehead, looking down at his sleeve as he saw the droplets of sweat arranged across his arm. He looked to his left, the lift to the Commercial Quarter, then to his right; which held the lift to the Burrows, where the security officials were located. He knew he had a decision to make. To his left lay the way to his veneration in the eyes of the cause, what he had been waiting for years to do. To his right lay a way to perhaps spare himself the wrath of both the cause and the security forces on his family and friends if he turned himself in. He sat there for a moment, just a moment.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, he saw nothing. No thoughts, no noise, nothing. Not even his breathing, just the maddening silence he had gotten so used to lately. He opened his eyes again and remembered the promise he had made to his brother, and so he turned and walked to the left. He stepped inside the old steel of the lift as he looked up at the city above him, stretching up farther than he could see, platforms and walkways all across the way. There were bright lights all across the way; banners for things that he could never afford or care to even notice, set into the buildings themselves. He looked back down as the lift started its descent. Lights began illuminating him and the roughly fifty others in that lift as they passed apartments, office buildings, brothels, or even the odd doctor’s office. They were moving too fast to take stock of, but James hardly noticed. He had more important things on his mind. The lift ground to a halt as he and the other eight or so individuals on either side of him reached forward and pulled up the metal gate that held them inside the lift.

James started forward and took in the Commercial Quarter like a small child in a store full of toys. There were moving banners all across the thousands of floors that made up the buildings in the quarter. The lift stood in an outlet of the quarter that led up to the Marching Grounds, buildings flanked either side of it that moved outwards roughly a kilometer and a half before moving towards the sides, the platform connecting them to the main platform of the quarter roughly four kilometers from the buildings. The platform that kept it was suspended by giant pieces of steel that held the smooth metal in place, almost as if it was hovering in mid-air. The quarter stretched forward in a rectangular shape with several outlets like the one he was standing in for several hundred kilometers. Vendors of all sorts offering foods, clothes, even cheap cyberware. James stepped out of the old lift onto the firm metal of the platform’s steps with the men on either side of him. Some of them women with their children, others were workers with free time who decided to buy some things with their friends. The thousands of kilometers worth of vending area was only outnumbered by the tens of thousands of people walking through the quarter. James did his best to move into the crowd, vendors on either side of him yelling over each other, saying their products were better even if one vendor was selling cabbage and the other was selling pants. James craned his head to each vendor, noticing some had cybernetic arms and others were wearing strange robes he hadn’t seen before. He listened to each of their pleas before accidentally bumping shoulders with another man with a thick black leather jacket, worn jeans, and work boots like James. His face was unkept, a scruffy beard across his face, his eyes black with bags so deep and low that James thought he had seen a zombie; an undead that is.

“Watch your step, mate.” The man said before turning his head forward again and continuing to the lift James had just left. James wasn’t fast enough to react before the man joined the sea of bodies, so he kept forward. Seeing a medium sized fountain before him, though the water had long since run dry. Inside were clothes of all types, oddly enough. Discarded by those who didn’t need them anymore. James knew what to do, his brother's instructions had been clear. Once he reached the fountain, he was to place the bag on the ground and open it up, he would receive further instructions inside. James did just that, he set the bag down, knelt over it and slowly pulled the zipper down. What he saw made his heart beat hard with several pauses: it was a bomb. More specifically, a bomb with a note attached. The note said only this:

“James, to activate the device simply input the code 6369, press the yellow and green buttons, and the timer will start. You will be remembered when we take back this city, brother.”

James sat there, standing over the bag before he saw a drop of sweat land on the murky green material. He tried to swallow a hard lump in his throat, but it was like trying to push a rock into a pipe half its size. James set the note next to the device, seeing the keypad and the buttons below it. He twisted a small switch on the side of it, which turned the display on. A large red line blinked, awaiting James’s input of numbers. For a moment his sight was so out of focus that he could see nothing except for the lit pixels that created that line. Watching them turn on and turn off, like the light in a child’s lamp who thinks he’s seen something in the dark. He raised his index finger shakily as he pressed the first six on the pad. It made a quiet click under his weight, he pulled it away and slid his finger across it to the nine. He pressed it before he heard a set of footsteps stop behind him. He heard someone’s shivering breaths over his shoulder before he heard a distinguishable gasp; he was caught. By the time he turned his head, the man was gone. He pressed the nine as quick as he could manage, sweat pouring down his face as he heard the man start yelling, what he was yelling was however not known to James. He heard people take notice and push others out of the way to get away from him. James quickly pressed the second six and moved his finger above the four.

“Corp-Sec!” He heard a voice yell from behind him, several others yelling things of the same sort, or simply telling people to move or get to a lift. He pressed the four as quickly as he could before pressing the yellow button with his other hand and holding his hand above the final green button, which was now dimly lit.

“You touch that bag one more time, drone, and I’ll crack your fucking skull!” One of the security officers said. He heard the sound of guns being drawn and loaded or cocked. He knew they were all pointed at him, he could feel the lasers on his back. He sunk his finger into the green button as he stood up, the display reading that he had 24 seconds until his demise. He turned to face the men, all of them appearing young to him, but his sight was still blurred. He could however see the glowing lines leading to his chest.

“All right, take one step forward and put your hands up, drone!” One of the men said.

23.

James did not immediately comply. He took a step forward dizzily after a moment before looking around.

22.

“I said hands up, you fucking drone!” The man said.

21.

James slowly raised his hands, holding them about half-way up as he felt his hoodie pull his shirt up, revealing part of his stomach. He felt the cold wind upon his skin.

20.

“Now, get down on your knees!” One of the men said.

19.

James lowered one of his hands as he almost collapsed onto the metal.

18.

One of the men walked over to James and pulled his arms together behind his back, placing a magnetic restraint on his arms.

17.

One of the other security officials ran to the bag and inspected it, realizing what it was and that the timer was going down he turned to the man who had been shouting orders at James and gave a look of absolute terror.

16.

“Listen here you little drone shit, how do we disarm the bomb?” The officer from before asked James as he pulled him up by his collar.

15.

“I-I don’t know.” James said nervously, showing a look of terror almost matching the security official’s.

14.

“Then maybe this will help!” The officer said as he pistol-whipped James. James felt his nose break.

13.

“I don’t know!” James yelled in a whimper, his face now covered in blood with tears streaming down his eyes.

12.

“You better tell me how to disarm that bomb or I’ll skin you alive and feed you to the gutter kids, drone!” The officer yelled as he grabbed James by the neck.

11.

“I don’t want to die!” James choked out, the tears washing some of the blood away in thin lines down his face as he started wheezing from the lack of air.

10.

“Leftenant, we have to get out of here!” One of the officials said. The officer let go of James and let him writhe on the floor. “Come on, let’s get to a lift, move!” The official by the bomb said as he stood up and started running. One of the officials followed after him, but the other three stayed there, stunned. James curled up in the fetal position and muttered to himself “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.” Shaking his head at the notion as tears ran down his face. The official that broke James’s nose stood up and looked at the closest lift, seeing that it was full of people and was departing, leaving a thousand others to die. James closed his eyes tightly and tried to imagine the place he had always loved going to as a child in his mind. The officials all looked at each other and moved to shake hands. Nodding and bowing their heads in a small circle as they closed their eyes and waited.

“Not how I thought I’d go out.” One of the men said. The other two chuckled.

1.

“So, how are the-.”

And within thirty seconds, three thousand lives were lost, incinerated by a bomb the size of a small child. Three thousand people who had grown in a world that was against them, who had fought from birth to survive a few seconds longer than the next person. Three thousand people who lived and breathed and slept for years upon end, all extinguished in less than a half a minute, all because one man chose to walk one way instead of another, and because that man had two things: faith, and a bomb.