Hi, everyone,
Today is Short Story Wednesday, so I thought I might share a personal favorite of mine that I wrote. Worked on it for a class, and I was really happy with how it came out.
I sit in my silly little apartment, staring at this television. The alarm clock to my side reads 7:00 in the P.M. That means post meridian. I didn’t know that until a week ago when I said PM and my friend said post meridian, and I called him a fool to establish dominance, but it turns out he was right. It is night, and as I enjoy my beer and stare at the dingy screen, I begin to relax. I am too poor to afford cable, and I think Netflix is a waste of time. But I do have my news. And I read newspapers. Oh boy, they are oh so captivating. The darkness encapsulates me as the light from the TV screen shines brightly, a beacon in my dark shrouded world. So I watch the news. It’s funny. Some people say stories, like fiction, take you places far beyond your wildest dreams. Well, I think news does the same for me. I could be like Big Man, rich beyond my wildest beliefs. Or I could be Arnold Umbach, the president of the United States, with all the power in the world, dangling the world by its strings. I could be any one of those important people. For just 2 hours every day, I am suddenly not a construction worker. I am both invincible and a victim of some of the most horrible crimes in the world. It makes me wonder--
“I am Chester Folk, and this is CC4 at 7. These are your stories for the week…”
Today is Short Story Wednesday, so I thought I might share a personal favorite of mine that I wrote. Worked on it for a class, and I was really happy with how it came out.
I sit in my silly little apartment, staring at this television. The alarm clock to my side reads 7:00 in the P.M. That means post meridian. I didn’t know that until a week ago when I said PM and my friend said post meridian, and I called him a fool to establish dominance, but it turns out he was right. It is night, and as I enjoy my beer and stare at the dingy screen, I begin to relax. I am too poor to afford cable, and I think Netflix is a waste of time. But I do have my news. And I read newspapers. Oh boy, they are oh so captivating. The darkness encapsulates me as the light from the TV screen shines brightly, a beacon in my dark shrouded world. So I watch the news. It’s funny. Some people say stories, like fiction, take you places far beyond your wildest dreams. Well, I think news does the same for me. I could be like Big Man, rich beyond my wildest beliefs. Or I could be Arnold Umbach, the president of the United States, with all the power in the world, dangling the world by its strings. I could be any one of those important people. For just 2 hours every day, I am suddenly not a construction worker. I am both invincible and a victim of some of the most horrible crimes in the world. It makes me wonder--
“I am Chester Folk, and this is CC4 at 7. These are your stories for the week…”
It is freezing cold. The wind rushes me from all sides. The buildings are barely visible in the awful blizzard. I am sitting on a bench, very cold, in my worn jacket. The sky is so dark it is purple, the streetlights being smothered by the snow. I am watching Holly Hurston cover her face and hold her microphone with great discomfort. “I am standing outside of New Chicagoville’s Ironside Tower, the city’s largest residential tower, where hundreds of residents have lost their power. The automatic stairs are broken, and the elevators down. While the city struggles to restore power to the building, the crippling cold is beginning to set in. At least 50 calls have been reported by the city’s emergency services department, but no officer has been able to fully assess the damage caused by this storm.” I look at her in amazement. She said it so well. I watch her every night. She’s a field reporter. It’s like she knows everything, but I know otherwise. She just reads off from a script. It’s not her job to know everything, so there’s a bunch of people who know everything for her, and that makes it look like she knows everything. I still find it silly that they can’t access the doors. Why are they sending cops to do a fireman’s job? I mean, I don’t live in New Chicagoville, but I’d probably file a complaint as soon as this blew over if I did. It seems this world is not plagued by evilness, but simply perpetual incompetence. Bummer. “Holly, you make such a difference in my life, and you’re worth so much to me!” I cry out. She doesn’t hear me, even though I’m right next to her. She keeps talking. Someday she will notice me, I’m sure of it.
“Back to you, Chester.”
Now it is very hot. I find myself inside a shadowy tight room. There are men in black gas masks with strange markings and big heavy guns in the corners blocking the one door. I wave to them. They do not notice me. All along the left wall, there are 10 regular people bound and gagged with blindfolds on. I see a third big man in the corner. He is much bigger and muscular than the other two men. He is very good looking except for his face. He has a very ugly disfigured face. Well, at least I think he does. It’s covered by a black facemask. Those who have something to hide usually hide behind masks. He is holding a young girl in a t-shirt and shorts. She is whimpering, clearly terrified of the man. I stroll around the very square room with one heavy red pole in the middle. There is a window with the shade down. It is very stuffy in here, so I pull the little tab on the bottom of the shade, and it rockets up, revealing a harsh Sandy San Diego outside. I open the screen to let the air in. It’s harsh at the bottom, but a gust blows in. We are very high up, on just a rough estimate the 24th floor. There is a reporter at the bottom, who is talking frantically. I always wondered if these reporters cared about these situations. I mean, they probably cover at least 10 hostage situations during their careers. Why is this one any different? She has an accent. “Chester, I’m here at the Golden Suite Towers in Sandy San Diego where the Terrorists-En-Route Terrorists Incorporated Union have taken the president’s daughter captive along with 10 other hostages who nobody really cares about, but we have to include them in this report because then some other news source will be able to doubt our credibility.” A man in a blue jacket walks past her. I think he is FBI. I think he’s going to try to save her.
“What do you want?” He calls up. I realize his name is Chris. Chris McArtney. He recently got in trouble for lying to Congress. Yet somehow he argued his way out of it, and now he’s a national hero for de-escalating the hostage situation in Boston. Terrorists-En-Route had been hitting up spots all over the country, so I guess Chris is kind of a failure at his job. They were a black-market union run by terrorists. Each faction was a different chapter, all funded by headquarters. There were many members. It’s funny, because we see them as the bad guys, but they get decent pay, decent healthcare, and a much more exciting life than a normal person might have. I hear they have rocket launchers on tap. Now that’s a good time and a half.
The man holding the girl brushes past me, as if I’m not even there. “We want to talk to the president!” Chris sighed. “The President is very busy, he’s at a campaign conference right now!” The terrorists began to chuckle. “Well, we can wait, in the meanwhile we’ll just start picking off these wonderful people, like Adley Monery.” The man turned around to shut off the window, but Chris yelled “Wait wait wait, I’ll get you on the line with the president.” Adley Monery was the CEO of a big oil company that lined many US senator’s pockets. Of course he cared about that. Some days I look at the people around me, and then I imagine the people on the top of those very fancy towers with a lot of money. I think that perhaps, we are better than this. Maybe some day right will take priority over greed. Maybe we’ll stop worshipping the wrong idea and we’ll become better as a people. But then I realize we are all scumbags when we are rich. Money is one of the most corrosive substances in the world, you know. “Will you let the president’s daughter go if we give you a call?” The terrorist chuckled. “A deal is a deal.” And he
I see a great big room around me. This is clearly the entrance to Big Man’s house. That is his actual name. I think it would have been weird once upon a time, but now people have very strange names. I am a big man, but he is Big Man. He is a billionaire, and the press swarms around me. There is a lively buzz going on. Clearly these people are very happy to be here, mingling with society’s highest and mightiest. And then I see Him. Walking down the curved stairway, the quartz making squeaky sounds under his boots. He has a glass of champagne in his hand. Well, maybe it’s not champagne, but I always thought billionaires drank champagne. Because it’s fancy and stuff.
“Ahem!” The room went silent as they all stared at Mr. Man. The Deity began to speak. “As you’re all aware, I am the richest man in the world--” everyone began to clap. You couldn’t not clap. That would be sacrilege. So I clapped too. It’s not often you see the face of capitalist God. “Thank you, thank you,” He chuckles. “Me and my Company, ABC Collection Inc. have made the decision to acquire the corporate colony of Honduras. After many years of struggling as a country, with some of the most shocking murder rates in the world, Honduras sought a more capitalist approach. They gutted their corrupt system, and began producing. They set all their lost citizens to work, gave them a purpose. But, even then, corruption seeped back into the system. They say once an addict, always an addict, and Honduras was no different. They were addicted to unhappiness. Well, we are about to change that, and I would like to welcome Mr. Spanish on board to our director of operations in Honduras, Inc.” The press all began applauding. They were captivated with this man, this green bean in the house of the giant. Mr. Spanish began to read off a piece of paper. “I am very glad to become part of the ABC family. Thank you.” Everyone applauded again. What a wonderfully concise statement. Mr. Spanish walked behind Mr. Man. “You will be a most valuable asset, Mr. Spanish,” I heard Him say, very quietly, so as the press would not hear. He turned back to them, and in His booming voice called out to His cattle, “I can now take questions.” Of course everyone began peeping “me, me” and raising their hands. He pointed to a young man raising his hand. “You, there sir, what is your question?” The young man called out in a stereotypical reporter voice, “Would you like to comment on the allegations about whether you did in fact kill your competition? Isn’t it suspicious that one day all of your competitors go missing and you score a giant contract with the US government?” The crowd begins to boo. Mr. Man curses. “Get lost.” And He pulls out this gun
I see The Mr. President himself in front of me. Arnold Umbach, they call him. Well, of course they would call him that. That’s his name. You wouldn’t like it if someone called you someone else’s name and that was not your name. Perhaps you wouldn’t even know, because you don’t know they’re calling your name. Wow, this is amazing. I’m right there in front of him. Two Super Secret Service men stand behind him. They made the Super Secret Service since the Terrorists-En-Route Terrorists Incorporated Union had infiltrated the Secret Service and taken hold that way. Some days I root for them. It’s scandalous, I know, but I am but a little cog in a giant machine. I am a construction worker. If I quit working, then I will be replaced, and not have a job. But my construction company pays okay. And I have benefits. And once a year I get to go to Russia, where it is warm and happy. 10 years ago, Vladimir Putin died. Well, actually, we found out it wasn’t actually Vladimir Putin, it was the 7th clone he had made of himself in secret. And they had been dying for the last 80 years. The things people do for power.
There is a camera in front of President Umbach. I listen to him. He has a reassuring voice. He makes me feel like in this world of silly politics and violence and unhappiness, that there is light. That every American, at least, is worth something. Not just to them, but to him. He cares, he says. So I listen to him. “My fellow Americans, today the Terrorists-En-Route Terrorists Incorporated Union took my daughter from me. They are currently holding her hostage as we speak. This threat has taken hold of our country, and we must ignore it no longer. It is time to declare war on this Union. Giving people good health benefits and decent pay and a good life is simply not the American way. To make everyone the happiest, we must oppress the poor people. And if there are corporations being nice to poor people and giving liveable salaries, believe me, they will be shut down. Today, we take our country back from the commies. Thank-’
BOOM! An explosion fills the room. Smoke everywhere. The wall is burning, as men in
Then I am in a room. It is purple. The two hosts there are talking very solemnly, as if the greatest tragedy of our time was coming up next. I knew this was not a real room. It was simply what the news wanted us to see, to make their little cupboard a bit more fancy. It was a dark purple, a heavy purple, weighing on my soul. “And now, this is Sad Time, brought to you by the US government, which we are legally obligated to show every American citizen watching the news. Today, we want to ask you the same question we ask every week. What makes you feel sad? Who makes you feel sad?” It’s a funny question, it really is. When I was little, apples made me feel sad, because I remember the last time I saw my father he was eating an apple on the side of the railroad and telling me how stupid my mother was. I heard the train calling, and I tried to tell him, but he slapped my arm away and said, “Don’t interrupt me while I’m monologuing, it’s annoying.” And then he just wasn’t there. The train was there, right where he just was, but he was not. There was no agony in his death. It was by fate’s hand. Swift and cold, without emotion or debate. I think often we are our greatest enemy. If you host a party at your house, all these wonderful people come in, and you have wonderful conversations, and you eat wonderful food and tell wonderful jokes. But then, all of those wonderful people leave, and so does the glorious wonder with them. Then you are left with yourself. You are left with your unibrow that your father always told you was ugly. You were left with the bleak reality that you are a construction worker in a greedy society. Yourself is very hard to talk to, because the conversation feels so empty. You can’t even see yourself. You can pretend that you can see what other people see, with fancy mirrors and cameras and screens, but you will never see yourself as other people do. I’ve always wanted to see my actual face. Other people get to see my face, but why can’t I? After all, I am the one with the face. Don’t I have a right to my face? I hate Sad Time. I think other Americans hate it too. It almost makes me feel like they’re right here in my living room, and all 450 million of us are watching the same tiny TV, and we all sigh a deep sigh of sadness when this comes on.
“And that’s your news for tonight. This is Chester Folk, signing off.” And then the advertisement for soap comes on. Dope Soap, they call it. They tell me how I can wash away all my worries with Dope Soap, and that I will be happy. All these commercials promise happiness, all these big powerful people always promise happiness comes from them. But these things have no value to me. It is not material good that makes me valuable. I see my daughter in the corner. She is playing with her truck. And my wife is cleaning the dishes because I am tired tonight. Usually I do that, but my back was killing me when I got home. Some days I think what ties me to this earth the most. For some people, it might be their law practice, or perhaps they are a doctor. My mother was a doctor. For me, it’s the people around me. They have value to me, and I have value to them. I pick up the phone to call my brother. “Hey, Alex, I was wondering if you
What did you think? Did you like it? Let me know in the comments below.
Thanks
-Justin
“Back to you, Chester.”
Now it is very hot. I find myself inside a shadowy tight room. There are men in black gas masks with strange markings and big heavy guns in the corners blocking the one door. I wave to them. They do not notice me. All along the left wall, there are 10 regular people bound and gagged with blindfolds on. I see a third big man in the corner. He is much bigger and muscular than the other two men. He is very good looking except for his face. He has a very ugly disfigured face. Well, at least I think he does. It’s covered by a black facemask. Those who have something to hide usually hide behind masks. He is holding a young girl in a t-shirt and shorts. She is whimpering, clearly terrified of the man. I stroll around the very square room with one heavy red pole in the middle. There is a window with the shade down. It is very stuffy in here, so I pull the little tab on the bottom of the shade, and it rockets up, revealing a harsh Sandy San Diego outside. I open the screen to let the air in. It’s harsh at the bottom, but a gust blows in. We are very high up, on just a rough estimate the 24th floor. There is a reporter at the bottom, who is talking frantically. I always wondered if these reporters cared about these situations. I mean, they probably cover at least 10 hostage situations during their careers. Why is this one any different? She has an accent. “Chester, I’m here at the Golden Suite Towers in Sandy San Diego where the Terrorists-En-Route Terrorists Incorporated Union have taken the president’s daughter captive along with 10 other hostages who nobody really cares about, but we have to include them in this report because then some other news source will be able to doubt our credibility.” A man in a blue jacket walks past her. I think he is FBI. I think he’s going to try to save her.
“What do you want?” He calls up. I realize his name is Chris. Chris McArtney. He recently got in trouble for lying to Congress. Yet somehow he argued his way out of it, and now he’s a national hero for de-escalating the hostage situation in Boston. Terrorists-En-Route had been hitting up spots all over the country, so I guess Chris is kind of a failure at his job. They were a black-market union run by terrorists. Each faction was a different chapter, all funded by headquarters. There were many members. It’s funny, because we see them as the bad guys, but they get decent pay, decent healthcare, and a much more exciting life than a normal person might have. I hear they have rocket launchers on tap. Now that’s a good time and a half.
The man holding the girl brushes past me, as if I’m not even there. “We want to talk to the president!” Chris sighed. “The President is very busy, he’s at a campaign conference right now!” The terrorists began to chuckle. “Well, we can wait, in the meanwhile we’ll just start picking off these wonderful people, like Adley Monery.” The man turned around to shut off the window, but Chris yelled “Wait wait wait, I’ll get you on the line with the president.” Adley Monery was the CEO of a big oil company that lined many US senator’s pockets. Of course he cared about that. Some days I look at the people around me, and then I imagine the people on the top of those very fancy towers with a lot of money. I think that perhaps, we are better than this. Maybe some day right will take priority over greed. Maybe we’ll stop worshipping the wrong idea and we’ll become better as a people. But then I realize we are all scumbags when we are rich. Money is one of the most corrosive substances in the world, you know. “Will you let the president’s daughter go if we give you a call?” The terrorist chuckled. “A deal is a deal.” And he
I see a great big room around me. This is clearly the entrance to Big Man’s house. That is his actual name. I think it would have been weird once upon a time, but now people have very strange names. I am a big man, but he is Big Man. He is a billionaire, and the press swarms around me. There is a lively buzz going on. Clearly these people are very happy to be here, mingling with society’s highest and mightiest. And then I see Him. Walking down the curved stairway, the quartz making squeaky sounds under his boots. He has a glass of champagne in his hand. Well, maybe it’s not champagne, but I always thought billionaires drank champagne. Because it’s fancy and stuff.
“Ahem!” The room went silent as they all stared at Mr. Man. The Deity began to speak. “As you’re all aware, I am the richest man in the world--” everyone began to clap. You couldn’t not clap. That would be sacrilege. So I clapped too. It’s not often you see the face of capitalist God. “Thank you, thank you,” He chuckles. “Me and my Company, ABC Collection Inc. have made the decision to acquire the corporate colony of Honduras. After many years of struggling as a country, with some of the most shocking murder rates in the world, Honduras sought a more capitalist approach. They gutted their corrupt system, and began producing. They set all their lost citizens to work, gave them a purpose. But, even then, corruption seeped back into the system. They say once an addict, always an addict, and Honduras was no different. They were addicted to unhappiness. Well, we are about to change that, and I would like to welcome Mr. Spanish on board to our director of operations in Honduras, Inc.” The press all began applauding. They were captivated with this man, this green bean in the house of the giant. Mr. Spanish began to read off a piece of paper. “I am very glad to become part of the ABC family. Thank you.” Everyone applauded again. What a wonderfully concise statement. Mr. Spanish walked behind Mr. Man. “You will be a most valuable asset, Mr. Spanish,” I heard Him say, very quietly, so as the press would not hear. He turned back to them, and in His booming voice called out to His cattle, “I can now take questions.” Of course everyone began peeping “me, me” and raising their hands. He pointed to a young man raising his hand. “You, there sir, what is your question?” The young man called out in a stereotypical reporter voice, “Would you like to comment on the allegations about whether you did in fact kill your competition? Isn’t it suspicious that one day all of your competitors go missing and you score a giant contract with the US government?” The crowd begins to boo. Mr. Man curses. “Get lost.” And He pulls out this gun
I see The Mr. President himself in front of me. Arnold Umbach, they call him. Well, of course they would call him that. That’s his name. You wouldn’t like it if someone called you someone else’s name and that was not your name. Perhaps you wouldn’t even know, because you don’t know they’re calling your name. Wow, this is amazing. I’m right there in front of him. Two Super Secret Service men stand behind him. They made the Super Secret Service since the Terrorists-En-Route Terrorists Incorporated Union had infiltrated the Secret Service and taken hold that way. Some days I root for them. It’s scandalous, I know, but I am but a little cog in a giant machine. I am a construction worker. If I quit working, then I will be replaced, and not have a job. But my construction company pays okay. And I have benefits. And once a year I get to go to Russia, where it is warm and happy. 10 years ago, Vladimir Putin died. Well, actually, we found out it wasn’t actually Vladimir Putin, it was the 7th clone he had made of himself in secret. And they had been dying for the last 80 years. The things people do for power.
There is a camera in front of President Umbach. I listen to him. He has a reassuring voice. He makes me feel like in this world of silly politics and violence and unhappiness, that there is light. That every American, at least, is worth something. Not just to them, but to him. He cares, he says. So I listen to him. “My fellow Americans, today the Terrorists-En-Route Terrorists Incorporated Union took my daughter from me. They are currently holding her hostage as we speak. This threat has taken hold of our country, and we must ignore it no longer. It is time to declare war on this Union. Giving people good health benefits and decent pay and a good life is simply not the American way. To make everyone the happiest, we must oppress the poor people. And if there are corporations being nice to poor people and giving liveable salaries, believe me, they will be shut down. Today, we take our country back from the commies. Thank-’
BOOM! An explosion fills the room. Smoke everywhere. The wall is burning, as men in
Then I am in a room. It is purple. The two hosts there are talking very solemnly, as if the greatest tragedy of our time was coming up next. I knew this was not a real room. It was simply what the news wanted us to see, to make their little cupboard a bit more fancy. It was a dark purple, a heavy purple, weighing on my soul. “And now, this is Sad Time, brought to you by the US government, which we are legally obligated to show every American citizen watching the news. Today, we want to ask you the same question we ask every week. What makes you feel sad? Who makes you feel sad?” It’s a funny question, it really is. When I was little, apples made me feel sad, because I remember the last time I saw my father he was eating an apple on the side of the railroad and telling me how stupid my mother was. I heard the train calling, and I tried to tell him, but he slapped my arm away and said, “Don’t interrupt me while I’m monologuing, it’s annoying.” And then he just wasn’t there. The train was there, right where he just was, but he was not. There was no agony in his death. It was by fate’s hand. Swift and cold, without emotion or debate. I think often we are our greatest enemy. If you host a party at your house, all these wonderful people come in, and you have wonderful conversations, and you eat wonderful food and tell wonderful jokes. But then, all of those wonderful people leave, and so does the glorious wonder with them. Then you are left with yourself. You are left with your unibrow that your father always told you was ugly. You were left with the bleak reality that you are a construction worker in a greedy society. Yourself is very hard to talk to, because the conversation feels so empty. You can’t even see yourself. You can pretend that you can see what other people see, with fancy mirrors and cameras and screens, but you will never see yourself as other people do. I’ve always wanted to see my actual face. Other people get to see my face, but why can’t I? After all, I am the one with the face. Don’t I have a right to my face? I hate Sad Time. I think other Americans hate it too. It almost makes me feel like they’re right here in my living room, and all 450 million of us are watching the same tiny TV, and we all sigh a deep sigh of sadness when this comes on.
“And that’s your news for tonight. This is Chester Folk, signing off.” And then the advertisement for soap comes on. Dope Soap, they call it. They tell me how I can wash away all my worries with Dope Soap, and that I will be happy. All these commercials promise happiness, all these big powerful people always promise happiness comes from them. But these things have no value to me. It is not material good that makes me valuable. I see my daughter in the corner. She is playing with her truck. And my wife is cleaning the dishes because I am tired tonight. Usually I do that, but my back was killing me when I got home. Some days I think what ties me to this earth the most. For some people, it might be their law practice, or perhaps they are a doctor. My mother was a doctor. For me, it’s the people around me. They have value to me, and I have value to them. I pick up the phone to call my brother. “Hey, Alex, I was wondering if you
What did you think? Did you like it? Let me know in the comments below.
Thanks
-Justin