This Risk Is Worth It

Robotic Dreams

2010-03-07T19:20:00.010-05:00

....The first five days after the accident, the Incident, his unintended death,
Gerard was aware of nothing beyond the white of his hospital room, so unbroken
that staring into gave him a glimpse of infinity, and the jigsaw puzzles he
spent hours constructing on the floor. This state of detachment was for the
best; to expose him to the healing process would have been gruesome and cruel.
....To put him back together, they had to start from the inside. The damage was so great, they removed flesh until the muscle and metal below were visible. The body was then cut methodically with needles filled with Substance P to make this body stronger, more durable than the last when faced with his penchant for self-destruction. The cuts, running from his skull to his feet, intersected, forming squares an inch long and an inch wide. While he surely saw his reflection in the window of his room, Gerard did not react to the sight of himself, skin slowly growing back, tendons stretching, the cuts pulling open whenever he moved to reveal gleaming pink tissue. Instead, his eyes fixated on the large luminescent face on Seidhr, the clock tower.
He was allowed to leave the hospital after a full week. Dazed, head fuzzy and unsure of what's happened or why he's been there, Gerard was glad to leave the over sanitized building. ....Substance P had kicked in, further speeding his recovery so that there was no trace of the cuts, his body grown back in full. He left in the evening, after the sun had gone down and followed the map he was given to the zeppelin station, which would take him home. Or, he was told it would take him home by a man who wore sunglasses in doors. Gerard took the sunglasses as a symbol of authority and desperately hoped he wouldn't wind up lost in some alleyway.
....As he was walking the first block, Seidhr caught his eye, a golden, warm glow. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring up, until someone stopped beside him.
...."Beautiful, isn't it?"
....Gerard turned to see a head of tousled auburn hair a few inches below his own. As the figure dropped her eyes from the clock, she reached out to touch Gerard's wrist.
...."You're leaving the hospital, too?" She asked, holding up her own wrist, where a hospital bracelet hung. She gave him a small smile. "When I was in there, the clock looked so close from my room, like I could climb onto the hands and ride time out." Turning to face Gerard, she held out a hand. "I'm Ashton, former self-destructer."
....Gerard ducked his head, smiling at her introduction. "Gerard. Not a former anything, I think."
....Ashton nodded, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Being mysterious, are we? That's okay. What were you in the hospital for?"
...."I was in an accident. I don't really remember much about it. What were you there for?"
...."Suicide watch. Pretty much the dullest week of my life," Ashton snorted.
...."That's no good."
...."No," Ashton sighed,"Anyway, where are you headed?"
...."To my apartment, I suppose."
...."Those," pointing to Gerard's hand," are directions to it?" Ashton asked.
....Smiling sheepishly, Gerard nodded. "Like I said, I don't remember much from the accident. Or before."
...."Alright. Looks like we're headed in the same direction. Care to walk together?"
...."Sure. That would be nice. Thank you."
....Gerard couldn't name the warming rush of emotion he felt at seeing her, or identify the tug of familiarity he felt as he watched her figure walk across the street. When she turned to look back at him over her shoulder, Gerard dismissed the thoughts, hurrying to catch up.

....The ramp at the entrance of the zeppelin creaked as they mounted it. It was a smaller version than those used for international trips, for it was really just used to pick up and drop patients off. As all the passengers settled into their red velvet seats, Gerard stared intently out the window. He had no recollection of the machines and was in awe of the metallic wings he could see slowly beginning to pump. His attention was kept when the zeppelin took off, rising from it's platform on the Hospital's cloud. The city below was obscured by fog, save for the bright lights of the many street lamps, which shined up at Gerard as if welcoming him home. While he watched the ground grow closer, Ashton studied him. Wearing a worn black leather jacket, his dark hair disheveled, eyes gleaming and full lips parted, he looked for all the world like the most innocent debauchee she had ever seen.

....A week later, Gerard slouched in Ashton's old relic of a car, a Lotus Exige Sport 240, she had said, twice as old as Gerard himself. They glided into downtown Williamsburg that evening to grab dinner at China Sun. An absolutely fundamental part of the Williamsburg life, Ashton had said to Gerard when she arrived at his apartment. He jumped at the chance to get away from the place that was filled with things he pointedly could not remember. Amnesia, the doctors had told him to expect. He just hadn't expected this vast feeling of not belonging, as well. Before they entered Williamsburg proper, Ashton pulled into a parking garage.

...."We'll have to walk from here," she told Gerard as she slid out from behind the wheel, "They don't let cars into the city."

....Stretching once he was out of the vehicle, Gerard was never more happy to be on the rather short side of average. He was able to keep a nice pace with Ashton while they walked down the cobblestone streets without having to worry about slowing down or taking smaller steps.
The night was foggy, as every night had been since Gerard returned to ground level life, and the weather damp but never raining. The rouge red bricks of the buildings seemed to gleam in the light from the street lamps. In the alleys between buildings, Gerard could glimpse small fires and huddled forms. In one alleyway, he made out a pristine old woman in pearls and heels standing next to a tarted up young teen. The teen, androgynous from a distance, held a long pipe to her mouth. The old woman's hand was curled around it, as if waiting to take her turn. When a blue lighted cop car, the only kind of car allowed within the city, rolled slowly down the street, the two moved farther back into the shadows. They were lost to Gerard when even the pulsing beats of blue light illuminated nothing but a dying fire and metal trashcans.
....It wasn't until Ashton stumbled and he reached out to catch her, that Gerard realized anything was wrong. A fine tremor was growing in his body, and thin lines were visible on his skin. Ashton was staring almost as if in horror at his hand, where between his splayed fingers the lines were bigger. Gerard could see that they weren't lines, but cuts, splitting in a pattern of small squares. Frozen and dumbfounded, Gerard remotely noted the blood slowly leaking from his nose. Ashton had pulled away from his hand, run across the street to the Caller on the corner. Time seemed not to move at all, as Gerard watched, mesmerized, as the lines in his skin became more pronounced. He was shaken out of his reverie by Ashton, her hand on his arm, face pale. She was saying something, but her voice was dim and far away, overpowered by a rhythmic rushing sound. Gerard let himself be propelled onto the zeppelin that was suddenly in front of him, surprisingly empty for so early in the night. Gerard's world faded to black as the mechanical bird ascended to the sky.

....Sitting hunched forward in the hard chair of the waiting room, Ashton kept an eye on the door leading to the hallway which she had been refused access to.
...."It was just sensory overload, Ms. Gardener. We knew to expect this. I'm surprised you took him out at all. Now, please, don't waste your night here," the Suit had told her. Two more men, dressed just like the first down to the pointless black sunglasses they kept perched upon their noses, guarded Gerard's door and the door to the hallway. Under the drone's watchful gaze, Ashton grew tired and cramped and frustrated from lack of information. Finally, she relented to their idea, shrugging into her purple coat, and left the hospital for the night.

....Following the dinner that almost was with Ashton, Gerard was introduced to the Suits. More accurately, he was kept very busy by the Suits. They spent hours talking at him, about things, experiments and tests and government regulations, that he didn't understand. They called on him often in the morning, taking him out and keeping him through the day, and always one rode home with him, in a car much more rarely than a zeppelin. Gerard learned their names, but never remembered them. They were obviously interchangeable, and he found their faces indistinguishable from one another.
....One night, after a week of Suits and constant activity that he didn't understand, Gerard feigned illness in the middle of a meeting. All the Suits there, nearly twenty of them, turned to look at him as he groaned, hand to his mouth. Their blank faces were mirror images, as if reflected from the same shadowed, uncaring soul. When he groaned again, curling forward over the hand he placed on his stomach, two of the nearest Suits stood. Without question, they escorted him home, leaving him with strict instructions to get better.
....Settling on the worn couch in his living room, Gerard picked up the phone to call Ashton. When she answered, he asked if she would grant him the honor of escorting a lady to the theater. She seemed incredulous to hear his voice, listening shocked as he told her he had faked sick.
...."And that worked?" she asked.
...."Surprisingly well. They treat me like a glass baby kitten that will break at the smallest provocation."
....Ashton directed Gerard to meet her at the theater, giving him directions unbidden. Though he had asked her to a play, he didn't have the faintest idea how to get to it. The smile he had heard as she hung up the phone was a sharp contrast to the distant girl who met him outside the theater. The golden lights of the marque lit up her face, but her eyes remained fixed anywhere but on him. Through the play, Gerard could feel her arm tensed next to his on the armrest. ....When Intermission came down on the stage, Gerard and Ashton stepped into the lobby of the theater. Stopping her from walking to the table set up along the wall that was piled with food, Gerard asked,"What's wrong?"
....Ashton's face froze, her lips pinched together. "Nothing,"she said.
...."Did I do something? Do you not like the play?”
....Ashton pressed her lips together, unanswering.
....“Ashton, talk to me."
....Cutting her eyes to his face, an emotion he couldn't name flashed across her features. Still stiff, but eyes fixed to his, Ashton said,"I can't do this again. I can't watch them take you apart and away from me again."
....Brow furrowed, Gerard leaned in. "Who's taking me away? I'm not going anywhere."
...."Not yet, but you will. They'll keep you busy and give you work that will break you down. They'll use you up just like they always do, and I can't ever stop them."
...."Are you talking about the Suits? What are they doing? What do you mean?"
....Face closing off suddenly, Ashton shook her head. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it. Can't we just go home?"
....Gerard felt a rush of familiarity at the question. "Home?" he asked.
....Seeming to realize she'd slipped, Ashton hastily back peddled. "Yeah, home. You go to your apartment. I got my house. Maybe I get some sleep."
....Staring hard at her face, Gerard pulled forward the feelings he had felt when they first met. She was familiar, but he didn't know why. She talked as if she had been with him before. Her eyes were always soft and knowing when she watched him stumble with the unexpected world around him.
...."Did we know each other," Gerard asked,"before I had my accident?"
....Ashton looked away from him then, and understanding began to dawn on Gerard.
...."You knew me," he accused. "Tell me where you knew me from."
...."No, Gerard. I want to go home."
..."Ashton, plea-"
...."I'll catch the next bus back. You stay for the play."
....Before he could object, Ashton hurried from the theater, her purple jacket quickly swallowed up in the crowd. Dejected and confused, Gerard slowly exited the building, deciding to walk home.
....Once within the relatively familiar walls of his bedroom, Gerard logged onto his computer. Quickly typing a description of the Suits into the search engine, Gerard hoped to find answers. Instead, he was met with absolutely zero articles regarding the mysterious men who had invaded his life. Backtracking, Gerard began to type in phrases he had heard repeated enough times over the course of the week to drill them into his memory. When he was overwhelmed with results, Gerard added his name to the search. As the new results filtered onto the page, Gerard froze. The page was littered with his name and face.

Doctor Gerard Visson's Ghost in the Machine
Visson Plays God
Swedish Academy Debates Nomination of Gerard Visson
Visson's Tragic Death
Gerard Visson: Memorial

....Gerard began clicking through articles, skimming them for his name. The information overwhelmed him, and he felt dwarfed by the blue light of the screen. When his eyes lighted on Ashton's name, nestled next to his in the last article he read, Gerard stopped reading. Mechanically, he stood up, walked to his phone, and called the woman in question.
...."Ashton, I need you to come here right now. We need to talk," he said, his voice recorded by her answering machine.
....Numbly, Gerard walked to his couch, ignoring his computer. He sat down heavily, staring into the void of space in front of him.

...."Gerard. Gerard! Wake up!"
....Gerard opened his eyes to see Ashton standing over him, tousled hair falling into her face.
...."I died," he croaked.
....Ashton's eyes widened, shocked. "Ger-"
...."I died, and so did you," he said. "I told the world how to put human souls into machines, and then I died in a plane crash. And so did you, Ashton. What's going on?"
....Wearily, Ashton lowered herself to the couch beside him. "Gerard, you don't need to worry about it."
...."Worry? I died. I think I need to worry."
...."You're here now, so what does it matter?"
....Gerard choked, eyes wide. "What does it matter? What did they do to me, Ashton? Did they put me in a machine?"
...."That's ridiculous, Gerard."
...."Tell me what happened, then. What else could have happened?"
...."Nothing, okay? Calm down. You're just as human as I am."
....Gerard felt his anger disappear in a flash. "Just as human as you. You died, too. Are you a ghost in a machine, Ashton?"
....Looking over at her, Gerard saw a deep sadness cross Ashton's face. "You are. God, Ashton. I'm so sorry."
...."It's not your fault," she replied, eyes locked on the floor.
...."I made it possible for them to do this. You died, and they brought you back. Why?"
....Sighing, Ashton looked at him. "Because they brought you back. They brought you back, but you didn't want to live. So they brought me back, too, to convince you we could be normal. But you were so guilty over it all, when you tore that second body apart-"
...."Tore it apart?"
...."Never seen anyone drink they way you did, Gee. When you poisoned that body, they decided when they brought you back again, they would wipe your memory."
...."Is this the second time?"
....A dark look passed over Ashton's face, warring with the unexplainable loss that rested there.
...."Third time? Fourth? More?"
...."It's the third time, Gee."
...."God, Ashton, I'm so sorry."
...."It's not your fault. I told you."
...."But you look so sad. I did that."
...."It's not because of you," she assured him, hand on his knee.
...."Then what is it?"
....Looking down again, Ashton shivered. Raising her head, she looked into his eyes, her own shining. "Last time, you told me something. You said, you want me to be happy. You said, you didn't want me to be trapped by those awful Suits anymore. You-," Ashton broke off, voice cracking. "You told me what to do to make sure they couldn't bring me back after this. And I did. And you said, you said, 'Once I remember everything, unplug yourself. Please.'"
...."Ashton, what does that mean?"
...."It means I'm going away now, Gerard. I can die, and try, at least, to go on to whatever happiness is waiting outside this smokey town. Unless you don't want me to."
....Gerard swallowed past the lump quickly rising in his throat. "Of course. You should never have been caught up in this. I want you to be happy."
...."You could come, you know. You could fix it so they couldn't bring you back anymore, too."
....Gerard shook his head. "I can't. Now that I know, I have to figure out how to stop this. No one should be pulled back here after their gone. It's unforgivable."
....Crying now, Ashton nodded. "That's what you said last time, too. I'm going to miss you."
...."I'll miss you, too, Ashton. What's going to happen?"
...."I'll just- I'll die. It won't hurt, but. That's what's going to happen."
....Gerard pulled her into a hug, pressing his wet cheek against her shoulder.
...."Oh,"Ashton whispered, pulling back. "You gave me a chip, before. You said to give it to you when you realized what was going on." In her hand, Ashton held a small green computer chip.
...."What do I do with it?"
....Showing him how to put it into his port that rested in the hollow of his collarbone, Ashton said,"You wouldn't tell me what's on it, but I think it's important you watch it, now."
....Eyes lingering on Ashton's face, Gerard tightened his hand on hers. "I will."
...."I'll be gone when you're done."
....The pit of his stomach dropped out, again. "Okay. I'll really, really miss you, Ash." Wiping his eyes, Gerard pulled Ashton into another fierce hug. "Be safe."
...."I will," she replied, giving him a watery smile. "Take care of yourself."

....Holding her hand, Gerard pushed the chip fully into his port. The world in front of him suddenly flickered, black. Then, as if watching a movie, Gerard saw his apartment in front of him. Instead of the decor he knew, it was covered in rich reds and golds, warm and inviting. His own figure suddenly entered the room, face tight. Ashton followed, lips moving. Slowly, the sound returned.
...."Why can't you just say no, Gerard? They can't make you do anything."
...."Ashton, I'm not going to risk it. They're pretty damn serious about this project. They want them brought back, and they want me to do it."
...."Well, what did you think would happen? You gave them step-by-step instructions on how to bring people back to life. You showed them how to put those souls into nearly indestructible bodies! What else were they going to do?"
...."I don't know, okay? But, not this. This isn't right."
...."That's what I'm saying. Just tell them no."
...."I can't. You're too important. What if they hurt you?"
...."Don't do that, Gerard. Don't make me the reason for your revolting science projects."
....Gerard watched as his own face closed off, a broken look flashing through his other self's eyes.
Ashton moved to rest her hand on his arm. "I didn't mean that, Gerard. Look, I told the Suits to unplug me today. They said they had to file the paperwork, but. You won't have to worry about me anymore."
...."What? You did what? Without telling me?"
...."It's for your own good! If I'm not here, they can't make you do anything, and you can follow me. We both know you can."
...."They'll just bring me back, Ash."
...."Not if you keep unplugging."
...."Not if I keep killing myself. No, they'll find a way to trap me and take away all my options. I need to find a way to stop this Ashton. God, I regret ever looking into the Ghost theory. We need to go down to the office and stop your papers."
...."No, Gerard. It's for the best."
...."Oh- I. If you want to go, I- I understand."
....Gerard watched his own movements grow jerky and stilted as he moved towards the door.
...."It's not like that. I-"
...."I'll go fix this, Ash. I'll fix your papers and then I'll fix both of our plugs. Okay?", Gerard said to her, his voice desperate and low.
...."You don't have to-," Ashton's voice was cut off by the soft click of the door.
....Gerard's view was suddenly shifted to himself again, now descending a spiraled staircase. It was night out, and the large glass windows showed the city outside. The blue lights of the police swarmed higher up the street. Gerard's attention turned to himself, where he was descending the stairs faster and faster, running when he hit the ground floor. Behind him, Gerard heard other footsteps, but he couldn't move to see who they were. As he exited the highrise, Gerard was visibly shaking. As he saw himself run down the sidewalk, Gerard could hear someone following him. Ashton, he realized, when she called his name. She shouted his name twice more, but he didn't seem the hear until he weas in the street. Stopping, he turned to look at her. Ashton caught up to him, arms encircling his neck.
...."I'm sorry," she whispers against his throat. “I won't go away.”
....Suddenly, watching the two, Gerard tried to yell. Bearing down on the couple in front of him was a large truck, the driver distracted, then blaring his horn. With the impact, everything again dissolved to black.
....In the darkness, a sudden flame was ignited, and it grew and grew. Gerard must have programmed the chip to feed his new body data, because he knows now how he unplugged Ashton, and how to make it so no one can ever be plugged into this hell again.

3 Months Later

....Gerard walked down the gray street, the fire raging behind him. Lighting a cigarette, Gerard heard the fire engines coming. They've been delayed, and the Suit's building will be ash and rubble before they can put the blaze out. Satisfied and exhausted, Gerard stood on the corner, humming softly to himself, hands in his pocket. As the first firetruck rounds the corner, coming towards him, Gerard stepped off the curb. The impact was sudden and welcome, sending him into a sweet bliss. As the fire engine screeched to a halt, a small picture fluttered to the ground next to Gerard's still frame. On the back, words were written in a spikey hand.

"Even at our swiftest speeds, we could not break free from the concrete."

I Was A Teenage Leifenstein

2010-03-07T19:03:00.000-05:00

EXT. HIGH SCHOOL QUAD- AFTERNOON

(FADE IN, midday. High school campus, open on THE QUAD. Green, bright, almost dreamy. Students milling about, wearing sweater sets, pressed khakis, denim jeans, 50's fashions. CUT to LEIF walking across THE QUAD. Walking with head hunched, thick-rimmed black glasses, books clutched to his chest.)
MIKE: Hey, Leif! A famous Viking explorer returned home from a voyage and found his name missing from the town register. His wife insisted on complaining to the local civic official who apologized profusely saying, "I must have taken Leif of my census."
JOCK2: I bet he thought that was funny. He's such a dork.

(MIKE and friends laugh loudly, pointing at LEIF.)

(LEIF walks away and approaches SARAH, small, blonde, carrying flute case, pinkest sweater set in the frame. LEIF looks nervous.)

LEIF: Hey, Sarah, how's it going?
SARAH: Um, it's going okay. I'm really enjoying that research paper we're doing in Manner's class. I could just live in the library. (dazed smile on face)
LEIF: That's cool. (laughs nervously) I, uh, I was wondering if you might want to go out with me sometime? Maybe this afternoon? We could go by the diner.
SARAH: (smile fades off face, uncomfortable) That sounds nice, Leif.

(CUT to LEIF's hopeful face.)

SARAH: But, I don't really go out with, um, vikings, you know. Wouldn't want to get raped and plundered. (laughs nervously at bad joke)

(Smile drops off LEIF's face. LEIF nods hurriedly, rolls lips into mouth.)

LEIF: Yeah, oaky. (walks dejectedly away)

INT. CLASSROOM- DAY

(LEIF is in class, taking notes. Bell rings. Students leave.)

INT. HALLWAYS- DAY

(Hallways, students walking through frame.)

INT. CAFETERIA- DAY

(LEIF stands in cafeteria, standing in line for lunch, hands in pockets, staring off into space, unfocused. Sarah approaches, taps LEIF's shoulder.)

SARAH: Hey Leif. I was thinking. I'm sorry about earlier. Maybe we could, um, go out after school?

LEIF: (face lights up, smiling) That would be great! Where do you want to go?

SARAH: How about you meet me by the pond in town? We can decide where to go from there.

LEIF: Sure, that's great! Do you want to get in line with me?

SARAH: Oh, no, Thanks. I'll see you later, Leif.

LEIF: Right, later. Bye Sarah.

EXT. POND- AFTERNOON

(LEIF walking forward, down small hill to POND, carrying violin case. Lush grass, bushes flowering, lily pads in water. Ducks. SARAH is standing next to the pond, white wooden veranda at her back. SARAH is picking apart a flower, dropping pieces in water, singing softly to self.)

LEIF: Hey, Sarah. (LEIF smiles and waves)

SARAH: Hey, Leif. (turns to face him, lets flower fall from hand) Any ideas on what you want to do?

LEIF: We could go get a shake at Sam's? Or we could hang out in the library? (LEIF chuckles) Or we could get bread and--

(LEIF is cut off by SARAH kissing him.)

(SARAH stands on toes, hands clutching LEIF's shoulders. CLOSE-UP on LEIF's eyes, wide, surprised. SARAH pulls back.)

LEIF: Uh, that was, uh (flustered)

MIKE (O.S.): Well, what have we got here? Trying to pick up a girl, Viking?

(CUT to MIKE coming out from behind veranda. Two other jocks appear as well. All wearing letter jackets)

LEIF: What's going on? Sarah?

(SARAH flounces over to MIKE, wraps an arm around his waist.)
MIKE: What, you thought you were the first to discover this continent? (scoffs, motions to SARAH) Who do you think you are, Leif Erikson?
(JOCK2 knocks LEIF's violin case, books out of his arms. All laugh at LEIF.)

JOCK2: God, you're so pathetic. (picks up violin case, hands it to MIKE)

MIKE: Why don't we have a viking funeral for your little violin? (mocking)

(MIKE takes violin out of case, while JOCK2 throws LEIF's papers into the pond.)
LEIF: No! (LEIF scrambles to get papers, books out of pond. Turns back around after wading in to pond to grab them. MIKE is holding open lighter against violin.
LEIF tries to get the violin from MIKE, but JOCK2 pulls him back, punches him in the stomach.
LEIF falls to ground.
MIKE throws violin, now lit on fire, into bushes.
Laughing, MIKE kicks LEIF in the side, pulls him up by his shirtfront, and smacks him across the face.)

MIKE: Don't come near Sarah again, loser.

(MIKE, JOCK2, and JOCK3 leave, jostling each other and sneering at LEIF. SARAH folows, ignoring LEIF. LEIF lies on the ground, hands to face, blood seen around fingers. Gets up, crawls to violin, but it is a burnt shell. LEIF cradles violin to body, hunched shoulders. FADE OUT.)

EXT. SIDEWALK- LATE AFTERNOON
(OPEN on LEIF OUTSIDE, walking up sidwalk, enters moderate sized brick house.)

INT. FOYER- DAY
(LEIF enters FOYER, dark woods and maroon rug in the walk way, walks through.)

INT. KITCHEN

(LEIF enters KITCHEN, avocado accents. FATHER is at table, reading newspaper. MOTHER is washing dishes by hand in the sink.)

FATHER: (sets down paper, sighs) What happened to you, son?

MOTHER:(turns, looks distressed) Leif! Are you okay? (grabs a rag, wets it, hands it to LEIF)

LEIF: (wipes at face with rag, snorts) I'm fine. I ran into those bullies again, down by Oleander Pond.

FATHER: Didn't you fight back? You can't just let them walk all over you.
LEIF: I didn't let them walk all over me, dad. There were three guys, and they were all bigger than me. Was I supposed to throw a punch and end up even bloodier?
(MOTHER looks upset at the argument, leaves room)
FATHER: If you fought back, they would know you aren't just some pansy. It might have made them respect you a little.
LEIF: Respect? They burnt my violin, dad. They're never going to respect me.
FATHER: Well, maybe you'll actually act like a man now that that damn instrument is gone.
(LEIF storms out of the house.)

EXT. SIDEWALK- RAINING, DAY

(LEIF runs down the road, begins to cross the street, when FATHER opens the front door of the house and calls his name.
LEIF looks back. Horn blares, and a pickup truck runs into LEIF, knocking him out of the frame. Camera pans over scene from birds-eye POV, rising. Cue scream as scene fades to black.)

EXT. CEMETARY- DAY

(FADE IN at CEMETARY, funeral. PRIEST is talking softly by head of grave. MOTHER and FATHER stand on the grass, MOTHER crying, leaning against FATHER. Four other black-clad figures are in the background. Two men approach grave, wheeling a two foot violin statue on a dolly. The end of the violin's neck is mounted with a large, ornate metal cross. It gleams despite the cloudy sky.)

MOTHER: (whispers, sad) He always loved that violin. It was his only friend in the world.

(End scene on over-the-shoulder shot of MOTHER and FATHER staring at the grave marker.)

EXT. CEMETARY- NIGHT

(OPEN on a stormy night at the CEMETARY. Birds-eye POV.
Lightening bolt strikes LEIF's grave marker, briefly illuminating the ground. From birds-eye POV, the silhouette of the coffi
n is shown, jerking from the electricity. The ground goes dark, the storm rages on. Lightening strikes the grave marker again, illuminating the coffin jerking again. A crack is heard, and in the silhouette the side is seen breaking.
Lightening strikes a third time. The tip of the violin is glowing. An arm is seen falling out of the side of the coffin in the silhouette. The storm lets up, only leaving rain. CUT to ground and grave at eye level. Grass buckles, hand shoots up from the dirt. FADE OUT on hand.)

INT. KITCHEN- DAY

(OPEN scene in LEIF's KITCHEN. MOTHER is tidying up, humming idly to self. Daytime, but kitchen is dim. MOTHER walks to kitchen doorway, calls out.)

MOTHER: I'm going to run to the store. I need a few ingredients for dinner. Make sure you don't eat anything before I get back.

(FATHER grunts reply, off camera.)

INT. FOYER

(MOTHER puts on overcoat, grabs purse, walks out door.)

INT. STUDY

(FATHER in STUDY. Maroon walls, dark wood desk. Head bent over papers. There is a benign creak in the background.)

FATHER: Margaret, are you still here? Why don't we have pork roast for dinner?

FATHER: Margaret?

(Father goes back to papers.)

INT. HALLWAY

(Silhouetted figure shambling down HALLWAY towards study door.)

INT. STUDY

(STUDY, FATHER working at desk, unaware of surroundings. Shadow comes across papers from behind FATHER. Maggot drops onto papers, squirms. FATHER notices it, turns to look over right shoulder, sees LEIF. FATHER screams.)

(FATHER pushes out of chair, runs to fireplace, pulls out brass fireplace poker from tool set.
LEIF lumbers towards FATHER. LEIF's burial clothes are worn. His black pleated pants are stained with dirt across the knee, torn, wrinkled. His black jacket is unbuttoned, ripped across the left side. His white dress shirt is wrinkled, dirty stained, but unripped. LEIF's skin is pallid and sunken, lips cracked, hair in disarray. His fingers are bloody and torn from clawing his way from the coffin. There is a cut high up his right cheek, the bridge of his nose is bruised purple. LEIF's mouth is uselessly open, and his eyes are shining and focused on FATHER.)

FATHER: Get away. Get away, you beast! (swings fire poker. Eyes widen in surprise when it rips into LEIF's torso with a wet sound)

(LEIF looks down at poker sticking out of abdomen, where there is no blood. A maggot squirms out of the gash. While he is distracted, FATHER turns and runs out of the study.)

INT. HALL

(FATHER runs down the HALL, looks behind him, trips, and falls into the doorway of the LIVING ROOM.)

INT. STUDY

(CUT to STUDY, LEIF pulls the fire poker out of his abdomen, tossing it carelessly to the side. Leaves STUDY)

INT. LIVING ROOM

(FATHER scrambles to get up, runs through LIVING ROOM. His face is cut, bleeding sluggishly.)

(LEIF enters LIVING ROOM.
FATHER stands with his back against the wall next to the entrance to the kitchen. LEIF looms over him, his arms coming up to wrap around FATHER, backs FATHER into KITCHEN.
LEIF stands for a moment, as if hugging FATHER, while FATHER is clawing uselessly at LEIF's arms, muttering to himself.)

FATHER: Get- Get off. {panting, shrieks} Get off!

(LEIF begins to pull back.
Jerky movements cause his face to brush FATHER's.
LEIF notices the blood, stares at it.
LEIF seems transfixed, then slowly leans forward and sniffs the blood.
LEIF's eyes lose focus, his mouth opens.
LEIF tears into the skin of FATHER's face.
CUT on FATHER's scream.)

EXT. SIDEWALK- DAY

(MOTHER, OUTSIDE, walking up to the house with a grocery bag in her arms. She unlocks the door, enters the FOYER.)

INT. FOYER

(MOTHER walks through FOYER. MOTHER stops in entrance to KITCHEN, simultaneously dropping her bag, where something is heard breaking, and screaming. Beyond her figure, blood smears are visible. FADE OUT)

INT. GYM

(FADE IN to the GYM, where MIKE, JOCK2 and JOCK3 are playing basketball. They are wearing white shorts that end just above the knee and school t-shirts, red with the words Holloway High School printed across the chest in white. The gym coach, pacing in the back of the shot, blows his whistle, and the students- all male- head towards the locker room. MIKE is delayed by the coach, who pulls him aside to talk with him, inaudible. JOCK2 and JOCK3 wait around for him by the locker room doors.)

INT. LOCKER ROOM

(MIKE enters the LCOKER ROOM after everyone else, with JOCK2 and JOCK3 flanking him. He is joking with them over his shoulder as he walks to his locker. The other students have left or are out of the frame. Showers can be heard running in the background. As he is removing something from his locker, the outside door near MIKE shudders. JOCK2 and JOCK3 look over at the noise.)

JOCK2: What was that?

(MIKE looks back at them, brow furrowed, and holds up a hand. He walks to the door, which is shaken with another impact as his hand finds the handle. Slowly, he pulls the door open. LEIF is standing on the other side of the door. Blood is smeared across his face and the chest of his white button up shirt. He opens his mouth, and blood is seen staining his teeth.)

MIKE: Leif? Where the hell have you been? (suprised, incredulous)

JOCK2: Is that blood?

JOCK3: (in the background) Can you smell him? I think I'm going to be sick. (JOCK3 is heard running away from the door, then throwing up.)

MIKE: Hey. (pushes LEIF's chest.) What's wrong with you, man? Say something.

(MIKE goes to push LEIF again. MIKE's features are tense, showing his building panic. LEIF catches MIKE's arm, shoves him away. MIKE stumbles back, falls against a wall. JOCK2 moves to MIKE's side.)

JOCK2: You okay, man?

MIKE: Yeah, I'm fine. Back off.

JOCK2: Looks like Leif grew a pair.

MIKE: (laughs derisively) We'll have to teach him a lesson, then.

(MIKE is now standing, JOCK2 at his side, JOCK3 hovering in the background. LEIF has begun to enter the locker room, still moving in a jerky, stilted manner.)

MIKE: Where do you think you're going, Viking? Didn't you learn not to mess with us? Guess we'll have to burn something else this time.

(JOCK2 laughs.)

(MIKE is closing in on LEIF, getting in his face. He shoves LEIF, making LEIF fall back against the metal cage holding the sports equipment. Trying to right himself, LEIF knocks the cage backwards, where it falls on top of JOCK3.)

MIKE: (looks at fallen JOCK3, turns to yell at LEIF) Look what you did!

(MIKE is in LEIF's face again. LEIF groans, grabs MIKE's arm and bites into his forearm.
MIKE screams, jerks his arm frantically.
JOCK2 appears with a textbook, to the side of MIKE, and hits LEIF in the back of the head.
LEIF lets go of MIKE and turns to JOCK2.
LEIF grabs the arm holding the textbook and breaks it.
LEIF bites into JOCK2's neck, causing a spray of blood.
MIKE is holding his forearm to his abdomen, hunched over it. On the floor, JOCK3 is screaming.)

JOCK3: Help! God, someone! Help!

EXT. HIGH SCHOOL QUAD- AFTERNOON

(THE QUAD, SARAH is laughing with group of girls. SARAH is holding her flute case, hair in a ponytail.)

SARAH: I'll meet you all at Sam's, okay? I've got to put my flute in the band room, and then I've got to find Mike. (laughs) He's always holding me up.

(The girls laugh, shooing SARAH and walking away. Camera pans across the girls as they leave.)

INT. HALLWAY

(SARAH hums happily to herself, walking down a deserted HALLWAY. SARAH is stopped in the hallway by another teen, TOM. He is dressed in the schools letter jacket, carrying papers under one arm.)

TOM: Hey, Sarah. Have you seen Mike?

SARAH: I was just looking for him, actually. We've got a date, and he's off making us late. {laughs} Why?

TOM: Could you give him these notes?

(TOM hands SARAH a sheaf of papers.)

SARAH: Sure thing. I'll see you at Sam's later?

TOM: You bet. Check in the locker room, too. I didn't see him come in after gym.

SARAH: Okay. See ya.

(SARAH smiles at TOM, then continues down the hall.)

INT. GYM

(SARAH opens double doors, enters GYM. Still smiling happily to herself, she walks towards the boy's locker room. She knocks on the door.)

SARAH: Hello? Everyone decent?

INT. LOCKER ROOM

(SARAH enters the LOCKER ROOM, obviously looking around for MIKE. She begins to walk past the second row of lockers when she hears a noise.)

JOCK3: (hoarse, tired) Is someone there? Help me!

(SARAH hurries around the lockers, but freezes. In front of her is JOCK3, still pinned under the metal cage. JOCK2 is slumped on the ground, his torso covered in blood, a gaping hole in his neck, dead.)

SARAH: Oh God!

(SARAH sees MIKE lying face down on the ground, the left, bitten arm pinned under him.)

SARAH: Mike! Are you okay?

(SARAH runs to MIKE's side, dropping flute case, and kneels next to him.} Mike? {SARAH reaches out to turn MIKE over, holding him up by the shoulders,and screams. There is a vivid bite mark on MIKE's right cheek. His eyes are glazed.)

SARAH: Mike!

(SARAH shakes MIKE, but gets no response. SARAH looks down at her knees, where a pool of blood is seeping through the gray skirt pulled over her knees. MIKE's stomach is gouged, the blood already forming a circle on his red gym shirt and the floor under him. SARAH's breathing is now audible and frantic.)

SARAH: Oh, God! Oh, God! (whispered)

(SARAH lets go of MIKE and runs out of the locker room, her flute case forgotten.)

INT. HALLWAY

(SARAH runs down the hallway, shouting.)

SARAH: Help!

(SARAH hears noises from the BAND ROOM, enters.)

INT. BAND ROOM

(SARAH looks around cautiously, creeping towards the noise. LEIF is seen from behind, standing next to a large wooden shelf, where instruments are lined up in their cases.)

SARAH: Oh, help! I've been looking for someone. Please come help. My friend's are hurt.

(LEIF turns around to face SARAH. His shirt has the browning stain of dried blood across the chest. His right arm is bloody to the elbow. His mouth is smeared with blood. SARAH shrieks. CUT to LEIF turning back to the instruments, methodically opening cases on the shelf and looking inside them. Suddenly, he is hit from behind, falling into the instruments. Instrument cases fall to the floor. Some cases open, instruments visible. With a yell, he turns to look behind him. SARAH is holding a music stand out in front of her.)

SARAH: Stay away from me! Stay away! You killed my friends!

(LEIF reaches down to pick up the instruments that have fallen.
SARAH shrieks, smacks his hand with the end of the music stand, ripping skin but drawing no blood.
LEIF yells again, grabs the music stand, yanks it out of SARAH's hands and throws it away.
SARAH cowers back. LEIF again reaches for the instruments on the floor. A violin is visible.
LEIF picks up the violin, runs hand over strings, and stares at it adoringly. LEIF fishes the bow out from the case, then begins playing a fast-paced, happy song. As he is playing, shouts can be heard from outside, both students and arriving police.)

SARAH: Help! In here!

(LEIF is lost in his music, not paying attention to SARAH's yelling. The door of the band room flies open, and three cops enter.)

COP: Ma'am, I need you to get behind me.

(SARAH scrambles to get behind the police officer.)

COP: Son, I need you to put the violin down slowly. Son!

(LEIF is still unaware of what is going on around him.)

COP: (shaking head) I don't want to shoot this kid.

SARAH: But he killed my friends! Oh, God, he's a monster!

COP: (turns to look at SARAH) That boy killed those kids? (incredulous) That was the most gruesome murder I've ever laid eyes on. That changes everything. (turns back to face LEIF) Son, I need you to set that violin down, or I'll have to shoot!

(CLOSE UP on LEIF's face.
LEIF opens his eyes, slowly stops playing.
LEIF begins to set down the violin.
Suddenly, a shot is fired.
LEIF's head jerks back as the bullet enters his forehead.
The violin is seen hitting the floor.
Music swells as SARAH is rushed away by one police officer, and the other two slowly approach LEIF's body. The scene fades out as COP checks LEIF's pulse and speaks into radio.)

EXT. CEMETARY- DAY

(OPEN on the words "There is no death until I declare it so." They are carved into the violin grave marker at LEIF's grave. The grave is filled in, grass beginning to grow over the dirt, and the sun is shining. MOTHER is sitting on a blanket in front of the headstone, and she is seen lovingly running her fingers over the words. The camera pulls back until the sun catches the camera, causing a blinding white light to fill the screen. END.)

Viral Misconceptions

2010-03-07T18:44:00.006-05:00

Holloway High School, an average public high school, has the unfortunate honor of resonating in the same vein as Columbine. Both were unexpected tragedies, real life horror stories, cutting people down before their lives even began.
For years, Holloway has been the subject of increasingly outrageous rumors and tall tales. The most persistent of which is the story of a zombie outbreak. Were the victims of Holloway the shambling, rotting corpses of Hollywood horror films? Did they deserve the fate they got? Was it such a supernatural event? Or is there a more scientific explanation for the tragedy?
Here we aim to find the truth behind the years of exaggerations. We will uncover the real story behind that fateful day at Holloway High School, and we will do our very best to finally give the victims a voice.

Donnely, Andrew. (2008). Holloway High School: Origin of the Hanged Man Virus.

The outbreak first occurred at Holloway High School, located in Hiram County, a suburb off Atlanta, Georgia. It was a clear September morning when local police were flooded with calls from the school. Built with a capacity of 1,800 students and holding just over 2,000, the incident at Holloway was the biggest catastrophe the county has ever dealt with. When police arrived, the scene was reportedly empty, with the majority of the staff and student body remaining inside the school. It was just after 7:30 a.m. when the first calls went out to 9-1-1, and the entire ordeal was over by noon. In that four and a half hour stretch of time, two-hundred thirty-five students died. Students and families are currently coping with this loss. You may send your condolences to H-H-S-comments@WPBR.net. Keeping you up to date with all the breaking news, this is Linda Montenegro...

Nimes, Isabel. (2007, November 14.) WPBR News. Atlanta, GA: Richardson Broadcasting Corporation.

Scientifically speaking, it is called the Strick-Hotchner Virus...
Originally, scientists thought it was a strain of the necrotizing fasciitis due to the rapid muscle decay...
Research was halted for nearly a year after the outbreak of the virus due to ignorance fueled vandalism, often perpetrated by a group our readers might have heard of, called the Executioners. They take their name from the virus' layman name, the Hanged Man's Virus. Mindful of the risk of another outbreak, the government warned that the persons of this group would be held solely accountable for any more lives lost, but luckily for them, there had not been- and there has yet to be- another outbreak.

Carrol, Lee. (2008, December, 9.) Hanged Man Virus and You. Retrieved from http://CarrolandtheWhiteWhale.blogger.com

We'd like to thank Sandra Dearing for coming in to speak with us today. Ms. Dearing was a senior at Holloway High School when the outbreak of the Strick-Hotchner virus occurred.

Andrew Donnely: What do you remember from the morning of the outbreak?

Sandra Dearing: I was in the bathroom when it happened. I was going through my bag looking for my eyeshadow when I heard shouting from the commons. I thought there was a fight, you know? People get really excited when there's a fight, but it kind of makes me sick, so I didn't want to go look.

AD: When did you realize it wasn't a fight?

SD: Someone screamed. A girl, I guess, but she screamed like she was freaked out, scared, or whatever. Not how people do when it's just a fight. So I grabbed my bag and went to go see what was happening.
Out in the commons, out there everyone was freaking out. It took me a second to realize what was happening. At first everyone looked normal, save for the screaming. Then, I saw the blood and- Oh, God.

AD: You can take a moment, if you'd like.

SD: No, no. It was like half the people looked normal but terrified, and the other half were messed up. They were bloody and stiff. Their mouths were open, and they were moaning, like something from Dawn of the Dead. I tried to ask someone what was happening, but everyone was running. I just followed people down a hallway, got carried into a classroom. People kept pushing in, and it felt like no one else could fit when two guys managed to shut the door. The doors lock automatically when they close, but the guys still stood there, pressing on it.
The room was like a furnace. I was so close to people, I could feel their body heat. Everyone was on their phones, calling the police. I kept trying to call my mom, but I couldn't get service. That's what I get for using Verizon.
People were still coming down the hall, banging on the door, but the guys wouldn't let them in. Or, we all wouldn't let them in. I don't know if we could have overpowered the two guys at the door. They looked like football players. People would come to the door, kick it, hit it, yell at us, and then take off for another classroom when we didn't open up.
Eventually, the flow of people let up. I guess everyone was locked up tight in a classroom. We were all relaxing in the shocked kind of way your body does when it just can't keep up with the panic and adrenaline anymore. I remember I was leaning against the person standing next to me, I was so tired, just exhausted, when something banged into the door again. Someone screamed. I looked at the door, and he had his face pressed against the little rectangular window. I was so close, I could hear him breathing these loud, strained breaths. His face was pale, and there were these awful black circles under his eyes. Blood was smeared across his chin. That's probably what made someone scream something about him being a zombie. It was the first I'd heard anyone say it. But his eyes were wide and desperate, his mouth was open. I could see blood in the cracks between his teeth, and he was groaning. Nothing intelligible, just these awful pained sounds, for the most part. But after it felt like he'd looked at all of us, I swear to God, I think I heard him say 'Help.' I don't know if one of the football players heard it too, but one of them kicked the door, yelled at the kid, and he fell back from the door, layed on the ground for a while, crawled away eventually. It all felt like it took years, but I couldn't take my eyes off him. It wasn't until he was gone that I remembered we'd had the same Algebra teacher. That poor kid.
Eventually, the police came. I don't know how long it took them to get there or to get inside. From what I heard, they didn't know what was going on when they got there. Thought someone might have had a bomb or something. I guess it's more plausible than zombies. They came to the door carrying guns and took us out of the school. We were all quarantined after that. I still can't forget how the commons looked as we were leaving. All those bodies...

(A. Donnely, personal communication, October, 2008)

Kripke: Welcome to Daily Life With Kripke. Today, we're talking about the Hanged Man's Virus. While the government has said any more outbreaks are virtually impossible, well- we all know how reliable the government is, right? So, we're going to be discussing the signs and symptoms of what is formally known as the Strick-Hotchner Virus. Our guests will include Doctor Eileen Grand, a specialist on Strick-Hotchner, and a surprise guest you won't want to miss. Please, welcome Doctor Grand!

(Doctor Grand enters stage right.)

Kripke: It's good to have you on the show Doctor.

Grand: It's great to be here! Really, I do enjoy giving people the most reliable information about this disease.

Kripke: You're area of expertise is completely centered around the Strick-Hotchner Virus, is it not?

Grand: It is, yes. I began working on Strick-Hotchner not long after I was out of grad school, and I've never looked back.

Kripke: Are there many specialists in your area?

Grand: Not, really, no. Right after the virus broke out, there was a huge need for us to figure out what it was and where it might strike next, but once we figured that out and had the virus contained, the majority of people, at least those in my department, were no longer needed.

Kripke: But, you stayed on?

Grand: I did. I find it fascinating, the way this virus works. We're currently running spontaneous outbreak scenarios in our lab.

Kripke: Why don't you tell us about the virus?

Grand: Of course. The Strick-Hotchner Virus has only been seen active once-

Kripke: This was the infection at Holloway.

Grand: Yes. It broke out within the school, seemingly indiscriminately.

Kripke: Seemingly?

Grand: At the time, the virus appeared to attack randomly. For months after the outbreak, we were unable to get a living sample from the school. All we had to go on were the observations of a couple hundred terrified teenagers and rather grainy security camera footage. It wasn't until we actually exhumed bodies that we were able to find a testable sample. After these tests, we learned that the virus does not attack randomly at all. In fact, the reason it broke out within a high school is due to the high concentration of teenagers. It is a survival mechanism of the virus to attack young, strong bodies. They decompose at a slower rate.

Kripke: Decompose, now that's just awful. But, before we get into that, why don't you tell the audience what the signs of Strick-Hotchner are, and what exactly those signs mean?

Grand: Well, the first sign is a nausea said to engulf the sufferer, which is usually felt in the head and the stomach. It is followed by dizziness or a light headed feeling as the blood drains from the surface of the skin, and, subsequently, from the brain.

Kripke: Is there any way to tell between a stomach ache or a passing faint spell and the beginning stages of Strick-Hotchner?

Grand: In this case, the devil is in the details. What makes the nausea of Strick-Hotchner unique is the fact that it really is encompassing. Someone who is suffering through it will feel nauseous in their stomach, head, and chest, as if they may throw up or faint within seconds. It is not just a small stomach ache.

Kripke: So most people would notice if they were feeling nauseous at the Strick-Hotchner level?

Grand: Oh, yes. But, to be frank, if one were that nauseous, and it was Strick-Hotchner, there really would be no use in knowing that. The other symptoms come on so fast that there is no way to help someone once they have become infected.

Kripke: That's encouraging. Now, you said the blood drains from the surface of the skin. Why is this?

Grand: The blood drains from the surface of the skin so the white blood cells can fight the invading virus. However, the virus is much stronger than a healthy body can fight, and it loses the battle. When this happens, the blood pools in the extremities, causing the fingers, feet, and tongue, most noticeably, to swell, as well as causing the veins to bulge against the skin. This is highly visible. The fingers, for instance, will appear bruised, purple or red. The fingernails will be deeply discolored, and often times blood manages to sluggishly squeeze out from beneath them. The veins will be a dark purple color and will press out against the skin, often as they do after strenuous activity. Finally, the tongue will swell with the blood. This is one of the most debilitating symptoms of Strick-Hotchner because the tongue's size increases so much, past what the human mouth can accommodate. All of these occurrences are going to be rather painful for the infected person, not to mention very stressful and frightening, especially when the tongue swells, making it harder, but not impossible, for the infected to breathe. As one would expect, the infected is going to try to talk to get help. This isn't possible due to their swollen tongue, but they will undoubtedly try, and during this attempt, they will bite their tongue. Because their tongue is so full of blood, the wound, regardless how small, will bleed profusely, and this lends itself to the monster image of the infected that was held by many of the students at Holloway High School.

Kripke: Let me just stop you there for a moment. We have to go to a commercial break, but we'll be right back with Doctor Grand.

(Commercial Break)

Kripke: We're back here at Daily Life With Kripke. Right now, we are sitting down with Doctor Eileen Grand, a specialist on the Strick-Hotchner Virus. Before we went to break, we were discussing signs and symptoms of Strick-Hotchner. Would you like to continue, Doctor Grand?

Grand: Of course. As I was saying, the virus causes the blood to swell in the extremities. As this is happening, the face will change. We found two common types of color changes happened to Strick-Hotchner victims. The face will become very pale, with either a blue or green tinge to the skin and will often be marked by red blotches of busted capillaries under the skin. This symptom is not consequential in the long run, but it is highly visible. As all of this is happening, the muscles are rapidly deteriorating, cauisng the infected to be stiff and pained when they excercise their limited range of movement. The final symptom, which, like all the symptoms save nausea, happens almost simultaneously with the others, is that of a bruised ring forming around the front of the neck. This is caused by the internal body pressure, as well as the blood rushing from the surface of the skin to distend the veins. It is this symptom, which is seen as a dark purple, black, or red ring around the throat of the infected's neck that gives the virus it's layman name, the Hanged Man's Virus.

Kripke: That's quite awful. Now, I noticed earlier you said you had to exhume bodies to retrieve a sample of the virus.

Grand: Yes.

Kripke: Were people not upset by this? Furthermore, were you not risking the chance that the virus might get into the air and cause another outbreak?

Grand: Let me say, I was not actually a part of these proceedings. I merely worked on the bodies once they were on the table. People were, understandably, upset and scared at this development for the exact reason you noted. The government felt, however, that this was too important to let that interfere. Also, and I'm not sure how public this has been made, those infected with Strick-Hotchner were buried in a quarantined graveyard. The bodies were thoroughly radiated and sanitized before being buried, and the coffins are buried 12 feet below the surface, surrounded by three feet of concrete on all sides which ensures the local water table will never even chance being infected by their remains. The highest precautions have been taken.

Kripke: Is it true, that the location of the coffins is a secret?

Grand: Only known to loved ones listed on a registry somewhere in the bowels of the Center for Disease Control.

Kripke: Almost makes one think of cover ups.

Grand: Lets not make this out to be more than it is. This was an unknown disease apparently capable of decimating hundreds of people in a few hours. To start spouting conspiracy theories would honestly be a little ridiculous in my book.

Kripke: I don't mean to give you a hard time. These are the things the public wants to know.

Grand: I understand.

Kripke: Okay, on that note we will break for commercial. When we return, we'll be discussing one of the biggest secrets in relation to Strick-Hotchner. Stay tuned.

(Commercial Break)

Kripke: Welcome back to Daily Life With Kripke. I'm here with Doctor
Grand, discussing Strick-Hotchner. Now, Doctor Grand, earlier you said that you had to exhume bodies to get a sample of the virus, yes?

Grand: That's correct.

Kripke: You said the only accounts you had of the virus and its effects came from the students and staff of Holloway High School and security footage extracted from the school's cameras, is that right?

Grand: Yes, it is.

Kripke: But, wasn't there a student who would have been a viable source to retrieve a sample from?

Grand: I'm not sure-

Kripke: Was there not a student who was infected with the Strick-Hotchner Virus and lived?

Grand: There was, yes.

Kripke: His name is Neil Avery. He was infected during the outbreak at Holloway High School, and he is the only one to survive the virus. In fact. he was the only infected to survive that day. Please, welcome Neil Avery!

(Neil Avery enters stage left.)

Kripke: Neil, it's great to see you. Thank you so much for agreeing to speak with us today.

Avery: It's no problem, really. Happy to be here. My mom is at home taping this, so. Couldn't miss my opportunity to shine.

Kripke: Now, tell us who you are. Very few people actually know.

Avery: Sure, I love to be repetitious. I'm Neil Avery. I was a junior at Holloway High School when the Hanged Man's Virus infected the school in the fall of 2007. I am the only person who was infected with the virus and survived.

Kripke: What is that like, being the only infected to survive?

Avery: Most days, it's like nothing. Most days I don't think about it. But, every once and a while I come on talk shows. On those days, it's devestatingly lonesome, like no one will ever understand me again. The American public eats that up, right?

Kripke: You do have a tongue on you.

Avery: That's what my mother says. She says some day it'll just cut its self right out of my mouth, it'll get so sharp.

Kripke: Seriously, though, how do you feel being the only survivor?

Avery: When I think about it? When I stop to think, I feel awful. I don't know why I lived, and I don't know why others didn't. I'm sure you've heard those conspiracy theories about how the government actually sent out some secret poison to kill the infected kids. In that scenario, I'm just a lucky fool with a price on his head.

Kripke: Do those stories bother you?

Avery: No. What bothers me is the parents that call me and demand answers or justice or whatever. I don't have the answers. I don't know any more than they do. I'm really no help, but to sit on the phone and listen to them plead for their child like I can bring them back.

Kripke: They say the other students were murdered.

Avery: Yes, that is what they say. I don't honestly think it's true, but it must be awful to believe that happened to your child, and you couldn't do anything to save them.

Kripke: Do you have any words for the parents of former Holloway students that may be watching?

Avery: Besides what I just said? No matter what you believe, you're kid isn't coming back. They loved you, and they wouldn't want you losing everything to mourn or avenge them. And, I get that an idea like that is too hard to stomach if you're the kind of parent who is watching this show, so let me try again. Stop what you're doing. You need to stop having the only thing you remember about your kid be his death. They had lives before they died. They were happy. Watch a movie they loved, look at their clothes. Open up those dusty rooms you closed off two years ago, open a window, and sit inside. It hurts, but it's better than having the only memory of them being one of anger and regret. Just try that, please. If it doesn't work, you can always call me. I'm happy to listen to stories of your kid's first loose tooth any time. But try this first. For them.

Kripke: That is very insightful. We're going to a commercial break, but when we get back, we'll being talking more with Neil Avery.

(Commercial Break)

Kripke: Welcome back to Daily Life With Kripke. We're here with Neil Avery, discussing his life after Holloway. Neil, I'd like to ask you, could you tell us about your rescue from Holloway?

Avery: I could tell you, but I'd be telling you second-hand stories. I don't remember leaving Holloway.

Kripke: What were you told happened?

Avery: From what I was told, by, uh, doctors, cops, and my parents, the virus broke out right before the bell rang in the morning. Police were unsure what was happening inside. They pieced the situation together more through phone calls with people inside than through what they could see through the windows.

Kripke: Why was that?

Avery: Come on, a bunch of teenagers staggering around? It must have looked like a drunken ho-down to them. Anyway, once they understood the situation, the building and a good bit of land surrounding it was quarantined. The boys in blue donned hazmat suits, and managed to open a few windows in empty halls and such and set up infrared cameras.

Kripke: Infrared cameras do, what, exactly?

Avery: They sense heat emitting off an object or person and project it as an image.

Kripke: Okay, I wanted to clarify.

Avery: So, after they set up these cameras and sensors, they monitored the school. All the students put off heat images, including the infected kids. But, around 9:00, the temperatures of the infected students dropped sharply, causing their infrared images to change. While the cops watched, I guess the bodies got colder and colder, and they weren't moving anymore. At some point, someone had the bright idea to enter the school and check the situation out.

Kripke: Let me interrupt you. When you say the temperatures dropped, what do you mean?

Avery: Just that. The body temperatures of the students dropped so low it would have been impossible for them to be alive.

Kripke: So the police went in?

Avery: Yeah. I'm told they were very careful about it, methodical. They searched the school, evacuated the students, and descended on the dead bodies. They say they checked to see if every body that appeared dead was before they were removed, but I'm guessing after so many bodies, they got a little frustrated. Apparently, an officer picked up a body, and, instead of being stiff and dead like he expected, it screamed and kicked him.

Kripke: And that was you?

Avery: So I'm told. He must not have been gentle enough, because I was yelling and kicking all over. Only, I was dehydrated to all get out, so it was more like wheezing loudly and twitching with a purpose.

Kripke: Did your body appear at normal temperature on the infrared camera?

Avery: Yes. I'm told I must have been buried under the others to be missed like that.

Kripke: Do you remember being sick?

Avery: Not- No. Not like I think you mean. What I remember is very confusing and blurry. It'd make for an awful narrative.

Kripke: Would you like to tell us?

Avery: Sure, uh. I guess I slipped in and out of consciousness a lot. I remember flashes of the school, when I was inside. I remember the other students, everyone freaking out, and being terrified and feeling so cold it hurt in my bones. I remember it felt like my fingernails were going to rip off, and whenever anyone ran into me, it ached beyond belief. Any pressure hurt, really. I remember crawling through the halls when they were empty, and being in the commons, with the other infected students around me. I was on the ground, and the room was warm. Everything was getting fuzzy at the edges, and it felt like I wouldn't ever move again. I think I remember someone crying. Um. Then I remember what felt like iron chains digging into my arms and legs. They were so tight it felt like they were cutting into my bones, but that might have been one of the officers carrying me. I remember flashes of doctors in quarantine, my parents faces, snippets of conversation.

Kripke: Were you lucid when you were conscious, once they'd taken you out of the school?

Avery: I guess. Mostly, I was asleep. I had the idea that I was awake, though, and wandering around some desolate place. Or- that was probably a hallucination, huh? Guess I wasn't too lucid after all.

Kripke: Now, not many people know an infected from Holloway survived. Why is this?

Avery: I guess the government has been keeping me on the down low. You know, very hush hush, at least while I was sick. Since I've gotten better, it's just that no one has thought to ask. I mean, obviously people know now, what with this being national television.

Kripke: International, actually. We're broadcast in China and most of Europe.

Avery: International, even better.

Kripke: What would you say the lasting effects of the Strick-Hotchner Virus would be?

Avery: Well, it still hurts like a bitch when I get my blood drawn, and that happens every week. I probably won't risk getting a tongue ring. I'm terrified if I get a hang nail, it'll get snagged on something, and the whole nail will just rip right off. I found out I look really nice in blue, though. Blue and red are just completely my colors.

Kripke: And what were the lasting effects of being at Holloway?

Avery: I, uh. I learned not to take life for granted and not to take myself too seriously. I learned that there are bad things good people will do, and that doesn't make those people bad. I learned what it feels like to be alone and utterly lost. And, I guess I got a second chance at life. So, that's cool. Going to be famous, this time around. Going to really appreciate what I have, too.

Kripke: Words to take to heart. We've been glad to have you here, Neil, Doctor Grand. This has been Daily Like With Kripke. Tune in next week to see an exclusive with Shaun White.

Kim, Ashley. Walstern, Sean. ( September 5, 2009). Strick-Hotchner: The Facts. In L. Ansley, Daily Life With Kripke. Los Angeles, CA: Lugosi Studios.

Everyone is Moving On...
and I am, too. Next month I'll be starting classes at Savannah College of Art and Design in Georgia. It will be the third year anniversary of Holloway, and I'm saying my piece early. Holloway was a tragedy. My friends, familiar faces, teachers I loved and hated, they died that day. I don't know why. No answer I've heard makes it hurt any less or diminishes the shock and guilt. For months after I got better, I couldn't look at myself in the mirror without my stomach dropping out. My chest would freeze, like I couldn't breathe at all, and I would be hit with what happened and how we could never go back. I'm getting past that now, but I need to make my stance clear.
For a long time, I regretted surviving because I had the memories from inside Holloway. I had the images and sounds from all these kids' last moments of life. I need to make it clear that they weren't, we weren't, monsters. We weren't at fault for getting infected anymore than anyone is when they come down with the common cold. They weren't zombies. No one dined on flesh. They were scared kids who were suddenly sick and in horrible pain, left alone by their friends who were terrified of them. They didn't know what was happening anymore than the students in the classrooms or the frantic parents outside.
For the record, their last moments were horrible and beautiful and sickeningly real.
For the record, I could see people praying even when blood ran down their chins.
For the record, some of the best people I have ever met died that day. And they died together, holding each other because we were the same. We were in our own private hell, crawling on the ground, terrified, but we atleast we were there for each other.
For the record, the best thing I can think of most days is being back in that school, right before everything gets blurry. It was warm, and I was so tired, but I felt amazing, laying on the cold floor, the pain barely on my periphery, surrounded by this infinite calm.
Someone said to me, it must be awful to feel so connected to people who are all dead and gone. But, I feel like I have to be here. If I wasn't here, if it was only the students who didn't get sick, no one would know what really happened. I'm not trying to be a martyr or a cliche. I'm not rising above anything or giving anyone their voice.
I'm just saying, these were normal kids, and they don't deserve your lashing tongues.
God, I'm going to watch I Was A Teenage Werewolf before I drown in my own silly angst. If you'll be in Savannah soon, look me up. We can hang out and studiously not talk about any of this. It'll be great.

Catch you later!

Avery, Neil. (August 7, 2010). Neil's at SCAD. Retrieved from http://thisisneil.blogspot.com

2009-08-07T16:08:00.003-04:00

These days I miss home so much it's a physical feeling.
It settles heavy against my back, making my skin crawl.
Thick with nostalgia and depression, it masks me from myself.
I spent last night snapping a rubber band against my wrist,
sending ripples of feeling down, down, down to the real me.

I miss you so much it's making me sick.
My stomach knots and twists, empty or full.
My head buzzes all day and all night.
I can barely get out of bed before 1 PM,
knowing I won't see you.

The silliest part is all the things I associate with you.
I can't move without running into a memory who's protagonist is missing from my life.
Someone coughs down the hall, and for a moment I think it's you.
My ears blend voices into yours, and my heart speeds up with hope and panic,
until I realize you're not here, and even if you were,
even if I emerged from the back room to find you sitting at the kitchen table,
I know you would still be missing.

There is no conclusion for this one;
I will be repetitive until you are here again.
I will be nostalgic until the voice passing through your mouth is your own.
I will hope until the weight of it crushes us all.
You will always have a home in me;
I'll see that promise stand the test of time and lonely nights.

You will always be waited for and welcome,
and you have no need to worry.

2009-07-30T05:34:00.003-04:00

It is 5:00 AM on a Thursday morning in late July.
I am typing this from the toilet seat, trying my damnedest to ignore that fact.
Even though I grew up with a brother who is all too ready to share things like this,
and I really don't care if I can hear other people doing it-
which I can, with the walls in this house-
because it's natural,
I'd still like to pretend the toilet is just a white, shiny novelty to me.

I woke up in the dark, with the fan off, and the TV playing a brightly colored infomercial.
What I first feel is my stomach burning, and I clamber out of bed to unplug the laptop cord
and plug in the lamp.
It's too complicated though, and I realize I can turn the overhead light on with a flick of the switch.
Then I grab the laptop and dash down the hall and into the bathroom.

I can see some people grabbing the laptop in a planned way, with business or entertainment to occupy their time in the commode.
Mostly, I grabbed the laptop anxiously.
I set it on the counter and feel a wave of anxiety sweep over me as my bowels do rather unmentionable things-
at least in polite company.
The wave breaks over my skin in a rush of heat and sweat.
It settles in my head, setting into cartwheels perfectly stationary things.

After a few minutes, I'm leaving again, too stressed to stay in a rather nice bathroom.
I go back to my bed, take two Imodium, and look around on the laptop.
Not ten minutes later, I'm taking another Imodium and a Xanax, a cup of water, and the laptop with me into the bathroom.
This time it feels a little more planned.
Sitting down, I chug water and the pills.
Yet again, instead of occupying myself with the laptop,
it sits on the sinks edge while I play around with a string inside my pyjama pants.
I admonish myself for eating ice cream last night, and thank whatever divine being that it's not worse.

This is the part I wouldn't tell a therapist if they asked.
The part where I get panic attacks in the bathroom, let alone actually facing the world.
But at five in the morning, my anxiety is what I'm afraid of.
It feels like a wild beast that might tear me apart if I'm not careful.
And I try, but it's temperamental, and foreign to me,
so it goes off sometimes without warning,
and I am stuck along for the ride, just a little bit terrified,
aware this thing is inside of me and that I am it's home.
If you can't escape yourself, you certainly can't escape whats inside you, either.

I leave the bathroom to the gurgling sounds of my stomach,
hoping I won't be making a third trip to the bathroom tonight.
I can only handle one epiphany a day, so another trip would really be a waste of my time.
I hope my colon gets the message.

2009-07-09T17:42:00.004-04:00

It's an awful, ever present sense of despair.
It manifests in the throat and the chest,
feels like drowning.
Lends itself to shuddering breath,
like the wind has just been knocked out of you.
Keeps eyes open late into the night,
minds endlessly reeling with regrets and apologies
and self-deluding, self-sustaining hopes.
And in the one moment when it's all taken as it as,
as a constant burden and {a hundred, thousand} flights of fancy,
the static settled in the temples increases;
jaws lock and eyes well,
and it is so honestly not a way of life to ever be wished on anyone.

The Downfalls of Red Flash Drives

2009-07-05T16:35:00.004-04:00

I started writing something the 26th. I was really excited about it, and I saved it on my flash drive. I opened it a couple days later on my cousin's lap top, and everything was fine. But, I tried opening it yesterday, twice on the computer, and once on the laptop, and it's gone. The first time I opened it on the computer, it came up as crazy symbol letters; then, I tried the laptop, and it came up blank. I went back to the computer, and opened it, and it shows as a row of squares. I'm a little bit devastated because I've no idea how to get it back, and I was kind of in love with what I had written. The first part had been based on a dream I had just woken up from, so I fear I won't be able to write it so nicely again. I am still hoping for someone to come up with a way for me to recover my writing. I just figured I'd make a post, as I feel bad about neglecting Blogger so. Cross your fingers for me.

2009-06-28T17:44:00.004-04:00

There's this window where I sleep,
and I open the blinds in the daytime to let a little sunshine in.
Lately, though, the light isn't as bright as it was,
and the room is grey in shadows,
reminding me of home and things she didn't like.

I am having a bad day.
It's too much to be gone for so long,
without visits or hope of going home.
It's too much to hold.

I took a nap to cure aching eyes,
trying to convince myself before I fell asleep
that I was home, in my bed,
laying on my side, delaying my life,
so that when I woke up,
I would be in my room, at my house, in Honey Creek.

Lately, I lose my head for nothing;
Go spinning dizzy, jumping out of my skin, at the littlest thing.
Drink tea and pace the room, cold
with phantom breezes turning to ice the heat settled at the back of my neck,
to try to settle myself inside again.

I just want to go home,
and I am helpless in getting there.
I don't want to do this much longer;
it makes me so tired.

2009-06-26T15:00:00.002-04:00

This is one of those things that makes me hope everything will have a happy ending. Like after things get bad enough, and I'd like to say they are bad enough, that they'll get better and stay better. I hope. Anyway, check it out. A link to a poem and a picture. http://community.livejournal.com/we_are_cities/84434.html#cutid1

Flickr

2009-06-22T09:11:00.002-04:00

I've just created a Flickr account. You should definitely go visit. It doesn't have a profile picture, same as here, because I haven't taken one I like yet. So far, it just has the same photos I've posted here. I'm planning on continuing to post photos here; I just may put the less 'artistic' ones up on Flickr as well. I'm excited about creating sites. That tells you how ridiculous I am. Anyway, shamelessly plugging my Flickr. Go look!
flickr.com/photos/thisriskisworthit

2009-06-20T11:27:00.004-04:00

I wish I was witty enough to put a line of something interesting/inspiring with each picture. Maybe sometime I will be. In the meantime, I could do lyrics; I don't know. Thoughts.

© Copyright 2008 Abby Almon

© Copyright 2008 Abby Almon

The Freelance Hellraiser

2009-06-20T11:14:00.003-04:00

Yet again, I found a video on Youtube.com I like. It's the music video for a song called 'Want You to Know' by The Freelance Hellraiser. It's got this unique presentation I kind of love, and it actually makes me happy. Sadly, I still don't know how to show it here, as I can't seem to paste anything I copy onto Blogger. All I can do is try to compel you to go look it up. It makes me think of cool blue autumn afternoons and makes me want to spend time with friends; it's good for a smile.

Myspace 4

2009-06-18T20:17:00.005-04:00

"Some of us are scared to death and some just don't believe in it."*
I am tired of feeling like this.
I am tired of spaces and structure and feeling at all.
I m trd f vwls and being what you want.
I want to be quiet for a while. I want to lose myself somewhere safe.
I want to go away to winter or ice or cold or anything beyond this stupidity, this repetition.
I know enough to know this won't last forever.
I know enough to know the good is better, is worth this bad.
I just don't know when this will leave and I can breathe without these feelings.
If you back off, I'd feel so much better.
If you'd let me alone, it would help.
I can't pull a decision from where I'm standing.
I can't do this, and I know I will regret it because I already am.
Don't guilt me over this.
I feel bad enough.
It takes too much to just sit up.
It takes too much to look at anything, to think, to breathe, to feel.
It takes too much right now.
Can't we put this on pause?
I don't know what to do.
I will regret anything I say.
I will regret any choice I make, or lack thereof.
I will feel bad if we stay or go.
The only thing to tip the scales is grades right now.
So wrong, so angry, so whatever.
Well whatever, never mind this bullshit.
I know enough to know things get better.
So don't worry just leave me alone.

*Lyrics by Straylight Run

2009-06-18T16:56:00.006-04:00

Myspace 3

2009-06-18T16:48:00.004-04:00

Your Favorite Weapon;
'Failure by Design,'
'Logan to Government Central,'
and 'Last Chance to Lose Your Keys'
make me think of where I used to be
and where I am.
It sucks
to be so conflicted,
to get so attached to people.
Because it's been years, right,
and I'm still lost in my head.
Maybe movies this weekend?
Sunday afternoon/night.
Call me, okay?
I don't bite.
There's these lyrics that go
'So you know that you're never on your own'*
that keep playing in my head like
'Don't you know that you're better on your own.'
Writing to waste time. Sometimes I still rattle off the words
I think keep you safe.
I think something got crossed along the way,
and I feel like I'm going over the same things again and again, forever.
Whatever.

*Lyrics by Hellogoodbye

2009-06-18T16:18:00.005-04:00

Sometimes, I like to crawl around and take pictures. Most of them come from my front yard. They're not particularly breath-taking, but I like something about them anyway. Enjoy.

Myspace 2

2009-06-18T16:08:00.004-04:00

We are not a generation.
If I said I wasn't a good person,
that would be conceited, right?
Right.
I'd be slip-dripping into old times that I don't need.
But my head is so heavy,
and I think I caught my own tongue.
There's too much silence that seems sudden.
I'm not articulate. Sometimes I can write,
but I sure as hell can't speak.
Where my money goes or when there's too many people around me.
When I'm sad, I can't say a thing. Even when people ask.
It's default and mandatory that I deny or distract.
Cut off my tongue; I've got buttons for eyes.
Wish I could read Howl,
but the closest I've got right now
is Mexico City Blues.
Which might be appropriate.
I spent eight sentences begging for things
I can't remember.
Tell me that's not bad.

Myspace 1

2009-06-18T15:55:00.006-04:00

I used to write things with rhythm, formatted in columns, on my Myspace. Maybe they count as official writing. I feel sleazy about posting them because they're from a time I took a lot of things for granted, in a situation I would love to go back to. Regardless, I figure I ought to post them here to see if they're worth something. Will try to remember to title these posts 'Myspace' to keep it organized.

It's this house that brings me down
and freaks me out.
Makes me sick at everything.
Drills to temples;
I've got panic crawling up my spine.
I was fine half an hour ago.
It's the dark and the sick and the sad and the hurt
that I can't fix.
Not going anywhere.
Taking deep breaths, but I've got this cracked hurt under my ribcage.
My head is starting to spin.
This isn't right.
Bugs under my skin
crawling home, burrowing holes.
I don't want to be special.
I just want to get by.
Not up for stilted conversation,
so don't call.
See you tomorrow.

2009-06-16T20:03:00.002-04:00

I found this video as a prompt on a Livejournal community. The dancers are Ben Susak and Pam Chu; the choreography is by Wade Robson. The song is Slow Dancing in a Burning Room by John Mayer.
This is one of those things that makes me feel too much to put into words; it's the combination of the dance and the closeness of the dancers with the music. It makes my heart ache and my eyes tear up. Not because I'm a lover of dance, though I have no problem with it. Why it makes me feel so brilliantly is inexplicable. I'm just rather in love with it, and I thought I'd share it with whoever comes by.
I tried valiantly to find a way to link it for the past half hour, but Blogger is thwarting my attempts. Look it up on Youtube.com. You won't be disappointed.

2009-06-13T21:43:00.000-04:00

I love the way you wear
your indie love
like a well-worn jacket.
Like a favorite hat
that spends half it's time
hanging out of your back pocket.
Like an old plaid shirt
that's growing holes
and growing threadbare.
I love the infinite
eternal
declarations of your heart
that you make
side-by-side
with an easy brush off.
You say
"I live to make you love me,
etc.
etc."
And that is why I love you.

2009-06-13T21:40:00.000-04:00

I don't actually believe in anyone.
And all my friends have gone away
to lives outside of computer screens.
It hurts more because I've got nothing besides my thoughts and this keyboard.
I spend my time
remembering home and friends and the feelings of last fall,
and spinning stories to myself about how great it would be if I was home again.
But I fear quite strongly
that if I go home
whatever hole I left in the group of my friends
has grown closed and tough,
like the skin where my snakebites used to be.
And I fear more that that is for the best.
That I am just a ball of pessimism and poison,
and it's better to have friends that don't flinch
every time the word 'love' is thrown around.

Prayer to Saint Dymphna

2009-06-13T21:29:00.000-04:00

'Be resourceful.'
I'm using up my resources;
I'm using what I've got to get you back.

'Write what you know.'
I know very little these days.I
feel lost in an ocean of empty space
Without you.
I know that I can't find a point to it all
when you're gone.
I know I tear up,
and I have to struggle to keep
my face from crumbling when I think of you.
I know I miss you terribly,
desperately.
I know if you got better,
I would be better for you.
I would go to church and doctor appointments with you.
I know if you said,"I think I'm sick. I'm scared."
I would fight tooth and nail to be with you and support you while you got better.
I know that all the formalities of life would be easier if you were around
to smile at me
to talk to.
I know that you are sick.
You have delusions.
I know this isn't your fault,
and I hope you know I would never blame you for it.
I know you don't think you're sick.
I know where you're coming from.
When I was depressed, I couldn't see it.
When you tried to talk to me about it,
I thought you were blaming me for it.
I was sick,
and I couldn't tell because it was twisted up inside my head.
But you were watching out for me,
and you could see it.
I should have listened because I know you'd never lie to me;
you'd never set out to hurt me.
I hope you know I'm not lying to you;
I would never hurt you.
You are sick, and you can't tell,
and I'm just trying to look out for you.
I know that you took the medicine once,
and called me to talk about your father,
After that one pill,
you sounded eerily like the mother I have been missing for months,
I think you took the medicine
five times at least,
nine times at most.
I know you promised me
you would take it for a month on Friday.
I know by Wednesday of the next week
you weren't taking it.
You told me so;
you told me you didn't like how it made you feel.
I know the medicine was working,
and I know it was bringing you back to me.
I think if you were to take the medicine for a month,
you would be yourself again;
you would be the mom that I adore.
And if you took the medicine for a month,
and you still wanted to wear
a ring for every finger,
five bracelets on each wrist
If you wanted to wear my clothes
or get piercings
or play your music loud all night
I would support it
because it would be You doing it,
and that's really all I need.
I know if there was a deal I could make
with you so that you'd take your medicine,
I would make it regardless of the terms.
No Xanax for a month- Done.
Clean the whole house- Done.
Summer school- Done.
Get a job- Done.
Anything you ask of me to do
while you get treatment,
I would do.
Anything to have you back.
And if we were together again,
I know I would be better.
I wouldn't take you for granted.
I wouldn't be so angry.
I wouldn't shut you out.
I wouldn't make you worry.
I know if you said
"I'm checking into the hospital.I'm getting treatment."
My world would start spinning right again.

'Write what you want to read.'
What I want to read
is a letter from you from the hospital
saying you're getting better,
saying we'll be together soon.
I want to read
court papers
transferring custody of us
back to you.
I want to read All the Hits So Far
But Don't Expect Too Much
in the back of your car,
as we are driving home.

2009-06-13T21:28:00.000-04:00

I know most people die unexpectedly, and I worry I'll die that way, too. Not that I think a long, drawn-out death by way of terminal illness is any better. I'm just afraid I might leave behind unanswered questions. I'm afraid people will miss me and hurt with regret over things they didn't do or words they didn't say. I'm afraid people won't know I love them. I'm afraid they won't know I understand.

2009-06-13T21:25:00.000-04:00

4. Come Fall
I hope to be home.
Coming off a summer of
fruits and vegetables and sunshine.
You and me- we'll be Kings again
of tired feet and night time streets
and walking along the side of the road.
This year will be better than the last,
better than the past.
We'll radiate hope and
the world will know us.
The world will smile and hold out a hand.
A continuum of our lives.
Feeling free, breathing crisp cold air.
Imagine us
without the fights and secrets and tears.
Come Fall
We will be happy.
It's written on our bodies.

2009-06-13T21:23:00.000-04:00

7. Sometimes in cartoons it replaces the falling anvil.
The fuse-lit bomb that's just gone off in front of you.
The damage is arbitrary. You just dust yourself off and put your head back on.
You shake it off, look forward to later
when you're packed shoulder to shoulder
in a line with your friends
singing; you don't mind the wait.
You stay up late in good company.
Playing seventh grade honesty games
and watching too much T.V.,
singing.
You fall asleep in a pile like puppies without the fur,
singing.
You sleep in, covers discarded in the summer heat.
You wake up to noontime sunshine,
singing.
"Days are only rumors we've wasted. Have a good one."

2009-06-13T21:22:00.000-04:00

6. I'm sitting on your back porch
with a Citranella candle unlit in front of me.
It's evening in the summertime.
I've taken pills to make it sweet.
Stood outside five minutes today,
and I've got roses blooming on my cheeks.

I won't be seeing friends this weekend.
We won't be huddled on crates
talking the night away under spotlights come Saturday;
but I've taken pills to make that sweet.

I know a guy that's got flavors of the week.
I try real hard not to be one of them.
But I still feel weak.
I've taken pills to make me sweet
so that I'm calm
sitting on your back porch with a Citranella candle in front of me.

The Soft Parade

2009-06-13T21:19:00.000-04:00

Getting thrown through a window takes strength on the part of your attacker; takes a moment when self-restraint and fond memories disappear, and all that’s left is the pumping of blood and the tightening of muscles.

You’re angry and fierce, fighting with your husband in your living room, yelling like it’s routine.

It’s not routine; this hand holding a gas can, pouring it in a pathway through your home. He empties it at his feet, face marred by a twisted smile, and strikes a match. You grab it without thinking, without feeling the fire bite the soft skin of your palm.

His eyes change, black with anger or a trick of the lightning flashing outside. Your purple blouse is fisted in his hands; he’s pulling you off your feet, and this night is not routine.

You feel breathless flying through the air. Your back at the glass is a momentary relief, but then it cracks, shatters behind you, and you’re still falling.

You hit the grass on your back, head turned to the side, black skirt ruffled up at your knees. The silk and nylon, black heels; on this night, you look like a fallen twenties starlit.

With your cheek against the wet grass, the rain is bringing a brief respite from the hot humid air every time a drop hits your skin. The night insects chorus around you, and you can hear someone’s voice entwined with their cries, whispering “Accident, accident.”

The sound turns to a rattle and hiss, like the snakes you avoid in the summer, then to a ringing in your ears, a bell chorus of your very own. Then, it’s the sound of ice cream trucks and bikes of children coming to buy a treat.

But that’s wrong. Your head is throbbing, and it’s so hot, heat waves engulfing your body. Your husband, he lit the fire. That sound, it’s not the soundtrack of your life here, but sirens. Fire trucks and ambulances, flashing colored lights added to the orange waves and white-bright lightning.

You’re fading out of consciousness; the last thing reaching your ears is your husband whispering above your head, and the bass rumble heartbeat of thunder, and the reassuring wavering sound of sirens coming. You hear the Soft Parade.

2009-06-13T21:08:00.000-04:00

'Body language is something that you feel
It's just too real to be concealed.' - Cute Is What We Aim For
Stop relating children's books to current events.
Stop comparing science fiction to reality.
Don't teach children about environmental ruin
through bright-colored pictures and rhymes.
Stop. Don't. This isn't working.
People pledge, daily, rarely, never, to stand together.
Divided we fall?
Divided we are.
I feel it in parking lots, moving to avoid mothers and young kids.
I think they don't want their kids to see black pants and chains.
Why?
I'm tired. I won't change the world.
Who decided the world needs to be changed?
Freedom is theoretical.
You've got me choking on words.
China. Communism. Tiananmen Square protests of 1989.
But there's also the Green Student Forum.
More than I'm doing.
There isn't a line dividing us.
There's just emotion and a need to blame someone.
You can't change the past, so shut up.
Focus, now.
You won't save your children by telling them they're failing.
You won't save anything if you don't start to move.
I don't believe
that anything can happen
without hurting someone.
Despite any good intentions, pain is still there.
I'm tired of seeing adults as robots and kids as the ones that breathe.
You can keep yourself from dating someone
to keep from hurting your friends,
but then you hurt yourself,
and you hurt who you left.
You can make a movie,
documentary, reality, about
hurt or self-harm.
and you'll hurt people.
Even when you're trying to show them
they aren't alone,
that other kids have toughened skin under their clothes,
good intentions cracking your voice.
You're still taking away their secret,
their privacy,
sometimes, the thing holding them together.
And parents; they love, but they'll
tear their kids apart when they're hiding something.
They don't understand, so they won't listen when kids try to explain.
They ask if you're stupid, but there isn't an answer to satisfy.
This isn't a warning, but an anecdote.
Flashback to the industrial revolution.
Work was faster, easier, better.
But now we've got pollution,
and so many people unemployed.
Move forward to help the economy,
to feed, to live, to have more.
But to do it, you tear down the environment.
Drown trees to build a dam.
This isn't fiction. Rhymes won't help.
Get down on your knees,
put your fingers in the ground,
and try to keep on breathing.
Everytime you exhale, you ruin the environment.
and you're cutting down trees,
lessening the oxygen.
Atleast, be worth the damage you create.
You can't follow the rules to live.
You can't live for long, if you keep breaking them.
Who said we were what the world should
aspire to be?
What are we, here?
Tell me.
I see divisions. Living statues.
Desperate kids waiting for a savior.
Hopeless parents, distraught over money and houses and pets.
Robotic adults, spitting out practiced lines, talking in circles, leaving lies.
This isn't right.
Tell me if I'm wrong.
I want to underline words from books,
write them down very carefully,
and send them to the president,
envelope stamped 'URGENT'.
We aren't tribes or nations or peoples.
We aren't united.
We can leave and go far, far away,
where colored codes don't mean our lungs have to work harder.
Where it doesn't feel like everyone
is lying or hiding the truth.
Where touch means more than grades and school.
Nothing gets fixed until all the cards are on the table.
You want to be better
so you hold what you know back.
This isn't a game.
You have to understand.
We've got kids starving because there isn't enough food,
stomachs bloated, malnourished.
Unwitting stars of documentaries made by withered white men
from places with surplus's of food.
World's with so much to be eaten
that game shows are formed around it.
World's with so much food being trashed daily,
with the rich buying five different houses,
small islands, useless cars
World's where
no one is looking at skeletons walking.
You should be a skeleton after you die,
not while your hearts still beating.
In that world with too much food,
there are kids starving.
Self-induced. Thrust a finger down your throat.
Brag when you hit three days empty;
pinch your skin and call it fat.

"Some are dying for a cause, but that don't make it yours."
A few people care.
Even fewer famous care.
It's not an army or a generation.
It's not even a group.
Miles and years to separate.
If you get out there, to dry hot places,
dripping tree leaves, green fog,
hot sand, salted oceans.
If you talk to the leaders,
ask them what they want.
Languages and generalizations,
mistakes you won't get past.
Suck it up.
Sit down.
Talk.
We're the same blood. Same hurt, same smile.
Same world.
If you can't do it,
step down.
Call for someone who can.
Pacts and treaties only last so long.
Words don't mean a thing
when your hearts not in them.
We won't be getting anywhere
until you know.
I could quote books I've read,
lyrics from songs,
to show you what I mean.
but what makes me feel
isn't the same for you.
I could ask you to forget about oil,
disregard money and power,
but you'd laugh in my face.
'The world has worked this way for many years,
for-ever,
for too long to stop now.
Besides, it's worked in our favor.'
I could say forget about tongues,
and the languages you use them for.
You wouldn't listen.
You need your language for your identity.
I'd ask that you put aside religion,
because I don't believe you do.
But you're an actor, and you can't break character now.
They wouldn't, either, I think.
But in other places, hearts beat harder with religion.
With gods and prayer and afterlife.
It means something more
than fables told to children.
I could quote Fight Club or Fall Out Boy,
Blue Like Jazz or Envy on the Coast,
My Ishmael or The Academy Is...
We don't know the feeling of dirt or bark.
We can't climb trees.
We don't live to appease gods.
I can press my heart into words;
I could even send them out into the world.
To leaders with power threaded through their fingers,
but I don't believe a thing would change.
I could write my heart down,
lined with colored pencil illustrations.
I could make a video,
earnest and honest.
I could try my best, and I could put it on the Internet;
I could send it out to every kid I know.
If you want change, you have to make it.
Hearts can't be switched, emotions don't project.
You won't understand until you see it, feel it.
You have to bleed a little, risk a lot,
if you want to get beyond this place.

© Copyright 2008 Abby Almon

"The folksinger said his friend was performing a covert operation, freeing hostages from a building in some dark part of the world. His friend’s team flew in by helicopter, made their way to the compound and stormed into the room where the hostages had been imprisoned for months. The room, the folksinger said, was filthy and dark. The hostages were curled up in a corner, terrified. When the SEALs entered the room they heard the gasps of the hostages. They stood at the door and called to the prisoners, telling them they were Americans. The SEALs asked the hostages to follow them, but the hostages wouldn’t. They sat there on the floor and hid their eyes in fear. They were not of healthy mind and didn’t believe their rescuers were really Americans.
The SEALs stood there, not knowing what to do. They couldn’t possibly carry everybody out. One of the SEALs, the folksinger’s friend, got an idea. He put down his weapon, took off his helmet, and curled up tightly next to the other hostages, getting so close his body was touching some of theirs. He softened the look on his face and put his arms around them. He was trying to show them he was one of them." -Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller

The Color of Absence

2009-06-13T21:06:00.000-04:00

It’s cold. The sky is endless black, punctuated by barely visible stars. The city is dark, too, despite all the light glowing inside buildings, and the wind is up, rushing and biting at her skin as Nikki hurries down the sidewalk toward The Dive. She’s been cold for the two days because business has been slow, and she wants to have a chance to revel in the warmth of the building before she gets on stage. This is her first gig this month, and she's glad for the extra money.
Once she's inside the club, she heads toward the backstage area, slipping through the crowd, and nodding to the greetings sent her way, Nikki knows most people here solely from playing at the club or seeing them on the streets. She borrows a guitar from the owner, and plays her songs acoustic when there's an open slot. It’s fun, and she gets paid a little from the Ray, and it's warm. Ray tends to look past the fact that she may smell like she's been sleeping in a garden- that thick smell of soil- because he likes to help out the street kids. He’ll open up odd jobs to them first; Nikki sometimes wonders if he's been out on the streets himself.
It’s not until she's actually on the stage that Nikki takes off her jacket. It’s a brown hoodie with a little bit of raggedy fake fur lining the collar. It’s a size or two too big, but it's a lucky find, and she doesn't put it down much, afraid of someone stealing it. As she's turning around from laying her jacket down on the stool set up on the stage, Nikki catches sight of a group of kids who look familiar. After a few moments of staring, she realizes that, fuck, these are her friends. Or, they were her friends, before she was on the streets. She’s struck cold for a second, because she never thought she'd see them again.
Their houses aren't near here. Their school isn't nearby. Turning her attention back to her guitar, she takes her eyes off her old friends and quickly finishes tuning. As she steps up to the mic and clears her throat, she feels their eyes turn to her. At least, she thinks she does, but there's no way to know, and there isn't enough of her that cares to make her turn her head in their direction.
Nikki plays a thirty minute set and gets a decent amount of applause at the end. She heads back stage, tugging her jacket on, and deposits the guitar in the changing room Ray keeps. Then, she drifts out into the crowd, searching intently for Ray; she wants to get her money and get out, fast. But Life is being a bitch, and Ray is standing less then six feet from the kids Nikki knows. She walks over, hands stuffed into her pockets, and doesn't look at them once.
“Hey Ray,” Nikki says, sidling up to the aging man.
"Hello, Miss Nikki. You want your money?"
"Of course not, I just wanted to bask in your company,” she says, a grin tugging at her mouth.
Ray snorts, reaching into his pocket for her money. He knows to only give her cash.
There's some commotion off to their right, and Ray quickly excuses himself to see what's going on. Nikki is mid-turn when one of her friends calls out her name. She turns back in their direction, cursing her lack of bitchy attitude and her inability to just ignore them.
"Hey," she says, giving them a small nod, a small smile.
There are only four people standing in front of her. Jenna, who used to be one of her closest friends, two others that her just part of their general group of friends-a guy and a girl-, and another guy Nikki doesn’t recognize. But that figures, since it's been over a year. The three people she does know, Jenna especially, are staring at her, blinking a few times too many, like they don't recognize her. Nikki takes a second to inventory herself and compare it to how she was before she left.
On the outside, not too much has changed. Nikki is scrawny, from the lack of steady food, but she doesn’t think it's as noticeable with her jacket; her red and brown mess of hair is cut short, close to her head, and she's got a bruise on the underside of her jaw.
"Where did you go?" Jenna asks right away. Her voice is tight, angry underneath the surface. “One day you were at school, and the next you weren't, and we couldn't get in touch with you. What the hell happened to you?"
Nikki shrugs, swallowing. She glances from the ground to her friend's face and holds her gaze. "I got kicked out."
Jenna stares at her, then lets out a sharp,” What?"
"I got kicked out of my house. And I couldn't really stay up there. Homeless kids would really stick out in a neighborhood like that."
"Who kicked you out of your house? Why?"
Nikki shook her head easily. "It doesn't matter who or why. But I’m sorry I didn't let you know I was alright. That was pretty shitty."
Jenna's eyes are back to the angry glare.
"You're shitting me, right? You're homeless? As in, living on the streets. What do you do, hustle for money?"
Nikki's face cloud over at that, and Jenna spots it.
"You fuck people for money?"
Nikki can feel the disgust about to enter the conversation, the lecture about how dangerous and awful it is to prostitute. As if she didn't know firsthand. As if there was any other way to get by.
"Look," Nikki says, abruptly,” I’ve got to go find my friend, alright. If you come around here again, you'll probably find me." She pulls away from the group, quickly, unable to see another part of her life turn into a mess, unable to have that weight on her shoulders. She moves straight for the door, letting herself out into the cool night.
There are people milling around the parking lot like it's and outdoor extension of the club. Nikki walks to the corner of the building, to rest against while she smokes a cigarette she had bummed off another performer earlier that night. As she's settling her back against the brick corner, she hears muffled noise come from the small alley way directly to her right and behind her. She turns her head to look, briefly wondering if someone is having sex back there. She's not at all prepared for the sight she sees, dropping her cigarette and feeling like her heart has stopped.
Lying on the ground, just barely in the light, Nikki could see Izzie. She would know that blond hair anywhere; Izzie had refused to cut it because it had reminded her of her home. But, now the golden white color is tainted with red. Nikki's chest constricts tight, her hand applying a death grip to the brick corner, before she pushes herself off and over to her friend. Nikki drops to her knees next to Izzie, alternately shouting her name or shouting for help. She fumbles for Izzie’s hand, runs her fingers across the wrist for a pulse; Izzie's eyes are closed, her mouth slightly open.
The air feels like it's getting colder, and Nikki keeps shouting. People are coming there way, and she faintly makes out the sound of someone calling 9-1-1, but most of her attention is focused on Izzie. She shakes Izzie's shoulder gently, calls her names, ignoring the fact that someone behind her is saying her name. Nikki pulls Izzie into her lap, cradling her head and repeating her name in hushed tones. Club patrons are still watching, and behind Nikki, Jenna is wondering who this person is.
The ambulance arrives fast, pulling Izzie into the back and tearing off towards to hospital, the EMTs not seeing Nikki when she asks if she can ride with. Instead, she's left standing on the pavement, watching the flashing lights retreat.
"Hey," someone says softly.
Nikki looks at the hand on her arm, then the face it belongs to. Jenna.
"Look, I'm sorry about what i said in there. We can drive you to the hospital. You don't have a car, right?"
Nikki shakes her head, and is led into the backseat of a green car. She sits there, boneless in the seat, staring fixedly at the handle to open the door. As soon as the car pulls in front of the hospital doors, Nikki bolts out of the seat and into the hospital, straight for the front desk.
"Is Izzie Santinaro here?" she asks, eyes wide.
"Are you family?" questions the nurse, eyes flashing to her computer screen.
"Yes, I am. Is she here?"
The nurse nods, moves the mouse a few times, then nods again. "She's in room 205. The doctors probably still in there so-"
Nikki is already running toward the stairs, up to Izzie's room. She slows outside Izzie's door, peering into the blue-wash room. There's a man in a white lab coat standing next to the bed, writing something on a clipboard.
'Is Izzie alright?" Nikki asks the doctor, walking into the room.
The man looks up from his papers. "Yes, she'll be relatively fine. She was beaten. As far as we can tell, that's the only thing that happened. It wasn't severe, but whoever did it did knock her out, so we'd like to keep her over night. She should wake up soon from the medication, if you'd like to stay."
Nikki nods, stepping around the doctor and pulling a chair up to Izzie's bed. The doctor quietly leaves the room, hanging his clipboard at the end of the bed. Nikki tangles her hands with Izzie's, watching her friends face. She can't understand how Izzie got hurt. Or, why.
They were just kids, in ratty shirts and jeans. The shirts were almost always too big, because they got the majority of them from strangers who tended to buy the shirts in impersonal fashions and sizes like that would make the kids they were giving the shirts to less real; or, the got them from older women who thought that fitting shirts exposed them to men, and therefore enabled the men to 'demean' them. Nikki always wanted to argue that it was up to her what was demeaning, but she didn't want to chase away free clothes.
Besides not looking particularly fabulous, the area around The Dive wasn't known for its violence or crime rates. Nikki sniffles, trying not to cry. Even though the doctor had said Izzie would be fine, Nicki was still scared. Izzie and she were the last of their little group of gutter kids. There used to be ten of them, squatting together near and abandoned park with metallic rusting slides. Now, Nikki just had Izzie.
"Please be alright," she said softly, her voice coming out a little horse. "When you get better, we can look for real jobs, okay? And we can try and find an actual home. We'll be better, just make sure you wake up. We can clean ourselves up and get some decent clothes. Maybe start school again, or something. Find you a boy to fall madly in love with."
Nikki imagined Izzie rolling her eyes and laughing at the last statement. Izzie was a firm believer in finding somebody to love and be loved by, somebody cool and fun. She'd always laugh, saying she could find a Prince Charming to take her away from that shit hole. Nikki didn't want the same; she wanted to be able to not touch and not fuck for a long, long time. But she understood Izzie wanting to, and they drew imaginary dream-guys on the sidewalk with chalk or rocks when they were bored.
Nikki dropped her head to the edge of the bed, letting her eyes close. Outside of the room, Jenna and her friends had caught up to Nikki and had watched the whole exchange. After a moment, Jenna pulled her friends away, back to their car to go home.
In the morning, Nikki is woken up by harsh voices. She raises her head, looking around the room, then at her friend; Izzie is still asleep, so Nikki stands up and walks out into the hallway. The doctor from the night before is standing a few feet away, talking with two people who look vaguely familiar. The doctor spots Nikki out of the corner of his eye, and waves her over. She looks at the two people standing with the doctor, both looking older than him, a man and a women, one with blond hair, one with brown.
"What's going on?" Nikki asks the doctor.
"These," the man says, motioning to the people in front of him," are Isabel's parents. They would like to take her home."
Nikki's stomach drops out from under her, a miniature repeat of the night before.
"What? They can't do that!."
The woman turns sharply towards her. "Oh yes, we can. Our baby has been corrupted and beaten on the streets. I will have no more of this happening."
"It's your fault she's on the streets," Nikki snaps, her insides twisting with anger. "You kicked her out of your house."
"But we never knew she would become a-a-"
"A hustler? What else do you think we can do to survive? Do you think some homely little church go-er is going to come and take us into their home?"
Both of the parents are slightly open-mouthed, the mother nervously fingering a cross she has around her neck.
"The most they ever did was throw pamphlets in our faces about saving our souls and re-virginizing ourselves. They never offered food or shelter and even spare change. What did you think you were sending your daughter off into?"
The doctor clears his throat, trying to dispel the tension. "We can address this later. But, in the examination it was noted that Isabel had bruises around her face and neck at least a few days old. Do you know where they came from?"
Nikki turns to the doctor, flexing her fingers. "Me."
"You?” the mother gasps, her voice haughty.
"Yes. And she gave me these," Nikki replies, gesturing to the few bruises scattering her own face and neck. "It's better to look worn down on the streets. The creeps tend to go for the pretty kids, so if you have bruises, or short hair, or whatever, the usually stay away."
"Creeps?” the father asks, tentatively.
"Yeah, you know, the guys the cut you open once they get you in their car. We try to stay away from them." Nikki can't keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
The mother's face is shocked, and she’s about to stomp off, when she catches a glimpse through the window of Izzie waking up. She quickly hurries into the room, pulling her husband with her.
Nikki clenches her teeth as she watches the reunion. It's not that she doesn't want Izzie to have a good life, but she doesn't trust parents that can be so unloving and kick their own kid onto the streets. Plus, Izzie is her best friend, and she doesn't want to lose her. And, that may not happen, but you can't say for sure when you're on the other side of the state from someone, and one of you is homeless.
Nikki is numb, later, when Izzie pulls her into a hug and tells her about going home. She holds on tight through the hug, and takes the phone number Izzie presses into her hand. Izzie promises to visit soon, with this unbelievable grin on her face. A Nikki smile back, nods, and tries not to feel it when Izzie walks out into the parking lot and gets into a car with her parents.
Once the vehicle is gone from sight, Nikki's insides collapse, and she sits down on the curb, pulling her knees up to her chest to keep all the hurt in. Nikkie sniffled, keeping her eyes low. What did she do now? There wasn't anyone left. All of the kids in their group had gotten out. Some had found friends to take them in, some had found group homes. Others had gotten sick, or hurt by stupid men. Now, Izzie had left with her parents. Nikki let out a small whimper, pressing her fingers against her legs, feeling cold and hopeless. What do you do when you're the last one left?

Human Aid

2009-06-13T21:05:00.002-04:00

Really, you want to blame it on the scene. All the stupid talk of Truth and Beauty Bombs and all the stupid sayings -"You can't hug kids with nuclear arms.”; you never thought it would lead to this. You think back on it, all these kids turning away from the love that started it all, turning away from trying to help people, trying to make it one world. How they all fell apart into this hate mess. It was like the Holocaust all over again, you think, only with a better soundtrack and no stopping it. Now, if you even think of Alive with the Glory of Love, you feel your stomach clench, and you have to make a mad dash to the nearest trashcan.
It was supposed to be about cleaning up the environment; about helping people and showing them that they weren't alone. About ending so much starvation. About creating better things for bettering. But then it fell apart. Maybe you all shouldn't have started with such a big goal - "Our eyes are bigger than our hearts, heads, hands." Maybe then it wouldn't have gone from labors of love to lip service. You joined because you wanted to feel like you belonged somewhere, like you weren't so alone; you figure that's how Hitler started his army, too.
There was this big poster at the register office, saying how the ultimate goal was World Peace. The idea always seems so beautiful. You never think how there's never peace in the world, or how it's not just a human thing. You go outside, and you could see cats fighting in the yard. It’s an Animal thing. You fight because it's in your blood, because it’s Animalistic, and you’re all animals. Sure, you'd like to cut down on the violence and blood shed, but now you know it won't ever go away.
The Army, though, it was so horribly wrong. They were supposed to help, be a relief force. They weren’t meant to kill everyone who didn't agree. They were so technologically advanced, though, they barely had any trouble. With the bodies posed where they had fallen, the Army would lay a white flag with a heart imprinted on it over the chest of every bloodied corpse. Now their mission was to control everyone. You had nightmares about their stupid love songs and awful flags and all the blood you could see soaking into the dirt.
You remember hearing stories about the Crusades and Joan of Arc. You remember in the beginning, how all your favorite bands played concerts to raise funds to help you. You remember authors like David Levithan, Francesca Lia Block, and Art Spieglman would come out and talk, with everyone gathered around them. There were talks about peace movements from the past, and t-shirts passed out on street corners promoting the right to Speak Up and Do Something. It was all to set the mood for something that was never supposed to be what it became.
Tonight though, you can feel it in your bones. Most of the world is laying in destruction, and this theory has been pouring from everyone's lips. It’s like a sudden sixth sense, like cats and tornadoes. It’s like the whole of humanity can feel the end now, weighing down on them. You’re sure the people in the Army feel it, too. Even though they've been denying it with vehemence, you know that they aren't left out of this sudden transformation. They feel it; they know it; they're the honest to god cause of it. But, still. They deny it, and they'll let it happen. Maybe, they could stop it, if they can even stop at all. But their so drunk with their control, no one within their ranks will even consider it.
Tonight, or today, really, because it'll be day soon, with dawn hovering just on the horizon, you know something big will happen. You’re huddled under a blanket on your ratty couch in your tiny sixth floor apartment, with your cat curled against your side. Your TV is directly in front of you, playing footage of the War, the Massacre {which is what it is, despite what the Officers say}. Every news show, people are talking live. It’s like the whole world is afraid to go to sleep, afraid they won't wake up, and determined to see what happens. There are windows on either side of your TV, and you've taken off the curtains and blinds. The city- your home- is stretched in front of you. You can feel it holding its breath; you can feel every person's eyes on the clock. On the newspaper next to you, there's the estimated time of Sunrise, Six-Forty a.m. You watch the neon numbers of your clock change.
Your cat is purring loudly, and you're counting her breaths in and out as the green changes from six-thirty-nine to six-forty. As soon as it changes, your bones start thrumming. The people on your television, their voices sound like music, and everywhere you look, there's a faint glow of color to everything. Suddenly, the sound of your TV get's louder, and you look up; they're saying Something's happening. Something is Happening. You change your view to outside your windows, and there's no sun in the sky. You know the sun won't be coming up just like you know this is some kind of End. At least you're not alone.
You watch the sky take on a red purple tinge, but it's not from the sun or any kind of rising. There’s something in the sky causing the colors. Something coming towards you, towards Earth. Your cat moves closer to you as the knowledge hits you. They’re angels. They’re floating angels, the kind you read about. You watch as these things move closer, seemingly growing in numbers. They don't stop over you, though. They don't stop over the city, but fly past you. Footage of the creatures from below flashes onto your television screen for a moment, before turning into static. It’s not until the reporter returns to the screen that the static clears.
You listen all day as information is fed through thin black wires, into the ears of the reporters. They talk of the 'beings' and what they are. There seems to be a consensus that they're some type of merci, yesha, angel. The sun never comes up, but the stars and moon are gone. The sky is still a swirl of red and purple, and the lights of the city never go out.
Then you hear news of what the angels are doing. You hear that they're all congregated over the Army, that the sky is a violent, rolling red nearby. You hear that the ground is burning, that the angels are screaming. You hear that they're yelling what these people have done. They’re yelling that the Army knows nothing of Love. You hear that they're ripping the Army apart, biting into their skin, tearing their flags and choking the Army with them. There’s no footage of it, but you know it’s happening.
Outside, the sky loses its tinge of red, turning to a deep purple. All the noise from your TV is suddenly cut off; all the noises everywhere seem to be gone, like someone muted the world with a giant volume control. You move to your window, looking out. Everything looks brighter and cleaner; healthier. You watch the sky grow to a blinding, golden light, and the floor drops out from under you. The last thing you register is the heat, so big that it feels like there's fire running through your veins.
There will be no great judging. You will not stand before an almighty being, reviewing your sins. You will not be punished as a whole race. You will not be anything, because you will stop existing completely. After the light and the heat, once the humans are gone, the angles will wipe out every trace of your existence.
The paved roads, sky scrapers, and monuments will all vanish. Mount Rushmore will be returned to the state it was in before faces of men were carved into the stone. The broken ships lying at the bottom of the ocean will be gone. The air will be clean; the trees, the water, the whole environment will be remade without the pollution from cars and oil spills. The species on the verge of dying will be able to replenish their numbers.The Earth will get a second chance, with its biggest problem starters taken out of the equation.

2009-06-13T20:54:00.000-04:00

The sound system had finally been hooked up right, and the music was loud enough to rattle the windows. The outside walls of the house had mattresses against them as makeshift soundproofing. The house had been empty for a few years, but now, almost every night, it was filled to the brim with kids. Regardless of school, the same faces showed up. It was a cathartic thing, at first.
Before anyone knew anyone, it was just to get away and lose yourself; pretend you didn't exist at all. But then the blue lights were added, old mattresses dragged in, lists of bands scrawled onto the walls, and it turned into something better.

Hey Mr. DJ (Hey Mr. DJ)
You gotta put a record on, yeah (You gotta put a record on, yeah)
We're gonna dance tonight (tonight, tonight)
Dance tonight*

The cathartic thing, that was the beginning. A bunch of kids sprawled out across the house, cigarettes burning, skin burning, hiding from people who tore them apart. It helped, as unlikely as it was, to be there with so many people. Then the music started, and it was fighting to a beat. Kids could go home with black eyes and bruised ribs and know, just know that they were at least doing something. That they had some control somewhere. Everyone, all their parents, it seemed, were so unhappy and completely miserable in their age. They made old age seem awful, with their hopeless mindset. With a house filled with tension, you just have to get away.
When people started talking, they ended up finding people who understood the mess of emotions sitting inside them, and that became the help they needed; the fighting turned to dancing, and the cigarettes were put out.

Just let me ask you:
Hey, have you heard of my religion?
It's called the Church of Hot Addiction
And we believe that God has lust for everything*

The sex, that came later. After you knew everyone in the place, knew their names and what their scars meant. When it stopped being a bunch of strangers; when it was like a house full of your best friends.
It wasn't sex like in porn movies. It was more like knowing you were alive, feeling alive, really. Letting the person know you were there, and showing them how you felt, because no one believed in words anymore. It was sex like laughter and holding hands and breathing easy. And it was lust too, and a little bit of love. It was around that time that the blue lights were added in the overhead fixtures. Christmas lights were strung up on the walls. The building thrummed from the electricity, the light, and the music.
---
The first time you showed up, it was just before the music started. You were angry and disgusted by most of the world, and you were planning on suffocating everything bad in the smoke and the dark. You didn't expect to find someone who wanted to talk to you. You didn't think they'd see you, talk to you, and there would be this understanding in their voice. You didn't get why they cared at all, but you talked because you were always good at spilling your guts. You’d been feeling out of control for the past month, and, honestly, you were a mess of anger and raw skin. You figured the things you said would make them go away; you didn't know that you'd end up with someone to curl up against and fall asleep with.
And it was funny, because making one friend turned into two and four and ten. It was like people lost their walls when they came into the house. You'd spend your nights dancing, laughing, and making out. It was how you all got through the world that had suddenly become impossible. It was something that let you know you were okay.

It was surprising, you thought, that no one had reported any type of disturbance to the police. You weren’t hurting anyone, but it was still better to be left alone. No one, besides those that were there, seemed to know about the late night parties. Not even the parents noticed. Sometimes, kids would crash at the house when the sun came up. They’d pull the mattresses off the walls and curl up on them. Their absence at school didn't make any difference.
The kids that slept there, if they stuck around until nightfall, would set everything up. You’d all run around, playing hide and seek with the world. You were always winning, in the night when you were all kings.

So leave us alone
When we're riding high
Mister police
Ain't hurting no one

The city's asleep
And the world is mine
We hide and go seek
And you know they'll never, ever, ever find us*

It started when everyone was fucking buried under the regret of the people who ran their lives. Parents wielding power they shouldn't have, leaving bruises or tears or empty ribcages. These kids, they were the end of what their parents held dear. Because they knew this, they became the end of broken hearts. They were young and alive and on fire. Better than the listlessness every authority figure seemed to embody. They cared. They could have been a movement, could have moved the world.

It's the end of a broken heart
I went on without you
I was lost from the start
I did what I had to
All we are is too fast for love

We're too young
I hate to love you
The night sky
Hangs above you
But you can't be missed
If you never go away

You don't know what I've seen
You can see that I've been damaged*

* Lyrics belong to Cobra Starship

2009-06-13T20:52:00.000-04:00

Almost every night now, you climb out of your window and onto your roof, sprawling out across the shingles. It’s too late not too contemplate the stars, or wonder about them and the trees and the wind. It’s still warm out, but you wear your thickest hoodie like some security shield. You watch the lights go out in the houses around you; you take note of the house that has lights that never go out, at least not before the sun has made the sky a cool blue again. You ignore your homework or thoughts of sleep, reminding yourself if you're too zoned out in the morning, you can always grab a cup of coffee. You always have the right excuse to justify the things you do.
There’s a faint scratching at the window behind your head. It’s your cat, you know, because she always wants to accompany you outside. You don't let her though, because you don't want her to get hurt. Even though she prowls the top of your bunk beds with ease, you aren't sure how she'd do out here. There’s a difference between six and a half feet and twenty-five feet, so you keep your window closed, save for an inch or two of space for you to open it again.
With all the open space around you, you’re thinking about what would happen if you were gone. If you disappeared, or something happened, and the people in your life were left behind. You’re wondering if they would go through your things, looking for insight or answers. Looking for who you are. You think of all the objects -notebooks, clothes, books, CDs- cluttered around your room, and you wonder what people would think of you if they just had all of that to go by to define you.
You wonder what they would think of the books that you have, the words you've underlined, or your CDs and notebooks. You think if they went through your stuff, they might find pieces of you, but mostly, you think, they would get it wrong. Unless they had some special technology, they wouldn't know what the books really meant to you, or what you saw in the words. They wouldn't know which CDs you loved, which songs you played and played until even a line of the song written on a page could get you singing its entirety. And they wouldn't understand the words in your notebooks, how everything was filled with meaning at the time it came about, and how it changed still, in notebooks you kept in boxes. They wouldn't understand.
The only times you really wonder what people would think is times like these, in a detached sort of way with hypothetical situations. If they went through your stuff, you decide, still watching the sky, they would think that they knew you and love you and miss you, but all it would be is a projection of the things you never measured up to.

2009-06-13T20:47:00.000-04:00

1. He shakes his head, feeling caustic and angry, unable to find words for his feelings.
‘I just can't do this anymore. You never talk to me.'
Even if he did have the words now, there's a lump in the back of his throat causing him to clench his jaw. As she walks out the door, his mind is stuck on the ways he failed.
3. He thinks maybe it would help if he tried to talk. But then he knows his voice would crack, and he refuses to cry in front of someone so hurtful. Refuses to be that weak. He keeps his mouth shut, and the tension builds. There’s not much air left he can breathe.
4. When he gets inside, he throws himself into the mosh pit, actively seeking out the middle. He’s so tired of his home, so he loses himself in the music and the movement, careless of the bruises he'll see in the morning. He feels exhausted and desperate as he lets himself get sucked into the circle pit, moving more violently, all elbows and knees, forgetting himself more completely.
5. He stares into the mirror under the harsh lights, studying his pale skin and the way his eyes are scrunched up from just being opened. He moved the eyeliner back to his right eye, painting his face. Today he is someone else, and he will not miss his home or his family or his friends. Not right now. When he gets to the concert area he plays his guitar for all it's worth, enjoying the way the sound bounces off the shouts of the crowd. After he's done playing, he lets a nameless, loveless face shove him against a wall and kiss him. He’s got nothing better to do.
He glances down at the hands running up his shirt, over his ribs that he knows stick out, dipping into the cave between them. He can't remember the last time he ate- but who cares? He doesn't want to be in all the magazines he's in. He doesn't want to be at all. The only thing he's doing now is losing himself in the fame, becoming invisible under the spotlight.
6. He throws his head back and laughs, feeling the cool night air run down his throat. All the windows are open, and they're driving fast down an empty road. He’s pretending his problems don’t exist tonight. He hands his friend twenty bucks as they pull into the liquor store parking lot. Tonight, they're getting ripped wide open. They down the alcohol, get wasted, spill all their problems, and fall asleep in the car. The same thing that always happens. The same thing that manages to help.
7. He leans back on his empty bed, in his empty hotel room, on this empty, humid day. He lets his head loll over the side; the heat is pressing in around him, making his body sticky with sweat. He’s wearing ripped jeans and a ratty old t-shirt, waiting for something to happen. Anything, really. The past five days he's been feeling so numb.
Today, he's just waiting to feel something. Something real, even if it hurts, because now he's feeling less and less alive. Even if he's left screaming, punching a wall, he just wants there to be something in his life worth living for. Worth fighting for and worth breathing for. He just wants something.
8. Again, he's holed up in the small bathroom of the tour bus. Or, really, this morning; he knows the sun is starting to come up. He’s sitting in the little bench connected to the wall across from the toilet. His left arm is laid out in front of him, resting on his knees. His sleeve is pushed up past his elbow. In his right hand, he's holding onto a slim, shiny blade he extracted from one of his shaving razors. He holds his breath as he moves the silver object just above the skin of his arm.
He wants to see how far he can go. He wants to do something he's never done, something amazing or something repulsive. Letting out his breath, he drags the razor lightly across his arm. A thin red line appears, slowly starting to bubble up. He didn't press hard, so he's surprised, but he figures it's just because the blade is new. He moves the blade again and again, smiling at the little bit of release and control he feels.
At least he can do something right.
9. It's closing in on three a.m., but the traffic of people has yet to stop. There’s been a music festival in town for the past week, and the streets aren't clear until dawn. He’s sitting on the ground against a lamp post, watching the people cross the street. There’s a bottle by his feet he hasn't opened yet, and he can't take his eyes off a post on the building across the street.
His laughing face stares back at him, but he can't remember what made him laugh like that. He wishes he could because the world is feeling too cold and hopeless tonight.
10. She screamed at him in her angry way. Told him he didn't care about anyone besides himself.
He was fucking self-centered.
He was a waste of time.

He let his mouth move into a smirk, a grin, as she yelled, because it was the only thing he could do to keep himself from falling apart.

11. He was dressed to kill in an outfit he wouldn't be caught dead in, but it didn't matter since he hadn't been living much anyway. He felt sick at himself, but kept his smile on as he shook hands and made small talk in a cold hotel.

12. He had been avoiding everyone he knew, hiding out in parks and malls. Whenever they looked at him, he could see their pity shining out at him. He didn't want pity; sympathy, he would understand, but their pity was just sickening, even as they talked softly, creeping around him, they would throw back-handed insults into almost every conversation. He didn't need their words confusing him anymore than he already was, so he stayed where they couldn't find him.

13. In his small, empty hotel room, he looks out the window, into the engulfing blackness beyond. He can't seem to find his reflection in the glass, with his arms wrapped around himself. He wonders how hard it would really be to lose himself out there, to lose all the things attached to him, to become nothingness.
Tonight, he feels like inky black, poison, loneliness of the highest degree. He downs the rest of his water, letting the ice cubes clink back to the bottom of his glass. Leaning over the desk pushed into a corner of the room, he picks up his pen, again.

"Dear Universe,
I think there's this monster inside me..."

Needle In the Hay

2009-06-13T20:43:00.000-04:00

She reached out and caught his arm, the sun glinting off the gold around her neck.
'Don’t run away,' she says.
'Don’t be like your father.'
But the kid is quiet, acting silent and stupid like she knew he would.
---
He walks out the door to catch the bus, body stiff in clothes she picked out.
'It’s all about outer image,' she says.
'It’s all about how the world sees you.'
When she tries to talk to him, he keeps his eyes trained on the floor. Too tired and nervous to look her in the eye. The mother sighs, not understanding- why is he so difficult? Regardless, she'd show him how to be.
---
He moves farther into himself on the bus, shaking from the heat or lack of sleep or the panic crawling up his bones. He wipes a hand across his face, feeling too visible.
---
He gets off the bus before he should, heading for a house he knows. He walks, ignoring the rising sun. Once he makes it to the house, he lets himself in and slips down the stairs to the right bedroom.
He would hide in this house today, with this friend who took the pain away, the friend wouldn't ask, only getting ice for blooming bruises.
He knew where the bruises came from.
'I can't beat myself,' the son would say.
The son and the friend would stay all day, watching old movies and breathing in the smoke from burning papers. The things that helped the son stay quiet.
The son wonders briefly if going to school and getting the right grades would get her off his back, but he used to do that, and he still wasn't good enough. In her eyes he'd never fit in; he'd always be the needle in the hay, too bright and sharp to get by unnoticed.

2009-06-13T20:37:00.001-04:00

The SilverSun Pickups play steady on your radio.
It's fall out, September, closing in on October, and raining hard.
The past two weeks you've barely been breathing.
Just a ball of disgust or apathy.
Just a mess of nothing.
Today you've got this awful cough.
The kind that makes your throat feel raw and shakes you.
You're staying home because they made you,
Then left for their own lives.
You've been outside since nine, lying on the driveway, watching the sky.
You're soaked through now;
You're clothes are clinging to you like they're trying to steal your warmth.
This morning, you woke up for school, got completely ready, before you were stopped and deemed 'contagious.'
At first you were angry and frustrated and restless and just
Gone.
Because that's just how you are now,
Without relent or escape.
But then you found this CD on the computer and downloaded it.
The first chords and you started to calm down.
Now, you're just breathing, un-thinking.
It's not until lightning flashes over head that you think maybe you should get inside.
Before your mom gets home, especially, because wouldn't it just be so awful
For her,
To find you outside,
Acting all 'abnormal', like you do.
Your fingers on your right hand press into the cement, scraping rough on your skin.
There you go again,
Losing that temporary calm.
Your eyes are shifting into a glare at the sky,
And this small part of you feels sad that you can't seem to not be like this.
You don't dwell though, because again you are
Repulsed by everything.
Angry and tired, you jerk to your feet and stomp inside.
Your radio is still outside playing the same song over and over again,
The sound coming out clear regardless of the towel covering it from the rain.
If you could find a solid calm...
'...Lost and loaded...'

Name

2009-06-13T20:28:00.000-04:00

It took me forever
to come up with the name for this.
Titles are very important to me.
It's a throwback to
my eleven year old self,
when I used to spend hours
leafing through baby name books,
looking for the name that sparked my heart.
It might have been because I wanted my characters to be unique right off the bat;
I stuck with names like Ivy and December.
I'm not sure what it says about my writing,
but I know what it says about me.
Because back then, I would have given
anything
to be something other than the kid I was.

I was looking for a name
that said with one, two, three words
what I've been feeling.
A name that showed the brilliance of photos
of friends and birds and sunsets.
A name that told
how good it is to be alive
and how hard we all have to try.
I wanted a name that expressed things
that I don't have words for.
I guess that's what this writing is for.
Anyway, I think I came close.