Some would say I’m a workaholic, but I don’t know about that. But what follows is my personal experience teetering on the edge of workaholism and not in any way sound medical advice.

Workaholism is an addiction or compulsion to work. Some would say it’s one of the better addictions to have. If you’re a student, working all the time should lead to better grades and more free time. If you’re working, more hours spent working leads to more pay. So how can you go wrong with working? Other than the fact that it’s mentally, physically, and emotionally draining and your personal life suffers for the sake of your work, it’s otherwise fine.

There’s a blurred line between being a hard worker vs a workaholic. A hard worker knows when to stop working, a workaholic keeps working. When a hard worker isn’t working, they enjoy the break and can focus on other things like family, friends, or simply being present. When a workaholic isn’t working, guilt and anger cloud the mind because they should be working. Because who are they without their work?

Workaholism is different for everyone. For me, it’s more than a compulsion to work, it has become a lifestyle. I get nagging thoughts of upcoming exams, assignments, future problems, that I should work on instead of going on a trip or taking a break. Everything you do is for the work, every choice is efficiently made to optimize work output. The worst thing you can do to a workaholic is give them nothing to do, put them on vacation. Because there’s nothing left for you to do. Their life was built around work, around solving problems, progressing in life, and when that’s taken away there’s nothing left. So we hunt for problems that, sometimes, aren’t even there. We bury ourselves in small work, sometimes things that don’t matter, like straightening a crooked painting, obsessing about the color of the walls, or living in our minds, daydreaming the day away whilst foreseeing problems and situations thinking that this work will fulfill us. It will fix us. It will get us the love and warmth we need. You don’t just run out of work, you run out of hope.

Like any addiction, it seeps into all aspects of your life. The worst part about an addiction is not how it affects your choices overtly, it’s how it subverts your own autonomy. You can make a choice to hang out with friends but cancel because some work came up and rationalize to yourself that you do this. And sometimes it is urgent work, but oftentimes it can be pushed back. And you know that you lost again to the addiction.

If you do manage to get to a social gathering, things aren’t any better. As soon as you stop working, your mind gravitates to work. Constantly thinking about what to do next, what can I do now. Work is on your mind even when you’re not working. Your conversations often involve work, you only know about work, your vocabulary is work, your tone is work. You are working. This makes it increasingly difficult to form an emotional connection with people because your mind drifts to work rather than to the person. That every conversation is someone wanting something from you. I’ve caught myself thinking ‘how would a non-workaholic human respond to this situation’. As if I had forgotten how to be human.

Workaholism seeps into your mindset. It creates a filter that only shows logical choices that provide some sort of gain. Visiting friends or family isn’t worthwhile if all you do is talk. There’s no doing, there’s nothing productive to be gained so why bother? It’s easy for people to become means to an end to your work, and walk the edge of sociopathic tendencies. Workaholics become obsessed with wringing out every inch of productivity of their day. Not to say those who want to be more productive are workaholics, there’s a balance between passion and obsession. But for workaholics, it’s the nagging feeling to always work even when you’re on vacation. If you aren’t working then there is no purpose to you, to your existence, so you try to quit if you’re fortunate enough to realize your destructive behavior.

You can go clean for weeks or years even, but you can unconsciously make choices that lead you back to the high if you’re not careful. All the time you spent working to run away from your addiction, you didn’t realize you were working just as hard to get back. Like a dog running with a long leash attached thinking it’s free, only for the leash to restrain vigorously.

Dealing with pain is an odd way to look at addiction for most people because of the harsh brush with which society has painted about addicts. Most think it’s about getting the next fix. That we should stigmatize them, shame them, and cut them off from the drugs they’re using.

If we wanted to make a society where addictions are made worse, that’d be the way to do it. Instead of asking where the addiction originates or asking why, we throw them to the wolves. Detach them even more from society.

My experience with workaholism is my own and I cannot speak for anyone else with workaholism or addiction. I do feel a euphoria of working on schoolwork or projects or helping others. Being there for others, but hardly for myself.

I’m not sure if I have a complete workaholic addiction, but I know I have workaholic tendencies. Oftentimes I fell ill after long hours of working and to fix that, but I continued working. In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the best idea but circumstances forced me to keep working, or so I thought.

One thing I’ve realized through my introspection and reading books on addiction and social psychology is that what actually happens is completely different than how I perceive it. An argument with a family member can be a fiery battle with sharp words and hurtful comments in my head when in reality it was a mild discussion. You don’t react to what happens to you to react to what you perceive what happens to you.

When you can’t handle what happens to you, you turn to someone with whom you have a healthy relationship for support. And if you don’t have one or feel like you don’t have one, you turn to something else. To something like alcohol, social media, shopping, food, gambling, or you bury yourself in work.

I didn’t think it was a problem for a long time. I got more done, got good grades in school, and felt amazingly productive. But I started noticing how I prioritize my work over my own health, over my family, friends, and the older I got, the more I realized how unsustainable it is. I’d probably work myself to death.

The reason I bury myself in work is because I feel valued there. I feel that I belong, that I matter., that I am wanted. And even if things aren’t going well in my personal life, I can rest easy knowing that I can do some good through my work at the expense of my own health. At least, that’s how I’ve rationalized it. The work fills a void inside of me, trying to fix something inside of me. I keep working hoping the next completed assignment, project or accolade will fix what’s wrong with me. Just maybe the next one will fill the void.

Why did I grow workaholic tendencies? I’m not sure but from my own introspection I realized that I wasn’t able to feel valued or loved when I was younger. I know my family loved and cared for me, I owe them everything for making me who I am today, but when I was younger I didn’t feel their love. The love felt implied. So as a young kid, I rationalized the implied love as ‘I am not wanted or loved here’, so I buried myself in work which can be many things for me: school work, extra curricular, or volunteering, anything where I felt that I felt needed. Because if I wasn’t wanted earlier, they’re going to need me later. What better way to be wanted than to be an engineer? People will ask you to fix a lot of things and you’ll be wanted everywhere.

It’s not that I don’t know that working 24/7 isn’t harmful for my health, it’s the bond that I’ve formed with working that’s hard to break. I feel wanted when working all the time. And what’s wrong with feeling wanted and loved?

An addiction is a bond formed with something other than another human. And because we are social creatures, once you’ve got a bond that you perceive as vital, you’ll do anything to keep hold of it.

It’s more than just a matter of will power. This is a matter of human nature and diving into the voids we have within ourselves.

Most people think addicts do drugs or fall prey to addictions because they’re weak-minded or never grew up to make adult decisions or they should just say no to drugs. Addiction isn’t an impulse to want something, it’s an impulse to fulfill a void caused from a form of pain. Instead of asking why the addiction, ask why the pain? The void is different based on the addiction, upbringing, but for me workaholism fills the void of knowing your values or wants. Because somehow I rationalized early on in childhood, that I wasn’t wanted. From the outside, you’d see a happy, loving family, but I never felt any of it. The high for me came from the success of finishing a project or solving a problem and the accolades that come with it. You brush off the praise humbly, but subconsciously crave the narcotic dopamine from feeling valued and wanted. It’s the late night texts saying someone needs help. It’s the weekend meetings that make you feel valued and that you are worth someone else’s time. It’s being available at a moment’s notice so that you can get your fix. These voids often stem from childhood problems from the lack of a nurturing environment.

It’s a difficult addiction to combat, let alone admit it’s a problem. Western society, specifically in the U.S, glamorizes the late worker, the go-getter, the one who puts in the long hours day in and day out. I’m not saying you’re a workaholic if you do work long hours consistently. An addiction isn’t defined by how it negatively impacts you, it’s how it systematically destroys the relationships you have with people closest to you and the motivation behind your choices. Someone who works long-hours out of necessity to stay alive versus someone who works even if they don’t have to.

Society puts those who work hard on pedestals, and rightfully so. Give credit where credit’s due, but society forgets the nuances to working hard. When you hear that someone dies and they spent their lives dedicated to making the world better is admirable, but most of the time they worked hard at the expense of their own physical health. Workaholism can cause diseases due to the prolonged exposure to stress. So when someone is going through Chemotherapy and decides to continue working, they’re doing so at their own expense.

The body needs time to heal, yet we applaud people who work through illness. We wouldn’t tell someone with a broken leg to run a marathon, so why do we applaud and glorify those who work despite being physically, mentally, and perhaps emotionally sick?

And if you’re lucky enough to detox or work with a therapist on your addiction, afterwards you’re on your own. You have to hunt for support groups and additional help. If you relapse, you get ridiculed for not having will power to stay away or the motivation. And that’s just what others say to you, the internal ridicule is worse. No one is a better critic than your inner self.

Breaking an addiction isn’t a one time process, it’s like tending a plant. You have to constantly care for the plant for it to survive. You can’t take a day off else the plant will grow weaker or get sick. If you slip, then you slip far. For example, if you’re a recovering alcoholic and you’ve been sober 5 years, and someone offers you a drink, you turn it down because you know, you don’t just want one drink, you want 10 drinks. Things in your life may be going well, and you will still want 10 drinks because you’re an alcoholic. It’s not that I want to continue working, I want to never stop working because I know the high that’s coming if I do keep working because I’m a workaholic.

What makes addictions generally, well addictive, is how the addict feels. Addicts are responding to trauma.

The addiction isn’t the problem. The addiction is an attempt at solving the problem.

Most of the time, the trauma is emotional and deeply ingrained in their brains. If an addict takes medication to not feel pain or to feel loved or to feel valued or in control, is that wrong? Is it wrong to feel loved? To not suffer in emotional or physical pain? Who are we to force an addict to quit something that helps them live pain-free? There must be a better way to solve the problem than punishment, incarceration, and ridicule.

According to the CDC, there were more than 70,000 deaths in 2019 alone due to drug overdoses in the United States. There are ways to combat addiction through support groups and medication but there’s still a prevalent stigma with addiction and relapse that must be combatted first.

Almost 21 million Americans have at least one addiction, yet only 10% of them receive treatment. We can’t approach addiction as something to be shamed and ridiculed. If the addictions provide a sense of relief and comfort for addicts and we rip it away from them, what does that say about us? Is it wrong to feel loved or tranquil? We need a paradigm shift with addiction that brings compassion and mental health into the field along with physical care.

Instead of asking why the addiction, ask why the pain. Alcohol, cocaine, morphine, and other addictive habits produce endorphins and provide a temporary sense of relief from pain. There are clinics that provide supervised drug injection sites where addicts can take an injection of heroin or other drugs under medical supervision. Under supervision, taking the drugs will not be as harmful and the addict can try and fix the source of their pain.

Many of the world’s problems are caused by people who are dealing with their own insecurities. An addiction to power and attention creates autocrats in many countries and can get you elected president because an addiction to power is an attempt to fill the emptiness they feel, and maybe we recognize that.

Hurt people, hurt people. Our current “war on drugs” in the U.S needs a new angle, the hard crackdown on drugs and the shame brought about has not worked. A compassionate lens to help us solve problems that we once thought impossible.

Human nature is cooperative, community minded. There are more organizations lifting humanity instead of beating it down. We need to tap into our common humanity and reach out to the addicts close to us and those in pain. And care for them and be present. Say “I love you and no matter what state you are in, I love you and care about you.”

A Hungarian-Canadian physician, Gabor Matè, once said, we judge addicts because we actually see that they are just like us and we don’t like that, so we say ‘you are different than us and you are worse than we are’. There is no “other” in the mirror, it’s just you.

Social justice lawyer, Bryan Stevenson, once said, “Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.,...the character of our society, our commitment to the rule of law, fairness, and equality cannot be measured by how we treat the rich, the powerful, the privileged, and the respected among us. The true measure of our character is how we treat the poor, the disfavored, the accused, the incarcerated, and the condemned.”

The bitter work we all have to do is look at addicts and at ourselves and realize that they’re no different than us. That even the worst of us deserve some compassion and mercy.

I have been writing weekly short stories and screenplays for a year now to get better at writing and communicating what I see in my head. At the end of the year, I’ve realized it’s become something more of than simply improving my communication skills.

The initial weeks were the hardest stretch for me. It was difficult getting into the flow of plotting stories on a weekly basis while taking classes. After a while, writing stories became a bit spontaneous, like jazz or improv.

Some stories were bursts of creative fervor at the last second. While most were grueling battles of developing storylines and the approaching time limit. At first the stories I wrote were attempts to write what I’ve wanted to see on screen. Artistic takes and perspectives on generic stories and generic tropes. During the later stories, I explored more of myself and fused the characters with exaggerated aspects of my own personality. Then I began expanding into genres that pushed my creative skills. Having friends provide certain aspects of a story and my job is to weave them together.

I have noticed along the way, creators care more for their characters than their fans ever will. Even if it’s a bad story, I’ve cared about the characters and genuinely desired for them to improve. That being said, it’s quite easy to fall into a god complex when creating any story. You control the lives of the characters and you dictate the terms, silently pulling the strings. With that power, anyone can succumb to the hubris. However, with one quick reality check from life reminds that you are in a story of your own, and you are no puppeteer.

The beauty of stories is the insight into other lives and exploring who we could be. That’s what I enjoy about writing these stories. I get to explore different aspects of myself and imagine how others live. I explore events of my own life from different perspectives. I’ve realized that writing good stories often comes from watching people. Their idiosyncrasies, stutters, and habits they do unconsciously are often building blocks to compelling stories. The biting of your lips, the stoic answer, glimpses of an unseen world and life. Good stories are good because we identify with them easily, We see them around us all the time and in our own lives.

Examine your life through a narrative lens, you’ll notice how life parallels story & how viewing your life through a narrative lens is fulfilling and insightful. It’s the details that make it alluring. The word choices, the flicker of expressions, the decisions people make reveal their inner story, and all their stories are worth telling. Then you realize, everyone’s story is as intricate and dull as yours. It’s the choices that matter, not the events. It’s the choices that make characters compelling. Your characters can grow to reflect yourself. Many of the greatest stories were based on personal events and self-reflection. No matter how the events in a story turn out, all good stories have character growth.

Looking back in my life, I remember many foreshadowing moments and moments of growth. The moments that didn’t make sense in the moment, but make sense in hindsight. Remembering that there’s always room for growth gives me hope that life can be better, I can be better. Writing provides an introspective lens on your own life. You see how you’ve changed over time. You might be more calm or more angry. More happy or more sad. More grateful or more depressed. However, like in all great stories, there is growth. I hope there’s growth in your story.

They spoke of two doctors. One for life and one for death, Abner and Marat. Twins born from the same mother, the only doctor in the remote village of Gaia. She passed her knowledge onto them.

Their mother’s death from Imperious separated the two. Abner could not accept Marat’s passivity to medicine. They lived in different parts of the village. Abner, at top a hill in a cabin, and Marat at the bottom

among the muck.

They rejoined when a sudden illness fell upon their village.

People died without symptom, without cause, without warning. A few suffered coughs, chills, and strokes, most simply died. The disease has been ravaging the village for months.

Abner is walking up the hill to his cabin. He passes by a few village folk with bright smiles on their face as he walks by as if his presence is the cure.

In the tidy cabin atop a hill, Abner works in his lab concocting potions for the adaptive disease he calls, Imperium. His short and stout lab hand, Gorgo works nearby.

“Got it”, says Abner holding a vial for a new formula. “Gorgo, send for Marat. He’ll want this. This should work this time.”

Gorgo writes the note and ties it to the pigeon.

It flies downhill toward Marat’s lodge. The pigeon weaves past the gravestones lining the streets. People limp in agony and cower in fear from the paranoid of getting Imperium.

The pigeon lands in a dark, broke, wooden shack. A young boy emerges from the darkness seeing the pigeon.

He reads the letter and takes off for the fields.

The boy passes outside the bounds of the village to a field of graves. The grave field reaches beyond edge of the earth and deeper than the roots of trees. A small group of people stand around a grave as a body is being placed.

“Marat”, shouts the boy. “Letter.”

A head pops up from a man standing in the grave holding the body. “What?”. His eyes sullen with sadness and his face marked with weariness. Marat pulls himself out of the grave after laying the body to rest. He walks to the boy.

Marat towers over the boy. “What is it Blake?”

“Your brother. He says he’s done it.” Blake hands him the letter.

“He said that plenty.” Marat grabs the letter. “Alright, can you attend to Longjoy’s burial? While I meet with Abner?”

“Of course sir.” Blake walks towards the group and jumps into the grave to assist with the burial.

Marat begins the trudge up to Abner’s cabin. The folk avoid him as if he carries the Imperium. He passes folk pulling muddy water from the well and houses made of rotting wood where people lay their heads.

An elderly couple, the Abernathy family, come running towards Marat. A woman and her half-blind husband.

The woman wrapped in worn fabric sash pleads to Marat. “Marat, you must attend to Lorain. She’s ill once again.”

“What troubles her”, asks Marat.

“She’s shaking violently. Regurgitating white fluids”, says the Mr. Abernathy. “She couldn’t see us neither.”

“Blood letting as Abner said”, weeps Mrs. Abernathy. “But nothing’s working.”

“Take me to her.”

They guide Marat to their small one room home. The cold fire smolders beside Lorain as she shivers silently beneath elk fur lying on the damp wooden floor. Marat sits with her and places a gentle comforting hand on her forehead. Her icy skin trembled at the warmth of Marat’s hand.

“Is there anything you can do”, asks Mr. Abernathy.

“No, but Abner might. He sent for me for a possible potion. I’ll bring him here.”

Marat quickly leaves and jogs up the hill to Abner’s pristine cabin.

“Abner” shouts Marat from the outside. No response. He rushes to the door as Gorgo opens the door.

“Please Marat, he’s in the lab.”

“Gorgo, Lorain is need for Abner’s concoction.” Marat pushes past Gorgo and heads for the lab.

“He has not tested it properly yet.” Gorgo follows quickly behind.

Marat finds Abner behind a door injecting a tired villager with his new concoction. A small group of weary and frail villagers sit in darkness waiting for the potion.

“Marat”, says Abner. “I’ve extinguished imperium with this potion.”

“No time for that brother”, says Marat grabbing his hand. “Lorain needs us.”

“Lorain?” Abner quickly stands. He grabs the vial of the potions and follows Marat to Lorain’s home.

Abner sits beside Lorain as he pours some of the potion down her throat. Lorain stops shivering and her skin warms.

“It works”, says Abner amazed. He stands with a prideful grin. Her parents breathe a sigh of relief as the color returns to Lorain’s face. Marat stands behind carefully watching Lorain.

Suddenly, she convulses violently. Spewing white foam from her mouth as black spots grow on her finger tips. Marat dives to Lorain holding her steady in one place.

Abner steps back confused. “Black bile? But I had previously cured it.” He fumes at his mistake as Marat controls Lorain’s violent seizure.

“Abner, is there nothing we can do”, pleads Mrs. Abernathy. “Surely we can save her.”

“I-I don’t know”, stammers Abner.

Lorain stops convulsing. Marat stands. “She’s gone”, he says quietly.

The mother breaks down into her husbands arms. Marat comforts them. “It’s ok, she’s not in any pain now.”

Abner storms out.

Back in his lab, Abner sits alone at his lab table with open notebooks of different formulae. After administering the final potion to the test subjects, Gorgo sits with Abner.

“Sir what is wrong? We will start again. We must”, says Gorgo.

“Again and again. There’s no end. I can cure the black bile, yellow bile, and even Typhus.”

“We will find a cure if it takes the entire life time.”

“I don’t have the capability to heal anymore.”

Marat enters the lab.

“How are they”, asks Abner.

“Mourning” says Marat pulling up a seat. “I’ll be burying her tomorrow at twilight. They want you to come.”

“I can’t”, says Abner flustered. “I-I have much work to accomplish. New potions to manufacture.”

“Gorgo can manage lab. Surely he’s grown accustom to your methods.”

“That’s quite right sirs.” Gorgo turns to Abner. “I am capable of working the lab while you mourn.”

Abner hits the table. “I don’t need to mourn. I need to work.” He turns to Marat. “Will you please go? Alert me if any other cases appear.”

“Of course.” Marat stands. “I’ll be back at twilight.” He heads back to his broken lodge at the floor of valley leaving Gorgo and Abner alone in the lab.

The small candlelight flickers. “It needs more oil”, says Gorgo standing to pick up whale oil.

Gorgo picks a pail of whale oil for the candle but Abner stops him. “It doesn’t need oil”, says Abner. “It needs air.”

At twilight, Marat knocks on lab’s door. Gorgo opens. “He’s not moving. Says he is unwell.”

Marat moves Gorgo aside. “Abner”, shouts Marat as he walks. “The funeral is waiting on you.” He finds Abner toiling away at his desk. Abner scribbles furiously in his notebook. “Abner, She’d want you there.”

“I told you. I don’t want to go.”

“The family insists.”

“I insist back.”

“Abner”, says Marat stepping closer. “You will want to be there. And you’ll regret it if you are not.”

“I haven’t been there since.” Abner’s voice trails off. “Anyway, I can’t be there. Not this time. Not hers.”

“Ok…ok. I understand.” Marat pats him on the back. He leaves them in the laboratory.

The sun’s red rays color the sky as Marat helps dig Loraine’s grave. He and Mr. Abernathy shovel the last piece of dirt out of the grave.

“She always loved the sunset”, says Mr. Abernathy.

“From here”, says Marat. “The sun will set on her.”

Marat climbs out of the grave and helps Mr. Abernathy out.

Marat wipes the dirt off him. “Alright, you grab her legs and I’ll carry her shoulders.”

Lorain is mummified in a white cloth. Marat and Mr. Abernathy prepare to lift Lorain before a voice calls out for them to stop.

“I’ll carry her”, says Abner. Marat moves aside and allows Abner to carry her by the shoulders.

Abner and Abernathy life Lorain and gently place her inside.

Marat shovels the dirt into the grave. Mr. Abernathy wipes off the dirt after he gets out of the grave. Abner wipes the dirt on himself.

Abner and Marat stand at Loraine’s grave after the Abernathy’s leave.

“I didn’t think you’d show”, says Marat. “But I know they appreciate you being here.”

“I- how do you do it”, says Abner. “We heal wounds. It’s black and white. Live or die.”

“The job may be black and white. But how we feel is not. It doesn’t get any easier. You are not losing just another person. You’re losing mom all over again.”

“How do you face that? Lorain was young, she—she had her whole life in front of her. If we lose people like this, we are fighting a war with no reason..”

“It’s ok. You won’t be able to save everyone. But that doesn’t mean do you don’t try.”

Abner looks at the graves behind them and the field stretching far in front. “From my lab, I would watch the burials and the field grow. A measure of my failure. Cursing at you for not burying it out of my sight and far from the village. How do you deal with it? Burying-losing people you love? ”

“I don’t know-it changes over time, doesn’t leave. Like an anchor of ship. The weight keeps the ship steady and in times of storm, you rely on the anchor to strength.”

“in times of storm”, says Abner to himself. With one last look at the graveyard around him, he walks back to the village.

“Where are you going”, asks Marat. He stays by Loraine’s grave.

“Back to work.”

Link to Script: Search Results: https://drive.google.com/file/d/18aojka_2Ff_FSGfCW8ZAn-py_oCSLXMx/view?usp=sharing (google drive link, 5 pages long)

*Note:

I finished a short film screenplay. It's 5 pages long.

A new thing I'm trying with this script is I'm telling the story only using Google search history.

On film, you would only see a screen recording of someone typing things into a google search bar. The script has no dialogue just shots of what the person types into the search bar. I do need to work on the title. I couldn't think of anything better yet.

Let me know what you think story-wise. I'm not even too sure on what feedback to ask for since I've never tried this before.

I apologize if it sucks.*

If you have unique ways of telling stories, I'd love to hear them!

A car ran into me and I flew a few feet before I kissed the hard concrete. A pool of warm blood filled beside my face. I writhe from pain and can hardly speak. I hear people rushing to my aid. In a fleeting moment of consciousness, a single thought passes through my head: huh, they actually do care.

Eric wakes up in a hospital bed with a broken wrist and many bandages and stitches covering his forehead. A hand woven red and blue bracelet sits atop his cast. The room was white and bland. The tv ran on the news. A girl sits beside the bed reading a book, Pride and Prejudice. It’s Bridget.

She wears dark rimmed glasses with fiery red hair tied in a ponytail. A small red and blue hand woven bracelet sits on a table beside Eric and sits on Bridget’s wrist. She looks up from her reading seeing that I’m

awake.

“Your mom asked me to be here”, she says. She puts her book down and faces me. “How are you feeling,

Eric?”

“She couldn’t come herself ”, says Eric spitefully.

“You know she wanted to but-”

“But she was busy or didn’t have the time. Just like graduation, birthdays, and anything that requires emotional engagement”, said Eric finishing her sentence. He’s heard it a thousand times before.

Bridget doesn’t respond. She stands and grabs her book. “I have work in half an hour. Take Care. I’ll be back afterwards.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” A black notebook sits at his bedside.

Bridget stops and turns around. “Almost forgot, Hannah wishes you well.”

Bridget hands him a letter.

Eric perks up. “She did?” His cheeks redden slightly as he reads the letter.

Bridget smiles. “I have work, but I can cancel if you want me to stay.”

Eric doesn’t respond, he’s too engrossed with the letter from Hannah,

Bridget leaves Eric alone with the bland TV running. He’s focused on the letter, absorbing and analyzing each word, syllable, and meaning.

He looks up and sees Bridget left behind the bracelet still sits there. Eric wears a similar bracelet.

He puts the letter down and flips through the channels.

He stops on a It’s a wonderful life. The entire family embraces George Bailey in its climatic scene. The love and warmth emanate from the screen filling the entire room.

Eric stays captivated by its warmth. Inspired, he places the letter in his black notebook, flips to a fresh page, and begins writing.

He begins. “March 15. I think I’ve found her.”

5 DAYS LATER:

Eric and his best friend, Steven, stand in Eric’s bed room. It’s messy with clothes on the ground and a trash can in the back. The wall is bare except for Hannah’s letter framed.

Eric’s wounds have scarred, but he still wears a cast with the bracelet atop it.

“I’m going to do it. It’s the only way. Steven.

“This is too far. You can’t hurt self just to show how much she cares for you. Try talking to her first.”

“I’m too timid and I’ll mess up if I do.” Eric points to the framed letter on the wall. “I have to know Steven.

How she actually feels for me. I don’t know of any other way.”

“What about Bridget?”

“Bridget? She’s different- she’s a friend.”

“So you’re going to kill yourself ?”

“Fake kill myself, but yes.”

Steven thinks for a bit. “No, I-I can’t. This isn’t right.”

“Eric”, his mother calls. “Come set up dinner.” Eric slumps down the steps towards the dining room and Steven follows. The walls of the house are bare except for a few paintings of flowers. Calendars, receipts, and coupons fill the fridge along with one happy photo of 4 year old Eric.

He and his parents sit at the dinner table quietly eating. Steven eats quietly.

“How’s school”, asks dad. “Keepin your grades up?”

Eric doesn’t even look up. “Fine.” He slouches in his chair and doesn’t hide his morose face, begging for attention.

“Eric, don’t slouch”, says his mom. “Honey, did you hear about Albert Jones?”

“No”, says the father, “What happened?”

“He’s getting married. Met a nice girl. Broke a leg for her.”

“That’s great news! Reminds me of myself.”

She laughs. “A half-dead proposal?”

“Still said yes.”

“How could I not”, she replies in a quiet voice. She looks at Eric. “Y’know, Bridget’s a great girl, I’m sure if you broke an arm she’d sworn.”

“I don’t think Eric needs to break an arm for Bridget.”

“What’re you talking about Steven? Of course he does”, says Eric’s dad.

“It’s what everyone does. It’s how you find someone?”

“But can’t it be changed”, asks Steven. “Do we have to?”

Eric pushes away from the table. “Can I be excused?” He leaves without waiting for an answer.

Eric reaches halfway up the stairs and hears his mom say. “It’s may I be excused. Not can.” Steven and Eric’s parents continue their bickering. He closes the door behind him.

His room’s silent, the sounds of his family don’t reach him.

He grabs his notebook filled with journal entries and sketches of how he’ll die, and sits on his bed.

He flips the entry titled March 15 and reads quietly to himself. “I think I found her.” He trails off, skimming the rest. “She doesn’t know she likes me. I need to go further than just pain. Faking my own suicide will show her how much she truly cares for me.” He hears the front door closes.

From his window, he sees Steven walking to his car and driving off.

He falls onto his bed and goes to sleep.

Eric’s phone vibrates. It’s a call from Bridget. He groggily looks at his phone. What could she want, he thinks. He puts the phone on silent and goes to sleep.

Someone knocks on his door.

“Eric”, says his mother softly. She pushes the door open and turns on the light. “Eric something’s happened.”

A gray casket is being lowered as people cloaked in black suits and dresses surround it. Steven, Eric’s parents, Hannah, and other close family. Eric is nowhere to be seen.

Hannah’s long brown hair hangs from beneath her black hat. She tightly clutches dark-rimmed glasses and a letter as the casket is buried.

People walk by her offering condolences.

Steven walks by. “How are you doing? I know you two were close.”

Hannah looks at the buried casket. “Where Eric?”

Steven shrugs. “I don’t know. I thought he’d be here. He was close with Bridget.”

“I can’t believe she’s actually gone. I told her it wasn’t a good idea. That she should just talk.”

Steven sees the letter in her hands. “She left something for you?”

Hannah looks around. “Not for me.” She sees someone sitting on a bench in the distance. Steven follows behind her.

From a distance, Eric sits at a bench rubbing the bracelet on his wrist. He’s in the same black attire, a small envelope sits from his jacket pocket. Hannah and Steven walk to him.

“Eric”, says Hannah softly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Eric doesn’t look up. “Yeah thanks.” Hannah sits beside him and hands him the envelope.

“She wanted you to have this.”

Steven sensing his presence is superfluous. “I’m sorry about Bridget Eric.” He puts a reaffirming hand on his shoulder. “Take care. I’ll see you later.” Steven leaves them alone.

“Damn”, says Eric folding the letter. “I wish I knew earlier. I wish I saw. Maybe she’d still—” He brushes off the falling tears. The white envelope falls out of his jacket.

“what’s this”, says Hannah. She picks up the letter. It says addressed. For Hannah. With a glance to Eric, she opens the letter.

“It was meant for you”, says Eric. “I was supposed to be in there… not her.”

“Eric, I can’t—this isn’t right.”

He nods. “I understand.”

“No, no, no. I mean hurting yourself.” She moves closer to Eric and faces him directly. Eric looks at the ground as she continues. “There are people who truly care about you and wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

He scoffs. “No one cares. It’s just transactional. It’s a means to an end. Bridget saw it too.”

“But she was wrong. You cared for her. And so did I.”

“And what good did that do her? She’s still 6 ft under. We cared but she didn’t know or could tell that anyone did.” Eric looks at Bridget’s letter again. “Just couldn’t see how much people did.”

“Maybe you’re not seeing it either.”

Eric scoffs. “My parents met through pain. My father was half-dead when he proposed. I don’t know how else to know. Steven and Bridget were the only ones that cared. No one stays.”

“I am. And I do care.” She looks at the letter addressed to her. “Eric, you can’t go on like this.”

Eric looks at her. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get better.”

“I can help you.” Hannah rests her hand on his shoulder.

“I’d like that.”

As they embrace in a warm hug, Eric thinks to himself, she really does care.

NOTE:

For context, I came up with a creative challenge for myself. I asked one of my friends to give me 3 objects & a genre & I’ll write a story based on it. So one of my friends gave me this:

Genre: Tragedy

3 objects:

- Homeless man named Paco - Ant named Doris - Doorknob named Carl

The story is a historical fiction but also a tragedy.

Link to Script: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1E6gwVTCcD13UyedxD3t-4xMu5B_-U9oe/view?usp=sharing

(10 pages)

I’m trying out screenwriting.

I’d love to hear what you think of the story!

I greatly appreciate the feedback.

My next few posts will probably be more scripts.

On a planet with no waste. In a city with no trash. In a community with no hate. In a home with no haste, lives a man searching for breaks.

Harold Greene, works at a brown maple wood desk. A mist of cigar smoke hovers in the air. The window behind him is slightly cracked ventilating the smoke. Dusty frames of awards and certifications cover the office. Papers surround a laptop. An old picture frame stands on his desk: a happy husband and wife with their daughter. Newspaper clippings of World peace achieved and world better than 100 years ago cover the walls with big red slashes through them. Closer to his desk are automobile reports and a newspaper that

looks more recent. “Rotus engineer dies in mysterious crash involving Rotus Energy. CEO Larry Burgess, denying any malicious intent or malfunction.”

“Nothing?”. He furiously types on the computer, opening internet pages after pages. Global Climate deal reaches between Bhutan and the U.S: Rotus leads the charge says on article. On the eradication of global pathogens: Rotus run across the front of paper by a university history professor. “I don’t believe it.” He sits back in his chair and puffs another cloud of smoke. He opens an email. “2030 U.S Official caught in web of corruption in disseminating trade secrets to ZetaBeats & suppressing public knowledge about Rotus and ZetaBeats.” He leans back and looks at the ring of smoke above him. A gray holograph appears on his forearm between two rings. A text from Cole.

Suddenly, his daughter, Cathy, enters the room with an white envelope in her hand. Her hair dangling with a red ribbon tied in a bow. She smacked the letter onto his desk.

“I can’t believe you hid this from me”, she yells.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”, he said without looking at her as he reads the message and replies.

Cathy stares at her father. The cigarette fumes fuel her rage. Though only a few feet from her father, she feels he’s miles away from her. Distant memories flash through her minds. Her father ignoring her and avoiding her. She raised herself essentially. He still looks at the ring of smoke above him. Not again, Cathy thinks to herself. She barges out of the room and slams the door shut. The picture frame falls face down. Without looking Harold smothers his cigarette on the white envelope leaving ashy mark. He grabs his jacket and leaves his office.

He stands in the doorway with the keys in arms reach. Cathy slams shut her bedroom door. He looks towards her room.

He grabs the keys and leaves the room.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The light snow falls gently. People are walking outside enjoying the first snow fall. The world’s more technologically advanced yet it seems familiar and less modern. There are no flying cars or levitating platforms. Technology has become so integrated in human life and humans, that it has become nearly invisible to see.

Harold sits with Cole scrunched together at an outdoor cafe table. He watches people walk with their family and friends. A couple walks by their table holding their young son in their hands. They swing him gently as they walk. The young boy’s feet bounces from concrete block to concrete block. Memories flash through Harold’s mind, ignoring his friends, of Cathy’s youth. How he and his Vanessa, cared for their Cathy.

A reporter on a nearby tv speaks. “Today is the 40th anniversary for the eradication of tuberculosis. A time where we set aside our differences worked towards a common goal. Humanity has never crumbled under the weight of our problems. The world has never been a safer, healthier, and more equal world then ever before. The world’s problems have been solved.”

Harry”, says Cole snapping his fingers. “The world needs us to solve its problems again.”

Harold snaps out of it. “What do you have?”

“Guards change every half hour”, says Cole. He’s staring at a large corporate building across the park. “Once we get through, we have card scanners. Uniforms will take us the rest of the way.”

“No special security on the higher floors?”

“No. And if Larry’s the same one from college, we can reach the info easily.”, says Cole. He pulls out a ID cards and a blueprint of the building. Harold grabs their IDs and holds it to the ring on the forearm.

Cole looks at the reporter on tv as he drinks from his coffee. “World’s problems will never be done. They’ll always need people like us. Especially with people like Larry running it.”

Harold leans back in his chair and watches the family down the sidewalk with their kid.

“Getting cold feet Harry?”, asks Cole.

“No—I— if— we’re wrong, then we’ve destroyed our lives for nothing.”

“We’re not wrong”, says Cole. “He stole our company. Our ideas! Rotus is when they dig in and convince everyone they’re saviors, hiding behind philanthropy. Peace creates passivity. Exposing Larry will stop other people from needlessly dying losing a loved one.”

Harold turns back to the family on the sidewalk and watches a as they slowly disappear from view.

He nods. “Ok.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Inside Rotus, Harold and Cole are walking in the wide clean hallways towards a data storage room. Cole and Maurice are dressed as security guards escorting Harold who’s dressed as a scientist. They stick close together as they approach the card swipe into the data storage room. They pass other employees and security guards talking in the hallway. Harold stops at the door as Cole stands near him.

Harold holds the ring on his forearm to the scanner. Error. The machine beeps loudly. A few of the employees glance towards the Harold but pay no attention. He feels the scrutinizing gaze of the other security guards.

“Harold?”, whispers someone.

“Excuse me ma’m”, say Cole. “But you can’t be here.”

He quickly turns around and finds a woman with red ribbon tied in a bow in her hair standing near him.

She holds folders and binders in her arms and twiddles a pen in her fingers. “What-are- how are you? It’s been a long time.”

“Alicia”, says Harold calmly. He gestures Cole to stand down. “I-I didn’t know you work here.”

“Yeah. I-I-uh got a job from Larry. Helped me back on my feet when I was going through some stuff.”

“Larry did?”, says Harold nodding in disbelief.

“I—I heard about Vanessa. I’m so sorry.”

Harold looks away and tries swiping again. Error. He hears the security guards walk towards him.

“How’s Cathy doing?”

He nods not making eye contact with her. He swipes one more time. The card accepts.

“Sorry, super busy.” Harold & Cole enter the room and slams the door shut, leaving Alicia outside.

Servers line the walls of the storage room. Blue lights muffled beeping fills the room.

“You got the drive”, asks Cole. Harold hands him the drive. “Let’s see if this gets his attention.” The computer shows a worm being uploaded into the mainframe. No red flags are being set off.

“Strange”, says Harold. He moves Cole aside and opens a search algorithm in the drive. He types ‘energy’.

Nothing comes up. ‘Rotus energy’. nothing. ‘Vanessa, Rotus’. Nothing.

Suddenly his monitor goes dark.

“Hey Hair. Cole”, speaks a friendly voice from the computer. “Long time no see.”

“You don’t call anymore”, says Cole. “Thought we’d reach out to you directly.”

Larry laughs. “Well you got my attention. Let’s meet up.” The door swings opens revealing two guards. Larry continues. “These fine gentlemen will escort you.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Larry’s office is a large glass dome with a panoramic view of the city skyline. Cole and Harold are forced to sit into sofa chairs facing a large desk filled with a monitor, papers, box for pens, a small vase, and a stapler.

Larry stands staring out the window dressed in a navy blue Westwood suit.

Larry turns around and opens his arm wide. “Harry! Cole!”, he shouts. “How the hell are ya?”

He walks to shake Harold’s hand. Larry leans close. “So sorry about Vanessa. She was a good friend.”

Harold pushes Larry off him. “Whoa take it easy buddy. You’ll crease the suit.”

Larry walks to Cole sizing him up. They shake hands. “Cole. Good to see you. Hoped it’d be under less pleasant circumstances.”

Larry gestures for them to sit as he leans against the front part of his large desk a few feet away from them, the large blue sky behind him and his arms crossed.

“Now I don’t know where or who implanted these crazy conspiracies in your head about me or Rotus, they’re not true.”

“Don’t patronize us Larry. A Rotus employee was caught releasing trade secrets about—”

“Trade secrets about building a Rotus app”, says Larry laughing at the ridiculousness of the argument. “Just an app. Nothing special.”

“We’ll let the worm decide”, snipes back Harold.

“About that” says Larry. He grabs his monitor and turns it to them. “Knowing how good of programmer you are Cole, we took the liberty of removing the worm from our mainframe.”

Cole and Harold remain quiet. The door opens and a secretary walks in and hands Larry some papers. “Have you met Alicia”, says Larry. “Started recently & already a star player at Rotus.”

Alicia glances at Harold as she waits for Larry to sign a few papers. Harold doesn’t look at her. Larry hands her the papers. She leaves the room.

“You two should be thanking me. If the authorities found out that you illegally broke in and tried to upload a worm into our system, that would extremely bad.” Larry looks towards Harold. “Especially for Harold here. How old’s Cathy? 15? It’d be a shame for her to live without both parents.”

Harold’s hands vice grip the seat and tries to restrain himself from attacking Larry.

Larry continues. “If we hadn’t found that worm, then you would’ve likely destabilized a global economy. I mean you think sustainability on this scale is easy to maintain?”

Larry’s eyes bounce between Cole & Harold. “God the things we could’ve done together”, he says with heavy regret under his breath.

“We will find something” affirms Cole. “It’s just a matter of time.”

Larry shakes his head in disbelief. “Look at us. Nobel laureates of a bygone age. The world doesn’t need people like us anymore. It’s time to adapt. Change. The world has no large problems to throw at you anymore. I’m sorry.”

“Well not yet”, says Cole with a smirk.

Larry looks at him curiously. “What are you talking about?”

“Larry, you haven’t changed much since college. You still keep it close to the chest.”

Larry looks at his wrist. It says worm 100% uploaded.

Cole continues. “That worm automatically sends any and all suppressed info regarded Vanessa to the press.

And some more stuff to me. Can’t prepare for something that hasn’t existed yet.”

He stands and faces Larry. “How’s that for adapting?”

“You won’t get far”, says Larry. He presses a panic button. “Security’s on their way.”

“Well they’ll have to go through you first.” Cole quickly snatches Larry in an arm lock and uses him as human shield.

Harold stands in fright “What the hell?”

“Improvising”, replies Cole. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Harold”, says Larry straining to speak under Cole’s vice grip . “If you help me stop him, I’ll let you go without punishment. I promise.”

“Don’t listen to him Harry. Thinks about Vanessa. Think about what he did to her.”

“Yes”, says Larry. “Think about Vanessa. And Cathy. And how you decided to have your only child live with both of their parents.” Larry struggles under the grip.

The door opens. 2 security guards and Alicia stand at the doorway.

Cole stands behind Larry and Harold puts his hands up.

“Not another step”, shouts Cole. He pulls out a gun from his holster. Harold looks at him, bewildered.

Larry looks surprised. “How’d?—”

“You used my system. My code. My ideas”, snarls Cole. “Karma’s a-bitch ain’t it?” He points at the security guards. “Get Back!”

Harold cowers behind the chairs as Cole slowly inches forward. He’s standing beside Harold. “C’mon Harry! Let’s go. Get behind me. We’ll make it out of here.”

“Harold”, strains Larry. Cole tightness his grip on Larry’s throat.

“Let him go” shouts a security guard. They point their weapons towards him. Cole moves back towards the desk. He aims his gun at the security guards. Alicia stands by the door with her phone talking with the police. The two guards stand in the doorway and slowly walk towards Cole. Alicia moves behind the guards for cover.

Cole stands tense. His grip slowly tightens around Larry’s neck.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cole sees another guard trying to flank him. He aims and shoots the guard in the shoulder. His grip on Larry’s neck loosens a bit. Larry gets free and dives towards Harold hiding behind a chair.

Cole ducks behind the other chair as the guards open fire. Larry tries to run but Cole shoots him in the knee crippling him. Larry screams in pain and the blood slowly seeps from the wound runs towards Harold. He uses his belt as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. Harold peers around the corner and sees Alicia crouching behind the door. Larry nods slightly , thanking Harold for the help.

BANG. BANG. Both of security guards fall, immobile.

Cole grabs Larry again with an armlock and drags him out of the office. “C’mon Harold!”

As they approach the entrance of Larry’s office, Harold sees Alicia on his right cowering behind her desk

“STOP RIGHT THERE”, shout guards running towards them from the left.

Cole faces them. “Back off or he dies. Just let us pass.”

Larry struggles to stand, but manages to shout “Forget me, just shoot ’em!”

The guards aim their weapons and open fire.

Cole and Harold dive out of the way back into the office. Their bodies almost past the doorway. After the fire dies out, Harold looks back and sees a pool of blood.

“are you hit”, asks Cole. Harold stands unharmed. Cole grabs Larry who suffered minor grazing but nothing to create a pool of blood.

Harold peers around the corner and sees the back of a head with a red ribbon tied in a bow lying atop the pool of blood.

Alicia. Harold doesn’t move. Cole shouts at Harold to help carry Larry. But Harold doesn’t hear him.

“Harry”, shouts Cole again. “We gotta move.” Harold stands and turns to Cole. Cole holds Larry in a headlock who’s standing on one leg.

Larry looks at Harold, begging with him. “Harold, please. Think about her.”

Cole knocks Larry over the head with his gun. Larry falls to the ground hard, his face turned towards Harold. “I’ve waited years to do this.”

Harold looks at Alicia lying in her blood and Larry’s last plea. Cole steadies his weapon at Larry, ready to fire.

BANG. Cole shot towards Larry, but Harold diverted the shot away causing him to miss. The bullet landed by Larry’s head.

Cole shoves Harold to the ground pointing the gun at him.

“What’re you doing”, Cole shouts. BANG. The shot rang throughout the hallway and room. A security guard shot Cole in the shoulder.

Cole’s gun slide towards Harold, but he didn’t move. The 5 guards swarmed the room. Two of them held Larry to his feet.

A guard pins Harold to the ground and slaps metal cuffs on him. The guard’s knee presses against Harold’s back, nearly bursting his lungs.

“Not him”, says Larry pointing at Harold. “Let him go.”

The guard eases pressure off of Harold and helps him up.

- - - - - - - -

Harold enters an empty home. He turns on the tv. Breaking news in bold red letters zoom across the screen.

A news anchor talks rapidly, receiving information as fast as she talks.

“This just in. Rotus’s proprietary information has been leaked online and its stock dropped 300%. A lone gunman, Cole Hollstein, attacked Rotus employees, CEO Larry Burgess, and leaked the data online. Officials believe Cole to be working alone and apart of conspiracy group searching to expose false philanthropists. Larry Burgess is in George Washington for his wounds. We’ll bring more updates as we get them.”

Harold shuts off the tv. The house remains deadly silent. Cathy is nowhere to be found. He enters his office.

Everything’s where he left it. The white envelope still has the ashy remains of the cigarette as if he only left for a few minutes. Harold walks to his desk and picks up the face down picture frame. It’s a photo of Harold, Vanessa, and Cathy embracing each other in a family hug. The picture is old and worn out. He gently picks up the photo and reads the inscription on the back.

“No matter how much technology changes our world. You will always be my world.” - Vanessa.

The front door closes. Cathy shuffles by Harold’s office without a glance.

Harold picks up the envelope and dusts of the ashy remnants of the cigarette and walks to Cathy’s room. Cathy’s door is ajar as Harold knocks on it.

“Cathy”, says Harold gently. “Can I come in?”

“Why”, she says bluntly.

“I want to talk.”

“Ok.”

Harold pushes the door open revealing a tidy room and Cathy sitting on her bed, brushing her hair. Her red ribbon lies on the bed beside her.

“Shouldn’t you be outside saving the world?”, says Cathy not making eye contact.

“You are my world.” Harold shows the envelope. “Where’d you find it”, asks Harold.

“Your room. With mom’s stuff.”

Harold smiles. Fighting back tears as memories of Vanessa flash through his mind. He slowly rips open the envelope and unfolds the paper. They’re adoption papers. He stares at the adoption papers as he begins.

“Your mother and I were going to tell you until you were older. What do you want to know?”

Cathy debates in her mind quietly. “What was she like? My birth mother?”

“A strong and fierce woman”, says Harold. “And a good friend.”

“What was her name?”

“Alicia.”

Cathy leans closer to her father as he continues talking about their family.

NOTE: I'm new to screenwriting, so my formatting may be a bit off. I'm not using a screenwriting software, just typing it up on my iPad in Notability App.

I'm looking for feedback on anything from dialogue, story structure, flow of the story, etc.

I wrote 2 screenplays based on the Among Us Game. It's not 100% the Among Us game, I made some changes to fit the story I wanted to tell.

One is from 1st person POV, we follow one character around the entire time: (Google Drive link: 1st Person: A Traitor Among Us (https://drive.google.com/file/d/1MUVylc81GZUBlXmkQUEuQJMKBSVhCskx/view?usp=sharing)

The other is from 3rd Person POV, we (the audience) see everything: (Google Drive link:3rd Person: A Traitor Among US (https://drive.google.com/file/d/12C-UV5swGU-3TKvEgOM_edW1W4AX5MXG/view?usp=sharing)

)

I've been writing screenplays & other short stories on a weekly basis to improve my writing skills. Feel free to read them.

I also made small website to house the PDFs: https://mostories261398878.wordpress.com/pdfstories/

Thanks again!

In the vast emptiness of space, an oblong asteroid comfortably orbits in the abyss between Mars and Jupiter yearning for something more. Sephtis stares at the asteroids and planets around him. He tries rolling out of his gentle orbit towards a planet, any planet, but he can’t. He looks to the other asteroids on the belt blissfully flowing in their gentle orbit, and the few asteroids freely floating through space.

A small asteroid from the distant cosmos approaches the asteroid belt. Stephtis tries to rotate his oblong body so that he could be knocked out of orbit. The asteroid hits one in front of Sephtis, then the force propagates until. Clunk. The closest asteroid bluntly hits and leaves Septhis slowly rotating in place.

“Careful”, says Lutetia, “You’ll knock everyone out of place again” She floats beside Sephtis watching him slowly rotate.

“I want to break free”, starts Septhis. “Everyone journeys into space. Perfect spheres and jagged edges drift through the cosmos and fulfill their life. Their impact ripples throughout the galaxy. Ordinary oblong ones drift among the rest.

I want to join that grand tradition, but I’m stuck here. Prisoner to my own home.”

“Not everyone can make an impact”, replies Lutetia.

“But an impact can come from anywhere” retorts Sephtis.

“It’s mostly luck. Not everyone plans on making an impact”

Sephtis doesn’t hear her. He continues. “Ganymede broke free now carries water. What do I carry but the dust and grim of the universe. I’m a waste.”

In the distance, Sephtis sees another rapidly approaching asteroid, larger than before. He fights the rotation and readies his position. Boom. Crack. The large asteroid crashes into a few asteroids ahead of Sephtis. The impact travels through those asteroids towards Sephtis until BAM.

Sephtis is knocked out of the gentle orbit and is sent hurdling directly towards the Sun. After quickly traversing Mars’s atmosphere, he floats by the fiery rocky planets. He looks arounds worriedly for an escape before the Sun’s infinite attraction consumes him. In the distance he sees a larger asteroid traveling perpendicular to his trajectory into the Sun. He tries to rotate using the uneven mass to move faster, but to no avail he remains at a constant velocity flying into the sun.

The larger asteroid intercepts Sephtis’s path and redirects him from flying into the sun. The Sephtis flies off at an angle towards Venus while the larger asteroid heads towards the Sun. He sails towards Venus but misses its atmosphere and escapes her attraction. Septhis flies towards open space. A complete void awaits him and he’ll float eternally in space. Until he feels another attraction, the sun’s pulling him back forcing him to orbit the sun.

Sephtis safely skirts above the outer coronal layer of the sun barely dodging the mass ejections from the sun. Either from time or another impact, Septhis will burn up in the sun. The heat begins to weaken parts of his body and burn them off.

A solar prominence shoots out in front of Sephtis. The heavenly orange ring extends from the sun past Sephtis’s orbit. The force slightly pushes Sephtis outward away from the sun. Another solar prominence happens in front of Sephtis pushing him further but not enough to escape the sun’s gravity.

Months pass orbiting the sun. He’s seen Mercury, Venus, and Saturn but unable to break free of the sun’s attraction. Sephtis looks out and sees Mars in the distance. Suddenly, a coronal mass ejection from the sun pushes him out of the sun’s gravity. The force travels towards Mars dragging Sephtis along with him. He’s hurdling towards a planet.

Septhis zooms towards Mars with no obstacle in his path. He’s made it. He enters Mars’s atmosphere. The heat burns away pieces of him, but Sephtis continues to plummet towards the Martian surface until IMPACT.

The impact ruptured the Martian surface blasting pieces of Mars into space and tore Septhis into pieces. Bits himself flew back into space. Dust, debris, and steam covered the Martian surface in its last habitable moments.

Bits of Septis exploded into space traveling in all directions throughout the solar system and beyond. Many heading into deep space. One piece of Septis flew towards the neighboring rocky planet carrying with it bits of water and microbial life.

THE END

The inferno of a thousand unheard wails burns outside my cell, only 25 minutes to go and I ain’t ever leaving this place.

The approaching fires warm the bars and I smile through my yellow, broken teeth staring at the illustrious flames; beautiful.

The papers speak harshly of me, and I imagine many await my death.

A jury found me guilty, and say the crime gotta fit the punishment.

My only crime is being born, they’re more guilty than I am.

If they remember me as a criminal and a terrorist, means I’ve done my job right.

I hold a mirror to them and if they don’t like what they see, who’s to blame?

I live for the people, now I’ll die for the people because I love the people.

My actions were decisive, blunt, unforgivable, but necessary.

People need examples seared into their minds, something they can’t forget or ignore.

Something that disrupts their conscience, disturbs their eyes, and disgusts their tongues.

A warm draft floats through my cell, I put out my arm in its wake.

The gentle breeze sails across my skin, comforting knowing this is the end.

The guards swat at my hands, I quickly retract them.

I keep my head high no matter how many times they force it down.

The guards open my cell and the warden walks in, “let’s go”

One last look through the barred window, I see the adjacent building catch fire.

The uneasy guards tie my hands and chain my feet, lead me to my death, knowing they too will die.

I enter a room where 6 other people face a wall, nothing escapes here not even sound.

The guards prepare to fire.

The ground trembles from the people shaking beside me.

The wall in front of me is covered from the past brothers and sisters who’ve died fighting for this cause.

The guards open fire.

The blood runs on the floor staining the old concrete as the guards fire.

The fire encapsulates the building fusing my blood and everyone with me to the new hallowed land, I will never leave this place.