Go Tell the Spartans

I kind of lifted this story from Herodotus, I don't think he'll mind.

Banished from our home of Samos, those survivors of Attica’s aggression turned to Sparta for help, hunger eating away at our bodies and exhaustion at our souls. We set out for the city and my brother, the one chosen to present our cause to the Spartans, prepared a speech to sway them to our cause and provide us aid. Though hard, the Spartans are fellow Greek and our trusted allies, and I have faith they will not abandon us or ignore our plight. Sparta holds sanctuary for us all, and we shall yet have justice for the wrongs committed against us.

Upon our arrival the Spartans greeted us, ushering us into their amphitheatre with no fanfare. The Spartans gathered to hear us speak as was custom, and my brother stood forward to oblige. The sullen eyes of these hundreds of Spartans scared me more than any force Athens sent against us, and I felt a chill climb up my back. My brother must have felt the same, his whole body wanting to shake but he keeping it to his left hand hidden behind his back, and as such he launched into his speech with courage and conviction.

“Spartans, we humbly thank you for taking us into your city and showing us the hospitality one shows their neighbors. A city as powerful as yours must receive countless requests and demands from friends and enemies alike, yet you take time to listen to us poor Samians and for this we cannot be thankful enough. As you all know our two peoples stood by one another as allies, ready to fight for one another when the need arose. Today we do not fight for our city or honor but for our very lives, and we beg you to stand by us in this time of need.”

My brother paused a moment to gauge his audience, the sense of boredom and impatience reflected in hundreds of glazed eyes and voiced in a symphony of coughs and sneezes, this feeling of melancholy concentrated onto the point where my brother stands. He breathed deep and prepared to break the poor Spartan mood.

“History is filled with the good deeds and valor of Spartans, not the least of which is her aid to our defense against our common Athenian foes. We struggle to meet your greatness and return what is given to us, but one day we can return the favor. Continue to stand by us, we remain loyal to you. Listen to our story so that you may know our hardships and better understand what needs to be done.”

My brother continued, recounting a tale of valor and woe, of Athens’s unprovoked attack upon us and their merciless destruction of our island and its beautiful city. He told the Spartans of death and misfortune, how children wander among the corpses of their parents and how the smell of fire and burning flesh follows us even to this peaceful city, Sparta. Not even those who sought shelter in sacred temples were spared, so depraved was the attack upon us. My people wept at the portrait my brother painted, the memories of war still fresh, and many of us still shaking in fear, jumping at shadows from the horrors we suffered. But the gods saw fit to spare us, and they shall see fit to watch Athens burn by Sparta’s hand, so my brother told them. The Spartans can understand this plight; they can share our pain and help us to rebuild all that was lost.

The speech my brother gave came to an end. There was no applause, not so much as a sound from the Spartans, and though nothing was said much was communicated. My people despaired at our failure to secure the help of the Spartans while our hunger and pain bit deeper with the thought we would have to leave the city empty handed. My brother on the verge of tears turned to me and said, “We’re lost. What hope do we have if the Spartans do nothing?”

Just then one of the Spartans stood and addressed us, he said, “We forgot the first half of your speech, and we could make nothing of the remainder.”

All of us Samians were dumbfounded, and it was then I alone realized our mistake, the folly of forgetting the nature and customs of our hosts. A new tinge of hope filled me with warmth and excited every fiber of my being, pushing me forward to speak. I took from under my tunic an empty bag meant to carry the aid to receive from Sparta and gave my own speech, one suitable to Spartan ears. Thrusting the bag forward towards the audience I said, “The bag wants flour.”

The standing Spartan looked at me and smiled, he said, “You needn’t have said ‘the bag’ but you’ll have aid.”

Outwardly we remained stoic in the faces of our wonderful allies and friends the Spartans, but in our hearts we rejoiced. We ate and drank well that night.

Look on My Works Ye Mighty, and Despair

I've finally gotten around to writing once more, and this is the first of three stories I have. The other two will be up soon.

My empire crumbles before my very eyes and I sit buried alive in the tomb among the ruins of my glorious capital, my very own city. I never imagined my enemies would ever defeat my armies one by one, breach the sanctity of my city, and leave me to die the pitiful death of an animal. My enemies compared me to Hitler, Stalin and the like, though they never lasted long they laugh at me from the ashes.

My uniform, metals, titles, and honors count for nothing! Can a name buy victory? The loyalty of my men led only to treachery and the strength of my arms yielded only defeat. The battles went my way when the fighting was fair, but my enemy grew cunning and pulled my rightful victory from under my feet, from within my own country. My own people abandon me and bow down to foreign masters, I see to it those unfortunate enough to survive rot in a barren wasteland unfit for even the vilest forms of life.

The great buildings I made collapse into ruin, blasted by fire from the sky, and my people die in droves, burnt and crushed and beaten and shot. The smell of fire and death consumes my country. Good, the flesh of my people burns to nothing and leaves no feast of victory for the foreign vultures devouring my lands. They speak of freedom and democracy, but such words are lies. I lived only the truth and am destroyed for it, though they cannot be rid of me forever. I rose before and shall rise again to rule over the hearts and souls of men until the end of days. I will return.

Creature from the Hundred Acre Wood

It's been awhile since I last posted. I should get on writing more. Here's a little story inspired by this drawing:



This picture is the perfect combination of sad and grotesque; it puts a smile on my face every time I see it.

Deep in an old forest lives a bear hidden in a cave. This bear’s den sits in a disenchanted place, carved out of a knoll covered in weeds and knotted trees. Light rarely reaches this place, touching the mouth of the den a few precious times when the wind blows holes in the mat of leaves blanketing the area. Inside the den the bear lays on a bed of moss regardless of the season, never leaving the dank confines of its home.

The bear is old, its fur yellowed from age. Its breathing is heavy and labored. The yellow body of the bear is a gelatinous mass, its stubby arms and legs useless for any meaningful movement, yet it manages to grab at a pot of honey and shovel its face full of the stuff. The honey drips around its mouth and onto the bear’s red shirt, a gift from a little boy who once loved the bear but is now long gone. The shirt is ragged and torn, stretched thin by the bear’s girth. The bear keeps it out of habit.

Sleepy sounds seep into the den from outside, the summer heat unable to find its way down into the twisted cave concealing the bear. The bear keeps its jar of honey close, the only comfort left while buried underground. Honey, once the great love in the bear’s life, is now compulsion. There is no joy left in the bear’s eyes, and the luster has left the black beads set deep in his face. All that’s left in those eyes is the dull embers of a tired life waiting to drink the one nectar the bear has yet to taste, the sweet mercy of death. Sleep comes easy to the creature.

In Service to No One

It's been awhile since I last updated, but the last two months of summer destroyed what little creative essence I have. Forty hour weeks at the Country Grocer working on renovations will do that to anyone. Getting back to school motivated me to write more stories. Here's the latest.

A young boy sat in a dark and cramped room, decay leaving the place more of a cave forgotten and left to time. The boy found it looking for escape from a dank, humid hall, as the darkness seemed cool and inviting. The reality though was continued oppressive humidity, but the boy stayed regardless. He jumped at the sound of a voice flat and mechanic yet comfortingly female.

“Hello, what are you doing here little boy?”

After slipping around for a moment the boy sputters, “Who’s that? Are you one of them?”

“Me one of them, no I’m not trying to bring you back. I’m no one in particular, but you James are someone we consider quite special.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I’ve been watching this place for some time, and you interest us. I can help you get what you want; I can help you escape.”

James felt around the broken room, running his hands along the walls and rubble, feeling the fuzzy carpet of moss and fungus accompanied by the sick smell of stagnant water. The mechanic voice chuckles at the boy, causing him to stumble and fall down. He cries out in pain.

The voice speaks, “Be careful, this building is condemned for a reason, so what do you say? I’ll help you so long as you do what I say.”

James winced and sat down, “I don’t trust you.”

“No? What are you here for then? What do you want?”

“I . . . don’t know. I can remember anything; everything’s fuzzy in my head. All I know is my gut hurts at the sight of the men in white coats, so I run. They never come here, so here I am.”

“They’ll find you soon, so will you follow me? If you want to I’ll be waiting outside the gates.”

“I don’t know . . . I . . .”

Footsteps echo through the empty halls of the dilapidated building, and James stops breathing. He asks the voice to help, but gets no answer. The room’s doors fall open and a flood of light washes over the room. James scrambles towards the remaining pockets of darkness in the back of the room but is scooped up by white washed orderlies. The boy kicks and screams for help, the sounds carrying through the old halls.

A few years later. . .

I don’t know where I am or why I’m here, but I do know I want to escape. But there is no escape, you’re always on the run from something, and I’m no different. I got my start running back in the facility where I grew up, and none of us who lived there knew of anything beyond the walls and fences of the compound. That place was our entire world, but that changed for me.

Portions of my day were spent in a drug induced haze, but even so I remembered enough of what the administrators did to me during my blackouts that I knew enough to run when they came for me. I came across someone willing to help me while I was hiding one day, and they came back repeatedly since. I still pray that they are real; I know they’re not a hallucination. They told me about the outside world, so now I have somewhere to run to, the only problem was how. For that I was on my own.

Every day after classes I walked through the same hall on the outer edge of the education center and staffed with only one guard. I thought about bolting out through a service door located down the hall and whenever the thought came up so did the question, why? Why do I want to get away so much? Invariably I’d see a guard scowl at me or one of the white suits look down at me and I had my answer, so after lifting a couple beers from the faculty lounge I forgot my worries and worked up the gumption to finally escape.

Health exams were coming up again which was an announcement that hit below the gut; health exams meant hours of lost time and strange wounds. Announcements blared over the PA commanding us students to report to the medical wing at our designated times, and mine was that evening. I wouldn’t be there.

The guards get lazy around us students because if we cause trouble a push of a button has implants in our bodies shut down select parts of our nervous system, leaving any unruly student paralyzed on the floor. Complacency breeds danger though, and the guard next to the service entrance to the education center never saw what was coming his way until too late.

I chose to slump down near the service door and wait for the guard to make his patrol. He came walking quickly, unwilling to linger in one area too long. Upon seeing me he asked what I was doing and not getting an answer told me to get up and move on back to my dorm room. I failed to comply so he warned me not to make him call for backup, and continued no reaction led him to lean over and grab my arm. I took hold of him with the same arm he grabbed me with and jabbed a needle of painkiller I found lying around the medical ward into his stomach. Lucky for me the medicine put him out before he could react and my heart jumped into my throat in excitement upon realization of my success.

Moving quickly I got through the door using the guard’s ID card and jogged across the compound quad, finding the front entrance. I decided to hide out of sight near the gates, making use of the shrubbery as cover. I learned that day that I’m allergic to whatever the hell grew in those bushes, a runny nose and itchy eyes plagued me as I held back a sneeze. The smell of pollen tightened my throat making it hard to breathe, and I even thought of just giving up and going back to the facility, but I quickly forgot those thoughts.

A shot of fear went up my back at hearing a group of guards stop by the gate. I tried to bite back the fear, but why am I afraid? What have they done to me that made me so scared? They’re not the nicest people but I can’t remember. It hurts more to not remember. Trying to keep still made my shaking worse and my allergies all the harder to control, but I went unnoticed. The doors swung open and the guards watched as a truck pulled up from behind the medical wing. The truck paused and the guards surrounded it, going through the usual spot check. I waited until the guards were sufficiently distracted to sneak out of the bushes and run towards the gate. The moment I passed through the gate the alarm sounded so all the guards turned around and saw me running.

I didn’t stop, hoping the guards were too far away to do anything to me. Walled in on each side, the drive stretched on for about half a mile while my heart sunk at the sight. I swore and ran as fast as I could, reassuring myself the guards were out of range, but they weren’t. I felt my legs give out on me, turn to jello as I plowed forward, breaking my fall with my hands and settling on my side, arms burning in pain.

I closed my eyes and refused to watch as the guards lifted me up and carried me back towards the gate. Something wasn’t right though, the guards stopped and talked urgently among themselves, so I looked up to see the gates sealed shut. Nothing the guards did and no one they called could budge the doors while from behind came a familiar voice, one both mechanical and female. The voice told us no one was going anywhere.

Eyes turned up to one of the drive walls and there stood a girl, she looked young but I didn’t get a good look at her face. The guards all collapsed unconscious at once, leaving me alone with my strange benefactor.

She said, “I told you I’d wait outside the gates.”

I asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m no one. Sorry, but you’ve got to be asleep for the next part of the trip. Don’t worry, you’ve made it.”

I slipped away only coming to sometime later on the outside. My benefactor told me I was on my own, leaving me down some dark alley in an unknown city with two hundred fifty dollars and an ID card. Why was I abandoned? I can’t remember what I ran away from and I don’t know where I’ll run. I don’t feel like I’ve truly escaped, and on the inside I at least had friends to help me cope, now I am alone. I need to do something besides run away. It’s my turn to do the chasing; I’ll search for the truth.

A few hours later . . .

“Did we get a good look at her?”

“No sir, the suspect’s face was obscured, by what we don’t know. She overrode our security systems, and we still can’t figure out how she did it or why she chose to help Subject 312 escape or how she knew he’d be outside the gates at that particular moment in time.”

A scientist dressed in a white lab coat watches the security footage of the escape incident. The dark room hides his gaunt figure, his voice portraying a fuller person. He says, "She probably had an in with our security system for awhile now, and I don't think she knew when he'd be outside. Check the security feeds for the main drive for the past six months for different times of the day."

Another figure bent over a work console digs through the video files and pulls up the footage requested. On the main screen in front of the two men flickers the drive, devoid of life, quiet and empty. The man at the console cycles through each day, each week for some time before the scientist tells him to stop. The security official looks back at the scientist.

The scientist, pointing to the south wall of the drive showing on screen says, "Look, the culprit makes herself less visible to our cameras, but we can still see her. This shadow on the wall shouldn't be there, also the area around the shadow is fuzzy, and the camera isn't damaged. This pattern of interference repeats during many of the times cross-referenced, too many different times to be coincidence. Who's casting the shadow, creating that interference?"

"The culprit?"

"I think so. That shadow and white noise shows up on every single day you played through, so she's been here every day for the past six months, possibly longer. She's been waiting for him this entire time. I wonder if she ever made contact."

The scientist's eyes defocus as he thinks, and the security official fidgets uncomfortably. The scientist says, “We can track the subject though, retrieving him is top priority.”

“I’m sorry sir, but we’ve lost him completely. We’re in the dark.”

“Go through the records for every one of our facilities and look for other escapees. We’ll find our culprit there. I’ll work on getting the subject back.”

The scientist exits the room as the sound of the air conditioning blasts.

The Dog Story

I don't know how I feel about this story, I may revise it later.

Here I am, working day in and day out packing shelves in some small town in Northwest Connecticut. This is truly a dead-end job in a nowhere place, but working at the Country Grocer has its perks. The people are great and the other employees are a riot to work with. Even the occasional customer has a story to brighten my day. One of these customers goes by the name Chris, and he’s earned himself quite the reputation around town. Chris always has some new girl hanging of his arm at least two years younger than himself, and his strange magnetism for little girls makes him last guy you’d want your daughter dragging home.

Chris came into the store the other day looking for something or other, and he recognized me among the shelves. We lamented the time spent in the crucible of high school shaping the horrible experiments which will ultimately become our lives. I felt something lacking about Chris as we talked, and before long I noticed he didn’t have the usual girlfriend. I brought my concern of the matter to Chris and he hushed me, pushing in close and telling me he and his latest girl took a few much needed days away from one another.

I asked what happened and his response was simple, “The Dog Story.”

What he told me then is a tale not for the decent or faint of heart. Just two weeks prior Chris convinced some young girl the world didn’t treat her the way a goddess such as herself should be treated, and that he wanted to show her how great she was. She must have swooned at the idea because she invited him to her home while her parents were out. Chris sauntered over to the lovely Karen’s house and was let in by the excited and willing girl.

Chris by this time made his first move, suggesting the party move to a more intimate location, namely Karen’s bedroom. The girl complied, bouncing up the stairs and bounding down the hall towards her private temple. The two settled close together on the pink for poster bed, and they got to know one another. As the two went kissed Chris suggested Karen take off her clothes which hid her beautiful body, so the girl threw her clothes off in a tizzy and they strewn the floor as soon as Chris finished his sentence. Karen spun around; standing so as to accentuate her curves yet kept her arms over her front retaining some modesty.

Chris smiled as he told Karen, “You’re coming in quite nicely.”

She giggled and danced around the room while Chris watched this divine show. He grew tired of his jacket, so he discarded it. The same with his shirt and pants until all that remained were his socks and underwear. Karen both didn’t notice or mind her audience’s transformation and continued on with her dance. Unable to remain a petty bystander, Chris rose and beaconed for the girl to come over to him. He whispered in her ear that she was so unique and wonderful that he wanted to do something special with her.

She cooed, “What?”

Chris responded, “Anal.”

Karen was a little disappointed and very much confused by the suggestion. She told Chris she’d never done it before and was too afraid to try. He told her there was nothing to be afraid of and promised her it would feel great. Karen had a hard time saying no, how could she refuse the requests of the worshiper come to pray at her alter? She gave her blessing and asked Chris what should next be done. Chris caressed Karen’s shoulders and guided her onto the bed. Following the necessary preparations and gentle prompting from Chris, the two got into their respective positions and got on with it.

Shortly into their romp Karen winced in pain and complained about her role in the whole affair. Chris reminded Karen the best was yet to come and on he continued. As she braved the experience as best she could, Karen felt something sink deep inside her. She jerked and tightened, upsetting Chris.

He made a sound as if to speak, but Karen cut him off with a terse, “Shit.”

Chris asked, “What?”

The girl screamed at him, “Pull out! Pull out!”

So he did, and along with Chris’s exit came a gush of excrement, a flood that washed over Chris, his member, and the bed. The girl jumped out of bed in a panic and belted down the hall towards the bathroom, spraying all over the carpets. Karen shut herself in the bathroom as Chris surveyed the devastation. With only a few short hours to clean before Karen’s parents returned Chris set to work. He stripped the bed of its sheets and covers, hauling them to the washer and throwing them in. He then found a sponge and collected a bucket of soap water, bringing it to the hall with the stained carpet.

Chris scrubbed the carpet for a long time, but he only managed to drive the brown sludge deeper into the carpet. After awhile Karen reemerged from the bathroom freshly showered and wrapped in towels, marching past Chris neither acknowledged the other. Karen shut the door behind her, and as Chris continued his futile cleaning the puttering of an idling car engine echoed from outside followed by the slamming of car doors and the sound of the car engine dying. Karen’s parents returned home early.

Karen burst through the door of her room and told Chris, “Hide!”

Chris dove into the nearest closet and held his breath as Karen’s father announced their return and asked if everything was alright. The daughter didn’t answer, and the fall of each of the father’s footsteps approaching Karen’s room counted down to her and Chris’s eventual doom. The father reached the top of the stairs near the closet with Chris hiding and stopped dead. For a moment there was complete silence.
With a sudden burst of force the father exploded, demanding to know what happened to his carpets, blasting out at the brown stains dug in the once pristine white. Karen sobbed and Chris bit his tongue, but Karen caught herself and said to her father, “It was . . . it was the dog that did it. He’s sick. I don’t know how it happened, but I tried to clean it up, I really did.”

The father took a deep breath and calmed down, demanding to see the dog in a reasoned tone. The animal managed to slip into Karen’s room following the debacle and found itself a place on the girl’s bed, right on top of a large brown stain on the bare mattress. The dog yelped in confusion as the father yanked it from its rest and dragged it outside. The rest of the family followed, allowing Chris the opportunity to escape through the back and steal towards home.

Just as he gets through his own door thinking he’s safe, Chris receives a phone call from Karen summoning him to the town vet, of all places. Karen threatens to tell her father the truth if Chris doesn’t show up, so he obliges reluctantly. Upon arriving at the vet, Chris is met by the imposing and unhappy father, who asks his daughter why this scum showed up.

The daughter answers flatly, “Moral support”

Both Chris and the father took Karen’s words at face value, but I don’t think the father needed worry about it and Chris shouldn’t flatter himself. From the sound of it Karen wanted Chris to see his folly come to fruition and continue the farce to the bitter end. Chris asked what was going on, so Karen told him her father, in a fit of rage, decided the best and only solution to the dog’s mess was to put the animal down for good.

Karen told her father as he handed the dog to the vet, “Chris and I want to watch.”

Chris pulled away at the suggestion but Karen glared at him, silently threatening the truth, so Chris gave in. The father tried to intervene but Karen insisted, “I grew up with Charlie and I can just let him die alone. Don’t worry about me.”

Karen takes Chris by the hand as the father wrangles with the vet, managing entry for the two teens. They watch as the vet tranquilizes the confused animal, administering the drug the puts it to sleep for good punishing the dog for its phantom illness. Karen squeezes Chris’s hand to much for comfort as they exit the vet clinic. Karen’s father picks up on his daughter’s frustration and offers to get her a new puppy, asking her to think up a new name on the way home. The group reaches the car, abandoning Chris by the side of the road, Karen only giving him a terse, “Goodbye.”

The car sped off and Chris stood for a moment before walking down the street in the other direction. I told Chris his story didn’t sound good and that he probably won’t be seeing Karen again. Chris told me not to sweat it, smiled and left me to my work, never losing his smile. I sometimes wonder how someone so stupid can continue to outsmart so many different girls, but he manages.

On God and Christianity

I have a Facebook group on the subject of Nietzsche that I've let languish for years now. It has seven members, an eclectic group of people from the four corners of the globe, and this both intrigues and frightens me. I finally got around to making a post on the group, and I decided to put what I wrote down here as well. I will wax philosophical again soon.

Taken out of context the quote lost all meaning over the years, and Nietzsche's original point thus obscured, which is a shame. It's hard to get what Nietzsche said when working with the American concept of God because as far as most Americans are concerned God is a real, physical being residing the a definitely physical Heaven. God is as real as the stranger on the street or the President of the United States, and he cannot die.

Nietzsche, I think viewed God as an idea, one that conveniently explained the mysteries of the world in a comforting fashion in a time of darkness and ignorance. The idea of God held society together through the worst parts of human history and served his purpose. The problem with God in the modern sense arises with the scientific revolution.

With human understanding advanced far beyond the imaginations of ancient peoples, the old concepts of good and evil God represents and Christianity extols lose their usefulness. The modern concept of evolution introduces the idea that humanity is just another animal and like all other lifeforms has two primary purposes in existence: self preservation and propagation of the species.

Under the newer concept of life, what's good is promoting life and expansion of humanity, both in physical presence and in our understanding of the world around us. Evil, in simple therms is anything promoting death and decay, a position of anti-life.

Christianity holds God as good and those against God as evil, but the path to evil is paved with the various sins humanity examples, in particular the seven deadly sins. Looking at the worst sins, those of gluttony, lust, avarice, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride it's easy to see these are basic aspects of human nature. Christianity takes human nature as inherently evil, and the inhuman ideal of God as good, which taken together is a philosophy of death and destruction, something to be discarded.

As far as Nietzsche was concerned, Europeans of his day already discarded much of the old Christian moral and ideological system, not truly believing in God. In this way the idea of God died, but nothing replaced it. Nietzsche called this lack of belief nihilism, and the nihilists feel that life has no value. Nietzsche saw this as dangerous and only welcomed the arrival of nihilism as the interim between the necessary clearing away of the old Christian value system allowing for the creation of a new and better system.

The Job

This is not my best story, and I not at all happy with the writing, but whatever it got done. I can always come back to it another day.

Someone once told me life is a series of choices. I wish that was so, as I’d like some choice in my life. Maybe that someone had a choice, and if so they should count themselves lucky. When presented with multiple options people freeze in terror, unable to select one course of action leading the choice to fall into the hands of others, those more proactive. Decision-makers choose for the layman and leave nothing to him for his trouble. If you don’t want to lose that power over yourself there’s no time to wait and think, but the decision-makers don’t leave any time to act, so what do you do then?

Decision-makers take on the title of authority, and they make all of the decisions they can. Despite this they don’t want the responsibility that comes with their choices, so out of this conflict government arises. Government shifts the responsibility of decision-making onto the people, the taxpayer and offers up the illusion of safety as payment for taking on responsibility. Why doesn’t anyone walk away from this deal? Why do we all jump at the chance to be enslaved by the system? Some present the situation as Hobson’s choice, but the alternatives to the status quo cannot be worse than the current contract between government and the people. Hundreds of years ago men believed in the idea that authority lied with the people, but we lost that, I lost that.

A couple of years ago I gave up my freedom to choose not for my own safety, but for the safety of someone else. I now stand before that someone in a large, open glass office looking over the hundreds of steel towers of mid-Manhattan. A clear blue sky bends over the city, extending the view for miles; it’s not every day you get such beautiful weather in early spring. I’d rather be outside on a day like this than standing in this office, but that’s not my choice to make. That honor belongs to my boss Ms. Anderson, but she’d rather I call her Cassie. We grew up together, and my sacrifice gave her this office, her job, and authority. I’m happy for her.

Cassie tied her red hair back into two ponytails looking immature. With a wide smile she fidgeted in her seat, crossing her legs back and forth unable to settle down into a steady rhythm. Her voice cracked once causing her to pause. I asked her if she needed me to leave and she responded, “No, I’m fine. You’re fine; I’d like you to stay.”

I waited for Cassie to give me my first assignment as my new boss while she played with her tablet pc, tapping on the screen conducting the beat to some unheard orchestra. Cassie talked to break up the silence, “It’s been a long time James, I’m sorry we had to be apart for so long. I’m glad Huron let us work together again.”

I never gave an answer though she gave me ample time. Her smile vanished and she got down to business, presenting the job. She said leaning back in her chair and stretching out her arms, “We’re renting a warehouse over at Port Elizabeth. . .”

“Yes?”

“Yes, owned by some Russians and they asked for more money to handle the goods Huron stores there. Things got tense.”

“Really”

“Really, Huron doesn’t want to pay, so the Russians decided to seize our goods as compensation. I need you to go and deal with this, and do your best to not kill anybody this time, alright?” Cassie looked down at her computer, “It’s a . . . small arms shipment, but don’t worry too much about it. Just get back to me when you’re done, and if it’s late you can stop by my apartment, here’s the address. It’s been a long time James.”

She tossed me a folded piece of paper. I paused for a moment; Cassie hasn’t changed as much as she probably thinks she has. She smiles again, though this time it looks painful. I spent the entire time in that office looking past the girl behind the desk and out the window, but I gave her a quick glance when I said, “Alright, I’ll do the job.”

Cassie sighed, standing up and walking over to me standing too close for comfort, “James you’re the best guy we have, when you want to be. The reason they put us together again is the board hopes you’ll shape up working for someone you like. . .”

I finished, “Isn’t that why they hurt you back then, why they separated us in the first place?”

Cassie stood dumbfounded when I left her office, and I didn’t much care to hear her answer when she finally got around to giving it. I leisurely made my way to the docks at Port Elizabeth figuring if I can’t choose what jobs I get I can at least do it the way I want, taking my time. When I got there three SUVs sat parked outside the warehouse Huron rented, all black. I guess they were Russian mob, but it doesn’t matter, they didn’t stand a chance against me. It’s funny, Huron does business with scum like the mob, but I learned not to care overmuch about what my employers are up to lest I learn too much for my own good. I’m not what most people would call normal, and my capabilities prompted Huron, and Cassie, to send me on this particular mission I’m sure.

I experience time and space differently than most with the ability to distort both, bending them to my will. I move in ways defying physics to those with the . . . limited perspectives of regular people. The prevailing assumption is the universe is a collection of different points separated by some distance existing in a three-dimensional plane, but I see it as one single point, no one position apart from any other. People limit their perspectives and see less of the truth of things, but it’s comforting to see only a straight line instead of the complex shapes reality takes. I’m scared of how I see and what I can do, so I don’t use my powers often, but Huron asks me to do jobs requiring my skill set so I can’t avoid it.

I vaulted my way up to the roof of the warehouse and entered through an access door. I hung out in the rafters and chose to watch the Russians, waiting for the right moment to attack. Most of the grunts spread themselves out throughout the building, guarding the few moving Huron’s goods into place for transport. The whole process went on uneventfully until I noticed one of the Russians jump and shout in surprise. Behind the man lifting crates another person appeared out of thin air and this new arrival proceeded to call out for whoever leads this operation. One Russian stepped forward and addressed the man, and the two talked quietly while the others went back to work. I felt a knot in my stomach just looking at the Arrival, he appeared so suddenly I didn’t even notice, and he seemed so out of place. The man smoked a cigarette and dressed in a tattered plaid sports coat, corduroy pants having an unkempt beard and wild eyes; he looked like someone’s crazy uncle.

I jumped down from my perch and landed near the Arrival and the Russian with a resounding thud. All eyes turned toward me, most incredulous at having witnessed a person fall so far and survive, let alone land standing up uninjured. The Russians draw weapons on me, but the Arrival waves them off and tells them, “Get out of here, I’ll handle this.”

The Russian nearest us starts to object but gets waved off once more. The Russians file out quickly and the man left behind asks who I am. I respond, “Huron.”

He laughed and I asked who he was, he responded, “Me? You can call me Rock Rogers.”

I said, “Funny name.”

Rock took the cigarette out of his mouth and smothered it on the floor. That very moment I doubled over in pain, Rock’s fist buried in my gut. I didn’t see him move, but I felt the perturbation of space around the man. He’s like me, only faster . . . and stronger. I can’t win this fight. I took two steps back and took a defensive stance. I said, “Hey, look I don’t want any trouble. I’m just here for the goods. I’m not looking for a fight.”

Rock responded, “I’m here for the goods too, so if you want them you need to fight.”

I knew I couldn’t abandon the job. Huron’s done worse to me, worse to Cassie for lesser transgressions, and the last thing I can do is run away. I decided the best course of action right then and there was to get the hell out of there. I backed away slowly, but Rock advanced with me, keeping at an even distance.

I said, “Come on, just let me go. I really don’t want trouble.”

Rock chuckled, “You come in here and call yourself Huron, and you should expect trouble. Do you know what’s in these crates?”

Rock knocks on the wooden boxes, and I stare uninterested at the object while glancing towards the man hoping to find an opening. I said, “Small arms?”

Rock smiled and cracked open the case, “Nah, it’s nothing like that. This here’s the worst kind of crime, the most despicable form of human trafficking. Huron’s trading in human embryos.”

Rock held up a clear plastic tube with metal casings on its ends and encased in the middle was a pink blob, reminiscent of a human. The blobs pure black eyes radiated death, and I could not pry my own stare from its. I wondered aloud on why Huron, why Cassie would lie to me about the mission, and Rock responded, “Why not?”

Rock placed the tube back into its crate with ease and then looked at me. I felt space bend in my direction, but my own reflexes betrayed me, reacting too slowly to meet Rock’s movements. He stood before me as I tried to flee, but found his fist in my face instead. There was a moment of intense blows hitting my body and terrible pain followed by darkness. I don’t know what happened after I blacked out, but I awoke in a comfortable bed in a quiet room. I ached all over unable to move myself out of bed. Apparently Rock took the opportunity to rough me up while unconscious. Tired I tried to keep myself awake, fearful my latest location might all be a dream and hoping to prove that thought wrong. As I drifted away a familiar voiced called out, Cassie cried delightfully that I finally woke up and asked if I was alright. I told her I was fine, and asked how I got here. She told me, "You don't remember? I found you outside holding onto the piece of paper with my address.

I said I couldn't remember, and she asked, “Well, then what the hell happened to the job? Who did this to you?”

Too tired to say much I struggled to raise my voice loud enough to hear and gave Cassie her answer before falling asleep once more, “Rock Rogers.”

Quitting

I wanted to quit. All I’ve ever wanted to do was quit. I’ve spent my entire life a corporate ward in some boarding school, and after sixteen years of it I’d had enough. Never have I had control over my own life or destiny, and every decision, big and small, others made for me. From when I woke up to when I ate to what I learned and read all the way up to my future professions and employers, all chosen for me by some company board. I didn’t want to play that game anymore, so I decided I’d leave.

It didn’t take the school long to figure out what I was attempting. Small changes in your daily routine add up, and I underestimated their attentiveness. Regardless, the authorities didn’t come and knock down my door and drag me away for “reeducation”, rather they took a more subtle route, one through my friends. Through the years I lived in my school I made friends, and we all suffered through the same trials together; it’s the only way you can maintain your sanity in tough situations. When I planned my escape I didn’t think about them, selfishly of the opinion they’d slow me down. That was my first mistake, I didn’t think.

The funny thing is I usually think too much. I spend a lot of time watching people, studying the intricacies of human nature as they unfold. All of my friends I find interesting, and even the school administrators have their human side. Those in charge wear clean suits and act the parts handed to them by those even further up the chain. They’ve all read the script and expect you to know it by heart as well, and when everyone plays the game the show goes as planned. But if you haven’t read the script or don’t like your role, then problems arise.

There was one person in particular the administration targeted, a girl named Cassie. Cassie and I grew up together, and we helped each other deal with otherwise unbearable tribulations. We were close, but like any relationship we disagreed on some issues. I prodded her with the idea of escape, but she never took to the idea and I feared telling her of my plans might lead to their inevitable failure. I didn’t trust her, but I suppose I trusted the school to only come after me if I tried to escape. That was my second mistake.

All of the friends I’ve met interest me, but I never felt close to anyone else. At the end of the day no one could be trusted to protect my interests but myself, so I was alone. The first person I ever got to know, the one who didn’t put on some act in front of me was Cassie. I first met her in class when I was eight, but she sat alone in the back of the room as far from the other kids as she could manage.

We all had our quirks, but hers handicapped her in a most terrible fashion. Through some force unknown to any of us around her Cassie shared with us her deepest emotions. She didn’t mean to though; it was less voluntary and more being forced out into public naked. Cassie couldn’t hide her feelings, yet she never betrayed them through words or action. Instead we just knew how she felt. To defend herself she projected negative feelings, maybe consciously or maybe not, I don’t know, regardless she was unpleasant to be near.

I wasn’t fazed by Cassie’s demeanor, and I was curious as to who she really was. Up till that point I’d been a loner, but this girl drew me in. I worked up the gumption to talk to her one day in as nice and nonthreatening manner as I could muster, and the unpleasantness melted away. She didn’t trust me for awhile, but she mellowed, as happy to have someone close as I was. We grew up together, and I never wanted to give her up to anyone or anything. I valued her friendship more than my own life, but I when time came to choose between her and escape, I at first chose escape. Trust is still a problem I had with others, and it bit me in the ass in the end. Cassie gained more control over her condition, but it plagues her to this day and hurt her worse back as kids.

Everyone attending the school came to the place with defects of some kind or other, though they never told me from what I suffered. Hell, I don’t know how I got put in this school in the first place. All I knew was I needed to remain in the school compound for my and the general good. Cassie’s ailment stood out clearly though, as she had a number of mental breakdowns related to a condition I to this day don’t fully understand. Medicine kept Cassie healthy and functioning, and it only took a day or two of missed doses for her to take a turn for the worse, a turn that derailed my escape if only for a moment. But when really important decisions need to be made a moment makes all the difference.

I walked down one of the classroom halls of our school one evening, and as I passed through heard someone crying in one of the rooms. I wasn’t supposed to be in that hall, but a small deviation from my normal path from the classrooms to the dorms proved necessary as I needed to “requisition” some supplies from the janitorial closet nearby. I hesitated and with the cries sounding familiar my curiosity got the better of me, so I peered into the window of the offending classroom. Inside Cassie sat on the floor ranting incoherently, struggling against some invisible force assaulting her. I wondered how she got left behind here and why no authority had come to collect her. No one was anywhere to be seen, so I decided to help her. That was my third mistake, deviating from the plan, but I don’t regret this mistake. I shouldn’t regret it.

It was a trap. As soon as I entered the room, the door closed and locked behind me. I turned in a panic and ripped at the handle, but to no avail. Gripping my book bag filled with items I shouldn’t have thoughts on how I’d be locked away with no opportunity to see friends, to see Cassie ran through my mind. The classroom felt haunted, devoid of the usual life present and served to deepen my fear. Being in a strange hall after hours isn’t a punishable offense, but being in possession of contraband is. The whole affair ended quietly with the door unlatching and swinging open to reveal two medical staff. They picked Cassie up, hauling her out of the room while two men in navy blue suits entered and stood before me.

One of them adjusted his tie, an alternating red and black stripe affair, and said, “Shall we?”

Too afraid to do anything else, I followed them out of the room. I could have fought or I could have run, but I submitted. I felt tied down by the circumstance and my emotions, and the only thing my mind would let me do is follow. I’ve hated myself every living moment for that weakness, and it still eats at me. My head mired in a blur some rough men searched me and took the supplies I’d lifted from the closet and following a short medical exam found myself sitting in a foreign room. The walls leaked some liquid I hoped was water running down the bare concrete. The floor tiles cracked under my weight and a single light almost illuminated my chair and the steel table in front of me.

I waited some time before anyone else entered the room. The two men from before came and took seats across from me. Nothing was said, and I continued to wait. What felt like hours passed as I grew tired and thirsty, but they did nothing. They sat me out; it was left for me to take the initiative, so once I couldn’t bear the deafening silence weighing me down I spoke.

My first words shook the room but quickly settled, and I asked, “Is Cassie alright.”

The answer came slowly from one of the men, I couldn’t see who telling me she’s fine. The other pushed the conversation in another direction, asking me if I had anything to confess and that if I did, I might get away with a slap on the wrist. What do you say in that situation, what do you do when asked such a question?

Me, I just asked, “Is Cassie alright.”

One of the men sighed and told me to wait a bit. I’d had enough waiting for one lifetime, but he stood and excused himself from the room for a moment. Upon returning he informed me that I could see her, for five minutes. Stressing the word five, I perked up at the man’s statement, and shot out of my seat. He ushered me down a dreary hall and into a similar room to the one I had just left only instead of a table and some chairs doctor’s equipment furnished the area, and I imagine the room looked the part of a first aid depot buried in some military bunker.

The lighting improved from the previous room, and Cassie sat huddled in the corner frozen. Her eyes glazed over the two doctors who removed her from the classroom before muttered to each other about their inability to illicit a response from the girl. I looked into her eyes and knew without any words what she wanted to say. I understood perfectly how she felt and what she wanted despite her catatonic state, she wanted the two men to leave her alone.

I walked up to one of the doctors and kindly asked them both to leave. The doctor brushed me off and told me I should spend my time with Cassie wisely. I felt the pangs of her anger and frustration with the two intermixed with her will to push them out of there. I noticed her eyes roll onto me, and in our shared desperation grabbed the doctor’s arm, telling them both to get out. They both stared at me as if I had three heads yet refused to budge an inch, so I clamped down harder on the man’s arm. His face twisted with pain and surprise as I crushed the bone, letting go only when he finally howled.

I made myself understood with one final command, “Get out! Leave now!”

The two evacuated, one nursing a broken arm. Cassie leaned forward and stared right at me. A wave overcame me, of what I don’t know but suddenly I found myself drowning. The air in the room left with the doctors, leaving me to gasp for every ounce of breath. Panicked, I stumbled and grabbed Cassie, but with that action my breath returned to me. I released her and while she doesn’t speak she tells me something I can’t describe properly with words but best translates as, “It won’t happen again.”

Then and there I noticed something creeping up on me, or it already had crept up on me. Whatever it was it felt its way through the nooks and crannies of my mind, consuming the pain, sorrow, and fear I felt along with the recent joy, relief, and pity from reuniting with Cassie. It devoured every feeling, feasting on the cocktail of emotions swirling around in my head. I’m left tired and drained when I realize the source of the hunger, the one eating away at my emotions is Cassie. Too distracted by the churning in my head I failed to notice Cassie holding me, and we had both fallen to the floor.

Cassie communicated to me in that state of delirium, but I didn’t completely understand what she related to me. She said either stop doing this, or she said give up. Maybe she said both, it’s hard for me to untangle my thoughts at the time and process what went happened. I do remember my pride swelling up at her suggestion though, but she took that pride from me and shoved it back down my throat. I choked up and gave in with reluctance to Cassie, but it was hard not to do so choking to death on my own pride. I got up, swallowed the lump and staggered out of the room back into the hands of my chaperon the administrator.

Back with the two men I found myself hungrier, thirstier, and more tired than before. Much of my will stripped from me during the short time I spent with Cassie, I wished I could just go back to my dorm. This time the two men did not wait, instead they listed the crimes for which I stood accused and the punishments attached. If I turned myself in I could look forward to six months of kitchen duty, a far lighter sentence than the alternative, spending the next two years in isolation quarters.

I had but one request, “Help Cassie.”

The two men gave me their words she’d be taken care of, and that the problem stemmed from her refusal to take her medication for the past few days. I wondered if they lied to me or not, but it didn’t matter anymore. I emptied my bag onto the table and as contraband spilled all over the place the two men smiled at congratulated me for doing the right thing. So I did quit in the end, I quit my dream of escape and chose to live on in a place I hated, but with the people I couldn’t be without, with Cassie.

Chronic Regret

This was the final assignment for my Creative Writing class, and I am more proud of this play than I am of my first one. I came up with the title based on a turn of phrase uttered by someone at a friend's party, a man who decided it was time for a "chronic intermission" one night. I will one day write a work of fiction with that title, but today there's this play.

The play opens on an empty stage with the Prophet of Repentance standing in the center facing the audience. Three of his followers sit in front of the Prophet with their backs to the audience. Two of the followers are women and one is a man. Everyone wears identical white robes.

Prophet: My children, today the Darkness comes as close to consuming us as it ever has in our trialed past. You may think the Prime Construct near destruction, but this is not so. The Interloper has been killed and the threat from the Dark Authority quelled, for the time being. The pigs still remain unenlightened to our grand Purpose, so our projects are safe from prying eyes. We must continue down the Path, fighting the oblivion of darkness, and embark on our Great Journey. Some among us speak blasphemies against the Path, but this is the result of ignorance, so I shall forgive such transgressions. The blasphemies consist of misplaced pity, the result of confusion and fear spawned by the Darkness and planted in our midst by the Interloper. I nipped the seed of discord in the bud, a necessary action to preserve our movement along the Path. Some said the Interloper should have been quarantined, but I say infections need to be inoculated against. Hence the death of the Interloper saved us from infection and his blood cleanses the Path and allows the light to shine for one more day. I sacrificed the Interloper for a greater Purpose as all animals should be used. Those who serve the Dark Authority gave up their humanity when they prostrated before the Darkness. We must continue down the Path and fulfill our goal of enlightening humanity and moving beyond the weakness of human instinct. The Interloper sought to subject us to the urges and impulses of our darker nature, the pity and fear you may feel must be discarded as evil. The Path requires us to rise above human emotion lest we fall down to our hands and knees as the Interloper had. We remain on the Path; we’re dedicated to the Truth. We will persevere.

Female Follower #1 (Sandra): What will you have us do now, Father?

Prophet: I’m sorry but I must ask you all to remain in quarantine for the next two days. We must be confidant the disease of treachery did not spread.

All Followers: As you will it Father.

The three followers leave, and the Prophet turns to the audience. He addresses the audience directly while the second female follower, Trisha, watches in secret. The Prophet speaks to the audience.

Prophet: Don’t fret my children as I carry my plan through. I fear a schism now divides my House, but you all remain by my side. With your strength and numbers the Great Journey remains possible and our position on the Path unassailable. Nonetheless we must prepare for the battle ahead. We shall be close, so please wait for my plan to come to fruition.

The Prophet leaves while Trisha pulls Sandra onto the stage. Trisha scans the audience before speaking to Sandra. The Prophet listens to the conversation in secret.

Trisha: Who is Father speaking to? He’s talking to ghosts.

Sandra: What does it matter to you? He sees what we cannot see and understands more than we can comprehend.

Trisha: What are you saying? What do you mean? He cares more about his ghosts than he does about us, his real children. We need him now more than ever, yet he locks away. Maybe he . . . maybe he’s fallen off the Path.

Sandra: Watch what you say. What is it you truly want? Do you want to follow Father on the Great Journey or not? That’s all that matters right now, especially given the Interloper.

Trisha: I want to walk the path with my two children . . .

Sandra: Father’s children

Trisha: No, my son and my daughter, the ones I gave birth to. I have them to think about, and if Father won’t help us deal with our day-to-day problems I’ll have to go out for myself.

Sandra: I don’t like where you’re going with this . . .

Trisha: I’ll go talk with Father right now. Our Family is in trouble and we need his leadership.

Sandra: Hopefully he renews your faith in him as well.

Sandra leaves Trisha standing on stage. The lights dim on Trisha and focus on the Prophet watching over the scene.

Prophet: My Children I hear the whispers of dissent growing among family members, but it’s nothing to worry about. Every family has troubles, especially after traumatic experiences, and I must carry my children along the Path until they can walk on their own. Lo, a child approaches.

Trisha walks over to the Prophet.

Trisha: Father I need to speak with you.

Prophet: Thank you for sharing your concerns with me. It warms my heart to have the trust and confidence of my children.

Trisha: Yes sir. I’m afraid . . .

Prophet: Afraid of what?

Trisha: . . . Of our future and our young one’s futures. With what happened with the Interloper, it doesn’t feel safe anymore. I’m worried and I don’t know what to do.

Prophet: My dear you focus on the wrong issues. Time on the Path means nothing, so the future should not worry you. You must let go of your attachments to this world and move beyond the emotions holding you back. Only then can you be saved. I will be holding counsel twice a day every day until this time of danger passes.

Trisha: It’s not just the future and my feelings! Food has always been hard to come by, and it’s only gotten harder. You ignore us and chase after shadowy Interlopers. We have a community . . .

Prophet: You mean the Prime Construct?

Trisha: . . . Community, Prime Construct . . . yes. The Prime Construct needs real supplies and real leadership. Please Father. . .

Prophet: Leave me.

Trisha: Please.

Prophet: Leave me!

Trisha: Yes sir.

Trisha leaves the Prophet alone on stage. Sometime later Trisha sits on a cot in her bedroom with the male follower from before guarding her.

Trisha: John, please let me go see my children.

John: Father told me to keep you here until you overcome your hysteria.

Trisha: Hysteria? You know what’s hysterical, a community committing collective suicide. Father speaks of the Path, but he’s the one who’s lost sight of it, not me. Following the Path requires a strong community of people, a community I’ve come to respect and love while Father descends into madness. He’s speaking to people who aren’t even there.

John: You sound like the Interloper . . .

Trisha: Any you know what, he was right.

John:I need to tell Father this.

John moves to leave and Trisha holds him back.

Trisha: No, you can’t! He’ll come after me and my children.

John:You should have thou . . .

Trisha grabs a candle holder and bashes John in the head. John collapses unconscious and she ties him up on the cot, leaving John alone in the room afterward. Time passes and she comes back to the room and speaks John as he stirs from his blackout.

Trisha: I’m not sure anymore, about our Father. I listened to him for so long, his word became truth. His voice comforts and resonates throughout my body and I drown in his bright blue eyes. Father’s always smiling, his words sound so beautiful, but I don’t understand what he’s saying anymore. I can’t get the words he uses or the ideas he shares because it’ so different from how things used to be. When I first came to Father everything he said just made sense. Everything changed when the Interloper joined us. The Interloper, Bobby, got close to me, and he died trying to help me and my children. I was selfish, and my selfishness cost Bobby his life, so I want to repent. Father speaks of repentance often, and I still think he’s right, right that we must work to evolve beyond our sins. I contacted the police and told them what happened to Bobby and what’s happening to us here with Father. I’ve sinned again in repentance of former transgressions. Father told me not to compound my problems, but the police can help. He calls them servants of the Darkness, but I don’t know. I need my children, and the police said they can help me take care of them. I’m not the only one with these problems. Our young ones starve in the halls and we lack the tools to properly maintain our home. The police called us crazy in the past and the Family wouldn’t agree with my actions, so I don’t know who I can trust. All I ever manage to do is sin, but something needs to change. Father tells us to move forward but I don’t know up from down and left from right. How can I go forward? I just want to help the Family and Father too. I’ll have to apologize to the Family and repent once more; I don’t think I’ve fallen from the Path yet.

John: Someone help! Someone help me! There’s another . . .

Trisha bashes John on the head again and hides his body underneath her cot, draping a blanket so he cannot be seen easily. Trisha receives a knock at her door and Trisha answers it, confronted by the Prophet.

Prophet: My dear I came to apologize for the treatment you’ve received as of late. I’ve given thought . . . where’s your brother John?

Trisha: Oh, he went to call after you, did he not arrive?

Prophet: No, do you know why he wanted to see me?

Trisha: No . . . no.

The Prophet hands Trisha a plate with food.

Prophet: I’ve thought about what you said to me, and to help my Family I’ll increase rations. I see the physical suffering of my children and they cry out in pain. I cannot have this, so I’ll find a way to satiate the needs of the Prime Construct. Walking the Path can be arduous, and a traveler without food and water is as good as lost.

Trisha: Father, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know. I didn’t know you’d come back to help us. I’m so sorry.

Prophet: That’s fine, so long as you repent all is forgiven.

Trisha:No you don’t understand I’m talking about something else. I went . . . I went and called . . .

Trisha is interrupted by someone speaking over a loudspeaker. She sits on the cot while the Prophet stands. Both listen.

Police Officer: This is the police. We have the compound surrounded. Terrance Michaels, we have a warrant for your arrest. Please surrender yourself at the front gate immediately. To the members of the Prime Construct we instruct everyone to remain calm.

Trisha: Who’s Terrance Michaels?

Prophet: Someone who died a long time ago. Why didn’t my Children warn me of this? Why do they no longer talk to me? I see them watching me, judging my every move, yet they do not speak. (He turns to the audience) I’ve been with you since the very beginning and will remain by you to the very end. What makes you silent? You guided me to this point, instructed me to lead you along the Path, and I as your mouthpiece gathered the necessary following to make the Great Journey. Tell me now Children what I should do. Tell me!

Trisha:Sir . . . it was me.

Prophet: What?

Trisha: It was me who called the police.

Prophet: Betrayed by one of my own children! Why? Why did you do this? You’ve destroyed the Prime Construct and brought the Great Journey to an end with this. My children abandon me in droves.

Trisha: I did it to save our community. I did it because the police said they could help.

Prophet: Darkness has clouded your judgment and filled your heart. (The Prophet pulls a gun out from under his robes.) With this all shall end.

Trisha: Wait don’t! Please don’t do this.

Trisha tries to run away but John grabs her leg from underneath the cot. She trips and John emerges, holding Trisha before the Prophet.

John: Father, cleanse the evils plaguing the Prime Construct as you did before. Allow us to finish the Great Journey. We all have faith in you.

Prophet: (To the audience) My Children, since you will no longer speak to me I will now leave you. Please watch over your brothers and sisters in my absence. May you stay along the Path and complete the Great Journey.

The Prophet raises the gun to his mouth and pulls the trigger. He slumps over dead while Trisha and John look on in horror. The sound of the gun causes the police to storm the compound, so the sound of doors broken open and charging feet fills the little bedroom as the two wait for the end.

Purple Prose

In the second-to-last Creative Writing class, we received an assignment to write a short piece of purple prose. In other words, everyone had to do their best to write the worst possible piece of fiction in fifteen minutes. This is the result, though I can't say I failed as I was supposed to.

The lawyer sat haltingly with wondrous amazement at his client, some nouveau riche playboy coming out of the sun of silicon valley and up to the wide plains of Canada. This woman's man once lived the life of a nerd, compiling code in his mother's basement, but now he wined and dined with royalty. The lawyer met this pasty man at a party while hob-nobbing with Canada's greatest enjoying a bit o' bubbly, and the law professional offered to defend his honor, land, and property with every ounce of his soul or until the check bounced like a beach ball. The programmer's heart sunk, a bowling ball in a lake until he could no longer feel his face. This code monkey's wife wanted everything and the Sultan of Silicon hoped to burn his wife hard in divorce, leaving her with nothing even if it destroyed all he built in the process.

Outside (Formerly Derby Harbor)

I've revised Derby Harbor and changed the name of the story. Along with the name change I cut down on useless side-plots in an attempt to tighten the story up. I think it's an overall improvement, and I may get time to make one more revision before the end of the semester.

I found living in Derby Harbor difficult. The surrounding mountains isolate the town from the rest of the world and force everyone to hug the sea. It felt like letting go of the ocean meant certain death, and I suppose it did, at least for the crab fishermen. There were times I thought I lived at the top of one of those white peaks nearby despite being at sea level, the air was so thin. It made it hard to breathe, and every gulp of air I made took effort.

I worked at the local grocery store, which was a job I liked, and I’ll look back on it as a positive time in my life always. It could be hard to deal with the customers on occasion, but I did my best for our small store. My troubles in Derby Harbor began at work in the late winter, early spring of my senior year of high school. Usually that’s my favorite time of the year because a brisk wind blows in off the North Pacific, which made it easier for me to breathe. For most people the wind and cold forced them into their living rooms to huddle for warmth, but I could never live without the cold.

I can point to the day everything fell down, the day I understood I needed to get out of Derby Harbor. It was after school and I was at work shelving dairy overstock and keeping on top of sales items. While I worked the dairy case a couple of customers came down my aisle, a father and daughter each dressed up with the father in a tux that didn’t quite fit and the daughter in a simple black dress. The father staggered around as his daughter did her best to keep him walking straight; they looked as though they came from the wake next door.

The daughter recognized me, we being in the same class, and she greeted me with excitement, putting a weird stress on the beginning of my name, saying I . . . saac. I cringed every time she called my name. This girl, Natalie, asked if we had any flowers, and her father protested, suggesting to his daughter Natalie they buy a gallon of milk instead. Natalie pleaded with her father to wait for his milk because they needed the flowers as a gift and they didn’t have enough money to buy both. He wouldn’t be swayed. She went off to grab the flowers before it was too late and left her father with me, begging me to help police the man.

Talking to Natalie made me uncomfortable. She always smiled in my presence and occasionally batted her eyes. She had an unhealthy interest in me, I think, and I just wanted to get away from her and her father and back to work. No such luck for me as the father leaned in and spoke with whiskey on his breath, “You better let me have my milk, if you don’t I’ll get you fired.”

I responded, “Sir, if you get me fired, that’s fine. I’ll just wait for you outside and gut you.”

The man stood back and laughed, “Heh, I like you kid.”

He grabbed a gallon of milk and staggered up front to make his purchase, brushing my shoulder as he passed. I didn’t move to stop him. Natalie came around the corner and down the aisle in search of her father, but he was no longer here. She had a bouquet of flowers with her and asked me where her father went, so I told her the truth. She gave me a pitiful look that I’ll never forget, and something must have overcome me because I pulled out my wallet and gave her the money for the flowers. She didn’t know how to react and stood dumbfounded. I forced the money into her hands.

She started to cry and told me, “Thank you Isaac, I’ll pay you back.”

I waved her off, “Don’t worry about it. You shouldn’t let your father push you around Natalie.”

Then and there I made my first mistake when I asked, “What’re you all dressed up for?”

Natalie brightened at my question, “Oh, we’re coming back from a wake. It’s for a friend of my father’s, a crab fisherman from his boat, died. I’ve had to get my father together, so I’ve been busy, but I’m free tonight if you want to . . . get dinner or something.”

We stood there for a moment, each looking at the other. I never answered her, but instead stuttered, taken off guard. I just wanted to get back to work and have the rest of the day prove uneventful.

As the moment when I had to speak came my boss walked up and said to me, “Isaac, I need you to do something very important. Mrs. Ostermann came in a few hours ago and well . . . she never left. She’s very confused and I need you to take her home. You can go home afterward.”

I didn’t object to my boss’s request, but I looked at Natalie to see her reaction. She gave me a dejected smile and told me to go along and help, keeping hope alive by suggesting we go out another day. Happy to have escaped Natalie for the moment, I went to the aisle Old Lady Mrs. Ostermann happened to be stalking at the moment and brought her out of the store. The sun had set and the dark heralded a cold that penetrates to the bone no matter how warm the clothes one wears.

I walked Mrs. Ostermann to her home, which is a mile in the opposite direction from mine. It sucked that no one at work had a car, not even my boss, but this is one of the drawbacks of living is such a small, insular town. When she started shivering I gave her my jacket and I kept her from tripping and possibly breaking a hip. She spoke about her daughter the entire way; it was a long walk.

Near her home Mrs. Ostermann asked me if I knew her daughter. I told her I did and that she comes by the store once a week to give us a grocery list for her mother. I informed Mrs. Ostermann she didn’t even need to come to the store.

Mrs. Ostermann grabbed my arm on hearing what I said and shook, “You know my daughter? I’ve looked for her all day. She didn’t come home from school today and I’m worried. She’s supposed to come straight home from school, have you seen her?”

I answered, “Ma’am, your daughter is forty-two years old.”

She stopped moving, “Oh . . . do you know when school lets out, I need to be home for her when she arrives.”

I gave up speaking to her because she was too far gone to be saved. I hoped the old woman would die soon and spare everyone a lot of trouble, but I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind. It's not good to think that way. I pulled her to her house, she lived with her daughter, but no one was home. I grew upset at finding the doors all locked and no spare key hiding anywhere outside. Taking Mrs. Ostermann home might be worse than if I’d gone out with Natalie. Why didn’t I want to go with her? She seems nice, but something about her . . . her smile and the way she says my name, each innocent enough, but the whole package creeps me out. Regardless, I got stuck with the old woman and had to deal with Mrs. Ostermann then and there.

No one wants the responsibilities of taking care of Old Lady Ostermann not even her own daughter, so I’m left with it. What makes people think I want all this responsibility? People disgust me. I did the only thing I could think to do; I broke one of the windows in the door and unlocked it from the inside. I led Mrs. Ostermann into her home, taped up the broken window and with my job done I left for home.

I forgot about that night and got on with my life, and went to work the next day, Saturday, as I usually did. The day passed and I found myself checking the dairy case around six in the evening when my boss approached, told me I’m done with work for the day. Stunned, I asked him why.

He said, “You have a date tonight with that Natalie girl, right? She asked me to let you off of work early and I told her I would. That girl needs a good man in her life Isaac.”

I punched out and left the store. I’d been outmaneuvered and left in check without realizing I was playing a game in the first place. Chris walked up from behind me with his girlfriend Katie in tow and they pulled me along without as much as a word, bringing me to our local seafood restaurant. They told me it was a double date, the two of them with Natalie and me. I was captured and defeated before I could put up a fight, this was my second mistake. It’s a nice place and Natalie stood well-dressed outside, smiling on seeing us arrive.

A waiter sat us and we ordered our food. Natalie got the surf-and-turf, which I expected I’d be paying for, so I distracted myself by trading some war stories, tales on weird and unruly customers with Chris. As I talked with Chris, Natalie coughed and placed her hand on mine. I ate quickly in vain hopes to escape, but this left me waiting for the others with nothing to do but sit and speak to Natalie. I should have left the restaurant and Natalie then and there, but I didn’t. I felt responsible to Chris and Katie, and even to Natalie. Natalie had to pull teeth to get me talking, but she took perverse pleasure in the job. She grew confidant and sat comfortably in the position of power, no longer the servant. I chaffed under her unbending will.

We finished our meals and exited the restaurant, my wallet much too light for my tastes. I felt the night would go on forever, and I needed to get away from Natalie before I got beyond the point of no return. Hopeless, I tried thinking about work, school, or anything far away from that restaurant when our town cop, Officer Bob showed up. He didn’t bother to look up from his clip board as he said, “Isaac, I was told you’d be here and came down to ask if you’d come to the station with me.”

Everyone, myself included, stared at Officer Bob. Nobody said anything. I nodded in assent and went along without a fight, free for now. I don’t remember much because I’ve tried to forget that time, but I ended up down at the station alone. I do remember the looks on everyone’s faces, the incredulity in Chris’s eyes, but I remember Natalie most of all. She looked past me and into the ocean behind the restaurant.

I spent the next fourteen hours in the station, and most of it I spent in one of the holding cells. They asked me to talk, but I never said a word. I couldn’t talk as I was too choked up with anger because I hadn’t been charged with any crime. It definitely wasn’t worth getting away from Natalie for the circus show at the police station. The next morning Officer Bob came in and let me out.

He said, “I brought you in over the incident at the Ostermann household, but her daughter isn’t pressing charges as nothing was stolen, so you’re free to go for now.”

That was the end of my sojourn at the police station, so all that was left was for me to walk home. People turned and watched as I passed by and gave me a wide berth when I neared. Having lost the collective trust of my fellow townsfolk, life in Derby Harbor became brutal. People I once considered friends no longer talked to me and customers, at best complained about my presence at work and at worst demanded I get fired. The only person who still hung out with me was Chris because he was the only one who understood. He wasn’t enough to help me though, so I planned to disappear at the end of the summer, hoping escape would be relief.

Towards the end of the school year, I wished I could just stay home until summer came. The looks people gave me, I’ll never forget. Their cold stares went past me or through me as though I wasn’t there. Teaches got tough on me as if they expected trouble out of me at any moment, but I never gave them any. Natalie didn’t show up to school anymore, and it’d been a week since anyone saw her. People started to talk, saying I did something to her. I didn’t appreciate the attacks, but I held myself back from retaliation, the last thing I needed was more trouble with people. The principal called me to his office, so there I stood in front of his steel desk in the simple room the school provided him.

Master P, as the student body took to calling the principal, started by asking me to sit down. I refused. He went straight to business, “Isaac, you’re dating Natalie right? Do you know why she hasn’t been coming to school as of late?”

“I don’t know sir, but I can go check.”

The principal told me to get back to him before long, and I walked out of the office, leaning on a nearby wall. What gave Master P the idea that Natalie and I were dating? We’d gone out once to the restaurant, but that’s it. Are other students telling him this? Teachers? Nobody talks to me anymore so I just don’t know.

I showed up outside Natalie’s home Wednesday after school since I didn’t have to work that day. What a way to spend my day off. I knocked on the door and got a meek yes in return. I announced myself.

Natalie answered the door, “Isaac what are you doing here?”

Natalie was a mess. Her hair stood up on end, disheveled and her clothes were dirty and wrinkled. I said, “You haven’t been to school the last couple of days, so everyone’s worried. Is your father home?”

Natalie sobbed, “No he isn’t. I just don’t know what to do. Could you stay Isaac, for just a few minutes?”

I agreed to though I didn’t want to, but I didn’t want to find out what might happen to Natalie if I left. I’d be held responsible. The situation didn’t make sense to me at first because I was under the impression she took care of her father, so why couldn’t she take care of herself with her father gone? I shouldn’t be too hard on her though. A man like her father should be able to take care of himself, but instead he tied himself to his daughter. I stepped inside her home only to find squalor. It isn’t possible for humans to live in such a state of decay in which I found that house.

I asked Natalie where her father was and she responded, “He’s in Fairbanks for a few weeks. My aunt is sick.”

I couldn’t stand the house or its mess, but I couldn’t leave Natalie alone as things were, so I stayed and told her I’d help out if only for my own piece of mind. She was ecstatic and stuck herself to me for every moment I spent in her house. I cleaned and even cooked everyday after school, work, and the bulk of the weekend. It took the better part of a week to make that house livable by mopping, scrubbing, and sweeping every room. The cleaning gave me something to focus on besides my disgust. Natalie spent the time either bouncing around getting in the way or nagging me to do some other chore while complaining about what I was doing at the time. She was like a poorly trained dog that tears up the furniture when the owner goes on vacation.

I was glad when Natalie’s father returned and I no longer had to be around that house. Disaster had been diverted and she came to school once more. Natalie took every opportunity to eat lunch with me or spend time with me, which made my situation difficult. Despite my general loneliness, I did my best to remain aloof of her hoping the time I spent with her didn’t give her wrong ideas, especially about us.

Graduation came and went, and I finished fourth in my class which is better than most, and I’m happy with that. Summer made life for me much harder when Chris quit the grocery store in preparation for work on his father’s crabbing boat in November. Chris was the one guy who understood me, and he was the only friend to stick by me when everyone else abandoned me. Hoping to forestall his departure, I told him it was early in the year for leaving. Chris said in response to my worries, “Don’t get worked up Isaac. We've been friends too long for me to give up on you.”

“You're right; we've been friends for too long. I’m leaving this town, it’s too tough for me to get by when everyone either acts like I don’t exist or is out to get me, even with you around. I’m leaving for Paris Island at the end of August; this is the only way for me to escape, to be happy.”

“You’re going to France?”

“No, I’m joining the Marines.”

“But they’ll send you to Iraq.”

“Probably”

Chris stepped back, “What? No, you can get a job with my father on the ship. People might be tough on you now, but if you keep your head low and work hard they’ll forget about what happened with Mrs. Ostermann, and what about Natalie?”

Natalie, as if on cue when Chris mentioned her name entered the store and came down our aisle stopping next to us. She greeted us both with her usual smile.

I started, “Natalie I . . .”

She interrupted, “Isaac, I want to talk with you, will you walk me home?”

Taken aback I said, “S . . . sure.”

That was my third and final mistake, going back to Natalie’s home. Chris gave me thumbs up as I walked away with Natalie. She swung a gallon of milk in one hand and with the other grasped one of my arms and wouldn’t let go for anything.

Squeezing my hand she said, “I’m sorry about not talking to you for the last few days, but I needed to think. Isaac, you’re a good person and you try to do the right thing. You’re not a violent person.”

“You’re wrong Natalie, I am a violent person.”

She squeezed harder, “No you’re not, I won’t let you get violent, okay?”

Natalie smile sent a chill up my spine, and we found ourselves standing outside her front door. She ushered me in without a wasting a moment and closed the door behind her. Her house, the living room, kitchen, everything was squalor once more. All the work I did, gone. Amid the mess her father slept on the couch dressed in boxers and a wife beater. It was hard to walk around.

Natalie jumped into the kitchen from the hall and said to me, “Just let me put the milk away and then we can go upstairs where it’s clean. Sorry for the mess, I do my best but it’s so hard with my father out of work.”

She came back and pulled me upstairs into her room, where it was clean as she said. At least some of my work survived the cyclone that is her father. She sat on the bed and motioned for me to join her, but I chose to stand. Natalie started to cry and having never seen her cry before I didn’t know what to do.

She said, “I can’t go on like this anymore Isaac, it’s just too hard. I need help.”

“Uh, what do you need?”

She came to me and grabbed my arm, “I need you Isaac.”

The look she gave me pierced down into the base of my brain stopping my heart. I said, “Natalie, I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

“Please Isaac, don’t leave me alone.”

A knock on her door interrupted us, salvation. Natalie let go and started to shake. She called out and her father responded by breaking her door in. With a loud crack the lock broke open and the door swung against the wall. The smell of whisky followed him in and he proceeded to push all of her belongings on the dresser onto the floor. He threw books about and Natalie cried, her sobs grew frantic when she asked her father what was wrong.

He answered, “Natalie, I should kill you for this; I can’t believe you’d betray your own father like this. And you Isaac, what gives you the right to come into my home and take what isn’t yours?”

I remained calm, “And what sir, did I take?”

He got right into my face, spitting, “You know very well what. Where is it? WHERE’S MY MILK!”

For a moment I couldn’t speak, all I could do was laugh. The father stood dumbfounded and Natalie managed a couple weak chuckles in-between sobs. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life, and once it hurt too much to continue I said to her father, “Well did you check the fridge?”

He answered, “No.”

I continued, “Then I suggest you go do that now.”

I couldn’t bear to look at Natalie after my show, so I walked to the door and said with my back to her, “I’m sorry Natalie, I should go.” The last thing I heard in that house was her crying.

Now here I am one week later on a plane that’ll take me to Fairbanks and from there to the “Outside” and freedom. No more mistakes, no more misplaced responsibility; I’ll just disappear. It’s getting cool as winter starts early here. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to Natalie again, so I wrote her a letter. I told her I was sorry for laughing as I did and I won’t be there for her, but told her to move on and forget me like everyone else would. I won’t be coming back.

Monologue - Our Better Natures

I had to write a second monologue for my creative writing class, but this time the character had to be someone who did something most would consider good yet still regretted the decision they made. I chose to have this monologue exist in the same universe as the first one, except this time the character speaking is one of the cult members rather than the leader. I don't think it's as good as the first, but it's alright.

Trisha: I’m not sure anymore, about our Father. I listened to him for so long, his word became truth. His voice comforts and resonates throughout my body and I drown in his bright blue eyes. Father’s always smiling, his words sound so beautiful, but I don’t understand what he’s saying anymore. I can’t get the words he uses or the ideas he shares because it’ so different from how things used to be. When I first came to Father everything he said just made sense.

Everything changed when the Interloper joined us. The Interloper, Bobby, joined to get close to me, and he died because of me. I was selfish, and my selfishness cost Bobby his life, so I wanted to repent. Father speaks of repentance often, and I still think he’s right, right that we must work to evolve beyond our sins. I contacted the police and told them what happened to Bobby and what’s happening to us here with Father. I’ve sinned again in repentance of former transgressions.

Father told me not to compound my problems, but the police can help. He calls them servants of the Darkness, but I don’t know. I miss my old family, and the police said they can bring me back to them. I’m not the only one who misses their old family. The police call us crazy and my new family wouldn’t agree with my actions, so I don’t know who I can trust. All I ever manage to do is sin, but something needs to change. Father tells us to move forward but I don’t know up from down and left from right. How can I go forward? I just want to help the Family and Father too. I’ll have to apologize to the Family and repent once more; I don’t think I’ve fallen from the Path yet.

Monologue - Chronic Regret

One of my writing assignments required the creation of a monologue from the perspective of a villain or antagonist in our next play. I decided to write from the perspective of a cult leader known as the Prophet of Repentance. Here it goes.

Prophet of Repentance: My children, today the Darkness comes as close to consuming us as it ever has in our trialed past. You may think the Prime Construct near destruction, but this is not so. The Interloper has been killed and the threat from the Dark Authority quelled, for the time being. The pigs still remain unenlightened to our grand Purpose, so our projects are safe from prying eyes. We must continue down the Path, fighting the oblivion of darkness, and embark on our Great Journey.

Some among us speak blasphemies against the Path, but this is the result of ignorance so I shall forgive such transgressions. The blasphemies consist of misplaced pity, the result of confusion and fear spawned by the Darkness and planted in our midst by the Interloper. I nipped the seed of discord in the bud, a necessary action to preserve our movement along the Path. Some said the Interloper should have been quarantined, but I say infections need to be inoculated against. Hence the death of the Interloper saved us from infection and his blood cleanses the Path and allows the light to shine for one more day.

I sacrificed the Interloper for a greater Purpose as all animals should be used. Those who serve the Dark Authority gave up their humanity when they prostrated before the Darkness. We must continue down the Path and fulfill our goal of enlightening humanity and moving beyond the weakness of human instinct. The Interloper sought to subject us to the urges and impulses of our darker nature, the pity and fear you may feel must be discarded as evil. The Path requires us to rise above human emotion lest we fall down to our hands and knees as the Interloper had. We remain on the Path; we’re dedicated to the Truth. We will persevere.

Queen Bitch

When I posted earlier I said I was going to write my play using Modest Mouse's song "Float On" as inspiration, but instead I used "Queen Bitch" David Bowie. I really phoned this one in.

Two people are in a cheap hotel room late at night. The first is a man named Lou and the second is a transvestite prostitute that goes by the name Sister Flo.

Lou: What am I . . . what am I doin’ here?

Sister Flo: I ain’t gettin’ paid to answer questions. So dear, what’ll it be?

Lou: Can you just, just give me a minute?

Sister Flo: It’s your money hun.

Lou: I can’t do this anymore. I can’t go through with it. I’m outta here.

Sister Flo: Woah, woah there buddy, you gotta pay me first. My time’s valuable you know. I don’t cheat my customers and I give them what I pay for, but you gotta pay me.

Lou: Pay you? But we haven’t done a goddamned thing. Look, just look . . . I don’t know. What am I doin’? What am I . . .?

Sister Flo: I ain’t getting’ paid to wax philosophic with you, but if it’s waxin’ you’re lookin’ for . . .

Lou: Look, I’m not sure I want to be here doin’ . . . this.

Sister Flo: And I’m not sure I’m getting’ paid.

Lou: Will you shut up about money, I’m tryin’ to think.

Sister Flo: Nobody tells me to shut up. You better adjust your attitude hon before I come down on you, hard. You don’t want that, do you?

Lou: I don’t know what I want . . .

Sister Flo: Well I know what a man wants . . .

Lou: Get away! Get away from me. Get outta here.

Sister Flo: No I ain’t leaving. I didn’t get . . .

Lou: Your money. I know. You know what; yeah I’ll give you your money. I’ll go through with this. Here’s twenty bucks. (Lou hands Sister Flo a twenty.) Now what?

Sister Flo: (Sister Flo pockets the cash.) I dunno, what d’you want?

Lou: I don’t know this . . .

Sister Flo: what?

Lou: This is my first . . .

Sister Flo: Your first time? I could tell.

Lou: Let’s get on with it.

Sister Flo: Get on with what?

Lou: What? With it

Sister Flo: It? Oh, it costs money.

Lou: I paid you.

Sister Flo: Yeah, for the time you spent thinkin’.

Lou: That’s bullshit.

Sister Flo: Nah honey, that’s the goin’ rate for someone classy like me.

Lou: I paid my money, let’s go.

Sister Flo: What’d ya take me for, some dime store hooker? This here is the best there is.

Lou: The best? You’re just some trash off the street.

Sister Flo: Off the street? Off the street! Let me . . . let me tell you somethin’ sweetheart, you’re nothin’. Nothin’. You’re just some chump with a nine to five job sittin’ in some rottin’ away as your wife cheats on you and your children hate you for never being home. You live the life of some caged animal on display for everyone to point and laugh at.

Hon, I’m free. I’m a wild animal and I won’t be brought down by you. I live my life how I want and I’m happy. I choose the men I sleep with, they don’t choose me. And you know what, I chose you. I chose you because you remind me of myself; back when I was a caged animal, back when I lived in a suit and tie.

You see, I want you to be free. I want you to open up and be free. I want to help you, but I gotta make a living. Its tough doin’ what you love, but I get up and do it every day. I’m here for you, but if you want to go back to your sad, little life that’s okay with me.

Lou: Oh fuck you. Go to hell. Who do you think you are? You think you’re helpin’ me? What a crock of. . . Never mind, never mind. What was I thinkin’? I don’t belong here. You think you know who I am? You don’t. You don’t know shit. I don’t have a family; I don’t have a wife or kids.

You on the other hand, are scum. You prey the streets lookin’ for chumps like me, and I was stupid enough to follow you. I needed to know who I was, and you were the way to my answer. You are a wild animal, one not worth the air you’re breathing. Someone should put you down for everyone’s good.

I should have gone with someone else. I can do better than you, you disgusting pig. You’re just a sad excuse for a human being, just some man playing dress up. Just a man. I could do better than you.

Sister Flo: Oh! Oh really? A man. How dare you.

Sister Flo starts a tussle with Lou and Lou throws Sister Flo to the ground. Lou gathers Sister Flo’s stuff up around the room.

Sister Flo: What’re you doin’?

Lou: Throwing you out.

Sister Flo: What what what!

Lou: You heard me, get the hell out!

Sister Flo: No!

Sister Flo attempts to take his/her stuff back. Lou tries to push his way to the door. The both of them tussle once again. Sister Flo gets the stuff back but staggers backwards.

Sister Flo: I ain’t going back out on the street. You’re not kicking me out.

Lou: Well I ain’t payin’ for you to stay here.

Sister Flo: I ain’t sleepin’ outside.

Lou: You ain’t sleepin’ here. You can go sleep in hell for all I care, but you can’t sleep here.

Sister Flo: Fuck you.

Lou: Screw you.

Sister Flo lies down on the bed and pulls the covers up.

Lou: Get out of the bed.

Sister Flo: You can’t get rid of me.

Lou: You know what, fine. I’ll let you stay. Sleep in the bed, I don’t care anymore. You can do whatever you want. You deserve it all.

Lou climbs into the bed and lies next to Sister Flo.

Sister Flo: What the hell are you doin’?

Lou: It’s my room and my bed. I paid for it, so I’m sleeping in it.

Sister Flo: Get out.

Lou: Make me.

Sister Flo: Alright, this is stupid.

Lou: At least we can agree on that.

Sister Flo: Good, now stop being stupid and get out of the bed.

Lou: Screw you.

Sister Flo: Humph, good night then. (Sister Flo rolls away from Lou.)

Lou: Good night.

The next morning the two of them wake up together and get out of bed. Still in the room, Sister Flo prances around while Lou tries to straighten his wrinkled clothes.

Lou: I’m leaving.

Sister Flo: Fine, where’s my money?

Lou: What . . . are you serious? You’re really serious?

Sister Flo: Do I look like I’m joking?

Lou: You aren’t getting a dime.

Sister Flo: Then I’ll drop a dime on you.

Lou: Yeah right, where’ll that get you?

Sister Flo: It’ll get me my money.

Lou: You won’t do it.

Sister Flo exits the room and comes back a few moments later.

Sister Flo: I just called the cops on your ass. I’ll testify against you and you’ll go to jail, that is if you don’t give me my money.

Lou: What? You actually called the cops? What the hell are you thinkin’? They’ll arrest you too!

Sister Flo: I haven’t done anything wrong. I ain’t the one tryin’ to rob a workin’ girl.

Lou: You’re a prostitute! A male prostitute!

Sister Flo: You ain’t getting’ outta this without giving up my money.

Lou: Screw you, I’m getting away.

Lou attempts to leave but gets accosted by Sister Flo. The two wrestle on the floor when there’s a knock at the door.

Officer: Police, open up.

Lou: Shit.

Sister Flo jumps over to the door and throws it open.

Sister Flo: Thank you for coming so quickly officer. This man here (pointing to Lou) refuses to relinquish the money he owes. I’d like for you to take him away.

Officer: And who might you be . . . ma’am?

Lou: Oh for God sakes officer she’s a he.

Sister Flo: Why don’t you shut up!

Officer: Alright, what’s really going on here?

Lou: Sir, this person (pointing to Sister Flo) is a prostitute.

Sister Flo: And you’re a crook.

Officer: Alright . . . you’re both coming with me.

Sister Flo: What, I haven’t done anything. I don’t have to go with you.

Officer: I just need you to come down with me to the station for interrogation. You haven’t been charged with anything, yet.

Sister Flo: (To Lou) You bastard, making me the scapegoat. I’ll kill you!

Sister Flo assaults Lou and the officer gets involved, holding Sister Flo back. The officer tries unsuccessfully to restrain Sister Flo. Sister Flo runs around the room and exits quickly.

Officer: Hey you wait! (To Lou) you wait here. (The officer picks up his walkie talkie.) Officer 23 here, I’m at the hotel on Redding Avenue . . . number 56. I have a suspect on the run. Uh . . . white male? Yeah white male, about 6’2’’ and dressed in drag, a red dress. Blonde hair, I believe a wig and wanted for assault. Over

The officer takes chase after Sister Flo, leaving Lou alone. Lou collects his stuff, waits a few moments and exits the room.