Aftermath

So, NaNoWriMo didn't quite go as well as I hoped. Life got in the way and whatnot. 5000 words or so were accomplished, however, so I figure I'd post what I did get down for your scrutiny. I will, someday, come back and finish this story, or at least get to the actual plotline.

Zed Land

Chapter 1: Phillip

His heart pounding and steam billowing from his mouth, Phillip didn't stop the relentless sprint which he had affixed himself into. He would keep it up until he hit the next group of houses. He was familiar with one of them and knew a good enough hiding place should the Fencers get wind. This wasn't nearly his first trip into The Zone and he was confident in his evasion techniques. Thump-thump-thump-thump. He wanted to fix his eyes on that house, to measure the distance and count the steps to it, but Phillip knew the foolishness of tunnel vision; He kept his head moving side to side, his eyes opened wide despite the frigid air torturing them. If there was something to be seen in this light, he'd be damned to miss it.

Thirty seconds latter found him with his back against the inside of what used to be a child's bedroom sucking deep breaths, trying to pay back the oxygen debt. He struggled to keep his hands up and over his head like he old track coach taught him, but, of course, there is a powerful difference between running to beat a record and running to beat a bullet. He thought about that for a moment while slowly sliding down a wall with a mural of dinosaurs in ridiculous outfits and colors on it; There was no doubt in this teen's mind that the Forbidden Zone Border Patrol (the Fencers) would bring arms against him if they saw him sneaking across The Fence. He had seen them to it before.

It was a little under four years back when Phillip was just a kid greenhorn looking for excitement and cash. The Industry wasn't nearly as popular back then; He had only heard of it from his older friends that spoke of it more as a test of manhood than a profit machine. The idea of impressing even them with such an exploit was to enticing to pass up, but Phillip could have never done it alone. Few of his friends were as enthralled with the idea, however, until one of the other boys overheard him trying to talk a friend into it. Him name was Rocco, but everyone just called him Rock. Philip and Rock didn't know each other very well, but neither expected to find someone with such a crazy passion.

The next day, just as the sun was dipping over the mountains, they crawled up to the embankment that was the beginning of The Fence. The Fence itself was actually a multi-layered security device that carried the impression of technological simplicity; It just looked like a series of fences with barbed wire at the top, not dissimilar to those around the old prisons that seem to spring up from the desert every few hundred miles around. This was, of course, a facade, though, at the time, Phillip and Rock couldn't have imagined the elaborate devices that protected the integrity of the border. They had approached The Fence cautiously at first, but after they had crossed most of the thirty feet or so that separated the embankment to the barriers at a snails pace, they eased up and became more foolhardy. Rock had nicked a pair of bolt cutters from the hardware store and they had used these to, carefully, at first, for fear of electrocution, cut small holes in the three chain-link fences and crawled through, leaving their tool there to be collected later.

There was a seductive thrill that sent shivers down Phillip's spine. Hell, it still did. They had done it; They were inside unmolested. Phillip and Rock had looked at each other, a few feet inside The Fence, with quizzical looks. “What do we do now?” Phillip had broken the silence.

Rock shrugged, trying to look unafraid, “I don't know. Maybe we should check out those houses or something. No one will believe us unless we bring something back that proves we were here.” His voice was unwavering, but the look in his eye told the truth: this idea mortified him.

The Zone had quite a legend built up around it, though no one agreed why it was forbidden in the first place; The explanations ranged from nuclear fallout from a bomb to a secret government/UFO base. One kid was dead certain it was vampires, though he tended to blame vampires for everything. It was kind of an obsession. No matter why is was forbidden, however, every child had been raised with the same lecture: Don't go into The Zone under any circumstances. Bad things happen to kids that go into The Zone.

Now, here they were, in The Zone with night rapidly onsetting and Rock wanted to go break into houses. Phillip knew what he was supposed to do; Rocco wanted him to talk him out of it and look the cowered. “Okay, let's do that. Remember, though: I have to get home in a couple hours and I'll catch hell if I'm late.” Phillip wouldn't have any of it.

Rock sighed and started towards the little cluster of houses. They were strangely detached, as though they were part of some suburban housing community, but there were not other structures around them; There was only a road that stretched out towards a small shopping area half a mile or so away.

Phillip had pulled out and flipped open his knife, making Rock jump a bit. Phillip had carried it since a bully had cracked his skull with a bat and put him into a coma for a week (school was a bit of a rough place), so wielding it in a moment of discomfort wasn't that odd of an event. However, something felt different this time and he didn't like it.

They had crept up to the first house silently. When they tried the door, it was locked, however, so they then moved to the next one, which was similarly locked. After trying the last one with the same result, Rock motioned toward the first house. “There's a window open above the door there,” he had whispered.

“Think you can boost me up onto that little piece of roof? I think I can get to it from there,” Phillip replied.

Rock nodded and, after getting into position, lifted his companion up until Phillip just barely got his stomach onto the corner of the roof, reaching across and grabbing the underside of the the opposite corner and slid himself up.

“I don't think I can pull you up here, Rock,” Phillip whispered over the edge.

“Just come down and unlock the door!”

Phillip shook his head,” No, man, this place gives me the creeps. I'm just going to grab something and jump down so we can get out of here.”

Rock was displeased, but accepted the statement. “Okay, just keep quiet. I'm going to be over here in this nook... ya'know, just in case.”

Phillip smiled and nodded. He was beginning to enjoy Rocco's company. “I'll be back out in a minute,” he said while turning and standing up. He took a step, lost his footing, and fell on his stomach, making a loud scraping noise. He quickly jumped back up and scrambled to press himself against the wall and heard Rock do similar. After a thirty seconds of silence, he finally let out a breath and calmed down. Turning, Philip stepped through the window and into the dark room.

Clicking on the light, he was surprised at how complete the room was. The sheets on the bed were still crumpled from a late morning's rise and some of the make-up bottles were open from use. A thick layer of dust laid over everything and cobwebs hung from every part of the ceiling. Phillip approached the bedside table, picking up a picture frame. After wiping away the dust, he stared at the picture. It was a wedding picture between two very Slavic looking people. The man's hair matched his perfectly pressed black suit and the woman has long, blond hair that completed her wonderfully happy smile. He had looked around, as if to ask permission, before stuffing the picture in his pocket. This would be their evidence.

As he looked back up, something twinkled against the light. Reaching out, Phillip grasped a long stranded pearl necklace. He was amazed at it's elegance and beauty; He had never held something so expensive in his life. He reached back into the box and pulled out a twist of gold and silver chains, some with pendants encrusted with jewels. All of the colors dazzled in his eyes as he played the light over them and he sank into their brilliance.

Suddenly he was shaken from his trance by a loud thumping noise. He quickly shoved as much of the jewelry he could into his pocket and headed for the staircase to leave. Halfway down he stopped when he heard the noise again.

“Where is he then?!” he heard a voice shout outside. It wasn't Rock's.

“He went inside, I swear! Don't do that again, please!” Rocco's voice was cracking and bubbling with tears.

“You better be telling the truth,” was spoken and then two gunshots rang out, startling Phillip so bad he almost fell down the stairs. He heard a wet scrap and then Rock's body slap the ground. That sound would haunt his nightmares for years to come. But the terror was just beginning.

When Phillip snapped back out of shock, he realized the shooter was now kicking at the front door, trying to muscle it open. He stepped backwards, tripped on the stair, then quickly jumped up and turned around, running through the hallway. He burst into a room and shut the door just as he heard the gunman at least break through. Phillip was panicked and looked around for a place to hide. He was in a child's bedroom, but there was only a crib and a few decaying stuffed animals left, none of which were of much use to him.

It was then that he noticed something strange about the far wall, near the corner. He tilted his head a bit and saw that it wasn't flush with the rest of the area. Leaping to it, he pulled off the panel to a hidden storage area, designed for vanity. He quickly shoved everything to one side and pulled the panel back onto it as tight as he could from the inside. Just as it clicked into place, he heard the door to the room swing wide open and impact the wall behind it.

Phillip couldn't see anything as the seal was tight enough to block the invading light. He heard footsteps slowly ease across the room, very wide, methodical steps. It took the murderer only a few seconds to realize the lack of cover in the room, and he was heard stepping back to the door and quickly turning into the hall to ransack another room in his pursuit.

Hiding in his hole, Phillip began to breathe again. He realized the crevice which he was hiding in was actually quite spacious; He could lay fully stretched out, even with the molding boxes of things in there with him. There was nothing much for him to do but wait as he heard his tormentor throw the rest of the house apart. Finally, after was seemed an eternity, Phillip had heard him leave the house and a wave of relief washed over him. He sat there for a while more, perhaps ten minutes, before, carefully, slowly, and silently, he slid the panel off of the hole and crawled out. He didn't dare turn on his light, so he groped in the dark, eventually finding the doorway and slowly, cautious of the decay of the metal hinges and the noise they could make, he had opened the door to the empty hallway.

He eased through the hallway and down the steps, not making a single sound. Stepping into a side room, he chanced a glance through the window. No dice, it was as black as death outside and no sign of a flashlight. He slowly crept to the open front doorway.

On the wall next to the entrance, he saw the blood splatter that had been the top section of Rock's brain and skull. The rest of him lay crumpled next to the stairway, almost sitting in the little open area like a macabre puppet. Phillip did his best, but he couldn't stifle the gasp and then gag that jumped up from his throat. It was at that moment that he heard the crunch of a footstep behind him.

Spinning around quickly, one of his foots slipped and splashed into the pool of Rock's blood on the ground. Staring at him through some strange box (Phillip later realized this was a set of night vision goggles) was the man who had done that to Rocco. He wore military fatigues and patches, but had some strange vest on with dim lights.

The man jumped a bit, being startled, and Phillip threw himself into action. He leaped forward and took the knife still in his hand and plunged it deep into the man's chest, just above the collarbone. It slid in easily and the man lurched back, Phillip following him to the ground. The soldier had had his rifle on his back and the combined weight of the two of them had gotten the wind knocked out of him as well has severely spraining his back.

The advantage was Phillips and he knew it. The image on Rock's exploded skull flashed into his mind and he pulled the knife out only to plunged it back into the man's neck. He pulled it out again and continued to stab at him, the sharp knife only failing to puncture the soldier's bullet-proof vest.

Phillip would never figure out how long or how many times he had stabbed that man, but when he stepped off of him, the man was a bloody and gory wreck. Strangely enough, he was still drawing breath when Phillip left him there, though he was completely unconscious. He had taken the man's pistol and spare magazine in a moment of clarity that realized he had walked out in the middle of a conversation the soldier was having with someone else on the radio. He knew more would be coming very soon.

Phillip would never figure out how he got out of there. That night he had to dodge helicopters, jeeps, and even a dog or two. But he did get out of there, though not unscathed. In his mad rush to get back under the chain-link fences, he had slid his hand across the bolt cutters and ripped a large gash in it. When he had arrived at home, he stashed the gun under some loose bricks in front of his house and proceeded in to a very worried mother. He explained to her that he had been playing in an old abandoned car and had grabbed the bent metal of the door, thus resulting in the cut and the multitude of blood that covered his clothes. And, of course, she believed him, because it would have been a much more believable story than the truth, anyways.

Rocco was the last friend Phillip ever made. He never showed the picture to anyone, never felt it was worth proving his exploits. And he never told anyone Rock's fate. As far as most people were concerned, he was just an orphan kid who decided to run into the desert night and never come back. Few missed him.

Phillip frowned at the memory. He had spent so many years trying to forget that night, trying to not remember the twist of stomach at the image of Rocco's destroyed head, or the satisfyingly easy slip of the knife into the soldier's chest. He had told himself so many times that he hadn't killed the man; He had delusions of a him being all patched and perfect again, but even he knew it was ludicrous.

Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out the now worn and folded up picture again. He looked at those two people, so happy and loving and not just for each other; They loved him, too. They were his family, his only companion. Even when his mom died by pickling herself, they were there for him. Their smiles became frowns when he had it the roughest and they congratulated him on every success.

He shook his head and glanced back down before pocketing the picture again. This room always made him remember that night. It was always the first stop into The Zone for him and he always felt safest there.

Phillip was tired and he considered sleeping in the cubby hole that he had grown so fond of, but decided against it. He would just pick up some instant coffee in the natural food store down the road. He had already ransacked the three houses here and the stores' food supply was beginning to run thin. In a few more incursions he would have to finally pick a new entry point.

He shook his head again. Those days are long ahead of him and he needed to focus on the now. And what he had to do now was get up and get past the patrol range.

Chapter 2: Reckless Abandon

The flame from the fire was warm against the night air. It seemed winter got so much colder every year in what used to be a tropical paradise.

NaNoWriMo

The National Novel Writing Month (or, for brevity, NaNoWriMo) is a yearly event in which, during the thirty days of November, participants attempt to write a 50,000 word novel. It is something of a contest, though the writers are merely attempting to beat the word-count and not one another. 'Winners" received a web image as well as a certificate stating such and, most importantly, a feeling of achievement and a (probably poor) complete novel which they own all rights to.

This year, I will finally be participating. I've toyed with the idea since I first heard of it in my Sophomore year in high school, but never had the conviction required. This, however, had changed, as I've found that I have no excuse to not partake in this event. I will probably update as I progress along with my novel, but I will wish to get at least part way into it before posting excerpts. You can see I've also added the image on the right to signify my approaching demise.

A Conversation

We were recently working on dialogue in my Intro to Fiction Writing class and were commissioned to write a short bit of dialogue with few or no "tags." I waited to see how the other members of the class interpreted the assignment before taking to the keyboard. This is what flowed out:

“So, do you want to hear something Simmons told me yesterday?” Weathers was grinning again.

Bill looked over his shoulder and gaped. “Are you fucking serious?” He found himself shouting to full capacity to counter the din.

Chuck frowned. “What else do we have to do we have to do?” A slight rain of dirt came down on them.

“I don't know , not die?” countered his companion as he turned back, squeezing off a few rounds from his weapon.

“Come on, you know they're not in range!” Biff-Crack-Twang sang the bullet as it caught the top of the berm and skipped off of his helmet as the final words rang out.

Corporal Bill Wilson's laughter couldn't be contained. He sat back against the edge of the foxhole behind him and let out a hearty chuckle.

Specialist Chuck Weathers hid his eyes under the edge of his helmet. “Yeah, yeah, screw you and fuck irony.” He eased up to the berm, his rifle shouldered; Whoever had scored the lucky shot was going to pay. Pift-pift-pift. The ground shot up in front of him as more rounds impacted the berm, sending him lurching back into hiding. The rifleman looked to his hole-mate, “Hey, Bill, think you can get the scope-jockeys on that guy? I don't feel like eating a lead sammich'.”

With a grunt of recognition, Wilson pulled out a headset and pressed it firmly to his ear. “Foxtrot one to Mike three. I repeat, Foxtrot one to Mike three.”

The worn out speaker buzzed back, “This is Mike three, go ahead Foxtrot.”

“Yeah, Weathers and I are having a helluva time with an unknown at thirty meters, eleven o'clock. He's not too shy on the trigger and we're right in his sights. Think you can lighten our load?”

“Foxtrot, we have no visual on unknown.”

“Yeah, hang on.” The corporal pressed the headset to his chest and motioned at Chuck. “Make him shoot, man!”

“Aw, hell,” was the response as Weathers took off his helmet and placed it on the muzzle of his weapon. He slowly lifted it above the edge of the berm. The bullets hit the helmet before the reports sounded, sending it skittering across the street. “Shit!” He quickly thrust his arm out and grabbed the pack of cigarettes that he was keeping in there, narrowly missing another volley.

Wilson pressed the headset but to his ear.

“Foxtrot one, we have visual on your shooter. We don't have good enough line of sight from this position, but Mike four is sliding on down to see if he can get a better angle.”

Bill sighed. “ETA on shot, Mike?”

“Uhhh, looks like about five minutes.”

He cursed under his breath before responding, “Roger that, Mike, we'll stay put.”

“Wilco Foxtrot one. Mike three, over and out.”

Wilson stashed the headset back in its place and let out a sigh. “They've got to reposition to- hey, give me one of those.” He waved at the cigarette that his comrade was putting in his mouth and quickly snatched one from the offered pack, “Anyways, they've got to reposition to take this prick out, so we're stuck here for a bit.” He inhaled deeply as Chuck lit it.

“So, do you want to hear what Simmons told me yesterday?” Weathers was grinning yet again.

Wilson sighed again, “Are you fucking serious?”

I was hoping to capture a mood of humor and comfort in a particularly tense situation and, according to some cursory reads from some classmates, I seemed to have achieved that. If I were to write it again, I would most likely shorten the conversation between the marksmen and Wilson, as it seems to dominate the piece. Overall, however, I am quite proud of what I came up with in an hour or so and think I may expand upon it farther.

This is Hard Life

Another writing exercise from one of my classes. This time around we had to choose a place and describe it to the fullest detail possible. Seeing nothing worthwhile in my locale, I traveled to Chinatown and slipped into my favorite internet cafe.

Beats break and rhythms shatter across straight edges and hard corners. There are no shapely curves or groovy ridges; This is hard life and few of the chairs are even soft, though they are somehow comfortable, as is the din of the scene.

Unabashful disgrace hangs in tandem with the cobwebs and debris off of the minimalistic light tracks which hold bulbs as bare as is legal; This is hard life and it has no filters on its shine, though the corner shadows do creep out, trekking far from their lowly recesses.

A woman electronically screams from the peripheries, perhaps a warning to the unwary patrons; This is hard life and it brings all manner of its occupants to bear: the perfectly elegant homosexual, bruised street urchin, and sultry gothic or punk.

A treehouse holds its ground around a bracing pillar, though no sentinel mans its beacon; This is hard life and one cannot afford to live cautiously, risking everything for one more day, one more moment of experience.

People hide under headphones and man computers, wearing shirts with inside jokes only they get and using acronyms as humorous relief; This is hard life and the folding walls that contain the technomonks do little to dissuade them from worshiping the cyber gods in their own way.

There are paintings and murals in the back, by the bathrooms, and no one is forced to view but the most avant-garde of them; This is hard life and only the creators, as evidenced by their stiff price-tags, see art as anything but a temporary departure.

Three tables hold court of kings, bishops, and rooks, not guided by the hands of gods on high, but mortals in a macabre game of skill; This is hard life and these possible leaders must be ready to wield their enforces with the strategies taught by few other games.

Behind the bar and the working people is the decaying brick wall which anchors the whole room in crumbling reality; This is hard life and, not matter its true structure, the foundation must look strong, for anyone to put faith in it.

Of course, this is not hard life, but Backspace, a simple internet cafe. But what it means to me, and others I am sure, transcends such a simple premise. It accepts those which others turn away, not in policy, but atmosphere. It stands, in fact, as a reprieve from that hard life by being merely a facade of it.

With this, I was pulling some of the stylings from poems that I had enjoyed in my poetry class during the summer and tried to apply them to prose. The effect isn't quite what I had hoped for and is going to take quite a bit more work before it looks less like prosey poetry. I do think the mental picture is painted, however, which was, of course, the objective of the whole assignment anyways.

Working at Fry's

This is a story I wrote up for my Intro To Fiction class. I was to talk about a job using all the senses. I decided that I wanted to incorporate as much humor as possible. At first, I was worried that the jokes would be too cheeky or something of that sort, but, upon reading it in class, I noticed a number of genuine laughs, especially from other previous or current corporate retail workers, ensuring me in my own talents.

As far as official employment goes, I have truly only had one job, which was working as a accessory salesman at Fry's Electronics, or, as I often call it, “The COSCO of Electronics.” Prior to that, I had only ever worked for my parents in a very unofficial capacity, so I didn't know what to expect, especially since I was going into corporate retail. Whatever I did expect, the experience was certainly many orders of magnitudes more strange, mostly due to the customers that I spent most of my work time attempting to help figure out why they had even come to our store in the first place.

I was easily hired due to my proficiencies in both electronics and bullshitting, the latter being one of the most important talents in the retail market. The man who interviewed me, Dan, the Assistant Store Manager, had something that was off about his face, but I couldn't tell what it was.. I think he may have had facial reconstructive surgery at one point. He was nice, however, in that cheeky, I'm-just-a-nice-boss-until-I-gain-more-by-screwing-you-over kind of way.

I trained under a woman by the name of Stephanie (we were all about first names). She frightened me, as she had the constant demeanor of an unlit stick of dynamite. She was also one of the largest people in the store and was not shy about using it to her advantage. I later found out that she dated the nicest guy in the store, Josh, who I worked with and spent most of my time talking to. They lived together and she drove the car. The training room was as sterile as a hospital waiting room, complete with that annoying, constant humming noise. Our training consisted of watching two movies; one was some sort of racist propaganda about why black people shouldn't smoke pot and the other was (and I wish I was joking here) a recycled driver's ed tape. There were a whole stack more, but Stephanie was apparently too busy to make us watch them, so she sent us out on the sale floor to, “shadow,” our euphemism for pretending to work.

Being a naive kid, I attempted to actually learn how to do my job. I began stalking Taras at the behest of my supervisor. Taras was, perhaps, the worst retail worker in history (of course, as is common in life, he was promoted mere days later), and proceeded to instruct me on important subjects such as how to get away with texting your girlfriend for an hour and avoiding customers who wanted help. After two hours of listening to him whine about how difficult his job was, I ditched him and spent the next few hours meeting the other workers and seeing the layout of our dimly lit, sales heavy corner of the store.

Over the next few weeks, I learned the functions of a accessory salesman: moving boxes, opening boxes, stacking boxes, properly putting boxes on shelves, cleaning up boxes, and other exciting, box-related activities. I smelled of corrugated cardboard by the end of the day and often felt like it. I quickly understood why all of the Fry's employees smoked, with the exception of Josh and I (Stephanie wouldn't let him and I'm allergic). I did enjoy the box crusher, though, which was, of course, a machine design, built, and operated for the sole purpose of flattening the multitudes of boxes we received computer equipment in. It bled grease and oil from every orifice and groaned, reminding me of some sort of complicated contraption I would read about in one of my steampunk novels.

My very favorite task was actually helping the costumers, something which I learned to restrict myself to doing as much as possible and was really the only person there who was at least decent at. In the first month, I received more commendations from customers than any other person in my department due my actual caring about connecting these people to the needed equipment, no matter if I steered them away from or too a more expensive item. The other 'associates' there were content to play with their boxes and, if, by some divine happening, they were roped by a costumer, they would do as little as possible to help them, often times sending them to the farthest aisle they could, or, if they were feeling particularly trollish, into different departments.

This is where the reality of the unspoken trust that customers held and retailers abused was first revealed to me; I once saw a worker tell someone that a piece of photographic equipment was in the movie section and that person, in infinite consumer loyalty, actually walked across the store to find it, striding right by the section that held a large sign signifying it's content to be that which the customer was seeking.

The main problem with being the retail altruist that I was was that I often found myself helping the sort of customers who either have non-electronic related issues or simply had no business being in our store. The most loathed group had to be the Mouth Breathers, a segment of the population who are almost always in their sixties, unkempt, and crazier than a Pink Floyd song. Of course, as their name gives away, these people all chose to inhale and exhale all air through their encrusted, decaying mouths. Combine this with a strange habit of standing uncomfortably close to the second half of a conversation and you have a recipe for a truly punchable person.

There are many zany stories I could write about, but none of them are really all that unique and would only make sense to other retail workers. Looking back, my employment at Fry's Electronics was actually very rewarding; I received a decent discount on purchases, I spent lots of time hanging out with fun people, and still have a stack of business cards and the like from customers of various walks of life offering me a job, including the leader of IT at Nike. And, aside from the few Mouth Breathers, Crazies, and other unbearable people, the customers were fun to interact with and really let you know their appreciation for your help, even the most minor of things. Sadly, I never accepted the tips, since I was only making eight dollars an hour, part-time.

A Life of Tom

There once was a young man named Tom. Tom had made his childhood very tough, and had spent many years in self-made depressions. After fighting these bouts off for years and years, he finally rose above them and found himself alone on a plain of sheer happiness. No matter what happened in life, he could find the best in it and knew at all times that he could handle things and, thus, believed in himself so strongly that he had true control over his negative emotions.

Being on this high point of positivity, he looked around him and saw that he knew no one else that was at such peace with themselves and the world. He believed, perhaps with little pretentiousness, that he could help these people; he thought that they would all want to be happy as he was. He began to live for other people's wellbeing above his own, taking the brunt of the negative emotion in stride and coaxing them to better themselves and find the good in them. Tom spread no ill will, even to those who flagrantly wronged him and felt, probably arrogantly, that he was better than them because of it. Meeting with much success, Tom enjoyed his life and honestly felt very important to the lives of the people around him.

After graduating high school, Tom went off to college, full of exuberance for all of the new people he would meet. He went to all the parties and made at least the acquaintance of everyone on his floor and the one above him. Not being interested in the excesses of drinking and drugs, Tom was also a very useful person to have around as he knew how to take care of the needy and was always well enough and ready to do so. This was something he was proud of. Soon, he fell in love with a very nice young lady who he had taken care of and was determined to win her over. He did, filling him with even more excitement for the year. He had a whole new group of friends, a constant companion, and felt he was finally going somewhere in his life.

Six months later, the cloud which had lifted him so high was quickly dissipating. The friends he had made in the beginning of the year all but ignored him, the relationship which made him so happy was leading him down a path he feared, and he had failed almost all of his classes. At the end of winter term, he had a nervous breakdown and barely got out of bed for weeks. Only with the intervention of his parents and lots of love from his mate did Tom stay in school and climb painfully from the hole that he himself had dug. He was determined to not allow himself to ever fall into that life again; he had abandoned it years ago and had nearly forgotten all of the lessons that had made the preceding years so happy and near pain free.

Things did get a bit better. Tom decided to work at a job he loved and went to only part time classes. He had found a professor whom he really got along with and thought might help him become a professional artist, something which he had always dreamed of. Tom and his lady broke up, but stayed close friends and lovers; barely anything changed, but he was no longer going in a direction that displeased him. He had made real friends and was busy dedicating his time to them, as well as some of his friends back at home who had fallen on hard times. He looked toward Summer with excitement and felt so clear of the drama which had cast a shadow over his life only months prior.

The Summer would not be as joyous as anticipated. It began with another lady friend. Tom had been there for her while she was in a relationship with someone who was bad for her. He had given praise, advice, and an ever-open ear to hear out her ills; Few people had someone to talk to about their problems and, since Tom was on level footing, he offered such a privilege to everyone he knew, thinking that not only would it help them, but also endear him to their hearts, making them feel grateful to have such a wonderful friend as he. This lady was to test that idea. Once she was clear of her previous relationship, Tom very quickly and daftly moved in; Not as a predator, but as someone who would be good for her. He knew he was a good mate; Tom would do anything for his companion, no matter what tax it bore on him, assuming the same treatment would be returned to him.

The fatal flaw was that it wasn't returned and Tom began to realize that many of the connections he had made over the many years since he began his crusade for world happiness were one-sided; He was being used by many of the people he had worked so hard to please and to comfort. Even worse, Tom saw that his loving nature is what had driven so many people away that year. Few of those he called would respond to him and those that did often made excuses or stood him up because he cared too much. Many people were uncomfortable or just downright disliked being looked after and worried over. Others suspected ulterior motives and hidden agendas to Tom's actions. He was nearly universally distrusted and avoided except for by those who saw him as a tool to fulfill their own selfish desires. They cared little for him and were cruel.

These realizations came almost all at once and it was nearly too much for him to bear. The pit below him opened it's black jaws again and, though he tried very diligently to cling to hope, Tom began to let it best him. The thought that people did not want someone so caring in their life was disheartening to him. His intentions were honest and true and he only wished to help people and that was costing him their friendship and his happiness. Those few around him that did care for him told him to change. “It's not worth it,” they said, “Just stop caring. You can't save these people, Tom. You have to look out for yourself first.”

Tom didn't want to change. He was the friend every person said they wanted and he was good to the world. Why should he take a step back and begin treating people worse? He found himself with little choice, though, and became, consciously, very jaded. He began to put his needs above those around him and did not do nice things for them anymore. Tom said hurtful things to those who had wronged him and treated those he didn't like with disrespect. He was cruel to people on a whim and enjoyed poking fun at them with others. And others there were. He found himself to quickly be very popular, even becoming liked by those who had previously spurred him. He found it was much easier to make friend by looking down on everything and being a generally hilarious elitist.

The saddest thing about Tom's life is that he was happy to have become the person he did. He enjoyed standing atop the broken egos of his enemies and friends alike and, for perhaps the first time in his life, thought that he was honestly better than those around him. Through betraying his desire to help people, Tom was filled with hollow happiness and never once cried again.

For those who are reading this, it is probably most apparent that it is about my own life. I am at Tom's moment of change and, having seen the returns on even just the little jadedness that I have tested with, I know this to be one possible path. Whether I will take it or not is still being decided.

A View on "Pharmacide"

A number of weeks ago, my professor (and, probably, my mentor as well) Grace Dillon had assigned for our Science Fiction class a weekly "dialog journal response," which is to say that we were expected to have actually read the material and have had an opinion about it or something pertaining to its general nature. She also opened the assignment up to more interpretation, however; If we were creators, we were allowed to create something every week to compensate for it. Of course, being a writer, I decided on that a story was in order. The result was Pharmacide.

The story itself is not finished, though I should have it completed shortly. I have a suspicion that I will want to submit this story and, seeing as how there are rights to publish and the like, I am not assured enough to know whether I can post the story in its entirety or not. Being as such, I have decided to put up the first two parts (mini-chapters, essentially) for your scrutiny. Please, comment on this story, reactions, ect. I am looking for feedback. Also, please note that there is more editing to be done with this story before it is in final draft, so some leeway will be appreciated.

Part I

The alarm clock buzzed; Dimitri had woken up late. Always fuckin' late he thought as he shot up, skipping a shower, and rushed down the hallway, disparately trying to get his black and brown slacks on both legs at the same time. The woman in the elevator found this show to be endlessly amusing.

As he stood in one of the long, single file lines to board the train that would take him across New Haven, Dimitri ceaselessly watched his state-issued watch, seeing the equisitely painted, bright red hands slowly inch towards the the larger, stationary ones that had been preset by the hospital to signify his appointed check-up time. The twenty-three year old both groaned and sighed at the same time, producing a sound that draw weary looks from his fellow line-waiters. To defuse the tension, he raised one hand, saying, “Don't worry, just a little stres-.”

There was a quick shuffle of people ahead as a man fell to the floor and started convulsing. While Dimitri watched, white foam began to come from the stricken man's mouth. Dimitri, looking at his watch, began counting to ten. It was said that no matter where you were in The Dome, the medics would get to you in ten seconds or less and this particular onlooker liked to test that theory, though he'd been disappointed to find it true thus far. Three, four, five he slowly sounded off in his mind. Looking around, he saw no one approaching and thought, with a slight giddiness, that today would be the day the record was broken. A quick look down told him there were only two seconds remaining when, as expected, three men in thick white suits and face-worn air purifiers calmly walked up, seemly in no particular hurry. Seeing this, Dimitri threw down his arm in disgust. He was annoyed they hadn't been late to help this man.

After the arrival of the medical personnel, the waiting line was reformed at a safe distance. Everyone observed the man's plight, though most were truly watching the medics, attempting to understand the enigma that lived behind the black goggles and masks. No one ever saw them when there wasn't someone to be tended to, so there was an almost angelic aura to their presence that few people found anything but enthralling (the few that did used this distraction to better their place in line). Soon, the man was placed on a litter and carried calmly to the exit by the three silent figures. They looked at each other every so often and bobbed their heads as though talking nonchalantly, yet no voice rang out.

Once they were out of earshot, the crowd was abuzz with rumors and gossip about the phantom medics, and even a little about the striken man. Most talk was of the workers' ability to be seemingly everywhere at once. “I hear they have teleporters, that's why they sometimes come out of those off-limits rooms!” said one women. Dimitri cringed at her wet and nasally voice as it smacked across his ears.

“No, they just use some sort of invisibility device. They're just always around, waiting. Hell, they're probably listening to us right now!” retorted an old, rough looking man in a suit.

The two began to argue, but Dimitri paid no attention. Like most, he was watching the four men off in the distance, now climbing the long staircase to the surface. He said a silent thanks, as they all did, to that man for boring the brunt so the rest of them may live.

That's how it worked in New Haven; you lived your life as well, and as clean, as possible. In the event that you were infected with illness, the medics came, scooped you up, and took you to the Medical Terminus, which remains as the largest hospital ever built. Once there, the disease was studied and anti-bodies and vaccines were produced. These were then added to the weekly injections given to the populace and the illness was stamped out. It was also well believed that the vaccine was then shipped out to the rest of the world and sold to protect those abroad. How else could AboMed afford to operate New Haven? As for the ill themselves, no one really knew. The rumors varied from them having their memories wiped and being assigned a new identity in another section of New Haven to drafting into the Security Corps and even to them receiving no treatment, dying, and their bodies being ground up and sold to the rebel communes in east Europe as animal feed.

Dimitri chuckled softly at the notion as he finally boarded his car. He slowly made his way to his seat, the same seat he sat in every week, and began staring out the same window. It wasn't so much that he particularly liked the seat or the view it afforded that he choose to sit there: the thing had his name written on it, as they all did. He didn't mind so much, however, as the conformity allowed his meal to arrive on time and to his specifications without having to deal with the hassle of ordering or any such nonsense.

Next to him was Ron, the pudgy nerd who was already asleep, giving off soft snores. He always used the four hour ride to catch up on sleep that he missed while in the simulators, or so was the story he had told a few months back when Dimitri struck up a conversation before Ron could get to his nap. He wasn't a terribly interesting man and quite cranky on that occasion, so Dimitri found it best to just leave him alone.

Sitting across the aisle and facing them was Jesse, a cute girl of fourteen. Today, however, her face was scrunched up in a heart-broken depression and the reason was apparent. The seat next to her, which belonged to her mother, Sharon, was vacant and the name plaque had been removed. She had obviously been stricken in the last week and hauled off, never to been seen from by her family again. Seeing this, Dimitri reached across and squeezed the young woman's knee. When she looked up, a new tear blazing another trail down her cheek, he smiled in a most reassuring way and said, “Don't worry, it's going to be alright. I'm sure where ever she is, she's happy.”

The statement had the intended effect and Jesse weakly smiled back and leaned over, giving him a hug. Of course, Dimitri doubted any would be okay and was sure Sharon was already either dead or doing hard labor somewhere, but he didn't let the poor girl know anything but confidence.

Part II

Phillip “Flip” Anderson hated his job, though it wasn't so much the work itself as all it stood for. As Medical Officer #361, he was tasked, as were the others of his profession, with moving the soon to be dead corpses of victims of a society they remembered nothing of; the tragedy that made modern medicine possible for the rest of the world.

“Flip, are you listening to me or not?” buzzed the voice of his group leader through the dilapidated speaker that had probably been put into these goggles when The Dome was first built. The most profitable business in the world, eh? he thought, absentmindedly replying, “Yes, Scott, I'm with you,” in the dullest groan he could muster.

“Hey, people's lives are at stake here! Don't you even care?” Scott Peters replied. Of course, he wasn't referring to the man who was currently vomiting all over his girlfriend's bedroom floor; like most nearing the end of their tenure, Scott saw this person as nothing but an active culture to harvest antibodies and vaccines from (not to mention the odd gene and organ). Instead, he was talking about the billions of people on the outside who relied on the medicines produced from this place for their daily survival from vicious diseases that mutated into new strains on a weekly basis.

Philip gave a smirk, though the facial purifier (or “mouth can” as they called them) protected him from another tongue lashing. “Let's just stabilize this one and get him out of here so the shrink can get on with her,” he said while nodding towards the victim's girlfriend who was, at this moment, having a severe panic attack due to being covered by her lover's bloody vomit.

“Yeah, I'm working on it.” Scott had tranquillized the man and stopped the puking and was now readying the rehydration bag that would be injected once Philip found the vein, a task which was apparently exceedingly difficult. After thirty seconds of waiting, Scott finally grabbed the needle and shoved him aside. “God, how many months have you been here now? You should still be practicing on dead fucking cadavers, Flip,” roared the captain as he plunged the thing deep into his arm.

Stepping back, Phillip rolled his eyes at the gruff man, much to the amusement of the third in the team, Claude, whose light chuckles draw a sharp glance from his leader. Scott was preparing the stricken to be taken to the hospital by rolling him onto a litter. Phillip realized as he took two of the handles that he knew little about either man with whom he worked twelve hours a day; they didn't live in the same structures and didn't spend any of their precious free time together. Of course, Flip only knew either on a first name basis, as was standard practice for The Dome's medical workers, though few truly understood what the intention of such a rule was. Flip cared little, however, and preferred to not question authority, a trait handed down by overbearing parents.

The three men marched off towards the stairs, the dying man's head slowly lolling to one side in rhythm with the steps. As they passed through the door from the apartment, a middle-aged woman with a subdued blouse and skirt swept past them and into the room, her eyes preoccupied in a folder. Like clockwork thought Philip and they began to descend the stairs on their way to the vehicle that would return them to the Medical Terminus. He only let himself look at the man once, depression washing over him. How could anyone choose to live like this?

Let me know what you think.

-Kendle "I'm Almost Done With a Story!" Kelley