Language may divide us, but a cry of agony is universal.

In the dense, putrid air that consumed us on that day, we all communicated with perfect clarity.

A grown man howled in pain as he dropped to the ground, clutching his abdomen. A blood-curdling scream echoed from a small child as she covered her ears. Another knelt on all fours, bawling as blood and bile sputtered from between his lips. A mother wailed as she clutched the hollow shell of her child’s body.

We hollered hopelessly. Perhaps we would be able to hold our loved ones in our arms one last time. Perhaps our gods would hear our prayers and save us from certain death, despite the chaos of disease decimating everything around us. Perhaps our bellowing would distract us from our overwhelming fear of death.

The cacophony of cries saturated the atmosphere. Suffering was omnipresent. Agony was inescapable. Screams were conclusive.

We were the same: all human, all hurting, all helpless. We were strangers, and yet we knew each other more profoundly than our own kin ever had. We were vulnerable. We were together. We were understood. We were diseased. We were dead. But at least we weren't alone.

Words may have formerly failed us, but our cries of agony united us.

Jack wasn't sure if he could keep running anymore. The last few days had been filled with nothing but the need to stay away from other people. At this point, it was hard to tell who was infected and who was not. No visible marks on the skin, no change in the genes of a person. This virus only had one way of showing if it was inside a person. Of course, by the time anyone could realize the truth, they would be infected. The married couples had gone first. None of them stood a chance. If just one of them became infected, they would attack their partner to spread the disease. The rest of their family would fall quickly. Jack was thankful that he had been busy testing a video game for Bandai Namco when his family became infected. Of course, it didn't take long for entire cities to fall to the virus. The police were overrunned and a few military bases were infriltrated by the infected. Jack was heading for his home city, Seattle. Evacuations had occured on the first day of the outbreak, but the government put them to an end when the infected began to sneak in as refugees. Seattle was one of the few cities that had been able to quarintine anybody who was infected. If Jack could make it there and prove he was uninfected, he would be safe.

"HELP!" someone yelled.

Jack had been walking along State Route 99 after reaching Fife, Washington. He was on the homestretch when he saw an Amtrak train sitting in a siding. He could see that a lot of people were on it. The smart thing to do would be to avoid the train altogether, but Jack was concerened with the fact that he had heard a plea for assistance coming from the train.

'No way someone on board is uninfected. The train wouldn't stop unless the virus was declared to be on board. It went into the siding to prevent the virus from reaching anymore cities and everybody on board should now be infected.' thought Jack.

"SOMEBODY HELP ME PLEASE! I CAN'T KEEP THEM BACK MUCH LONGER!" yelled the voice.

"Oh for crying out loud." said Jack as he ran for the train.

Jack had a backpack filled with food and water. The only other object in the pack was a stun baton that had proven useful for he past few days. Jack pulled it out as he reached the door to the passenger car the yells were coming from. Jack forced the door open and entered to see people swarming what looked like the restroom. He charged forward and stunned them all with ease. He knocked on the restroom door.

"Hello? If you're uninfected, come on out! I'm clean as well!" Jack yelled.

"How do I know you are not just one of those people out there?" asked the trapped person.

"Well, I could say the same for you. If you want to stay here, I won't stop you."

"W-Wait! Hold on a second!"

The door opened and on the other side was a young woman. In her pajamas. She must have been sleeping when the outbreak began. Jack raised his hand to his face to block how red it was.

"Lady, please tell me you are not infected."

"Why would I yell for help if I was like these crazy people!?"

"To trick passing folk and infect them."

"How do I know that you are not like these people than?"

"You don't...er..."

"Charlie. Call me Charlie."

"Alright Charlie, I'm heading for Seattle. Its one of the few safe places left. You coming?"

"Uh, sure."

The duo get off the train before passengers from other cars show up. For hours they keep marching with nothing happening. Silence is all that they hear. Finally, Charlie decides to start a conversation.

"So..."

"Jack."

"Alright Jack, where were you five days ago?"

"Santa Clara, California."

"Wait, what?"

"I was born in Fife. Our Fife. When I was in highschool, most of my family moved to San Diego. I finished my education in Seattle and a week ago went to California to visit my family. They convinced me to do some game testing for Bandai Namco. Just as well that I did because they all got infected when the outbreak began. I had just finished testing the game I was playing when some guy walked into the lobby. He went up to a woman and just kissed her on the lips. No one gave it a second thought, even when the woman tried to resist. People only panicked when both of those folks start kissing other people. It got chaotic. Of course, when I got outside. I saw so much kissing. The next day, I was on a plane to Oregon. I saw on the news about how big this thing was. A global scale pandemic that had infected 80% of the population. People acting way to lovey dovey. Society being disrupted because the infected stop doing their jobs and focus on spreading love everywhere. The plane landed in Oregon and I've been walking alone ever since. How about you?"

"I come from a rich family. I was able to easily afford first class on that train. Everything was going swell and I went to sleep. Next thing I know, I wake up to screams and go outside to see a bunch of people kissing. I ran to the restroom and locked the door. If it wasn't for my phone and the news app on it, I would have thought that everyone on board was just insane. Are they sure that it is a virus?"

"The scientists? Yep. It does some weird thing to the brain that causes a person to want to spread the love by kissing other people. Don't worry. A cure is being mass-produced. But we have to wait since its being used in the Eastern Hemisphere first."

"Seroiusly? By the time they show up, the entire country could be infected. Maybe even the whole continent!"

"Well Charlie-"

The next thing Jack knew, a man was on top of him, kissing over and over again. Charlie screamed and pushed the man off Jack. Unfortanetly, Jack kissed her and so, all three people were infected. For the next month, they kept spreading love until they were captured and cured.

The End

note: this is an immediate continuation of part 1: the moment I saw her.

Or at least I thought it was love. ‘Love at first sight,’ I mean, it just wasn’t like how they show it in the movies. Time wasn’t slowing down, she wasn’t vibrantly glowing, there wasn’t some immediate, cosmic connection that caused us to rush away arm-in-arm. Rather, she just caught me staring and said hello to be polite.

‘Caught,’ because it is honest and fair. I saw her and was mesmerized and lost sight of my manners. Her voice, on top of that, made my bones feel less solid. As if they were jelly and I was in a deep lake, only capable of swaying in place. But, I liked it.

The situation had festered in the absence of my attention. I feel most men fear the likelihood that women will view them as predators. I mean, if you just look at me. How could this waif of a man be imposing? I wear khakis and collared shirts. Loafers, even though I'm not near the age where loafers are socially acceptable. The smell of the pine scented soap I use doesn't overwhelm. I have a chronic nervous laugh that's similar in sound to that of Seth Rogen. Despite this, I became aware of her discomfort.

It was embarrassing, as you can imagine, seeing her smile deflate. My body was a full blush. I mumbled an apology and went running. Not literally, as it's not proper to run in the pharmacy. But I left at a brisk pace.

I live in the brick apartment building across the street, as you know. Because of the close proximity of the pharmacy to my home, I hadn't driven. I grew to regret that because, while the walk wasn't a long one, it meant my exit was not as quick as it could have been. It meant I trudged through the slush kicked around by traffic, thinking that my kin. It meant more time to replay the embarrassment of seeing her deflate at my continued presence. It meant steeping in my shame. Still, I shuffled as quick as I could back to the respite of my home.

The apartment, well, it's nothing fancy. Only seven hundred square feet of basic needs. A bedroom large enough to accomodate the necessary furniture: full sized bed fitted with black striped sheets, small dresser to house pressed and folded clothes, moderate sized bookcase to hold my collection of biographies, leather ottoman to sit on when I remove my shoes--not real leather, mind you. A living room that can fit only a loveseat and small recliner, bookcase to hold my collection of science and historical fiction novels, cracked-top coffee table, and a television that's not smart in any way. A kitchen...is this too much information? Maybe, it feels like. I digress.

I made it home without collapsing under the weight of the aftermath of my awkward nature. I remember the yeowls of Fin, my truest-black cat, as I entered. Keys in the ceramic dish sitting on the table by the door, <i>clink</i>. The nearby sounds of cargo trains rambling down old tracks. Coughs.

It would have been wrong to say all of my embarrassment stemmed from my actions. No, it wouldn't be right. It would be more honest to say that it was from my thoughts. Have you, I wonder, ever met someone who changed the way you think? The sight of her sent ripples through my brain, reformed my plans for the future. Those freckles meant we'd vacation in the desert, just to see the stars. Those glasses, I'd give her a copy of something written by Vonnegut for her birthday. Hang paintings that matched her eyes in our bedroom. I'd place another ottoman by mine so she could take off her boots while I take off my loafers. All these thoughts, all this hypothetical future, all just coming from the sight of her.

Oof.

I am a sandstorm.

Which is another way to say I’m drowning, which is another way to say I am three years old and holding the Milky Way in my hands.

The Milky Way is just my ceiling light, but when the world is shaking and I close my eyes, the fractured beams look like galaxies, and I can pretend I’m drowning.

When I grow old, I hope I know the difference between dead and dying.

I am a sandstorm, which means I ground planes and bury houses, which is another way to say I am my mother the day after Christmas, and we see ourselves in mirrors and the people we love the most.

I look like ocean waves and bloated pores, and drowning is an explosion of sorts.

Drowning is bulging, and I collect rocks and keep them in my pockets and let them tell me stories when no one else is listening.

When I grow old, I hope I forget the way water sits in my lungs.

When I grow old, I hope I remember my parents as people who slow dance in the kitchen on Christmas Eve, and love is a strange and damning thing, and we blame women for the children we birth together.

When I grow old.

I lay down in deserts at night and pray for a downpour. A downpour or for the sky to open up, and I am three years old.

I am three years old, and all I remember is water. Lakes and ponds and bathtubs, and I sit cross legged in desert sand and wonder where the sky meets the earth, and I remember I exist in space at all times.

When I grow old, I hope I remember ceiling stars and earthquakes.

I hope I remember overwhelming birth, and I hope I know the difference between having a child and raising one, and I am drowning, I am drowning, I am constellations and the ocean waves that pull the earth.

I am three years old.

I am a sandstorm.

#writing #prosepoetry #prose #poetry #sandstorm #oceans #drowning #death #dying #threeyearsold

Hush little baby don't you cry,

Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird,

And if that mockingbird don't sing,

Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring,

and if that diamond ring don't shine,

Mama's gonna buy you some turpentine,

And if that turpentine don't do,

Mama's gonna bury you in a box for shoes.

And if that box for shoe's don't kill,

Mama's gonna throw you in the landfill.

lalala, la, la, la....

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I proclaimed “Bullshit” in full-tilt teacher voice as soon as the student finished his sentence. You could have heard a pin drop, had anyone in the class dared to drop anything.

Months later, a student would describe it to me as “that day you lost your temper,” but he was only half right. Genuine anger impelled the speech, but it was entirely calculated. I had seen the moment coming; I selected my words carefully. I had a message to send, and I wanted them to talk about it for as many months afterward as I could muster. I had only been waiting for the comment that would bring it all out into the open.

“You shouldn’t expect us to get this, Mr. Love,” John had said. “We’re just botards.”

botard, [BOE – tahrd] n. (slang) a derogatory term for one who studies vocational

education, suggestive of reduced intelligence. Origin a combination of BOCES

(New York State’s Board of Cooperative Educational Services, which handles

vocational training) and “retard.”

“Bullshit,” I spat. “That is absolute bullshit and it’s an excuse. I don’t care what you plan to do for a living, you are capable of this, and don’t you dare tell yourselves otherwise. Is reading an 18th century essay hard? Yes! But don’t you dare pretend you can’t do it because you go to BOCES. Do you know how much intelligence it takes to fix a car, or cook, or run heavy equipment? I have a Master’s Degree. I couldn’t change the oil in my car to save my life. I could write a lovely poem about it, but I have no clue how to do it. I can’t fix an engine. I can’t blend makeup. I barely recognize any colors that don’t appear in a basic Crayola box. Intelligence comes in a hundred different shapes. I don’t ever want to hear the word “botard” again. The idea that people who get trained in a trade are dumb is bullshit.”

“Jeez Mr. Love, OK,” John said, awkward, surprised smile on his face. (I was glad it was John. I knew he’d roll with it.)

“Not at all mad at you, John,” I added. “It could have just as easily been someone else. But you’re smarter than some people give you credit for, and it pisses me off.”

And then we discussed our excerpt from Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

Want people to be smarter?

Stop telling them they’re stupid.