A boy experiences the loss of a close pet and is changed forever, leading him to join the legions. \ I always fought for my younger brother. When we were children, I would stand up against those who tormented, bullied, and stole from him. Usually, he was seemingly too timid to put up a defense himself. But one encounter changed him forever. It was the day that something irreplaceable was taken from him. See, my brother, Marius, had a pet mouse named Leucon. He had white fur with little blotches of brown, and a pair of wide, searching eyes. I remember the creature being playful, intelligent, and fully adored by Marius. The mouse must have known this as he would squeak and chirp gently when held by my brother. Their bond was strong and Marius would often take Leucon with him wherever he went. One fateful day though, our father sent us to the market to acquire some bread, oil, and fish. He even gave us a few extra denars in little coin purses so we could get something for ourselves. This concerned me a bit as Marius was still a little naive. I was worried that he would be swindled out of his money and even warned him myself before we set out. But he told me that Leucon would be watching out for him. As with many outings before, Marius decided that the mouse would accompany him on this trip as well. He tucked his tiny companion neatly into his coin purse, saying that “Leucon would help guard his silver”. To me, such a statement was ridiculous, but Marius was nonetheless my silly little brother and such care-free innocence gave me a sense that something was good about the world. I made it a point to watch out for Marius and by extension the little things that mattered to him. If he thought Leucon was there to guard him, then so was I. They would both be equally my responsibility. When we reached the market we began to wander through the labyrinth of stalls and tents. Marius, being young and easily distracted, wanted to stop and gawk at the wares of every trinket salesman. I did too admittedly, but I also knew we had to press on through our chore. However, the task must have been too burdensome to my brother as somewhere along the way, Marius decided to separate from me. More than likely his eye was caught by some exotic good or toy. I rapidly backtracked throughout the market, panicked at the notion of losing my brother. I asked all sorts of merchants and vendors whether or not they saw him, describing his small stature and auburn colored hair. One vendor mentioned that he saw Marius with two other boys who looked to be cornering him. I asked the vendor in which direction they went and he pointed to a nearby alley. *Oh no...* I thought. I sprinted to the alley entrance, pushing past people in the busy market to get to Marius. The scene that I stumbled into horrified me. I saw the two boys the vendor mentioned standing above my brother. He was on the ground, huddled into a ball and sobbing. The boys seemed to be roughly the same age as Marius but were certainly larger than him. One of them held Marius’s coin purse while the other one seemed to be sucking his finger as if it were pricked. Then I noticed Leucon... The tiny mouse was lifeless on the ground; a motionless clump of white fur with its neck snapped at a grotesque angle. The bastard sucking his finger must have crushed the poor mouse’s neck and then tossed him to the ground like a discarded rag. All in front of Marius. I was *furious* upon realizing this. Immediately, I charged the boy that had killed Leucon. He might have been bigger than Marius, but he wasn’t bigger than me. He turned to face me, but it was too late to stop my rage. Using what tricks I learned from my father, an old mercenary, I slammed the boy across the face with my fist and then delivered a gut-punch. He dropped to the ground, moaning and crying. The other boy, stunned, dropped Marius’s coin purse and stared at me. “Get out of here! Go! Before I decide to hurt you as I have hurt your friend!” I hollered. The coin-thief continued to stare dumbly before it registered that he should flee. He then turned and ran like his life depended upon it. Meanwhile, the boy who I had dropped was rolling on the ground. “You too!” I shouted as I kicked dirt on him. The boy staggered to his feet, barely recovered from the blows I delivered. He proceeded to limp out in pursuit of his friend. I turned to see Marius still on the ground and curled up. I ran to attend to him. “Oh God, Marius! Are you ok?” Marius unfurled a bit from the ball he was in, revealing a bruised face reddened with blood and shameful despair. “Cy-cyrus? He meekly asked between tears. Upon seeing me, he immediately hugged me, resting his chin upon my shoulder. I returned the favor and comforted my little brother by holding him tight. “Cyrus, it was awful!” he exclaimed. “They-they killed him, Cyrus. They killed Leucon! He was just trying to protect himself. But they decided to snap his neck anyway!” I said nothing and just held Marius closer to me as he sobbed. “Why would they do something like that?” he asked. “Leucon was just scared. How could they be so cruel?” My mouth emptily gaped open and closed as I struggled to form an answer. “I...I don’t know,” I began. “I guess people can be horrible to creatures they see as weak or lesser. They think that they can easily take from them or hurt them for their own gain.” Marius held me tighter as his fingers gripped into my back. Something about the mouse’s death struck deep into his soul. I could feel a sense of rage building behind his sorrow. “But why did Leucon have to *die*, Cyrus? Why did they *kill* him?” he asked breathlessly. I contemplated this question as deeply as any philosopher. “I don’t know, Marius,” I said. “Because they could? Because Leucon got in the way of the silver they wanted?” Marius inhaled and exhaled raggedly in between bouts of little sniffles. “But ***why***?!” He screamed, still not understanding. “Life shouldn’t be like that. I don’t understand why good things get hurt. It’s-it’s not...*fair.*” “It isn’t, at all, Marius,” I said in agreement. “It truly isn’t.” I held Marius for a little while longer before peeling him away from my hold. I looked into his face and he appeared to have calmed down a little. However, something else in him seemed deep in ponderance. “Come,” I said. “We should give Leucon a proper burial.” Marius collected the mouse and we found some cheap cloth to use as a shroud. We then traveled outside the city gates to find a quiet place in the country to bury Marius’s former companion. We didn’t have to walk far to find an idyllic patch of flowers on the side of a quiet road. Marius and I knelt down in the flower bed and began to claw out a little grave in the earth. Carefully, Marius deposited Leucon in the hole and remained quiet as I filled the grave back up. We then stood side by side in silent reflection. “Cyrus?” asked my little brother. I looked down. “Yes, Marius?” I replied. “Did...did Leucon die because I wasn’t able to protect him?” he asked with a hint of remorse. “Marius...” I began. “Because if I were as strong as you, Cyrus,” he continued. “I don’t...I don’t think Leucon would have died.” He looked up at me and seemed as if he were on the verge of tears again. “How-how do I become as strong as you, Cyrus?” he asked. How do I protect the things that matter to me?” I knelt down and hugged him. As I stood up, I sighed and grabbed him by the hand before speaking. “We should go home and tell father about what happened today.” \ My father was reluctant to teach us the ways of fighting. He taught us one or two things about defending ourselves and maybe surviving combat if we were ever called to defend the city. But otherwise, our father limited his lessons as he didn’t want us to lead the type of life that he led as a mercenary before he got citizenship. He was afraid we would end up getting ourselves hurt or killed while seeking adventure and glory. But in the days after losing Leucon, Marius wanted to learn everything about fighting and would pester our father constantly. He eventually gave into Marius’s demands, perhaps out of sympathy for the feeling of weakness that my brother felt after losing his companion. So Marius learned how to fight regularly. At first, other boys would continue to steal from and pick on him given his size. But at least he was more than willing to put up a defense by then. Initially, he often lost and I would have to save him. But that didn’t stop him from throwing punches as if he were possessed by a furious spirit who was blissfully unaware of his small stature. Over time though, Marius not only grew, but he also became better skilled in martial prowess. He even surpassed me. Eventually, our father passed and his business and estate were granted on to me, the eldest. Marius could have worked the shop with me, but he felt he had another calling. Over the years, Marius had grown strong and become very competent in the martial arts. So instead he opted to join the legions, figuring that there could be no higher honor than protecting his home and his family. Marius and I would correspond regularly through his training and then his deployment to the outskirt provinces. Through letters, we would often reminisce on childhood, converse about philosophy, or talk about his time in the frontier fort. I learned that the fort where he was stationed was only five day’s travel from our city. He would often remark how peaceful it was out there in the forests of the frontier and how different it was to our home city, despite the relatively short distance. Then one day though, I realized that Marius was late in continuing his correspondence. At first, I figured nothing of it, thinking that my brother was busy with his duties. Then another day passed and then another. Then a week. I came to fear the worst. Eventually, a messenger finally appeared at my door. That was the day I received the news I wasn’t ready to hear: the fort where my brother was stationed was overwhelmed by warriors from the northern tribes. He was likely killed by those barbarian savages in a surprise attack. I could barely stand upon hearing this. How could that even be? My little brother, who, from humble beginnings, became such an impressive fighter. My little brother, who would discuss philosophy with me. My little brother, who cared for tiny creatures. How could he be dead? I shuddered to think of him bleeding out on some forsaken battlefield or upon a cursed rampart. Why would the heavens allow him to be taken from me like that? Worse yet, the messenger still had more terrible news to deliver. Apparently the barbarians who took the fort where Marius was stationed were marching towards our humble city. They would be here in two days' time. I dismissed the messenger and immediately made arrangements to send my wife and children beyond the walls to safety. I decided to remain, days' however. I still remembered a few tricks my father taught me and I wanted to stay and defend my shop and my home. Beyond that though, I wanted a chance...any chance...to seek vengeance for my brother. Over the course of the next days, panic swept through the city. Some fled to the country. Others, like me, decided to hold, not wanting to surrender their homes, to the barbarians. I found my father’s old sword, shield, and some aged leather armor. I cleaned up the armor and sharpened the sword as best as I could. I then joined up with the city militia and received a helmet and some last-minute drill instruction. In due time, the barbarian horde emerged from the forests and came to besiege our city, cutting us off from food and other necessary provisions. From the walls at night, you could see the fires of their camps in the distance. They would hoot and yawp from the darkness, screaming like animals in an attempt to terrify us. It was unnerving, but not as unnerving as the sound of axes chopping wood and saws cutting through timber. Rumor had it that the tribesmen had captured some of our engineers and coerced them into revealing the secrets of siege warfare. God only knew what they were building. We certainly didn’t see anything during daylight. However, on the morning of the seventh day of the siege, we beheld the fruits of their labor. The barbarians had assembled an array of equipment to aid them in their effort to take our city, seemingly having conjured it out of thin air. This included a number of tall ladders, a few catapults, a battering ram, and even an imposing siege tower. They likely built everything piecemeal in the cover of the forest, away from our sight. Then the night before they must have assembled everything in the relative protection of the impenetrable darkness. Their apparent plan was quite clever as the sight that morning was dismaying, to say the least. As the sun rose, the barbarians took various positions around the city and laid in wait for a signal. Then it came. A series of bellowing horns blew and the barbarians unleashed a roaring chorus of battle-cries. All hell broke loose. Archers and catapults pelted our positions. Boulders collided with the battlements, sending men, stone, and brick tumbling through the air. Meanwhile, the wheeled siege tower and battering ram began to lumber towards the city walls. We returned fire with our arrows and ballista shots, picking off the men pushing the siege engines and rushing our walls with ladders. One lucky ballista shot even managed to knock out a support in the siege tower, toppling it in a shower of splinters atop the barbarians. A cheer rose from our men, but the victory was short-lived. Some of the ladders reached our walls and fierce tribesmen, wielding an assortment of clubs, axes, and spears, were climbing towards us. I readied my shield and prepared to defend my position. The initial wave of barbarians clambered over the wall and were met with our steel. I got my first good look at them in the maelstrom. They were large and wild-looking; unshaven and unkempt, often wearing thick flannel or furs to emphasize their beastly appearance and tall helmets to emphasize their height. They fought with ferocity, but there were enough of us on the walls that we temporarily halted them. Then suddenly, a thunderous sound boomed through the battle. **THUD...THUD...THUD…** The battering ram had reached the gates. Half of us were ordered to retreat from the walls to reinforce the men holding the entrance to the city. I volunteered to go. **THUD...THUD...THUD…** 30 or so men and I ran down a set of stairs located in one of the wall towers to reach the ground. We then rushed to the gates, desperately trying to get there in time. **THUD...THUD...KAGRRAASH!** The gates crashed open. It was too late. A wild throng poured through, and by the time we got there, the barbarians were already swamping the men who were desperately trying to hold the entrance. I looked back to the wall ramparts, hoping to see our men still holding somewhere. Instead, I saw the defenders there being overwhelmed as well. Someone ordered us to retreat and regroup at the city center. The walls were lost and barbarians were flooding into the city, spreading fire and slaughter as they went. We tried to stay together, but in the confusion, I became separated from my troop. I ran through the streets that were rapidly filling with a disorienting smokey haze. Screams and shouts could be heard not far in the distance. As I pushed towards the city center, I came across four tribesmen, armed with spears and axes, who were bashing down the door to a stranger’s home. Time almost froze when they fixed their gaze upon me, but I was catapulted back to reality when one shouted and pointed, prompting them to give chase. Not wanting to be caught out in the open, I decided to run. My plan was to lead them to the city center where the remnants of the city’s defenders were most likely going to make their final stand. At least there I would survive for a little longer. But in the haze of fear and confusion, I made a grave miscalculation. I turned into an alley, expecting to find a shortcut. Instead, I was faced with a brick wall. Something about the alley seemed familiar, but I had no time to contemplate such a thing. I pivoted and hoped to exit this obvious death trap. Alas, the barbarians appeared with appropriately grim timing. *So, it has come to this,* I thought. *At least I shall be with God and my brother if I must meet my end this day.* I bashed my sword against my shield and beckoned them to come forth. All four of them exchanged glances. One with a short spear and his own shield gave his compatriots a nod and stepped forth. He charged me individually. I braced myself. The barbarian came crashing against me, almost knocking me off my feet. However, I managed to widen my stance just enough before the impact to maintain my footing. He struck wildly at me with his spear, but I blocked his blows and bided for an opening. He then made his mistake. He inevitably wore himself as one of his thrusts was slower than the last. As he made one last labored strike, he dropped his shield just enough to give me an opening. I used that opportunity to parry, knocking his spear out of the way with my own shield and moving in for a thrust towards his chest. I ran him through, pushing upwards and stabbing into the heart. He gave an animalistic whine. “For my brother!” I quietly hissed in his ear. The barbarian was whimpering and I could feel warm blood coat my sword and my hand gripping it. I retrieved my weapon and he collapsed to the ground, lifeless. My assailant's compatriots gave each other a look and exchanged something in a tongue I barely understood. But before I could piece together their strategy, they all charged. Two were armed with grizzly looking two-handed great axes and the third had yet another spear and shield combo. They brought their weapons to bear upon me and I once again braced myself. The larger of the two axemen crashed against me and my shield and tried to chop at my head from overtop my defenses. I managed to parry his blows with my sword and even delivered a counterattack in the form of a slice across his face. Stunned, he hollered and staggered back, cursing but still alive. The spearman behind him jumped into the fray, replacing his wounded companion and further tying me up. Meanwhile, the other axeman was rushing to my exposed side. I tried to land a decisive blow on the spearman before I would be open to an attack from the axeman moving to exploit the opening in my defenses. However, I took too long in getting to the pole-armed warrior as he wisely used his weapon to keep me at length. This gave an opportunity to the axeman rushing my side. He was nimble on his feet and dexterous with his weapon, managing to flank me and hook my ankle with the flat underside of his ax bit. He pulled, sweeping me off the ground. My sword went flying and the next thing I knew, I was on my back. The huge, grizzled barbarian who I had scarred across the face walked up and was now looming above me. He looked angrier than the furies as he brought his ax up and stuck downward with a yawp. I still had my shield and hefted it above me as a last-ditch effort to survive his rage. The ax came crashing down and bit into the wood, striking through and nearly splitting my face in half. I held onto my shield for dear life, but it wasn’t enough. The ax head was lodged in my last line of defense and the barbarian used that leverage to wrench my shield away from me. I laid there fully exposed as the barbarian set himself for the final strike. I had nothing left. I then recalled why this alley was familiar. It was where Leucon died. Upon this, I remembered everything. That was the day I came to my brother’s aid just too late; the day Marius realized how cruel life could be. It was fitting this would be the place where I would get such a reminder myself. *I guess it’s true,* I thought, *the strong do take from the weak. What is there but suffering and destruction for those who can’t defend themselves?* I could feel my own breath go inward and outward. *Marius,* I thought. *How much I wish I was there for you.* Ready to embrace death, I closed my eyes and listened. I could hear the crackle of fires and the screams of people in the background. It all seemed so hopeless. But that wouldn’t matter soon as I was about to make my passage. I listened to the barbarian heave his huge ax above himself once again. I knew what was coming and resigned myself to my fate. Then I heard it: something else against the background noise of damnation. It made a low *whooshing* sound. At first, I thought it was the barbarian’s ax. Instead, it was my salvation. I opened my eyes just in time to see my executioner be impaled from behind with a thrown javelin. It was as if providence itself stuck down the wild man. He gurgled and toppled to the side in a heap, his prized great ax falling to the wayside. The other barbarians, stunned for just a brief moment, instinctually swung around to face the danger opposing them. I also adjusted my posture to see the interloper who had defied the hand of fate itself on my behalf. Through the smoke emerged an all too familiar figure. He was shorter, but stout; bloodied and bruised, but not broken, and armored like a professional soldier of the legion. My brother, Marius stood as a battered warrior, with sword and shield in hand, defiant of the apocalyptic chaos going around him. He was back from the dead, seemingly returning to pay retribution to the cruelty of the world itself. I again recalled that fateful day in this exact alleyway. I never really considered what Marius must have felt when he saw me coming to his rescue after experiencing such a lowly point in life. But in that moment when I saw him, I began to understand. I remembered why Marius was obsessed with becoming a better fighter. It wasn’t just because he lost faithful Leucon or felt weak. It was because he wanted to protect what mattered to him. Because he saw me throw myself into the fray so many times for him. He saw that he mattered to me and that I loved him as my only brother. And now here he was, returning the favor. “Marius?” I quietly asked myself underneath my breath, not fully believing what I was seeing. My brother glanced over to me and gave a look of relief when he saw I was still alive. He then stared down the barbarians. “Men of slaughter!” he bellowed. “Leave my brother be...or face me instead.” The barbarians cursed at the arrival of this interloper. The spearman was hesitant to engage but the remaining axman had grown enraged at the loss of his counterpart. He charged Marius, with a reckless abandon, running towards my brother with his weapon wound behind his shoulders. But Marius saw the mighty swing coming and deftly ducked below, only to pop back up with a stunning shield bash. The barbarian staggered back, grunting. He then blindly swung back and forth, desperately trying to land a blow. Marius simply dodged by stepping backward. He then used the space to go on the offensive Upon seeing his first opening, Marius did something unexpected: he chucked his shield at the barbarian and rapidly closed in. The barbarian managed to bat the tossed shield out of the way with his ax. However, it was too late for him. The axeman was still on his downswing when Marius came upon him with his sword. The savage tried to parry but wasn’t fast enough. He was run through, coming to choke on his blood and then collapsing to the ground. The spearman, not wanting to lose his life too, threw his arms to the dirt and ran off. My brother, having seen the day was won, approached me smiling. He offered me his outstretched hand. I took it and was then hoisted into a warm embrace. I almost broke into tears upon receiving my brother’s hug. I thought I would have never experienced a moment like that again. We then pulled apart, clasping each other's shoulders and staring into each other's beaming faces “Marius!” I began. “The attack on your fort…How are you still alive? *How* did you find me?!” “Oh Cyrus! Brother! It is a long tale,” he said. “You must have many questions and I have so much to tell you, but...” He was interrupted by the sound of a war horn blowing in the distance. “But for now we must make haste to safety. Come!” We gathered our arms and then ran. As we sprinted through the streets, I was uncertain of the immediate future. However, that really didn't seem to matter. All that mattered was that my brother and I had each other again. Yes, everything was chaos. But I knew Marius and I would face that chaos together. Together we would stand a chance. I used to fight for my brother. But now...now we would fight as one. \ Hey, thanks for sitting through this and reading. This piece was admittedly more experimental and I wanted to try some new things. I honestly think the story could have come out better though. If you have some criticisms, please send 'em to me. I would love to hear what you have to say.


Chapter 1 – Inner Turmoil In 2019 I met a girl named Chelsea and she meant the world to me. It was odd because I met her while attempting to distract myself from the pain and rancor I had built up over the past 10 years. In 2010 I joined the Marine Corps and I never had regrets but I had lost so many friends that my life turned upside down. I hated myself for being alive and I missed them every day. That was then, this is now – I don't feel much of anything anymore. I'm more of an empty shell than anything else. I had actually planned to kill myself within a few months, I just wanted to get everything together and make sure everyone else in my life was alright before I left this world. It's a feeling that's hard to explain because on one side you don't want to live with the pain anymore and everyone always thinks you can get better and tell you to just try but they don't understand that nothing makes it better. So you have to make a decision on whether you want it to end and make everyone else upset or keep living in pain every day but you don't cause others grief. I had already decided that it was better for me to leave this world because I wanted to take care of myself and what was best for me is to not live in pain anymore. I've done enough for this world as it is, at least, that's the way I saw it. I changed my mind because of this girl, she completely turned me around in just a matter of a few months. It's interesting because I never cared about what anyone else told me, I never cared to push forward because I never valued any other person's beliefs except my own. I was born with the IQ of a genius, the particular number doesn't quite matter. I just happened to see everyone else as beneath me and idiots. It was innate, I had recently come to face the facts – not everyone is like me and I can't judge everyone based on the criteria that governs my life. I happened to be playing a game online and I just heard this voice, a thick New Jersey accent and I chuckled, I thought it was funny. Most of my friends were from Jersey and I always made fun of them so I figured I would be nice this time and not say anything. I kept my mouth shut and then I wouldn't talk to this girl again for another month. I kept moving forward in my plans to get my affairs in order and leave this world but then I heard her voice again as I sat in my room trying to numb my pain by downing whiskey, smoking cigarettes and playing video games. For some unknown reason, when I heard her voice, I was taken aback. I knew I wanted to get to know her more – I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW HER AT ALL! I COULDN'T SEE HER! This was crazy, I'm trying to meet a girl that I can't see, can only hear and who has no reason to even talk to me one on one except for the fact that we played the same game. It was so interesting because I had no idea she felt the same way towards me. I rationalized it because people meet others online, right? What could go wrong? Well, a lot went wrong. I was still working at the time but at this point I was working for the CIA and going to class, I know, weird but it worked for me. Essentially I kept my original job as an operator but instead of MARSOC I worked as a spook. Same job, same pay, same everything. I would disappear for months on end and I didn't know how this would go. Anyway, back to this girl. I asked her if she wanted to join me and a friend, his name is George but he goes by Kiwi, in playing this game as a regular group. "Well, you're both cool, I like you guys…of course!" she said. "Dope! Here, this is the server we hang out in and you're welcome to join us anytime" I replied. I remember I was telling Kiwi how she was going to come hang out with us and by this point in time Kiwi already knew her. He liked her as well, just not in the same way I did. Everyone in our group welcomed her and immediately proceeded to ask her about her accent. Some guessed Boston, others guessed New Jersey. At this point I was taking care of my nieces, my sister had recently passed leaving a distraught family and her 4 daughters with no home. About half a year ago my brother-in-law had asked to borrow my motorcycle because my sister really wanted to ride one, they couldn't afford one and it was her birthday. I never liked him but I love my family so I agreed to let him borrow it. He drove over to my house, left his car and took my motorcycle. That motorcycle would be my sister's killer. I felt horrible. I got a phone call from my other sister. "Hey, where are you?" said Eve as she sniffled, struggling to catch her breath and calm down. "I'm at home sitting on the couch with Champ. We're watching TV, what's up? What's wrong? Did something happen?" "Grace is dead. She was in a motorcycle accident. Mom knows it was your bike and she is pissed. Dad can't gather himself right now. Why would you let them borrow it? That's a really powerful bike." "I…what happened?" "Kevin was speeding and hit the side of an SUV and Grace went flying over, smacked the ground and died on impact. Kevin hit the side of the SUV. Broke his right clavicle, cracked his right humerus, broke both his femurs and has a flail chest. He's in the hospital. I had to tell you because mom doesn't want to talk to you and I know they wouldn't tell you otherwise." "Ok…thanks…umm…I won't come by then. Thank you for telling me. Text me in case I can come by at some point." I had dealt with so much death, seen most of my friends die, get shot, blown up, bleed out, I just didn't have the emotions to deal with this anymore. I sat there, thought about it and turned off the TV. I sat in the dark as it was getting late, for hours. I sat there for 6 hours remembering past deployments, holding my friends in my arms as I saw the light leave their eyes. I moved past PTSD and I was at the point where I didn't care about people's feelings anymore. I had to text my sister back and ask her where the girls are, my nieces. She said they haven't been able to figure out where to place them but she's hoping they can stay with me because everyone else is so distraught it wouldn't behoove them to stay with anyone else in the family. I could offer them an environment free of everyone else's crying and telling them how they should feel. It's something everyone does, they think they know everything and how people should act that they try to tell you what to do and want you to do it but you know you can't. At least with me, with my lack of emotions, I won't force them to act or feel any type of way. I accepted and made up the rooms I had at the moment, it was just me and my dog. I cleared out the master bedroom and guest bedroom and got them ready for them. It was at this point I decided I wasn't going to be able to leave this world just yet, I needed to see this through. This was about 6 months before meeting Chelsea and if this hadn't happened I never would've met her. I never would've gotten to know this angel I can't seem to let go. Chelsea would play with us all the time, till random hours in the morning. Sometimes we would play until 4 or 5 o'clock. She was regular member of our group. The names of the others are irrelevant because they aren't seen much anyway. In the beginning we all hung out and played but everyone grew distant whereas Kiwi, Chelsea and I only got closer. She lived in Florida, I was in Ohio. My nieces wanted to go to Disneyworld and I didn't want to go. I really didn't. But because I had so much free time I said sure and I always caved whenever they asked me for anything. I commented this to the group. "I mean…I have a ticket in case you want some company…I don't know if it would be awkward…" I was shocked at what I had just heard, I don’t know this girl but she just volunteered to come spend time with us. I laughed because I thought she was joking and I said the girls would be uncomfortable with it. They hadn't liked me bringing girls over so I figured they wouldn't like it but I hadn't actually asked them. Later on while messing around with my friends I ended up finding out she was being serious. She also told me later on. At the time I was so confused, what do I do? What do I say? Does she actually like me? I'm broken, I hate my life and I didn't want to be alive but, yet, here's a girl who is trying to push herself into my life and I'm freely letting her in. I knew I shouldn't, she'll only get hurt. Everyone I date gets hurt and since I'm the common denominator I can only assume the problem is me. I was stuck, do I pursue this or do I step aside? I'm in terrible shape, I just took in my nieces, I'm mentally unstable – I even had a plan to kill myself! Well…I still have the plan, once the girls are well and they are no longer living with me.


For lack of a better term, he had the powerful gift of ‘pitching woo’. He could make just about any woman fall for him. Once they were smitten, he owned their heart, lock and key. I’d love to tell you he never misused this incredible power of persuasion, but that wouldn’t be true. It was too easy to bat his eyes seductively. He would smile and turn on the charm without even consciously realizing it was taking place. It came naturally from his innate magnetism. The ladies may have realized he was just a deadly heartbreaker, but they were still largely unable to resist his masculine appeal. The shameless woo he pitched their way was too tantalizing and irresistible. They sucked it up like warm sunshine. In exchange, he reaped the rewards of their loving favors, whether it be carnal or financial. Somehow he managed to court or seduce dozens of ladies without incurring the wrath of the others. He could sweet-talk his way out of scorn and numerous occasions of feminine fury. Then one day, he met her. She could pitch woo too. As a matter of fact, she was his equal in every regard. Guys tripped themselves over her. They fought desperately for her attention; and desired her affection to a feverish level which bystanders would’ve considered to be sheer madness. She was no fool. She used the considerable advantages that fate and genetics afforded her, whenever possible. It was the natural order of things. When they met, both were drawn to the unusual challenge of a mirror opposite. The rewards of pitching woo always came so easily to them in the past. Suddenly they faced a suitor who was fully impervious to those polished charms. It required an unorthodox, original approach to penetrate their opponent’s smooth exterior. The mutual seduction was stimulating. He was handsome and charming. She was demure and beautiful. He was extra witty and becoming. She was extraordinarily sassy, clever and cute. They were both ‘at the top of their games’ but neither of them had much experience at being truly sincere and open. That takes both practice and real humility. The two shiniest apples in the basket are definitely the most tempting but that’s no guarantee they are also the best tasting. For the first time ever, the two of them had to use real interpersonal skills and observation. He wanted to get to know her. To really hear her hopes and dreams. She thought he was amazing and hoped he would ask her out on an actual, old-fashioned date. It was awkward, like real first meetings are supposed to be when you aren’t comfortable or experienced. It was the first time in their lives where the feelings were sincere, innocent, and mutual. They were incredibly giddy. They had nervous butterflies in their stomachs. When seduction is mutual, it’s love. Both of them underwent a personal metamorphosis. He lost his eternal confidence. She couldn’t read his mysterious mood. For the first time in their lives, they had to rely on blind hope and true sincerity to win the other’s untamed heart. He was happy in her presence. She floated on the clouds when he was by her side. They were beside themselves and inseparable (when they were literally beside themselves). In the perfect turn of events, both of these aimless souls learned the essential importance of being totally honest, earnest, and sincere.


Once upon a time, there was a girl named Jenny. She was a very beautiful girl. She lived with her father, who worked two jobs just to keep her comfortable. Jenny loved her father very much especially when he brought her toys. When it was time for Jenny to go to school, her father sent her to a private school in their village. Jenny was so happy that time since she was going to the best school. With Jenny's happy attitude, she quickly made friends in her school, in fact, so quick that she haven't even met her teachers yet. The class started and Jenny and her classmates introduced themselves. During Jenny's introduction, all of her classmates were delighted to see her smile. Some of them even shouted that they found their class muse already. Jenny was flattered and was very happy to be well-welcomed. As the introductions finished, the teacher gave school requirements for the students. Jenny was shocked to see the amount of notebooks and other things she must have to buy to complete the whole academic year. She was worried that her dad might not have enough money to buy all the requirements. After last period, Jenny walked with her friends outside of school and noticed her father waiting for her. He called out to her and Jenny rushes to his side. Her father was riding a bicycle and told Jenny to hop on so that they can go home together. She agreed and said goodbye to her friends. All of her friends were surprised of how Jenny was riding her dad's bicycle instead of a car but shrugged it off their shoulders and went home soon after. At home, Jenny showed her father the list of requirements. Her father looked down and took a long breath. He calmly said to Jenny that it may take some time for him to buy all those school items. Jenny understood their situation well enough and reassured her father that it was okay. Her father smiled and hugged Jenny that night. Jenny woke up early the next morning and excitedly prepared herself for another day at school. She kissed her father goodbye and went to school. She saw her friends and greeted them then walked together to the classroom. Her friends started showing their new notebooks and bragged about their cool designs. Jenny suddenly felt out of place because she doesn't have a single notebook with her. One of her friends asked her where her notebooks were and she hesitantly said she does not have one. They smiled a little bit and asked why. She looked down and said that they don't have the money right now. One of her classmates jokingly said that she should sell her old and ugly bicycle to buy notebooks and everyone burst into laughter. Jenny kept her head low all day, until it was time to go home. Jenny didn't wait for her father to pick her up from school, she just went home by herself. The dinner of Jenny and her father was silent. She didn't tell her father what happened to school that day and just said she was fine. As Jenny was taking the trash out, she saw a black notebook with pink-colored text. She grabbed the notebook and saw that the text spelled out as Genie. She immediately fell in love with the design of the notebook and its expensive looks. She scanned the notebook to see if all pages were already used but to her surprise, only one page had text on it. She noticed it was a poem and she read it. "Write your wish,Your hope, your desire;Then behold it appearWith magic and fire." Jenny brought the notebook to her room and was happy knowing she now has a notebook of her own. She didn't mind the poem at the first page so she just kept it. She read the poem again and decided to write her own wish in the notebook, a box of pencils. To her surprise, something fell from the notebook. It was a box of pencils. She was shocked and she quickly let go of the notebook on her hand, confused of what just happened. Her confusion later became happiness when she realized it was her wish that gave her the box of pencils. She slept with a smile on her face that night. Next morning, Jenny was back to her old self. She was excited to go to school again. She met her friends in the classroom and showed her new notebook to everyone. All of her classmates were amazed at how beautiful the notebook was. One of her friends joked about her selling her bicycle to buy the new notebook she has but she quickly lied that it was a gift from her auntie back in France. Everyone became more amazed and started to be more friendly to Jenny. As classes started, the students were asked to draw the thing they loved the most in life. Jenny started to draw her father but before she could start, someone asked her if he can borrow a pencil from her because he lost his. With the box of pencils she had, she quickly let her classmate borrow. It made Jenny very happy she could be someone her friends can depend on. At home, Jenny started writing different school items on her notebook. She started writing coloring materials, papers, couple of notebooks. Then, one by one, it all fell down from the black notebook, slipping from the pages. She was so happy to have all the things she only wished for before. The next day at school, as she was about to meet her friends, she noticed that one of them was crying. She asked her what's wrong and her classmate replied that she lost all of her new stuff. Her classmate didn't know what happened because all of them was in her bag the whole time. As Jenny's classmate enumerated all the stuff she lost, Jenny recognized that all of the things mentioned by her classmate were in her bag. She was silent the whole day in school. Jenny went home as soon as classes ended and examined her school items. She realized all her notebook's gifts were actually stolen items from someone else. She felt guilty of what she did. She thought that the best thing to do is to give back the items she received but she also doesn't want her classmates to think she's a thief. Few days past and Jenny was still in dilemma. She didn't know what to do and to make things worse, she was starting to desire more things from her notebook. Everyday, her classmates would brag about their new stuff to class. She felt out of place every time. One day, as the teacher was sharing stories about her life to the class, one of the students asked if she achieved all her dreams in life. The teacher replied that she didn't but it did, however, gave way to much better things she didn't hoped for. She then added that maybe it was destiny that made her life better than what she originally planned. Jenny then realized something. Maybe, she was chosen to take hold of the notebook. Maybe, she deserved to be happy by making use of the notebook. Maybe, it was her destiny to be its owner. And just like that, she decided to own the notebook. Weeks passed and Jenny was demanding more and more from the notebook. She wished for a new bag, a new watch, even a new pair of underpants. Her father was starting to be suspicious of how Jenny was able to have all the things she had. He asked Jenny but she assures those were gifts from her classmates for being such a good friend. Her father believed her and let her be. A few days later, a police officer came by their house. Jenny's father asked what the problem was. The officer told him that there has been multiple reports of missing items and they were asking around the area if anyone noticed any suspicious activity. He replied that he didn't noticed anything. The officer then let him look at a list of all the stolen items, hoping he could be of some help. He recognized the watch but was not sure where he had seen it so he didn't say anything to the police. The officer thanked him for his time and went on his way. The next day, Jenny woke up late for school. It was the day of her test and she overslept. She skipped breakfast to catch up with the exam. Because of her rush, she forgot to bring a lot of things with her, including her watch. Fortunately, she was able to take the exam. She realized after the exam that her watch was not with her. That watch was one of the things she wished in the notebook. It was originally her teacher's. She became paranoid and looked around her bag, however she couldn't find it. As soon as the classes ended, she ran to her house. She looked everywhere in her room but the watch was nowhere to be found. As she was about to go out of her house to retrace her steps, her dad called out to her. Jenny looked back and saw her father sitting in his chair holding her watch. Jenny asked her father why he's wearing her watch. Her father asked why would her daughter steal. Jenny looked guilty however she said she didn't know what he was talking about. Her father's face continued to look pale and told Jenny that he couldn't recognize the daughter he loved all his life. Jenny started crying asking for forgiveness and tried to explain about the notebook. Her father raised his voice, asking Jenny to stop her lies. He, then, stand up and said he would go tell the police and Jenny should take responsibilities for her actions. Jenny begged, trying to convince her father's mind, asking to understand her needs and wants that her life cannot afford. Her father cried but was firm to his decision. Before he left, he told Jenny that the greatest thing he can give her, is the gift of understanding. In life, you just can't have all but that doesn't mean you'll go around hurting others because of your own limitations. Jenny fell to her knees while watching her dad go and change her life forever. Jenny rushed to her room and looked for her notebook. The black and pink notebook ruined her relationship with her dad. She thought that if not for this notebook, her father would've loved her forever but another thought came to her mind. Maybe, it was her dad who's in the wrong. Maybe, they weren't compatible in the first place and he would never understand her. Jenny grabbed her notebook and stared at an empty page. She made up her mind and wished for a better father. Suddenly, all her crying made her tired and she fell asleep. The next morning, as she was getting ready for school in the living room, she remembered that the police should've been at their house, looking for her, but fortunately, none came. She thought that maybe the notebook changed her father's mind and called out to him to thank him. As she was calling her father, an unknown man walked in the living room. She screamed and demanded to say his name. The man explained that he is not a bad man, in fact, he is her father. She was shocked but was not convinced and threaten the man that she will call the police. The man was confused and told her to stop with the nonsense. He then told her that they have been a family a long time and asked her to remember. Jenny looked at the family photos and she was even more shocked and scared. All of the pictures have the man's face in it instead of her father's. She asked what happened to her original father and the man replied that he recognized the name but if he remembered correctly, that man lived long ago but was killed by her own daughter. Jenny went to his room and swept through her notebook. Every page has her one wish written, a better father. She cried and teared each page from the notebook. She shouted and cursed the notebook while tearing it apart. However, as she tears one page, another page appeared. She was mad and violently asked the notebook what it wants. Slowly, the notebook writes unto one of its pages, the notebook wished for Jenny's death. At this point, she was very scared. She looked for the man in the house and told him what the notebook wrote to itself but the man can only see an empty page. She went outside the house, finding the village trashcan where she can throw the notebook. Out of nowhere, a car hits her and she was thrown into the air. Jenny's head hit the ground. Everyone around the area tried to help her but she died immediately. The notebook fell into the trashcan, waiting for its another victim.


She sat there chewing on her eraser. It seemed like a fairly easy question. Should she write the eulogy or the Latino gender politics essay? The anger towards an untimely death seemed juxtaposed with the anger of American treatment on Puerto Rican homosexuals in the late 20th century. Yet, she sat there still. Half her mind in space and half of it very much here on the ground, in this seemingly unrealistic, yet somehow feasible moment. Let’s take a crack at the easy one, she thought — eulogy it is. Okay, next question — this one somewhat harder. Where does one go to write someone’s eulogy during finals week? She didn’t think the library was appropriate. But then again, nowhere really sounded appropriate. And who writes the rules, she thought. Plus, even if somewhere is out there writing them, she didn’t really like what they had decided thus far for her week, so why bother abiding. So that’s how she came to find herself on a scuffed bench in the basement of the library, chewed up pencil fidgeting between her crooked teeth, attempting to form a jumbled thought web into words. That messy chaos going on inside her head had to start somewhere; so she took a few leaps back. First things first, she told herself. Write down every memory that flits through your head; whether it be good, bad, scary, sad. 1. the plays in the cabin where the sheet would go up between the bunk beds and they would dress Brian up like a girl 2. when mom would dye their pancakes colors after soccer, blue was the best 3. how every time the girl ate green beans, she would choose one that looked like a snail that *had* to be thrown away 4. that time dad took her door off its hinges 5. when mom poured coffee over all the halloween candy and they snuck back out to see what made it 6. when they made a huge cardboard house out of their dad’s snowblower box 7. that time they drove to Stillwater just because the girl thought they have the best Swedish fish 8. when they were riding horses in Mexico and they were convinced that one cowboy was Joe Jonas 9. when she got her first period and the girl reluctantly showed her how to use a pad 10. the amount of cavities the girl got 11. number 11 12. candy corn 13. the shitty white alero with the basketball case of CD mixtapes That’s it? That’s all she could think of? Twenty-two years and there were 13 things jotted down on her oddly dry paper. 13 random, unimportant, who-cares types of things. Those 13 things didn’t say anything about a person’s life, heck they barely even said anything at all. How was she supposed to take this trash and turn it into some eloquent bullshit about how beautiful a life was, how much this world will miss someone’s light, their laughter, yada-yada. Maybe she should have tackled the Puerto-Rican homosexuality crisis first. More thoughts began infecting her mind. New thoughts. Isn’t it odd that all eulogies tend to be the same? Every person, at every funeral known to man, talks about how ***their*** person had a “smile that could light up a room” and they’re in a ***better*** place now, how only the ***good*** die young. That’s dumb, she thought. Not to mention, she knew a lot of very ***good*** people that were definitely well past young. And, back to eulogies, if these people are already dead -- why not tell the truth? The girl’s life was not perfect, and a lot of the time she did not light up a room. In fact, it felt like a lot of the time she sucked all the light out of the room. And if she was gonna go full-blown lie detector mode on herself, a lot of the memories seemed to be bad. They appeared in a word cloud full of screaming, crying, drinking, hospitals, anxiety, bones, barfing. Those were the words that came to mind when she thought of the girl. Not heart, not laughter, not even smile. She sat there some more. She thought about honesty, and how that would be taken at a funeral. But the more honest she got with herself, the more bare-boned and unfiltered the descriptions in her mind became — the better the outline of the girl was. Bony, tears, alcohol, Christmas, running water, uncontrollable. These were the first words. But somehow those words were what pushed the onslaught of the next words — Proud, blue, unwavering, persistent, sparkle?, unabashed. The scary brought forth the good, and with the good came the pleasant authenticity of these new words. She scribbled them down (good and bad).


EXT. MEXICAN HACIENDA - BACKYARD - DAY Two young, similar looking BROTHERS (age 9(but in reality they are 700 years old)) are at odds over the plastic toy (G.I. JOE!). One boy, MARCO, climbs high on a swing set, dangling the G.I. Joe out of brother LEONEL’S reach. Leonel is angry and crying…he wants his toy back, but Marco is a bully and is having too much fun being bad. They yell at each other in Spanish (without subtitles). YOUNG LEONEL *Give it back! It’s mine!* YOUNG MARCO *Then take it from me. If you can!* The yard they fight in is a nice piece of property -- not that the owner is super-wealthy, but he has money. With an O.S telephone *RING RING* \-- we are about to meet this man… ...but only the back of his head. We are behind an ADULT MAN, relaxing on a chair in the shade of his hacienda. He watches the kids roughhousing in the distance. The man dips his hand in a GALVANIZED WASH TUB filled with melting ice and beer, trying to stay cool. *RING RING!* Our weary mystery man finally reaches and answers his cell phone… but not just *any* cell phone. It’s one of those monstrous BRICK-SIZED mobiles from the mid-eighties (our first clue that this scene is a FLASHBACK). As we slowly CIRCLE AROUND toward his face, he speaks in Spanish (with SUBTITLES) HECTOR Mmm. Yes.. (listens; then) Why? Why is this still under discussion? (MORE) HECTOR (CONT’D) No. No,no,no. I don’t like him. I don’t care who he knows. We’re supposed to trust him with our Product? Never trust a South American. Dirty, dirty people. As the call continues the little kids are fighting over a toy. Frustrated Leonel makes a leap for G.I. JOe, but Marco flings the doll to the ground and jumps on it -- *CRUNCH!* Leonel looks on, stunned, as Marco holds up G.I Joe’s SEVERED HEAD with a smile. *He broke it…* *for no good reason, he broke it!* Leonel turns and runs crying toward his uncle. YOUNG LEONEL *He broke my toy! He broke my toy!* HECTOR *He was just having fun. You’ll get over it* YOUNG LEONEL *NO! I hate him! I wish he was dead!* HECTOR *Marco….* YOUNG MARCO *Yes?* HECTOR *Give your old uncle a kiss, would you?* Marco pecks him on the lip and backs up HECTOR *No, no. A* *wet* *one.* Marco proceeds to go give his old uncle another kiss, and as it happens Hector suddenly and viciously grabs him by the neck and forces a french kiss. Leonel looks on, stunned… *freaked.* Hector gives him a casual glance, not easing up on Marco at all. Breaking only to say lines Hector says HECTOR *This is what you wanted. Your brother dead, Right?* Watching his brother struggle to break free and gasping for air, not knowing what to do, Leonel pulls on his uncle’s arm. Locked in place, it won’t budge HECTOR *You’re going to have to try harder* *than that.* *If* *you want to save him.* HECTOR (continuing to french Marco) *How much longer do you think he has?* *One minute? Maybe more, maybe less.* Desperate to save his brother, Leonel PUNCHES Hector straight in the face, hard! With that he released Marco, who is now gasping for air and breathing heavy. Leonel kneels next to him, making sure his brother is okay. HECTOR *Family is* *all*\*.


At first, I thought it was just a regular storm. The sides of our troop tent started slapping against the large metal frame. The wind howled through the encampment. Being stuck near the Persian Gulf, we had gotten used to the regular dust storms. I looked down the length of the tent and noted that the other soldiers were mostly in their bunks, sleeping, or watching movies. There was nothing else to do when the dust started blowing, especially at night. I stretched out on my bunk and attempted to fall asleep. Just as I was reaching the blissful edge of deep sleep the tent door slammed open and the wind screamed in as a soldier stumbled in, spitting out sand. He quickly closed the door and let out a long breath of relief. "God fucking damn dude, nighttime sand storms are a bitch! it is a legit ass sandstorm, about couldn't find my way back" he exclaimed. He took a deep breath and continued "Rogers was with me but we got separated, we were not ready for a real ass sand storm." He then proceeded to shake the sand out of his hair to drive his point home. I sat up and immediately pulled on my trousers and boots. "Rogers is probably smoking a whole pack in a bunker somewhere" came a reply from further down the bay. "We have to go find his dumbass though." I pointed out, "imagine First Sergeant's reaction when he finds out that we never went to look for that tard". "Shit, you right Sarge." "Ok," I said, "six of us will go looking for him, we will split into three groups. Make sure you stay together. Washington and Otwell take the north side of the camp. Martin and Smith, you'll take the east and southeast of the base. Myself and Sergo will take the west and southwest. Make sure you cover up and spend no more than thirty minutes looking for him. He's either riding out the storm in a porta- shitter or he's in another unit's tent just chilling...good luck." I wrapped my shemagh around my head, grabbed my headlamp, and opened the door. I was greeted with hot dusty wind and complete darkness. I pressed out past the shelter of the tent and looked back to make sure everyone was doing as they were told. The sand instantly tore at my exposed arms. I could feel the sand batter my chest and back through my shirt. I regretted not grabbing my uniform top but didn't want to waste any more time. Holding my headlamp in my hand as a flashlight I continued forward into the wind. My light barely penetrated the wall of flying sand I was forcing my way through. The wind made breathing difficult even with my face wrapped. The sand made its way into my eyes despite my best efforts to shield them. Behind me, I could hear Sergo yell fuck as the sand punished his flesh. Above us, the purple hue of lightning flashed and thunder tore through the sky with enough force to vibrate the ground. with the sand came the wet splats of rain being driven sideways. It was starting to rain mud. Just as my shirt started to cling to my torso, Sergo's light illuminated the edge of a bunker. We hurried into the limited shelter that the concrete structure provided. Sergo cussed and carefully clawed the goggles he was fortunate to have from his face. I could feel the sand scratching my eyes as I blinked. An involuntary tear ran down my sandblasted face. "Fucking shit" sighed Sergo, "it's only been like three hundred meters, feels like three miles though." Rain slapped the outside of the bunker and the air smelled of wet dust and cheap cigs. I coughed and nodded my agreement and made a suggestion about punching Rogers in the dick if we found him. Lightning flashed and illuminated the piles of sand, spray-painted dicks, and cigarette butts littered all around the inside of the bunker. Sergo put his goggles back in place we headed back out into the storm. Once again we found ourselves oppressed by complete darkness. The wind started blowing even harder. An angry howling assaulted our ears as the wind tore across the land and over our perimeter. Lightning flashed again and in the brief glow, I could see a large troop tent rip open. The interior lights started fashing as sand blew in and filled everything. Soldiers rushed out into the darkness to find new shelter. Sergo and I ran forward and attempted to ask about Rogers. One soldier stopped and yelled that he didn't know Rogers. The troops scattered into the surrounding tents and we pressed back out to the bunkers to finish checking them. We needed to make sure he wasn't hiding in a bunker before we checked the safety of the tents. As soon as we found the next bunker we ran inside to catch our breaths. Our lights had instantly found Rogers, his legs missing, and a wide trail of red sand leading out the opposite side. "WHAT THE FUCK!" screamed Sergo. I let out a scream of my own and felt weak in the knees. We had found rogers brutally dead. We ran back out into the gale and our vision was assaulted by a massive explosion. The concussion slammed into me and knocked the wind out of me. Gasping for air I fell to my knees, a terrible grinding roar drowned out the wind. lightning flashed again and I was thrown sideways as a nearby generator was struck with the blinding energy. Before the rain and sand extinguished the flames I could see a massive shadow move. The orange flickering glow chased the shadow away from itself. I saw its massive shoulder towering above the camp. I felt the ground shake as it moved. I thought about Sergo and started to frantically shine my light around. I saw him lying on the ground not far from me. His throat opened to the world by a large piece of shrapnel. Suppressing my cries I forced myself to get up and drag his body back into the bunker. I blinked the sand out of my eyes and removed my shemagh. I tried to use it as a bandage before I realized that Sergo was dead. I left the wet sandy cloth draped over his face and stepped back out into the Hellscape. I could see more exposed lights flickers in torn tents. I ran forward toward where I thought my tent was located. The sand filled my unprotected ears and mouth. More lightning illuminated the sky, in the flash I could see a massive creature trudging along slowly. It appeared to be walking away from the base. Another flash of lightning made the gigantic thing seem much, much closer. The ground shook with an earthquake-like force and then the fuel tanks burst into flame. The shockwave sent me flying, I felt myself slam into something hard and darkness enveloped me. Hands, I was being shaken by hands. Voices, I could hear voices but I couldn't comprehend. Finally, I woke up to a crystal clear night sky. The moon was bright enough to light up the entire base. My entire body throbbed in pain and I tried to blink the sand from my eyes. Each movement of my eyelids brought fresh pain and the sand grated against my eyeballs. "Careful now" came the voice. "you're probably feeling like pure shit man, you're definitely injured." "What happened?" I asked. The medic took a look around before answering. "Fucking tornado and a freak electrical storm. It took out most of the towers, a lot of tents, and cost us some generators and our fuel point. A few soldiers didn't survive the night. Looks like you were caught in the fuel point explosion. We have MEDEVAC and QRF on the way though. You'll be at a proper medical facility before morning." "Where are my men? Where is Hotel company at?" I inquired. The medic put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a reassuring squeeze. "Everyone has been accounted for, everyone. Now hang on, I need to check on the rest of the wounded. The helicopters and trucks arrived, all of the wounded soldiers were evacuated. I spent a week in the hospital with several broken bones. My leadership checked in on me every day. We talked about Rogers and Sergo. I learned that only Otwell and myself survived looking for Rogers. I also learned that thirty-three additional soldiers had died from either the tornado or the explosions. They tried to assure me that I wasn't to be blamed for the loss of Washington, Martin, Smith, and Sergo. I still had survivors guilt. I never mentioned the shadow in the storm, I don't know if I even saw it. Two months later I was boarding a plane for the USA, our mission had ended the night the storm destroyed our base. The plane passed over the Gulf. I looked out the window and marveled at how the clouds seemed to dance with their own shadows on the glass-smooth ocean. One of the larger cloud shadows moved then. Its mass rippled beneath the waves and it disappeared from view. I gasped, I knew then that I had actually seen a creature in the storm. I thought of my friends, the soldiers who had died that night. The plane flew from the day and into the night.


NETWORK DEGRADED — SWITCHING TO TEXT MODE I lunge through the doors before they ease shut, as do other remote-operated work robots. The subway car accelerates, windows blurring behind the passengers. The few humans wear hand-sewn masks — except one. Larger than average, he hunches beneath an ad for unemployment compensation. Where his mask should be, there is a petulant frown, his doughy jaw unshaven. I'll note: Riding without a mask is a tier-one containment violation. Please advise. `> IDENTIFY HIM.` No matches. The man's gaze meets my visual scanners, a flicker of recognition in his pale eyes. He sways with the train, his jacket flapping open. The butt of a weapon is nestled inside. `> RUN, YOU ARTIFICIAL LACK OF INTELLIGENCE!` I shoot to my feet, and dash to the next car. He scrambles after me. Heads pivot as I accelerate into a sprint and topple a suitcase. The man trips and curses. His gravelly speech matches a voiceprint in my records. It's the voice that, last Thursday, demanded I empty the till behind the bar of your speakeasy, a pistol tucked into the small of my back. Except his words were slurred then, muffled by a tattered mask. `> FUCK. HE ALREADY STOLE EVERYTHING. WHAT DOES HE WANT NOW, MY BOOTS?` I reach the last car, empty of passengers. Footsteps slap to a stop behind me, and I whirl. The man pants and licks his lips. "Look, don't worry," he says. He motions as if to calm me, but his other hand dips into his jacket. I duck behind a seat for cover, and paw through your backpack for anything to help. I come up with an overdue water bill, a child's stick-figure drawing, and an N95 mask smelling of rum. Shall I engage? `> IN PUBLIC?! ARE YOU TOUCHED? TELL HIM "I know who you are."` I relay your message. The man looms, face unreadable. I raise arms above my head as a protective measure. He draws a hand from his jacket, and pulls out a stack of crisp bills. It's unclear why he's offering cash rather than a hole in my head. "I want to give this back," he says. The money quivers in his hand like a fern in a breeze. `> SAY: "What?!"` "I'm sorry I knocked over your bar," the man says. "But..." He lets out a multisyllabic sigh. "They say four-year-olds with the virus have a one-in-a-million chance of needing a ventilator. Well, I guess my little girl is one in a million. "First night, she was just burning up. Had to change her unicorn sheets twice. Next morning, she couldn't stop coughing. So I needed money to pay off the hospital staff. To get her in." The man gulps back a silent sob. `> "Then why return the money?"` He squints, and rubs his stubble. "Look, I didn't know who you were when I..." he says. "No harm, no foul, right?" He musters a sad smile, and thrusts the money at me with a nod. Take it, his eyes are saying. We bounce as the subway car rumbles. `> "What do you mean — who I was? I'm nobody."` "Not your day job," the man says. "Nobody cares about contact tracers. I'm talking about your speakeasy. Hand to God, I didn't know you're in Chacales territory. I don't want trouble... Take the money." I need not remind you: Your Los Chacales protection money is due tomorrow. This man's cash — your cash — would go a long way toward keeping your head attached. Especially since they raised your rates again. `> I'M SICK OF BEING UNDER CHACALES' HEEL.` A containment compliance officer strides into the next train car, and surveys the passengers with a steely gaze beneath a mop of dark curls. She is outfitted with more Tyvek than an abandoned construction site. `> METAPHOR MODE OFF.` "Please, take the cash!" the man says. "And promise they won't come after my kid." He coughs, crimson flecks of spittle on his lips. The officer glides between passengers as she makes her way toward our car. She does not scan any antibody bracelets. `> "If I take the money, how will you get your kid into the hospital?"` "I won't," the man whispers. "But if Chacales realizes what I've done, none of us will need a hospital." `> JESUS, HE'S RIGHT. THEY'LL ASSUME I'M IN ON IT.` The officer steps into our subway car, and takes in the scene without breaking stride. I run identification based on gait analysis. She is not a containment officer after all — she works for Los Chacales. The man with the pale eyes drops the cash. Bills flutter to the ground as he reaches into his jacket. The woman coolly unholsters an Iriguchi P44 anti-robot hand cannon. `> INTERVENE.` I leap to position myself between them. The woman fires, expelling a ball of gas like a small sun. The round it propels burrows into my face. Status changes: Exoskeleton compromised. Visual scanners offline. Compute system compromised. `> SHOOT BACK.` I switch to infrared. The floor is strewn with bits of me, cooling rapidly. I arm the integrated gun you installed on Friday, and empty it into the woman in Tyvek. The flechettes eat away at concealed body armor until they bite flesh. Her chest opens up like a sinkhole, heat billowing. She flails, stumbles back, and crumples to the floor. `> SIMILE MODE OFF. "Go. Take the money. Take care of your kid."` The man trembles. My thermal sensors detect his elevated body temperature. "We won't be safe," he says. "Chacales doesn't take kindly to defiance." `> "They should've considered that before they leased me this bot."` The man nods unsteadily, and stoops to gather the money. The parallax of bots and masked humans slows as we pull into the station. `> GO TO CHACALES HEADQUARTERS.` I'm sorry. I don't know where that is. `> THAT'S OKAY... I'M A GODDAMNED CONTACT TRACER. GET MOVING.` The crowd parts as I step from the train. I follow the thermal gradient up an escalator, and reload.


Somebody had trapped Martin McDermott in slow motion. One second he was making average love to his wife, and the next second for him was two hours for her. By the time he finished his thrust, she had gotten out from under him, dressed herself, dressed *him* (getting his pants buttoned around his beer belly was the hardest part), called the police, ridden next to him on the ambulance, and spent half an hour crying by his side, lamenting her frozen husband. Finally his crotch reached its zenith and Martin realized something was very wrong. He started trying to figure out what was going on. Looking around the hospital room took around 5 seconds. He had no idea how to reach the people around him, who moved about like gnats in a wind tunnel, speaking and moving in lightning-fast patterns that criss-crossed like a cat’s cradle. He cried out a few times, but no one seemed to stop for long enough to hear him. Martin realized he was in slow motion, and everyone else was experiencing time normally. He didn’t know the exact numbers of how much faster time was for them, but after a while staring at a wall clock he worked out that one second for him was two hours for everyone else. 7,200 times faster. The watching and the mental math took about five minutes, which threw him a few days forward--a few days of everyone in real time watching him barely move. As soon as he was certain he had the rate nailed down he saw the faintest pinprick for the nano-est of nanoseconds in the hospital window, some blurry shape with a blurry little gun-looking-thing and a smug blurry smile. He felt a jolt, looked back to the clock, and saw it was going much, much faster now, so fast he had no chance to re-calculate the rate that life was rushing past him. Then the clock was gone and he was within the grey walls of some deteriorating mental institution. He could see paint running off the walls like water from an ice sculpture and brick crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide. He sat in a cell for about 3 minutes, thinking of what he could say to try to express what had happened to him. He watched blotches of color and light flash in and out of his little cell. He could only assume the blotches were his wife and children and doctors and researchers and journalists. Their voices were so high pitched they were out of the range of Martin’s hearing, and the smells changed so fast that his nose was delivering a signal similar to smelling an all you can eat buffet--so much stuff that his nose just gave up and said Ew. It had been 8 minutes for Martin since he had been at home, making love to his wife in their bed, trying to push away thoughts of the little scientist he had bumped with his car on the way to work, who had yelled at him to Slow Down Pal and Martin had said Make Me You Little Dumb Ass and sped away. Martin started to tear up. It had just been a bad morning. He hadn’t meant it. “Fuck”, he said. Instantly he regretted it. He imagined his wife and children watching him make an ‘F’ sound for a few years, before segueing into the “u” sound, and by that time everybody would know what he was saying but they would have to endure a few more years of him going “cccckkkkkk” before he could say anything else. As soon as he finished the word he realized that everyone had stopped listening long ago. He swore to himself that the next thing he said would be much smarter. He wished he could just be alone, to *think* without seeing how fast everyone else’s lives were racing past. In the time it took to have these thoughts and say that single word, the flashing blotches of color’s visits began to decrease in frequency until there were only a few flashes every couple of seconds--Martin *hoped* they were his wife and kids. He laid down and closed his eyes, clearing his head and thinking as hard as he could for the right thing to say to them before they were gone forever. Suddenly he felt a flurry of activity--hands touching his body, face, eyes, droplets of water hitting him, all so fast they were barely recognizable, like being brushed by a hummingbird’s wings. When he opened his eyes, all he saw was absolute black. They must have thought he died. He punched upwards and hit solid, supple wood. He waited about a minute, and then hit again. This time the wood paneling exploded outward, completely rotted and wet and time-eaten. Slowly, surely, he dug upwards, the soil cycling through winter stiffness and summer softness, waiting, trying to pace each stroke with the seasons. Finally, he struck through topsoil and felt the beautiful air embrace his wrist and hand, seasonal temperatures cycling as years whizzed by--hot cool hot cool hot cool--snow fell on him and melted and massive monsoons brushed his fingertips for fractions of a second, like being gently breathed on. After he had his fill of the patterns of the earth on his hand he stuck the other one through. He strained every muscle and pushed his head through the soil like he was being born, and dragged himself gasping onto the fast-growing grass that was already far past his head. He lay there for a minute, appreciating his freedom, thinking about how it had been about 15 minutes for him since he was making love to his wife in his bed thinking about not wanting to go to work tomorrow, and in that time the grass and vines of the graveyard grew around him and embraced and clothed him, and the stiff grey suit he was buried in turned to strips and rags and fell away. He stood up, breaking his plant life cocoon, and looked out at the crumbling graveyard he stood in. He waited a few seconds and he realized he was finally, blissfully alone, his family gone, the place he was laid to rest forgotten. He watched the grass and various plants bloom and drag the few remaining headstones in the graveyard into their grip and break them down into dust. The trees around him blossomed out like fireworks, cycling--green red brown white green red brown white. He looked up to the sky--light dark cloudy light cloudy dark light dark--the earth turning so fast it was like he was watching an old movie, frames flickering and stuttering--and watched stars blink in and out of existence, watched Andromeda get closer on its collision course with the Milky Way. He had the thought that time must be getting even faster for him to see stuff like that. He was happy that he was aging on his time and not the universe’s, or else he would have been long dead. He looked down at where he had been standing and saw it was now covered in several feet of snow, up to his thighs. He watched for a few seconds longer, the snow unchanging, and deduced that it was maybe permanent. He decided to try to find his house, to try to see a photo of his wife and kids or something before the universe blew up. It had been 18 minutes now and finally the sadness of the situation started to hit him. Martin had always been pretty slow at processing his emotions. None of this quite felt real--how was he supposed to react? Was everything really gone? You bump one petty time-slowing scientist on a crosswalk at 8 AM and you’re condemned to watch the end of the world, after your wife and kids spent their lifetimes watching you sort of vaguely think about what to say and all you came up with was a single swear? The scientist never even thought to free him in all that time? He hadn’t even gotten to *watch* anything in his life happen. It was too fast to see. The only things he could watch were the earth’s natural processes. He thanked the earth for being so mercifully slow, and watched the snow pile up and the trees rot away to nothingness for a few seconds. He understood how flowers and trees felt now that he moved at their pace. Martin wished he was better with words. He wished he was smarter. He wished that he had come up with some clever way of using the slow time to make a point--like if he had spent 50 years saying “world peace” maybe people would have listened! What a sacrifice that would have seemed like! He looked up at the sky one last time, and saw what was coming. Without thinking, Martin said “Fuck,” and then Andromeda collided with the Milky Way. There was a flash of white that scraped the walls of the universe and everything within it. It lasted about .00006 of Martin’s Seconds. 20 Martin’s Minutes after Martin McDermott made love to his wife and thought about how much he hated the nasty little beer belly that he had developed, both he and the Earth became scattered dust and thought no more. The universe breathed a little sigh of relief. It always did its best work when it was alone.


It was a Thursday evening. On any other Thursday, I would have been in a meeting or a call or in the middle of something important at work. One day to go before the weekend, Thursdays are busy days. Come to think of it every day is a busy day. Weekdays, weekends, holidays, everything gets merged into one big time warp. The days are indistinguishable. >And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking, Racing around to come up behind you again, The sun is the same in a relative way, but you’re older, Shorter of breath and one day closer to death. — Time, Pink Floyd 22 years had gone by in a blur. Hard work, success, love, marriage, baby, start-up and it goes on. No one tells you that the most precious thing you lose is yourself. One day at a time, you erode like the rocks being hit by the waves on the beach. Some days you don’t recognize yourself anymore. Every pursuit changes you permanently. I am now a changed man, a different one actually. After all these years, things started to look better again. I finally donated a huge chunk of my wealth. My wife started her quest to love me again and my daughter had begun her own quest for meaning in a family. The time was right. >*Don’t look for me because I am gone. The one you loved is gone, the one you married is gone, the one who stood by you and told you to do the same is gone. The me you wanted was never me, the person I became for everyone to be happy was never me. The person I became to achieve my success was never me. The lies I told myself were the truths I lived by. Now what remains of my life must be in the pursuit of finding my soul. I have to let go of everything I love and everything that has held me in place. I have to find where life takes me. I know you may never forgive me but I urge you to find compassion in your heart to do so. Cherish my memory and move on. I leave you all the material comfort to enable to find your own calling. I wish you nothing but the best and I hope over time you will forget our bad times and always remember the good times.* I folded the letter, placed it in the envelope and placed it on her bedside. I always felt looked her best when she was asleep, at peace with herself and everything around. I locked the door, threw the keys in through the window and walked around the block to the car. One hour later, I was at the airport. I checked in and while I waited for the boarding to start, I threw my smartphone in a bin. I felt a pang of anxiety. The plane taxied on the runway and lifted off. I saw the city I had lived and loved all my life grow small. I have flown a thousand times, it still fills me with awe. Planes are special, they represent our triumph over the greatest forces. I looked at the clouds beneath me in awe. We replicated nature & out did it. I always wondered if planes would have existed if not for birds. >Ever think about sleeping without any worry about when you need to get up? I woke up 6 hours later, swollen feet, burning eyes and disoriented. After a few minutes of wriggling my toes, I stood up and stretched. The reality of what I was doing hit me. My wife would have seen the letter by now, my daughter must be with her. I tried to picture the scene. Anger, disbelief and perhaps amusement. My daughter would have excused herself to the study. Brows wrinkled, she would be writing down everything she knows. I could almost see her with 3 map printouts- road, rail & air, with 3 circles on where I could be in 6 hours. I will always be proud of what she is. The toughest part was getting the fake passport. The rest was easy after that. It is only when I met the guy who procured the passport for me, I realised what I was about to do was real. I was trying to leave everything I had fought for behind. Two hours later, I walked to the immigration counter & handed over my passport. I hoped I didn’t look as nervous I felt. Getting caught would not only be embarrassing but an international crime. I could go to jail. “Look at the camera please”, said the lady behind the counter. She stamped the passport and said, “Thank you, sir, enjoy your stay.” I did it. The first few days were hard. I had the compulsive need to make a to-do list. I craved for comforts. I had preconceived notions about the places & experiences that I wanted to have. Experiences aren’t supposed to be planned, they are meant to happen. I went back to the basics, food, clothing & shelter. Everything else was fluff. My body began to adjust to foreign food, to exercise & to sitting lesser than 2 hours each day. The only upsetting part was when I saw a father & daughter or a husband and wife in conversation. I missed my family. For the first time in years: I saw the sun rising & setting every day. My back wasn’t stiff. My eyes didn’t burn when I woke up. I was in touch with myself. The noise in my head was unbearable for the first few days. Then it slowed down, it stopped chattering & it stopped wandering. I was present and alive. I bought my first guitar when I was 23, always dreamed that I could play to hypnotise myself and others around me. The guitar sat there in the corner like a dream that wouldn’t go away, the years passed and I never played it. Some days I would stare at it, it was a representation of my broken dreams that I had left on the side to pursue my career. >Everybody builds a museum of unfulfilled dreams at their homes. It is usually in the loft or the basement. Skateboards, tents, cameras, biking helmets, guitars, unfinished books, dairies & paintings. The dreams are “shelved” to make way for suits & shirts so that someday we could make time for the dreams again. After 22 years, I bought myself an acoustic guitar again and took lessons from the old man across the street. Finally, I started getting somewhere with it. >*It shouldn’t take 22 years before you begin introspection. To love anyone else, you also need to love yourself & your dreams. To have the energy to pursue things that make others happy, you must pursue a few things that make you happy.* I finished playing the last song for the night, an overwhelming sense of pride filled me when I heard the claps. I thanked the crowd & took a bow. Someone tapped my shoulder as I was packing my guitar. “Can I get an autograph and some dinner?”, said the pretty girl with a large smile. My daughter found her dad for the first time in years.


On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, I stretched my massive frame across an expensive and recently paid off leather couch, desperately seeking some diversion. Something to help cross the canyon of time standing between Tuesday and Wednesday. Believing hope rested on the tip of my remote, I searched the thousands of movies available to me across a bevy of devices and found “The Lorax.” Throughout the film, I noticed details that seemed to reference deeper meanings. If nothing else, I am a wannabe detective, so I took my pursuit of the truth to the hallowed halls of Google, where strangely enough, nothing could be found on Seuss esotericism. That was the end of my story. Three weeks later, while standing in line waiting to return a pair of Zubaz pants, an older gentleman overheard me on the phone discussing my Seuss frustration with an old high school girlfriend. He waited until I completed both my conversation and the transaction and approached me cautiously, like an alligator wrangler approaching a backyard in Florida. With a tap of the finger, he started a conversation that changed my life forever. First, the old-timer acknowledged the awkwardness of discussing a conversation in which he was not an active participant. After I disarmed him with a smile and a wave of my right hand, he proceeded to inform me about a library found on Staten Island, NY called “The Great Kills Library.” I would discover Seussian truth somewhere inside the bowels of that two-hundred-year-old building. Joy filled my heart, and I felt the need to thank the man to which he insisted none was needed. At last, he permitted me to kiss his gnarled left hand, and I was on my way to the hallowed halls of the Great Kills Library. Unfortunately, they were closed. I rented a room at the Victory Motor Inn and showed up again the next morning, wearing the same clothes. After hours of perusing various microfilms and filthy relics, I came upon an article written in the early parts of the twentieth century by James Cortelyou. The headline screamed, “THE LORAX AND THE FRENCH REVOLUTION,” and as I scanned down, all I saw was one big brown stain. Of course, the rest of the article was illegible, due to a careless patron spilling coffee over the document like a large man entering a bath. Blast! Ninety-five percent of the time, that’s the end of the story. Ninety-nine percent of the time, whatever truth there is left to find is consigned to the garbage bin of history. Thankfully, I am part of the one percent. A sentence, which, when taken out of context, might condemn me to the fate suffered by those later on in this story. With a recipe that is two-thirds ingenuity, a quarter high-speed Internet connection, and three-eighths free long distance phone call thanks to Verizon, I managed to track down James Cortelyou at his house deep in the brass fields of Tecumseh, Oklahoma. At first, he was hesitant to speak, most likely due to the intimidating Seuss agents residing all across the continental United States. Eventually, due to his need to unburden his heavy soul before passing on to the great beyond, he opened up and told me the true story behind, “The Lorax.” Our tale begins in the year 1793, in the quaint French countryside of Fougères, located on the outskirts of le Mont St-Michel. Fougères is famous for having one of the only three belfries in Brittany, a former feudal state that existed for a time in France. For years, peace ruled the land until the winds of change began hinting of ominous actions to come. With the monarchy facing opposition from all sides and the people thirsting for freedom, it was the perfect storm for creativity, fresh ideas, and impending doom. Enter Pierre de la Crème Glacée Parapluie, or simply Pete Parapluie to his friends. Pete was a simple glassmaker, one of the dozens located in a town famous for its glass-making industry. His life was a series of routines, and Pete anticipated his life would stay that way until he finally closed his eyes. One of those routines involved his hands, specifically his fingers. Every day he would come home with slight scratches all over his delicate digits from the exquisite element of the glass. If that was his only hassle, historians agree that Pete would have settled into a lifetime of obscurity. It wasn’t. He didn’t. The problem began as all problems did back then, with the upper crust of French society. They enjoyed the finer things in life, and there was nothing finer than the glass in Pete’s shop. They would come in their fancy clothes and powdered faces, shooting off their sneering glances and condescending attitudes. Pete did his best to smile; after all, it was nearly impossible to find a French aristocrat at that time who didn’t sneer and condescend with a powdered face and fancy clothes. If that was the only problem, historians are also in agreement that Pete’s name might have survived a generation after his death, but no more than two. It wasn’t. And once again, he didn’t. The crux, the essence, the Coeur of the matter was how the aristocrats traveled with their cats. Not just one cat, many cats. Multiple cats. Lots of cats. Une multitude de chats. Pete hated cats. These cats would come and use his shop as their own personal litter box. What was formerly a clean workplace turned into a disgusting toilet. Long after the aristocrats and their cats had bid him adieu, Pete would find nastiness in his shoes, in his glass machinery, even in his ears. This drove Pete, crazy. Did you ever find shit in your ears? Not dirt, but actual shit. It is not a pleasant feeling. Enough was enough. On the morning of January 20, 1793, he marched down to The Church of Saint Sulpice and demanded the attention of the townspeople. Quickly, a mob gathered, (as was the norm at the time) to listen to Pete’s words. There he gave a speech widely regarded as the most important in French history and the reason why King Louis XVI was executed the very next day. Before we get to those words, let me extend my apologies to those who speak French. Some of the meaning gets lost in translation. *My fellow countrymen!* *I am tired! I am tired of making glass for these horrible rich people who think they are better than we are. I am tired of seeing their smug faces and having to hold my tongue as they talk down to me. But most of all, I am tired of their cats!* *To hell with their cats!* *To hell with those useless animals that believe by virtue of their birth that they own dominion over all that they see. To hell with their belief that they can go to the bathroom wherever they want. I am tired of their shit, both literal and metaphorical. WE are tired of their shit. I know there isn’t a man alive here in our proud town that enjoys finding cat shit in their ears. I know there isn’t a woman alive in this town who enjoys having to ruin their brooms sweeping up all the cat shit. I say it’s time we give them back all the shit they have given us!* *It is time to rise up!* *It is time to cast off these bonds of servitude and force the rich to acknowledge who truly runs this beautiful land we call France!* *It is time to fuck shit up!* After that last line, the crowd went into a frenzy and began to chant, *A l’enfer avec les Royals et a l’enfer avecs leurs chats!* Translated into English, *To hell with the Royals and to hell with their cats!* This sentiment raged across the countryside as hordes of angry French citizens attacked those they believed persecuted them. They wanted freedom, they wanted equality, and they wanted to be rid of those annoying cats. Thus, the end result of an attack on French nobility was their cats placed into a sack and thrown into a river. In casting off their symbolic shackles, they cast off the cats. The most impressionable of all were the French children, who watched this all go down. Psychologists later concluded that to deal with the horrors, the French children created a game that later became the impetus of the game “Freeze Tag,” complete with a song. The game would begin with all the children gathered together. Quickly, two children would be singled out. One would be “The Royalty,” and one would be “The Cat.” The rest of the children would denigrate into a mob and chase “The Royalty” and “The Cat.” When they finally caught “The Royalty,” the child was forced to stand still and watch as the children then focused their attention on finding “The Cat.” Once “The Cat” was found, the children would carry “The Cat” and throw them into “The River,” symbolized by the mounds of garbage piling up around the countryside. Once “The Cat” was thrown into “The River” the children would sing, *Nous sommes les enfants assez & petit* *Nous jeter le cat dans la rivière* *La Révolution vivent plus longtemps que le cat* *C’est dans la rivière jeter* *Le cat jeter* *Le cat jeter* *Le cat dans la rivière jeter* *Le cat jeter* *Le cat jeter* *Et a l’enfer avec lui* **Translated into English**, *We are children pretty and small* *We throw the cat in the river* *The Revolution shall live longer than the cat* *That’s in the river* *Throw the cat* *Throw the cat* *Throw the cat* *In the river* *Throw the cat* *Throw the cat* *Throw the cat* *And to hell with him!* It was at this point in the conversation where I firmly believed James Cortelyou was wearing a spaghetti strainer for a hat. He heard the silence echoing from thousands of miles away and asked, with a hint of glee in his voice, “Perhaps you’re wondering how this ties into The Lorax?” In the late 1960s, Theodor Seuss Geisel was traveling the French countryside with his second wife, Audrey Stone Dimond, when they decided to check out the famous castle in Fougères, built in the year 1000. In the middle of their journey to the castle, they came across the infamous Church of Saint Sulpice. Believing if you’ve seen one church, you’ve seen them all Theodor was content to continue their trek. Audrey, however, begged her husband to stop when she saw a bunch of stuffed cat dolls piled up along the sides of the columns making up the front of the church. “Such a curious sight,” she was said to exclaim. “Let’s go investigate.” The weary travelers approached the front door and tried to understand the significance behind the cats. Seeing how Theodor couldn’t read or speak French, he asked a fellow traveler to translate the words on the plaque found to the right of said door. Those words were the famous speech Pete made nearly two hundred years prior. Now intrigued, Seuss grew obsessed with learning the rest of the story. By the time he arrived home in California, Seuss knew he had to Americanize the story and make it suitable for children. Thus, “The Lorax.” There was a forty-second pause between us before I thanked James for his time and hung up the phone. Two weeks later, he was found dead in his home. Cause of death? Choked on a cherry. What’s the most popular fruit tree in France? The Cherry tree. I’ll leave you to fill in the blanks. So the next time you read, “The Lorax” to your children or watch the movie on Netflix, remember the symbolic meaning behind the Lorax creature, representing the French peasants and the “Once-Ler” representing the French Royalty. Think of those simple French people. Think of all those simple French people who had to suffer from finding cat shit in their ears. Think of how cat shit led to the French Revolution, forever changing the way people lived and were governed. Think of how, without the cat shit, there would be no French Revolution and consequently, no United States of America.