Corruption Extras |
By Any Other Name
by Nate Fahmi
“I’m certain. Don’t even wor—” I’m cut off by a coughing fit so strong it makes my eyes water. It doesn’t stop, and I can’t get a breath in edgewise. I’m coughing so hard I retch, but it’s much more than dry heaving this time. I sprint to the bathroom and collapse on the floor just in time.
I vomit a pile of pastel pink rose petals, the colour stark against the pristine porcelain of the toilet. I expect to feel better, the way one does after expunging the contents of their stomach, but I just feel worse. The bathroom looks like a flower girl has been set loose on the place, rose petals of varying shades spilled everywhere. Amaryllis runs in, phone in hand.
“What happened?” She asks.
“I was in the mood for a romantic surprise.” I heave again, this time the petals come out bright red. “Huh. Carnation.”
“Now isn’t the time for jokes. This is serious.” A tiny crease forms between her brows, the way it always does when she’s worried or frustrated. “We were having a perfectly good night. Can’t you make it stop?”
“I would if I knew how.” My voice is weak and shaky, I can hardly force the words out. More petals rise up in my throat, but I force them down.
“You said you were fine before. What changed?”
“Well for starters, I forcibly ejected the contents of the farmer’s almanac.” I vomit again, the petals mixing with stomach acid and burning my throat as they come up.
“I just don’t understand how things could be so great, and now you’re like this! You were doing so well.” Her voice is wobbling, it sounds like she’s about to cry.
“I thought I was too.”
“How could I have missed it? First, you’re lethargic, and I think, ‘that’s fine, he works long hours.’” She’s talking mostly to herself now, waving her hands around. “Then you don’t want to eat your favourite foods, but hey, maybe I screwed up the recipe, right? Now all of a sudden, all this?” She waves a hand in the general direction of where I’m keeled over on the bath mat, my knees making grooves in the soft fabric. “Forget it. We’re going to the ER.”
“It’s fine. I think the worst of it has passed now.” I don’t really believe it, and judging by the look she’s giving me, she doesn’t either. She marches out of the bathroom, and I hear her heavy footfall all the way to the kitchen. She comes back in a few moments, bearing a plastic salad bowl that I haven’t seen in years.
“My mom gave you that bowl.”
“And I was too well-brought-up to tell her I hated it. Get in the car, and bring this with you. I just got the seats cleaned.” I get to my feet shakily, placing a hand on the counter for balance as I stand.
With an eerie sense of calm, Amaryllis rummages around the house, packing a small bag of books and cell phone chargers, as well as a change of clothes and our health cards. I put my shoes on, but my fingers shake too much to properly tie the laces, so I tuck them in instead. I don’t even remember to put on my seatbelt, but it soon becomes the least of my problems.
I spend most of the car ride doubled over in pain. It's like something is trying to claw its way out of my stomach and out of my mouth, and I throw up a couple of bouquets’ worth of petals before we get to the hospital. As we pull into the parking lot, I feel a stem coming up.
“Leave the bowl in here. They’ll have something there for you. I’ll take care of it later.” I look down and see that the horrid salad bowl is already full, and plant matter has spilled over the sides and onto the seats.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get you inside, hm?”
When we reach the front desk, we’re greeted by an exhausted-looking receptionist and led into a tiny room, where a triage nurse is waiting to see us.
“What’s bringing you here tonight?” she asks, barely looking up from her computer screen. I look at Amaryllis and shake my head. I can’t speak right now. I know that if I open my mouth, what falls out will likely not be words.
“My husband just started vomiting flowers all of a sudden.”
“Has he ingested any plants or flowers within the past forty-eight hours?”
I shake my head.
“No, he hasn’t.”
“Has he ingested any plant fertilizer in the past forty-eight hours?”
“Of course not! What kind of question is that?”
“Has he had any change in medication that might induce vomiting of plant matter?”
“No. I don’t know why this is happening, that’s why I brought him here!” Amaryllis has begun to raise her voice, panic crawling in around the edges of her words.
“Ma’am, there’s no need to get irritated. I’m just asking a couple of routine questions.”
“Sorry. Do you have any idea when he’ll be able to see a doctor?”
“I’m not sure ma’am. It’s rather busy tonight. Is he in danger of asphyxiation?”
I shake my head. My throat is raw and I feel light on my feet, but ultimately, I’m still alive.
“No, but he needs to get in right now. It’s urgent.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Please have a seat, and we’ll send someone out to see you as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.” She says, but before she leads me to the waiting room, she returns to the front desk and asks for a couple of plastic bags.
We wait for so long that the hours start to blur together. I’ve thrown up more species of flowers than I can count on one hand. Belladonna, bluebell, pale chrysanthemum, daffodil,
hyacinth, all filling clear plastic bags that Amaryllis kindly takes to the garbage cans every so often, holding them as far from herself as possible. Shortly after I’ve thrown up an entire rose, thorns and all, we’re called into a tiny examination room, where a man in a crisp white coat is waiting for us. He introduces himself and I forget his name instantly. “Alright. Tell me what’s going on.”
We run through the whole thing again, right from my lack of appetite to the entire florist’s stock that I’ve been throwing up throughout the night. After we’ve said our piece, he leans back and looks over his notes.
“Well. That certainly sounds like it was a lot.”
“It was,” Amaryllis says, “What do you think is wrong with him?
“Hm. I think it could be psychosomatic.”
“Psychosomatic?”
“Yes. Have you heard of hypochondriasis?” says the doctor, his tone condescending, as though he’s talking to a two-year-old. I nod.
“So you’re saying it’s all—” I pause and try not to retch. “It's all in my head?”
“That’s one way to put it. See, if you convince yourself you’re ill enough, you start to see the symptoms showing up in real life.”
“Great,” says Amaryllis, crossing her arms, “What do we do about that?”
“I recommend you go home, get some rest, maybe try getting some exercise.”
“You mean to tell me we waited for hours for you to tell us absolutely nothing?”
“I can have one of the nurses give you some over-the-counter anti-nausea medication.” The doctor is already standing up from his seat, evidently ready to move on to the next patient. I try to find the strength to speak, try to find a way to open my mouth without vomiting petals onto his shoes.
“So you’re not… you’re not going to treat me? No… tests or anything?”
“You can still breathe, correct?”
“Yes, but—”
“Listen. I’m sure you’re having difficulties, but I do have other patients to attend to. Some who are really suffering.”
“I can’t go home. I can hardly speak—” in a matter of impeccable timing, I vomit a couple of marigolds onto his shoes. He looks down and curls his lip in barely-veiled disgust before he swishes them to the floor with one swift movement of his leg.
“Right. So I really think you might just be looking for some attention. Which I understand, but I really am busy. If the problem doesn’t go away in the next week or two, you can come back, alright? Now I really must be going. Have a good evening.” He stands up and ushers us out the door. We stand in the hallway with people rushing past, harried nurses and doctors attending to the “real emergencies” that our doctor must have been referring to.
“Well. Tomorrow we’ll see if we can get you to a walk-in clinic,” says Amaryllis, “Maybe I’ll vacuum the car as well.”
Missing
by Caitlyn O'Reilly
Taylor appears again, squinting his eyes. "You want to go out and look for her."
Sophia couldn't even deny it. "Yeah," she admits, softly. "I can't stop thinking about her looking for us and just meowing and meowing. She must be so scared."
Taylor winces. "Ouch. Lay off the guilt trip. Let's go look for her."
Sophia looks up at that, and the two find themselves at the front door, pulling on boots and jackets. Taylor runs to get a bag of Dandelion's treats, then the siblings venture out into the storm. Sophia's sure her hair is drenched immediately, and her brother's doesn't look much better. She can't stop thinking about how bad it must be for a kitten and its pouf of fur. She can't stop thinking about how hard it will be to find a little dark brown cat when the sun has set and the moon is clouded over, and everything is overlaid in shades of gray-blue. The harsh lights of the city blur in the rainfall. The abrupt shadows of cars from around the corner make them both jump.
Taylor starts calling Dandelion's name and shaking the bag of treats. Sophia joins him. Sophia doesn't want to spend any longer in the downpour, but she needs to find Dandelion. She starts when lightning strikes somewhere behind her. She counts the seconds until thunder follows, and reassures herself it's far away.
A sound comes from an alleyway. She takes off running before Taylor even notices. He yells after her as he runs after her. "Hey! Sophia, wait up! Where are you-"
They both stop, suddenly, and the entrance to an alleyway looms before them. Sophia would have to steel herself to go in if not for the thought of Dandelion. In the shadows of the dark alleyway, a garbage bag is squirming. Sophia can't even breathe, she's so hopeful. Taylor, beside her, looks far more apprehensive.
His voice is low and measured. "Sophia. We don't know what that is- I think something's wrong. C'mon, let's go home, and Dandelion will come back in the mor-"
Saying the cat's name is a mistake. The garbage bag bursts open and something sweet like rot splatters across Sophia's face. Taylor freezes in place. Sophia wipes her face, spits, then looks down to the cat.
Or what used to be the cat. Sophia's chest aches at the sight of - well, whatever this is. It takes a second before she realizes it's because she isn't breathing. She forces herself to let out the one she's holding, and take in another one. Then to really, really look at the cat.
She doesn't even know how to describe what she sees. The fur sticks up like its been electrocuted. Its eyes are wide, and its mouth bared in a snarl. It's angry. Too angry to be Dandelion, because Dandelion was a sweet, shy cat and this was-
Sophia doesn't know what to do. Sophia runs.
When she does, she's sure the cat is hot at her heels, endlessly furious with her for waiting to search, for leaving Dandelion out in the rain. For being a terrible cat owner, and letting the dark and the rain corrupt something so innocent.
Sophia couldn't even deny it. "Yeah," she admits, softly. "I can't stop thinking about her looking for us and just meowing and meowing. She must be so scared."
Taylor winces. "Ouch. Lay off the guilt trip. Let's go look for her."
Sophia looks up at that, and the two find themselves at the front door, pulling on boots and jackets. Taylor runs to get a bag of Dandelion's treats, then the siblings venture out into the storm. Sophia's sure her hair is drenched immediately, and her brother's doesn't look much better. She can't stop thinking about how bad it must be for a kitten and its pouf of fur. She can't stop thinking about how hard it will be to find a little dark brown cat when the sun has set and the moon is clouded over, and everything is overlaid in shades of gray-blue. The harsh lights of the city blur in the rainfall. The abrupt shadows of cars from around the corner make them both jump.
Taylor starts calling Dandelion's name and shaking the bag of treats. Sophia joins him. Sophia doesn't want to spend any longer in the downpour, but she needs to find Dandelion. She starts when lightning strikes somewhere behind her. She counts the seconds until thunder follows, and reassures herself it's far away.
A sound comes from an alleyway. She takes off running before Taylor even notices. He yells after her as he runs after her. "Hey! Sophia, wait up! Where are you-"
They both stop, suddenly, and the entrance to an alleyway looms before them. Sophia would have to steel herself to go in if not for the thought of Dandelion. In the shadows of the dark alleyway, a garbage bag is squirming. Sophia can't even breathe, she's so hopeful. Taylor, beside her, looks far more apprehensive.
His voice is low and measured. "Sophia. We don't know what that is- I think something's wrong. C'mon, let's go home, and Dandelion will come back in the mor-"
Saying the cat's name is a mistake. The garbage bag bursts open and something sweet like rot splatters across Sophia's face. Taylor freezes in place. Sophia wipes her face, spits, then looks down to the cat.
Or what used to be the cat. Sophia's chest aches at the sight of - well, whatever this is. It takes a second before she realizes it's because she isn't breathing. She forces herself to let out the one she's holding, and take in another one. Then to really, really look at the cat.
She doesn't even know how to describe what she sees. The fur sticks up like its been electrocuted. Its eyes are wide, and its mouth bared in a snarl. It's angry. Too angry to be Dandelion, because Dandelion was a sweet, shy cat and this was-
Sophia doesn't know what to do. Sophia runs.
When she does, she's sure the cat is hot at her heels, endlessly furious with her for waiting to search, for leaving Dandelion out in the rain. For being a terrible cat owner, and letting the dark and the rain corrupt something so innocent.
The Detective
by Sam Harthun
Soon enough I found my way to the police precinct. All of the lights were off -- it appeared that everyone had gone home. But that was fine with me. It meant less noise and the ability to focus more. I tried the door to the main lobby and not to my surprise, it was locked. I dug my hand into the pocket of my trench coat and felt my way towards the keys for the building. I felt nothing. So that was what that earlier feeling was. I checked out my surroundings and the streets behind me. Not a person in sight, just complete darkness. It felt oddly unsettling. I pulled out my emergency paper clip and changed its shape into a lock pick. Desperate times call for desperate measures and that file wasn't going to fill itself out. I fiddled with the lock for a good minute until I heard the satisfying click and creak of the door opening slowly.
I stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind me. I looked around at the dark surroundings of the police precinct lobby. The floor was made of a nice white marble, nicely cleaned by the janitor of this precinct, the desks and cushioned chairs all neatly lined up. The order of the precinct somehow leant it authority. I made my way down the left hallway toward the office with the file. I tried the door and it opened with a loud creak.
“How careless,” I thought to myself. Doors should always be locked, especially around these parts, police precinct or not. I sat down in the red leather chair and spun around in a circle, something I had done since I was a kid. I then devoted my attention to the computer on the desk.
I booted up the computer and looked out the window as the rain gently sprinkled against the glass, flowing down in a mesmerizing trail. The computer beeped a sound of activation and I directed my attention away from the window and headed back towards the computer. I then opened the file of “The Butler”. I always found the name ‘The Butler’ interesting. It was nothing like other serial killers' names -- it was no Jack The Ripper for instance. Those other names were always so brutal and violent while ‘The Butler’ gave off an air of refinement. I added this into the notes, thinking that an accurate description of the man was necessary.
As I finished, that terrible gut feeling returned to my stomach worse than before. A large flash of lightning illuminated the room and soon after a large, booming, thundering sound came. I finished filling out the file and stood still, dead silent. The hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. I listened for any sort of nearby noise and then heard the soft taps of feet on the lobby’s marble floor. Someone was inside the precinct with me. Someone unexpected. They perfectly timed their movement with the booming of thunder so I wouldn’t hear the door open. Whoever this was, they were skilled and definitely knew I was here. I frantically went around the room searching for anything to defend myself with and opened the drawer of the desk. Inside lay a loaded model 586 revolver. I grabbed it and pocketed it inside my trench coat and watched the door.
The footsteps drew nearer until they stopped completely. I kept my eyes on the door and then in one swift motion it was kicked open and I drew my gun and fired. Something hit my left shoulder and I was suddenly in an immense amount of pain. I swore loudly and did my best to hold back a yell. My ears were ringing, the noise from the gun and the pain in my shoulder crashing together in a perfect storm. As I slowly snuck around for a better view of who was in the precinct with me, I saw someone on the ground unmoving with a bloody hole in their chest. Whether they were dead or not didn’t matter to me, I had to leave before the feeling in my shoulder overtook the rest of my body.
I gathered my strength and made my way to the front door, stepping over the body and stepped outside. I looked around the street to see if there was anyone around. The lights in people's houses illuminated the streets. Anyone would wake up to the sound of a gunshot. I clutched my left shoulder. I needed the pain to stop. My home was closer than the hospital, and so I moved as fast as I could in that direction.
Each step brought more pain, and more blood. But nobody came from their house to help me. The lights may have been on, but people seemed afraid to go to their windows or come outside. And then finally I was at my door. I flung it open and stumbled my way to the bathroom. I cleaned my wounds and laid myself carefully down on my tattered couch and turned on the television. The television had always been a friend of mine -- it never spoke back, always listened. I switched to the local news waiting to see if they had caught the suspect. The news anchor said in a solemn tone, “One person reported dead of a gunshot wound. Authorities say Detective Dean Smith was shot at the scene and died almost instantly. A neat, single gunshot to the chest. Police have named ‘The Butler’ as the prime suspect in the… ”
I turned off the television. I had heard many news anchors go on about my accomplishments, and I always had to turn it off before they finished. I am modest about what I do, refined.
But I also knew that I got lucky tonight. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was remembering Cecilia from all those years ago. Remembering the smell of her hair. The way the rain fell on her that Tuesday in November, the last day I ever saw her. How she handed me her umbrella when she came back to her house. Took off her coat and handed that to me, too. The rain from her coat wetted my black shoes and the front of my pants so that it looked like I had peed myself. How she turned around to go up the stairs as I raised the umbrella above my head, and then the sound of thunder. The blood.
The pain in my shoulder was already starting to fade. A butler’s work is never done.
I stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind me. I looked around at the dark surroundings of the police precinct lobby. The floor was made of a nice white marble, nicely cleaned by the janitor of this precinct, the desks and cushioned chairs all neatly lined up. The order of the precinct somehow leant it authority. I made my way down the left hallway toward the office with the file. I tried the door and it opened with a loud creak.
“How careless,” I thought to myself. Doors should always be locked, especially around these parts, police precinct or not. I sat down in the red leather chair and spun around in a circle, something I had done since I was a kid. I then devoted my attention to the computer on the desk.
I booted up the computer and looked out the window as the rain gently sprinkled against the glass, flowing down in a mesmerizing trail. The computer beeped a sound of activation and I directed my attention away from the window and headed back towards the computer. I then opened the file of “The Butler”. I always found the name ‘The Butler’ interesting. It was nothing like other serial killers' names -- it was no Jack The Ripper for instance. Those other names were always so brutal and violent while ‘The Butler’ gave off an air of refinement. I added this into the notes, thinking that an accurate description of the man was necessary.
As I finished, that terrible gut feeling returned to my stomach worse than before. A large flash of lightning illuminated the room and soon after a large, booming, thundering sound came. I finished filling out the file and stood still, dead silent. The hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. I listened for any sort of nearby noise and then heard the soft taps of feet on the lobby’s marble floor. Someone was inside the precinct with me. Someone unexpected. They perfectly timed their movement with the booming of thunder so I wouldn’t hear the door open. Whoever this was, they were skilled and definitely knew I was here. I frantically went around the room searching for anything to defend myself with and opened the drawer of the desk. Inside lay a loaded model 586 revolver. I grabbed it and pocketed it inside my trench coat and watched the door.
The footsteps drew nearer until they stopped completely. I kept my eyes on the door and then in one swift motion it was kicked open and I drew my gun and fired. Something hit my left shoulder and I was suddenly in an immense amount of pain. I swore loudly and did my best to hold back a yell. My ears were ringing, the noise from the gun and the pain in my shoulder crashing together in a perfect storm. As I slowly snuck around for a better view of who was in the precinct with me, I saw someone on the ground unmoving with a bloody hole in their chest. Whether they were dead or not didn’t matter to me, I had to leave before the feeling in my shoulder overtook the rest of my body.
I gathered my strength and made my way to the front door, stepping over the body and stepped outside. I looked around the street to see if there was anyone around. The lights in people's houses illuminated the streets. Anyone would wake up to the sound of a gunshot. I clutched my left shoulder. I needed the pain to stop. My home was closer than the hospital, and so I moved as fast as I could in that direction.
Each step brought more pain, and more blood. But nobody came from their house to help me. The lights may have been on, but people seemed afraid to go to their windows or come outside. And then finally I was at my door. I flung it open and stumbled my way to the bathroom. I cleaned my wounds and laid myself carefully down on my tattered couch and turned on the television. The television had always been a friend of mine -- it never spoke back, always listened. I switched to the local news waiting to see if they had caught the suspect. The news anchor said in a solemn tone, “One person reported dead of a gunshot wound. Authorities say Detective Dean Smith was shot at the scene and died almost instantly. A neat, single gunshot to the chest. Police have named ‘The Butler’ as the prime suspect in the… ”
I turned off the television. I had heard many news anchors go on about my accomplishments, and I always had to turn it off before they finished. I am modest about what I do, refined.
But I also knew that I got lucky tonight. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was remembering Cecilia from all those years ago. Remembering the smell of her hair. The way the rain fell on her that Tuesday in November, the last day I ever saw her. How she handed me her umbrella when she came back to her house. Took off her coat and handed that to me, too. The rain from her coat wetted my black shoes and the front of my pants so that it looked like I had peed myself. How she turned around to go up the stairs as I raised the umbrella above my head, and then the sound of thunder. The blood.
The pain in my shoulder was already starting to fade. A butler’s work is never done.
Honeybee
by Abigail McGhie
She looks more like a girl than a woman, really. Hell, she looks exactly the same as the very last time I saw her. Her fingernails are still blue.
“Oh my god, it is! How have you been?” she asks. Doesn’t she remember the terms we parted on? The selfish part of me (a part that is larger than I’d care to admit) is glad she doesn’t seem to.
I force a pale imitation of her smile. “I’ve been… fine. I didn’t think you’d ever come back,”
“Yeah, neither did I. Back in town for the reunion?”
“I never really left.”
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen everyone, I wouldn’t miss this chance to find out what they’ve all gotten up to! I’ve already seen a few people around- did you know Rachel’s opening a show on Broadway next week? It’s been her dream since, like, 10th grade.”
I don’t admit to her that I can’t remember who Rachel is. It’s not like she can expect me to remember every Tom, Dick and Harry who crosses my path, right?
She sits down across from me. “Are you waiting for someone? I’ll clear out if you are.”
“No. It’s just me.”
She smiles, waving over the waitress, an old, fat woman whose crusty name tag dubs her Charlene. No wonder the eggs look like shit. “I’ll have what he’s having, ” she says, without a hint of irony.
“I should warn you, it isn’t good,” I tell her once the waitress shambles off.
“Well, have you tried it?”
“Do I have to? Just look at them.”
“You won’t eat some eggs just because they look kinda soggy, huh? They’re eggs,” she teases. “You haven’t changed, you know. It’s nice. Everybody else is so different… Gets a little spooky, honestly.”
Coming from anybody else I knew in high school, that would have been a compliment.
“It’s kind of nice to see that this place is still the same. We spent so much time here, didn’t we, Johnny? You look so different. I keep expecting to see this arrogant jock when I look over at you, but I guess it’s been a long time since you were like that, huh?” she laughs, shaking her head.
“It’s been twenty five years,” I reply, my voice breaking. I cough to cover it up. Doesn’t she remember?
She swings her legs up over the seat, lounging like she owns the place. “Yeah, I guess it has. What have you been up to? Still play football?”
“No more football. They took back my scholarship after some bitch sent them a video of me at a party, so I’ve been running my old man’s auto shop since he died.”
“Man, I remember that place! I used to walk by on my way home from school. Is the huge tree still there, behind the parking lot?”
“No. Some kid crashed their car into it a few years back, so the town had to cut it down.”
“What a shame. That thing was massive… must have been a hundred years old at least,” she sighs. “I don’t regret leaving, but it’s still bittersweet coming back. I’ve travelled the world, seen wonders of art, learned languages… I’ve lived a life, but it was time to come back. Things change when you aren’t paying attention. I wasn’t even going to come, actually, but I was in Russia a few weeks ago-”
Her voice fades into the background as I examine her for hints of malice. The longer she’s here, the more apprehensive I get. Sure, I wasn’t the nicest to her through school, but that’s just how it works! If you’re not on top, you’re at the bottom. It’s not my fault she couldn’t handle the pressure. It’s not my fault she had cut the brakes.
“Am I boring you?” she asks, nudging my leg with a cold, bare foot. I could swear she was wearing shoes earlier.
“Of course not. Sorry. Just… wrapped up in my thoughts,” I say.
“S’alright. This weekend has got everyone in an introspective mood. Twenty five years, huh? Time flies. Anyways- how’s Mary? How are the kids?”
I stay silent for a second too long before replying. “Mary turned out to be a coward who’d rather shack up with her coworker than work on our marriage, and the kids- well. They’re grown, but I’m not sure I like the people they’ve grown into.”
She nods slowly. “Didn’t you cheat on her?”
“I- What?”
“Mary. Didn’t you cheat on her?”
“Well- it’s complicated. You can’t expect me to still be… attracted to her after three pregnancies. That’s just how the science shakes out. It’s not my fault,” I say, crossing my arms. “Besides, how do you even know this? Weren’t you in Iceland or whatever?”
“Russia. Word gets around, John. It's a small town,” she stops, seeming lost in space for a moment. “I thought I’d be stuck here forever, you know. In this stupid small town. Especially after what you did.”
My head snaps up, but she continues.
“I thought I’d be stuck here forever, looking over your shoulder, watching you live your less-than-ordinary life, never able to have one of my own.”
“…What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, Johnny. You know what I’m talking about.” She laughs, her tone light and conversational, even as those tire track tattoos start to writhe over her skin.
“I didn’t think you remembered. You didn’t- you didn’t seem to remember.”
“Of course I do. How could I forget the man who made my life hell?”
“Come on, that’s not fair. I’ve always regretted it, you know that better than anyone! I’m still here talking to you, aren’t I?” I say, bristling. This isn’t my fault. This isn’t my fault.
“Nothing ever was, was it, John? Tell me, do you even remember my name?” She asks, tilting her head to the side innocently, jaw hanging like it’s not quite attached to her skull.
“Of course I remember your name! I haven’t stopped thinking about you for twenty five fucking years!”
“What is it, then?”
I open my mouth to say it, say the name I obviously remember (because how could I forget? How could I forget the blood on the concrete, the fingertips turning blue, the sirens? I can’t forget) but I come up empty. It’s not my fault. It was so long ago. They never put her name at that spot on the highway, either. Just a teddy bear.
Somebody crashed into that, too. My fingers itch towards my car keys.
She leans across the table towards me, the air smelling of rot. The eggs tip onto the floor.
“Delilah,” she says, “my name was Delilah.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because you deserve it.”
It wasn’t my fault.
The door slams shut as the waitress lugs herself up to the table and gives me a plate of food. “That’ll be 8.99,” she says, her voice monotone. She’s an old, fat woman, whose crusty name tag dubs her Charlene.
I’m not sure how I ended up here.
It’s about midnight, and I’m sitting in a diner with a plate of all day breakfast in front of me. Two wet eggs, burned bacon, arranged to look like a smiley face, which seems like a cruel joke to give to someone sitting in a highway-side diner in the early hours of the morning.
The sound of sirens passing on the highway gets louder as the door opens again, and a woman steps in. I don’t recognize her until she says my name, and then I wonder how I ever forgot her.
“Oh my god, it is! How have you been?” she asks. Doesn’t she remember the terms we parted on? The selfish part of me (a part that is larger than I’d care to admit) is glad she doesn’t seem to.
I force a pale imitation of her smile. “I’ve been… fine. I didn’t think you’d ever come back,”
“Yeah, neither did I. Back in town for the reunion?”
“I never really left.”
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen everyone, I wouldn’t miss this chance to find out what they’ve all gotten up to! I’ve already seen a few people around- did you know Rachel’s opening a show on Broadway next week? It’s been her dream since, like, 10th grade.”
I don’t admit to her that I can’t remember who Rachel is. It’s not like she can expect me to remember every Tom, Dick and Harry who crosses my path, right?
She sits down across from me. “Are you waiting for someone? I’ll clear out if you are.”
“No. It’s just me.”
She smiles, waving over the waitress, an old, fat woman whose crusty name tag dubs her Charlene. No wonder the eggs look like shit. “I’ll have what he’s having, ” she says, without a hint of irony.
“I should warn you, it isn’t good,” I tell her once the waitress shambles off.
“Well, have you tried it?”
“Do I have to? Just look at them.”
“You won’t eat some eggs just because they look kinda soggy, huh? They’re eggs,” she teases. “You haven’t changed, you know. It’s nice. Everybody else is so different… Gets a little spooky, honestly.”
Coming from anybody else I knew in high school, that would have been a compliment.
“It’s kind of nice to see that this place is still the same. We spent so much time here, didn’t we, Johnny? You look so different. I keep expecting to see this arrogant jock when I look over at you, but I guess it’s been a long time since you were like that, huh?” she laughs, shaking her head.
“It’s been twenty five years,” I reply, my voice breaking. I cough to cover it up. Doesn’t she remember?
She swings her legs up over the seat, lounging like she owns the place. “Yeah, I guess it has. What have you been up to? Still play football?”
“No more football. They took back my scholarship after some bitch sent them a video of me at a party, so I’ve been running my old man’s auto shop since he died.”
“Man, I remember that place! I used to walk by on my way home from school. Is the huge tree still there, behind the parking lot?”
“No. Some kid crashed their car into it a few years back, so the town had to cut it down.”
“What a shame. That thing was massive… must have been a hundred years old at least,” she sighs. “I don’t regret leaving, but it’s still bittersweet coming back. I’ve travelled the world, seen wonders of art, learned languages… I’ve lived a life, but it was time to come back. Things change when you aren’t paying attention. I wasn’t even going to come, actually, but I was in Russia a few weeks ago-”
Her voice fades into the background as I examine her for hints of malice. The longer she’s here, the more apprehensive I get. Sure, I wasn’t the nicest to her through school, but that’s just how it works! If you’re not on top, you’re at the bottom. It’s not my fault she couldn’t handle the pressure. It’s not my fault she had cut the brakes.
“Am I boring you?” she asks, nudging my leg with a cold, bare foot. I could swear she was wearing shoes earlier.
“Of course not. Sorry. Just… wrapped up in my thoughts,” I say.
“S’alright. This weekend has got everyone in an introspective mood. Twenty five years, huh? Time flies. Anyways- how’s Mary? How are the kids?”
I stay silent for a second too long before replying. “Mary turned out to be a coward who’d rather shack up with her coworker than work on our marriage, and the kids- well. They’re grown, but I’m not sure I like the people they’ve grown into.”
She nods slowly. “Didn’t you cheat on her?”
“I- What?”
“Mary. Didn’t you cheat on her?”
“Well- it’s complicated. You can’t expect me to still be… attracted to her after three pregnancies. That’s just how the science shakes out. It’s not my fault,” I say, crossing my arms. “Besides, how do you even know this? Weren’t you in Iceland or whatever?”
“Russia. Word gets around, John. It's a small town,” she stops, seeming lost in space for a moment. “I thought I’d be stuck here forever, you know. In this stupid small town. Especially after what you did.”
My head snaps up, but she continues.
“I thought I’d be stuck here forever, looking over your shoulder, watching you live your less-than-ordinary life, never able to have one of my own.”
“…What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, Johnny. You know what I’m talking about.” She laughs, her tone light and conversational, even as those tire track tattoos start to writhe over her skin.
“I didn’t think you remembered. You didn’t- you didn’t seem to remember.”
“Of course I do. How could I forget the man who made my life hell?”
“Come on, that’s not fair. I’ve always regretted it, you know that better than anyone! I’m still here talking to you, aren’t I?” I say, bristling. This isn’t my fault. This isn’t my fault.
“Nothing ever was, was it, John? Tell me, do you even remember my name?” She asks, tilting her head to the side innocently, jaw hanging like it’s not quite attached to her skull.
“Of course I remember your name! I haven’t stopped thinking about you for twenty five fucking years!”
“What is it, then?”
I open my mouth to say it, say the name I obviously remember (because how could I forget? How could I forget the blood on the concrete, the fingertips turning blue, the sirens? I can’t forget) but I come up empty. It’s not my fault. It was so long ago. They never put her name at that spot on the highway, either. Just a teddy bear.
Somebody crashed into that, too. My fingers itch towards my car keys.
She leans across the table towards me, the air smelling of rot. The eggs tip onto the floor.
“Delilah,” she says, “my name was Delilah.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because you deserve it.”
It wasn’t my fault.
The door slams shut as the waitress lugs herself up to the table and gives me a plate of food. “That’ll be 8.99,” she says, her voice monotone. She’s an old, fat woman, whose crusty name tag dubs her Charlene.
I’m not sure how I ended up here.
It’s about midnight, and I’m sitting in a diner with a plate of all day breakfast in front of me. Two wet eggs, burned bacon, arranged to look like a smiley face, which seems like a cruel joke to give to someone sitting in a highway-side diner in the early hours of the morning.
The sound of sirens passing on the highway gets louder as the door opens again, and a woman steps in. I don’t recognize her until she says my name, and then I wonder how I ever forgot her.
Flames and Sandstorms
by Logan Webster
Two weeks later, Mirage hit the streets. Named for its hallucination symptom, the fruit was being sold at exorbitant prices in governmentally run stores all across the capital. High prices were necessary because of the Mirage tree’s incredible water consumption rate. As a result, Jexi was offered a sizable increase in funding and a longer contract from the mayor. Unfortunately, this rise of Mirage was only the second biggest story in the papers that week. Villages along the northwestern branch of the Great Geyser’s aqueduct were reporting mysterious deaths. Numerous villagers had reported adverse health effects the past few days and many hadn’t survived. The public assumed a contagious virus had broken out, but Jexi’s daughter Jali, a virologist, noted that since this sickness was only happening along the northwestern aqueduct, it was likely spread through the water.
Another week passed and Jexi went to go visit the Mirage greenhouse. It was a big building in an excellent location, right next to the Great Geyser. Strangely, only the roof was glass, unlike normal, entirely glass greenhouses. Thick, black metal wrapped the building laterally. A nice smell of lavender emanated from it. Entry permits into this building were rare, but Jexi had managed to talk Mayor Finias into getting himself one. The heat that hit the scientist when he entered the building was comparable to the worst of desert noons, but the sight of the rows and rows of Mirage trees made the trip worthwhile. Jexi felt a strong sense of pride, seeing his creation taken so seriously. Walking around admiring the trees they’d grown so fast, he noticed a desk and a hatch at the far end of the room. Opening the desk, Jexi found papers detailing plans for a water diluting operation. In a flash, gears were turning in his head, only to be interrupted just as quickly as they were started. Behind him, the mayor spoke up.
“Oh, you… I didn’t know you would be here today…” Suspicious, Jexi turned and opened the hatch next to the desk. It was an entrance to the room next door. The room that held the entry point of the northwestern aqueduct.
“That’s a hard one to explain, isn’t it.” the mayor muttered.
“Mayor Finias, what does it mean, ‘water diluting’?” Jexi asked, worked up.
“Jexi, the fruit you’ve engineered is truly something special. But it has flaws”. There was a moment of silence. “As you know, nurturing these trees at the rate that they grow is very water intensive. It takes up water that this city just doesn’t have. Thing is, we can’t stop growing them now because of all the positive feedback from the upper class. The drug is addictive. We can charge exorbitant prices for them and no one opts out. Jexi, these fruits have almost doubled the city’s budget”.
“So where are you taking the water from?” he demanded, already knowing the answer.
“All this extra money will make our continent prosper! But prosperity comes at a cost, and in this case, I’ve needed to divert water from one of the aqueducts. Now, the northwestern branch of the aqueduct serves by far the lowest population, so the effects of tampering with the supply has been minimised as much as possible. Plus, we couldn’t be risking our other, more useful districts, like the industrial quadrants in the east, and-”
“What have you been doing to the water to make people sick like that!?”
“I’ll not sugarcoat it. The water gets heavily diluted to keep up with village demand. The material we put in the water is not exactly… health-oriented, and is mostly just a cheap liquid substance. To cover it up, I’ve had some doctors make up an illness, calling it heavily contagious to hinder individual investigations.”
“I can’t believe my fruit lead to something like this. How can you live with yourself!? I’m telling the public immediately!”
“W-w-w-wait! You can’t do that! I’d be ruined, and the city would fall into chaos! You certainly can’t!” Sweat formed on the greasy mayor’s face.
“I certainly can. I don’t see any guards with you, and I doubt you’d put up too much of a fight by yourself.” Jexi was pushing past the man when his tone changed. His quivering voice assumed a more political, snakish nature.
“You’re right, you’re right, but what if we didn’t fight? What if we came to a more… mutually beneficial conclusion?”
“What do you mean?”
“As I said, the city has nearly double the funds it used to. I’m sure with our newly stuffed coffers, we could find a substantial share for you.” Jexi stood motionless.
“How does 20% of profits sound?”
The scientist almost choked. If the mayor had been telling the truth about the city’s budget doubling, Jexi’s family wouldn’t have to worry about money for generations! He thought about his relatively meagre salary, then about the people in the northwestern branch of cities, then about his daughter. “20%?”
“20% for the good scientist” Mayor Finias beamed and handed him a fruit.
Jexi didn’t sleep that night. The thought of plagues and thirst and money drifted around his mind as he tossed and turned. A week passed and scores more had succumbed to the ‘disease’. Hundreds were in poor health. Days ago, the government had even hanged someone who was investigating the illnesses. The public reason was to prevent the spread of the infection as much as possible, but that was just another cover up. One that he himself was allowing. It was another couple days later when he read in the newspaper: Multiple virologists hanged after coming into contact with killer virus in northwest. Among the victims were Luci Géala, Herori Yaga, and Jali Helias.
Jali Helias. Jexi’s own daughter. Breaking into a cold sweat, he collapsed to the floor, almost not believing what he’d just read. His own daughter was a victim of his greed! He flew into a rage, sweeping everything off his counter. Expensive glasses, plates, art, all shattering on the floor. He thought of all his money, wondering how much of it he’d need to trade away to get his daughter back. Jexi fell back to the floor and laid there in the broken glass for another 15 minutes, but eventually got back up and wrote a note, leaving it on his counter in plain view. Later that day, as a wicked wind picked up outside, the scientist left the house with a lighter in his pocket.
A short pit stop later and Jexi was back at the doors of the greenhouse with a generous amount of kerosene. He swiped his entry permit and threw it away, hauling his combustibles through the black iron doors.
Making his way through the rows of trees, dousing them in kerosene, Jexi reflected. At this point, just reporting the scheme and accepting the consequences wouldn’t be good enough. Even this plan wouldn’t be good enough, but it was closer. He remembered to check the desk. Inside, he found what he was looking for: the papers on how to grow Mirage. Satisfied as a man coated in accelerant can be, he turned around, and to his surprise, saw Mayor Finias drugged out in a fetal position under a tree. Discarded, half-eaten Mirage fruits littered the ground surrounding him. It was clear he was barely conscious, but even in his delirious state, he noticed the combustible cans Jexi was carrying with him.
All Finias managed to say was a panicked ‘Auaug, aooh… guh.’ He doesn’t look very mayorly right now, he thought, as Finias grabbed fruitlessly at Jexi’s pant legs. He poured some kerosene right onto him, kicking the fumbling hands away.
Jexi stood in the middle of the room and took one more look around then reached into his coat pocket. His silver lighter was dull in the night’s darkness. He heard two things: The mayor’s slurred, panicked ramblings, and the sandstorm that had formed outside. Click, click, the lighter was lit. After taping down the button, Jexi dropped it and fell to his back, red tongues licking him all over. The roar of the inferno drowned even the sharp lavender smell out, leaving him and his fruit to contemplate the beautiful view of flames and sandstorms.
Another week passed and Jexi went to go visit the Mirage greenhouse. It was a big building in an excellent location, right next to the Great Geyser. Strangely, only the roof was glass, unlike normal, entirely glass greenhouses. Thick, black metal wrapped the building laterally. A nice smell of lavender emanated from it. Entry permits into this building were rare, but Jexi had managed to talk Mayor Finias into getting himself one. The heat that hit the scientist when he entered the building was comparable to the worst of desert noons, but the sight of the rows and rows of Mirage trees made the trip worthwhile. Jexi felt a strong sense of pride, seeing his creation taken so seriously. Walking around admiring the trees they’d grown so fast, he noticed a desk and a hatch at the far end of the room. Opening the desk, Jexi found papers detailing plans for a water diluting operation. In a flash, gears were turning in his head, only to be interrupted just as quickly as they were started. Behind him, the mayor spoke up.
“Oh, you… I didn’t know you would be here today…” Suspicious, Jexi turned and opened the hatch next to the desk. It was an entrance to the room next door. The room that held the entry point of the northwestern aqueduct.
“That’s a hard one to explain, isn’t it.” the mayor muttered.
“Mayor Finias, what does it mean, ‘water diluting’?” Jexi asked, worked up.
“Jexi, the fruit you’ve engineered is truly something special. But it has flaws”. There was a moment of silence. “As you know, nurturing these trees at the rate that they grow is very water intensive. It takes up water that this city just doesn’t have. Thing is, we can’t stop growing them now because of all the positive feedback from the upper class. The drug is addictive. We can charge exorbitant prices for them and no one opts out. Jexi, these fruits have almost doubled the city’s budget”.
“So where are you taking the water from?” he demanded, already knowing the answer.
“All this extra money will make our continent prosper! But prosperity comes at a cost, and in this case, I’ve needed to divert water from one of the aqueducts. Now, the northwestern branch of the aqueduct serves by far the lowest population, so the effects of tampering with the supply has been minimised as much as possible. Plus, we couldn’t be risking our other, more useful districts, like the industrial quadrants in the east, and-”
“What have you been doing to the water to make people sick like that!?”
“I’ll not sugarcoat it. The water gets heavily diluted to keep up with village demand. The material we put in the water is not exactly… health-oriented, and is mostly just a cheap liquid substance. To cover it up, I’ve had some doctors make up an illness, calling it heavily contagious to hinder individual investigations.”
“I can’t believe my fruit lead to something like this. How can you live with yourself!? I’m telling the public immediately!”
“W-w-w-wait! You can’t do that! I’d be ruined, and the city would fall into chaos! You certainly can’t!” Sweat formed on the greasy mayor’s face.
“I certainly can. I don’t see any guards with you, and I doubt you’d put up too much of a fight by yourself.” Jexi was pushing past the man when his tone changed. His quivering voice assumed a more political, snakish nature.
“You’re right, you’re right, but what if we didn’t fight? What if we came to a more… mutually beneficial conclusion?”
“What do you mean?”
“As I said, the city has nearly double the funds it used to. I’m sure with our newly stuffed coffers, we could find a substantial share for you.” Jexi stood motionless.
“How does 20% of profits sound?”
The scientist almost choked. If the mayor had been telling the truth about the city’s budget doubling, Jexi’s family wouldn’t have to worry about money for generations! He thought about his relatively meagre salary, then about the people in the northwestern branch of cities, then about his daughter. “20%?”
“20% for the good scientist” Mayor Finias beamed and handed him a fruit.
Jexi didn’t sleep that night. The thought of plagues and thirst and money drifted around his mind as he tossed and turned. A week passed and scores more had succumbed to the ‘disease’. Hundreds were in poor health. Days ago, the government had even hanged someone who was investigating the illnesses. The public reason was to prevent the spread of the infection as much as possible, but that was just another cover up. One that he himself was allowing. It was another couple days later when he read in the newspaper: Multiple virologists hanged after coming into contact with killer virus in northwest. Among the victims were Luci Géala, Herori Yaga, and Jali Helias.
Jali Helias. Jexi’s own daughter. Breaking into a cold sweat, he collapsed to the floor, almost not believing what he’d just read. His own daughter was a victim of his greed! He flew into a rage, sweeping everything off his counter. Expensive glasses, plates, art, all shattering on the floor. He thought of all his money, wondering how much of it he’d need to trade away to get his daughter back. Jexi fell back to the floor and laid there in the broken glass for another 15 minutes, but eventually got back up and wrote a note, leaving it on his counter in plain view. Later that day, as a wicked wind picked up outside, the scientist left the house with a lighter in his pocket.
A short pit stop later and Jexi was back at the doors of the greenhouse with a generous amount of kerosene. He swiped his entry permit and threw it away, hauling his combustibles through the black iron doors.
Making his way through the rows of trees, dousing them in kerosene, Jexi reflected. At this point, just reporting the scheme and accepting the consequences wouldn’t be good enough. Even this plan wouldn’t be good enough, but it was closer. He remembered to check the desk. Inside, he found what he was looking for: the papers on how to grow Mirage. Satisfied as a man coated in accelerant can be, he turned around, and to his surprise, saw Mayor Finias drugged out in a fetal position under a tree. Discarded, half-eaten Mirage fruits littered the ground surrounding him. It was clear he was barely conscious, but even in his delirious state, he noticed the combustible cans Jexi was carrying with him.
All Finias managed to say was a panicked ‘Auaug, aooh… guh.’ He doesn’t look very mayorly right now, he thought, as Finias grabbed fruitlessly at Jexi’s pant legs. He poured some kerosene right onto him, kicking the fumbling hands away.
Jexi stood in the middle of the room and took one more look around then reached into his coat pocket. His silver lighter was dull in the night’s darkness. He heard two things: The mayor’s slurred, panicked ramblings, and the sandstorm that had formed outside. Click, click, the lighter was lit. After taping down the button, Jexi dropped it and fell to his back, red tongues licking him all over. The roar of the inferno drowned even the sharp lavender smell out, leaving him and his fruit to contemplate the beautiful view of flames and sandstorms.
Daffy Duck
by Hinata Derouin
Over time, Daffy started to evolve as a character. In the late forties to early fifties, creators began to dull down his eccentric personality and gave him some of the wit that was popular with another Looney Tunes character at the time, Bugs Bunny. Daffy began to be paired with Porky Pig, his old enemy from Porky’s Duck Hunt, and the two formed a comedic duo, where Porky played straight man to the remnants of Daffy’s bizarre personality.
But eventually, like the dark plumage of Daffy’s hind, a shadow of greed began to develop. We first see this change in the cartoon, You Were Never Duckier, in which Daffy Duck, determined to win $5,000 for best rooster after seeing the low prize of $5.00 for the best duck, tries to disguise himself as a rooster. He still retained some of his “screwball” characteristics, but this cartoon marked a change in his character into what most people know him as today.
Bugs Bunny wasn’t much help in the matter either. As the supreme star of Warner Bros., the animators of the studio decided that Bugs needed a rival, or more specifically, a foil to his cool-headed personality. Daffy Duck, who had been overshadowed by Bugs Bunny’s new popularity, had taken this rival position, filled with jealousy and insecurity for the one who had stolen his spotlight. He began to grow bitter, cocky, a character that would do anything for attention. His ego and pride grew bigger and bigger, his mind bent on self-preservation instead of his carefree, zany mindset of before.
Is this not moral depravity? Daffy Duck used to be a character more concerned with shouting out crazed cries in his simple little pond than besting everyone in a desperate attempt for some sort of attention. People are way more likely to describe him as rude or vain than daffy as his name suggests. When the ducks had migrated, Daffy Duck’s morals had stayed behind.
Corruption isn’t always something that we’re aware of. Sometimes it’s right under our noses and we aren’t even aware of it. Blinded by the familiarity of Daffy’s personality, we never even considered that he might’ve fallen from a grace we had long forgotten. Does this make corruption bad? Or should we thank it for bringing us the Daffy Duck we love today? That’s a question I hope that philosophers will continue to ask in the next coming decade. But who knows? Daffy Duck might be a completely different duck by then.
That’s all folks!
*This was written while referencing the Wikipedia pages for Daffy Duck, Bugs Bunny and Porky Pig.
But eventually, like the dark plumage of Daffy’s hind, a shadow of greed began to develop. We first see this change in the cartoon, You Were Never Duckier, in which Daffy Duck, determined to win $5,000 for best rooster after seeing the low prize of $5.00 for the best duck, tries to disguise himself as a rooster. He still retained some of his “screwball” characteristics, but this cartoon marked a change in his character into what most people know him as today.
Bugs Bunny wasn’t much help in the matter either. As the supreme star of Warner Bros., the animators of the studio decided that Bugs needed a rival, or more specifically, a foil to his cool-headed personality. Daffy Duck, who had been overshadowed by Bugs Bunny’s new popularity, had taken this rival position, filled with jealousy and insecurity for the one who had stolen his spotlight. He began to grow bitter, cocky, a character that would do anything for attention. His ego and pride grew bigger and bigger, his mind bent on self-preservation instead of his carefree, zany mindset of before.
Is this not moral depravity? Daffy Duck used to be a character more concerned with shouting out crazed cries in his simple little pond than besting everyone in a desperate attempt for some sort of attention. People are way more likely to describe him as rude or vain than daffy as his name suggests. When the ducks had migrated, Daffy Duck’s morals had stayed behind.
Corruption isn’t always something that we’re aware of. Sometimes it’s right under our noses and we aren’t even aware of it. Blinded by the familiarity of Daffy’s personality, we never even considered that he might’ve fallen from a grace we had long forgotten. Does this make corruption bad? Or should we thank it for bringing us the Daffy Duck we love today? That’s a question I hope that philosophers will continue to ask in the next coming decade. But who knows? Daffy Duck might be a completely different duck by then.
That’s all folks!
*This was written while referencing the Wikipedia pages for Daffy Duck, Bugs Bunny and Porky Pig.
Can You Taste Metal?
By Evan Clare
The boy couldn't sleep. He was worried and scared, but most of all, he felt like something was off. The colour of the fire, the way the explosion shook the apartment, he could tell something was very, very wrong.
The boy made sure his mother was asleep before leaving. He quietly put on his jacket and snuck out into the night. He made his way to the bridge on the edge of town where a group of people had gathered to watch the fire. As he stepped up to get a good look, he felt a hot blast of air hit him with some force, making him stumble. Everyone around was quietly whispering to each other, exchanging theories about how the fire started. Minutes passed before the boy could hear some shouting coming from the city. It got louder and the boy realized there was someone running towards them, waving their hands.
“Run! Run!” The man shouted. “We all must run! The air we breathe is poisoned!”
“Someone’s lost it” The boy heard someone say behind him.
“Look around at the ash that falls around you!” He continued. “The radiation will poison you all! We must run!”
The boy looked around. Ash was indeed falling but he knew from school that it was nothing to worry about. The man went on for a few more minutes before two people in suits came over, put a hand on the man’s shoulder, and began walking away with the man between the two people in suits.
“KGB” The boy heard someone whisper.
It was quiet for less than ten minutes. As the boy checked his watch and saw that it was almost three thirty in the morning, a small group of people emerged from the direction of the power plant. There were four of them, all dressed in the white workers' clothes. They were all covered in sweat and bruises. One of them was clutching his right hand. With a start the boy realized that his hand was covered in blisters and blood. Burned, but that didn’t look like an ordinary burn from fire, and the boy had seen enough burns on his father to know what a regular burn from a fire looks like. Another one was saying to himself over and over, “I did everything right, I did everything right, I did everything right, I did everything right.”
“Comrades, we need to get to the hospital,” one of the workers with a big beard said. He appeared to be their leader.
“No!” Another shouted. “We- we can’t. We all need to leave, now” He said and swallowed hard.
“Don’t listen to him, we need to get my comrade here to the hospital” Their leader said, gesturing to the injured worker.
“Your not listening!” The other worker said with authority. “I saw it with my own eyes. It exploded”
“What exploded? Spit it out!” Their leader said harshly.
“The goddamn reactor!” The worker blurted out. “Now all of the radiation in that reactor is in the air we breathe at this very moment!”
The man with the beard just looked at him with a plain expression painted on his face. “Your in shock, comrade. RBMK reactor cores don’t explode.”
“I saw it with my own eyes!” The man said anxiously.
“Comrade, what you're saying is physically impossible, it must be the tank.” The man said, annoyed. “We are wasting time, we need to get to the hospit-”
The boy stepped back as the bearded man fell to his knees and threw up. Suddenly the boy became very aware of his breathing, and tasted metal in his mouth. As he started to become scared he turned to go home. Many people around him followed suit as he overheard them say to themselves that they felt sick. The boy broke into a jog as he grew more desperate to crawl back into the safety of his bed. He almost made it to the main street before his legs gave out from underneath him as he fell against the cold pavement. As he struggled to get up he looked up to see ambulance after ambulance race off the hospital, coming from the power plant. He stood there for multiple minutes as the endless stream of ambulances continued. He eventually made it across the road and back into his bed, but as he was falling asleep, he noticed he could still taste metal in his mouth.
30 years later
The man sat in the waiting room anxiously. He wanted his test result quickly so he could go home to his family. A door opened at the other side of the room as his doctor entered and walked towards him.
“I have the results of the test.” The doctor said, “but can I first ask where you grew up?”
“Of course,” the man said. “I grew up in Pripyat. Near Chernobyl.”
“Ah,” the doctor said. “That explains it. Unfortunately you have been diagnosed with leukaemia. It occurs when someone has been in contact with a significant amount of radiation. There has been a 90% increase in leukaemia in recent years. You are just the most recent person in a long line to be diagnosed with it unfortunately. Far too many people have gotten it recently, something is definitely not right.”
The boy made sure his mother was asleep before leaving. He quietly put on his jacket and snuck out into the night. He made his way to the bridge on the edge of town where a group of people had gathered to watch the fire. As he stepped up to get a good look, he felt a hot blast of air hit him with some force, making him stumble. Everyone around was quietly whispering to each other, exchanging theories about how the fire started. Minutes passed before the boy could hear some shouting coming from the city. It got louder and the boy realized there was someone running towards them, waving their hands.
“Run! Run!” The man shouted. “We all must run! The air we breathe is poisoned!”
“Someone’s lost it” The boy heard someone say behind him.
“Look around at the ash that falls around you!” He continued. “The radiation will poison you all! We must run!”
The boy looked around. Ash was indeed falling but he knew from school that it was nothing to worry about. The man went on for a few more minutes before two people in suits came over, put a hand on the man’s shoulder, and began walking away with the man between the two people in suits.
“KGB” The boy heard someone whisper.
It was quiet for less than ten minutes. As the boy checked his watch and saw that it was almost three thirty in the morning, a small group of people emerged from the direction of the power plant. There were four of them, all dressed in the white workers' clothes. They were all covered in sweat and bruises. One of them was clutching his right hand. With a start the boy realized that his hand was covered in blisters and blood. Burned, but that didn’t look like an ordinary burn from fire, and the boy had seen enough burns on his father to know what a regular burn from a fire looks like. Another one was saying to himself over and over, “I did everything right, I did everything right, I did everything right, I did everything right.”
“Comrades, we need to get to the hospital,” one of the workers with a big beard said. He appeared to be their leader.
“No!” Another shouted. “We- we can’t. We all need to leave, now” He said and swallowed hard.
“Don’t listen to him, we need to get my comrade here to the hospital” Their leader said, gesturing to the injured worker.
“Your not listening!” The other worker said with authority. “I saw it with my own eyes. It exploded”
“What exploded? Spit it out!” Their leader said harshly.
“The goddamn reactor!” The worker blurted out. “Now all of the radiation in that reactor is in the air we breathe at this very moment!”
The man with the beard just looked at him with a plain expression painted on his face. “Your in shock, comrade. RBMK reactor cores don’t explode.”
“I saw it with my own eyes!” The man said anxiously.
“Comrade, what you're saying is physically impossible, it must be the tank.” The man said, annoyed. “We are wasting time, we need to get to the hospit-”
The boy stepped back as the bearded man fell to his knees and threw up. Suddenly the boy became very aware of his breathing, and tasted metal in his mouth. As he started to become scared he turned to go home. Many people around him followed suit as he overheard them say to themselves that they felt sick. The boy broke into a jog as he grew more desperate to crawl back into the safety of his bed. He almost made it to the main street before his legs gave out from underneath him as he fell against the cold pavement. As he struggled to get up he looked up to see ambulance after ambulance race off the hospital, coming from the power plant. He stood there for multiple minutes as the endless stream of ambulances continued. He eventually made it across the road and back into his bed, but as he was falling asleep, he noticed he could still taste metal in his mouth.
30 years later
The man sat in the waiting room anxiously. He wanted his test result quickly so he could go home to his family. A door opened at the other side of the room as his doctor entered and walked towards him.
“I have the results of the test.” The doctor said, “but can I first ask where you grew up?”
“Of course,” the man said. “I grew up in Pripyat. Near Chernobyl.”
“Ah,” the doctor said. “That explains it. Unfortunately you have been diagnosed with leukaemia. It occurs when someone has been in contact with a significant amount of radiation. There has been a 90% increase in leukaemia in recent years. You are just the most recent person in a long line to be diagnosed with it unfortunately. Far too many people have gotten it recently, something is definitely not right.”