'Twas a bright, smiling day in the forest of Prilly,

when Kevin was singing and looking quite silly.

With an out-of-key song and a skip in his step,

he made a tough journey look less than a schlep.

Though, good Kevin had to stop while mid-song

as he came across something that seemed very wrong.

"A weed? In the forest of Prilly, no less!

something like this makes it look such a mess!"

But as Kevin stooped and eyed the plant nearer,

his identification of the weed became clearer.

"Aha!" he declared, though it didn't state much,

that is, until he said something as such;

"No! I was wrong! I was wrong, indeed!

For this plant is one pretty rose! Not a weed!"

Kevin clapped for himself, for he had done well,

until he had given the rose a good smell.

"Oh dear," he declared. Again, nothing stated.

"It appears that my information is dated!

For this is no weed or a rose, if you will.

This seems to be just one pretty daffodil."

Good Kevin leapt in the air with great glee,

for there was no truth that he could not see,

apart from the fact that the plant he had named

was not of the title that he'd entertained.

You see, in some cases, Kevin did succeed.

For example, he knew the plant was not a weed.

And also he figured, with the help of his nose,

that the plant before him wasn't really a rose.

Good Kevin, however, knew not much more

than a plain, old rock when it came to the outdoor.

You see, Kevin got one thing wrong that day

and yet he kept singing and skipping away.

So, just as he can't tell a horse from an ant,

Good Kevin couldn't name the Prilly-posh plant.

Time to nut up or shut up with the release of Zombieland 2: Double Tap, the long-awaited zombie comedy sequel (ten years to be exact) to Zombieland, starring Jesse Eisenberg, Woody Harrelson, Emma Stone, and Abigail Breslin reprising their roles.

Some time has passed and our four heroes from the last film are enjoying the little things in life, such as killing zombies. But that gets interrupted quickly when the youngest of the group (Breslin) goes off on her own with a hippie and so it turns into a “rescue” mission. Sorta.

I absolutely love Zombieland. Who would of that of a comedy movie featuring zombies?

Yeah I know there’s Shaun of the Dead but I haven’t seen it sadly.

Still, the first Zombieland, one of my favorite films, and one of the best theater experiences I shared with my dad.

So, was this sequel to a major hit forth the wait with some glorified zombie kills of the week?

Umm...

Okay, let’s get to the positives real quick. Firstly, it’s great having the original cast back in this film. I love all this actors. In fact the first Zombieland was when I first got familiarized with Jesse Eisenberg, Woody Harrelson, and Emma Stone. I didn’t know or see any other movies they may have starred in before Zombieland (although some Cheers fans may recognize Woody Harrelson more than I would ever), but thanks to that film, I’ve been big fans of them and I’ve followed them since. Thankfully that dynamic, charisma, and comedic performances return in this film, as if they never left our memories. There’s even a special cameo by a certain someone from the original film, but I won’t spoil who that is. Or maybe I already did?

Any who, like the first film there are some good laughs and good zombie kills. Woody Harrelson's Tallahassee once again proving he's the best character in these movies by coming up with the funniest lines in the movie.

But then there’s that big problem with this sequel. Let me emphasis that for everyone: just like the first film. That’s always a problem that writers for comedy sequels always run into. They feel it necessary to repeat the same jokes, even the same lines, from the first film because they think if the audience found it funny or entertaining the first time they’ll like it the second, or even the third time. Well, most of the time, it doesn't. It just becomes repetitive. We've seen it before so our reaction will be less enthusiastic. And that was my basic reaction to this film. Less enthusiasm than before.

The film also suffers from all these add on characters and they don't help the film, only hinder it. One of the characters is a survivor named Madison (played by Zoey Deutch) who is your stereotypical dumb blonde. And I mean it. This character is fucking dumb to a point that her presence was a huge annoyance. I thought I was going to have an aneurysm the more she spoke.

And there's also Luke Wilson and Thomas Middleditch in this movie who are there for a cheap laugh at the fact that their characters mirror Columbus and Tallahasse (Eisenberg & Harrelson). They came off as annoying too. It was even made worse where there was a three minute long segment between these characters having a dick-measuring contest about their personalities and their own set of Zombieland rules. It got so annoying and infuriating to a point where I wanted to scream at the screen, at the top of my lungs, while my parents were seated next to me, "OH MY GOD! JUST SHUT UP AND MOVE THE FUCK ON ALREADY!!!!"

So yeah, the truth is I didn’t really enjoy this film. I will say that it is watchable again over The Dead Don’t Die, which was a big disappointing zombie comedy of this year. But unfortunately this sequel was ten years too late. I guess the last good zombie comedy was the original Zombieland, and I don’t think we’ll ever get anything like that again.

Positives:

-OG cast back

-Some laughs & zombie kills

Negatives:

-Feels too familiar

-New add-ons

-Overall bland

Final Grade: C-

So those are my thoughts on Zombieland 2: Double Tap. Have you seen it? What were your thoughts? Seen the first one? What were your thoughts on that? Please be kind, leave a like and comment, and check out more reviews here on Prose!

Best Quote:

Tallahassee: “I don’t hate pacifists. I just want to beat the shit outta them.”

#harrysituationreviews #film #opinion #zombie #comedy

the mental and moral qualities distinctive to an individual is listed as the first definition for what a character is if you type it into Google.

That said, most characters are individuals, which is noted as single and seperate.

Due to this solidarity in the very nature of the being you intend to portray I would think it obvious that they can be from whoever is manifesting them to the page seeing as their influences and origin are up to you.

No one will be considering you as they get to know your protagonist and your protagonists everything is defined by the parameters you lay out. This means that they are only defined by their skin color if you make them to be.

The archaic Belief of your physique defining you to the extent that would be necessary for yourself to not be okay to create the character in question is one you are applying seperate from anything naturally occurring in a person’s experience of your characters development; Therefore there is only a problem if you make one.

Creativity=Freedom

Polysyllabic, or having to do with long words.

Sesquipedalian is onomonopoetic,

Just as onomonopoetic is sesquipedalian.

You are a sesquipedalianist if you tend toward longer lengths in your lingo.

A toast to the verbose even though we all know that size doesn't matter.

Long winded is also attributed to the sesquipedalian tendency so in the interest of avoiding being that I'll end this definitions exposition henceforth!

You find yourself at the keyboard, ready to give to the world. The muse inside yourself cackles as it takes over and sets the scene. Your fingers tap the board like a guitarist doing a riff on autopilot. Your muse doesn’t care about you or the others as it works its magic. It cares about the story. It cares about the characters in it, and how they react in your mind’s eye. The keyboard sings a song, you melodiously plod along. You sip your coffee. Perhaps it’s tea? You continue, and long after your hot cup turns cold, so does your muse. It loses inspiration, and vanishes away for you to edit and clean its sloppy creation. Do what you will with that unfiltered story. However, I have a few things to say for the writer that questions their muse and the characters they create.

In Episode 137 of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine “Far Beyond the Stars”, a preacher was telling aspiring black writer Benny Russell, a dream version of Captain Sisko, to: “Write the words.” During the entirety of the episode, Sisko’s dream character was perplexed about the preacher’s meaning, but took his preaching to mean it was about the story he was writing. Through hardship, Russell kept asking the preacher why, and he only kept telling him: “Write those words,” not just for himself, but in the name of the prophets! Like the muse screaming inside your head to get its idea on paper, damn it!

So Russell digs deep, and writes an epic story about the leader of Deep Space Nine, Captain Benjamin Sisko, and his adventures. Familiar? While receiving high praise from his writing peers, Russell’s editor in chief thought Russell’s black character was too unbelievable for readers to accept. He offered Russell to change his character to a white man, but there was no such thing. It was Russell’s character, and his alone! Towards the end of the episode, Russell broke down sobbing after refuting that the world could not tear away ideas that were his.

In my opinion, Russell was talking about his creativity. His muse. His story. Why take away something so plainly created despite racial intolerance? The episode brings home the point that whatever your muse creates should be set in stone. It’s not something that should be changed easily. If you wrote the story, it’s offensive to the author to demand a change of character to satisfy the reader. It would certainly offend me. I would say it was my muse that created the story, and that’s what it came up with. There is no compromise there.

Some may rebut: “But the writer is black, creating a black character. That should be fine. We’re talking about a white writer creating a black character!” Phooey. That’s like saying Stephen King can’t write The Green Mile. That’s like telling Kathryn Stockett she should never have written The Help because she could never understand the suppressed black minority of the 1960’s era. That’s bullcrap. Can people not empathize with people? Isn’t sharing the plight of others not a caring deed? Did you not retell the terrible story that befell your friend to others? People talk. It’s what we do best. The fact that authors write down what they hear and see doesn’t make their storytelling wrong. Stockett has become a best selling author because of her courage to tell an uncomfortable yet riveting story, not out of ignorance for African American hardship. Steven King put John Coffey on death row, and I’m sure some people find King’s story to be rather racist because of it. Those that do must have limited imaginations, as they only pay attention to the facts, and not the story. I’m sure Mr. King would be happy to report that he doesn’t care about the feelings he hurt when writing about Coffey. Though, I certainly want to curse his muse for putting such a lovable character there.

So when does it become too much? If Steven King could write about a black man on death row, why can’t I? And there’s truth to this. I think that for a majority of unpaid and free style writers, nothing is too much! Be racist and spiteful to your heart’s content! Like I said, stereotypes should mean nothing to your muse. But be warned. Racism and bigotry without context will make inconsistent money, and few friends.

What if you were a serious writer then? Well, there’s King, and Stockett. These two writers have the understanding that it takes care to make these characters realistic despite the authors deriving them from out of context. (Out of skin?) Though, I’d argue that King didn’t need stereotypes when the reality of Southern racism explains Coffey’s predicament perfectly. Stockett’s book has the exact same underlying theme, except it dives into the workplace instead of a penitentiary. Their stories work for publishers because that context helps make Coffey, Aibileen, and Yule May real to readers. Even if the truth hurts. We all know what it means to not be accepted, and it’s not all black and white. Realism matters to readers because if they can imagine it, then it’s real enough to them. They’ll go with you and the characters your muse creates.

What about profanity? Should I be afraid of cuss words? Should you? Do certain words belong to certain people? No. All words belong in the dictionary, and it’s all free to use. You don’t have to be black to say the “N” word in your story, but I do think you have to respect the context of the word, and take care for how realistic it is in the setting. You should certainly be ready to take responsibility for it.

Ultimately, I think you have to respect the work it takes to make the characters real. A better writer should focus on making great characters, not trying to find ways to make the writing harder for the writer. I would recommend you write the words, but your muse is already telling you that, isn’t it? Well, you better do it soon. It’s preaching, and I can hear it.

Write the words!

(reposted from an entry to a similar challenge)

In a world where all authors write about themselves, all singers sing about themselves, all artists only depict themselves, and all people are limited to themselves;

Selfishness.

Boredom.

Monotony.

We shall not write about our everyday lives unless we live all to ourselves in a glass box.

But from inside the glass box, we can see the world, so it should instead be a metal box.

That way, we will only see our own reflections.

Selfishness.

Boredom.

Monotony.

How did ancient writers of old express themselves, visit faraway lands, and teleport us to fantasy worlds? None of us are unicorns, aliens, animals, or inanimate objects, so why do we write about them?

Selfishness.

Boredom.

Monotony.

How can we write of social interactions, unless we imagine a sci-fi world where everyone is a clone of ourselves? How can children write about adults and adults about children? How can males write about females and females about males?

Selfishness.

Boredom.

Monotony.

Should artists paint the sky? Should singers tell of birds? Should writers write at all?

You know what that means, and I suggest you take that advice. Stephen King wrote one of my favorites of his "Mr. Mercedes". The lead character is a black kid. The killer is a white guy. He even drops and "N" bomb quite a few times throughout the book! As a black writer, I encourage people to write characters of different backgrounds, as long as you've done some leg work about that type of person's life. Actors follow people and live like them to get into the mindset of a character they will play. Writers should do the same. If you did the research, it would show. If you make up some generalized bullshit, it will show also.

You know that black friend who comes in a sitcom and has one funny line and exits to wait for the next awkward moment when they, the black friend, can come in with a cliche black joke? Of you course you do. Those black supporting roles are everywhere from Friday to Law and Order: SVU to Mike and Molly. That friend is more than a color, but you know that. You’ve done research. This character isn’t just a filler character or an attempt to make a socially relevant piece without embodying a character. One of my favorite Rupaul’s Drag Race quotes is that April Carrion didn’t “embody the role of a fat character”. (Spoiler alert I guess, if you live under a rock.) That means being fat is about more than pressing a bunch of padding against your body just like being black is about more than having melanin close to the surface of your skin.

Being both fat (despite my best efforts >.<) and black, I can identify with both roles. I have seen fat people who embrace their curves without ever wanting to be skinny, and fat people who will go to every length possible to be skinny. Being a part of the later, I really envied the former because of how easily they love themselves. How dare they embrace who they are when everything in the media says they should be different, and if they aren’t, they should hide between self-deprecating jokes and try to wedge themselves behind the main cast and tag alone quietly until it calls for a socially conscious moment to talk about whatever minority they fit that day? Why does the media think people have to tokenize every minority there is? Of course, this is a question you’ve pondered and yelled at and is most likely the root of you trying to be different and asking this pretty awesome question.

There are two answers, depending on what you are trying to do here. If you would like to not be offensive, you have to take into account what everyone wants. We don’t want tokenism, so toss that out. Only have a minority character that adds more than comic relief or fill a quota. That’s easy, right? But what should they look like? Looking at a black character, how should they look? Dark or light? If they’re light, you’re a colorist. If they’re dark and go against a public view, it may not sell. What about their style? Afro? Box braids? Perm? Do black people do perms anymore? We don’t want to look like white people. We go natural. Should they fight? Why do all black people have to fight? Is that too aggressive? Fighting makes you aggressive? What about them? What did they do to deserve that ass whooping? What’s wrong with aggression? Tattoos? Piercings? Glasses? Let’s face it, every decision you make will be shot down by the inner social wokeness editor if you let it.

The second answer is to say fuck that and write for you. Writing for you means to make that character your best friend. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never looked around a room and chose a friend based on what society thinks about me or what friends I already have. Your best friend’s appearance typically means nothing. If it does, it’s not that they’re black or white or have box braids, an overbite, thick glasses, and a slight limp. It’s that they wear Twenty One Pilot hats every day or they wear an Arizona Cardinals hoodie or they wear shorts even if it’s -8 outside. Just like you wouldn’t pigeon hole your best friend into a comic relief role or a “savior of the media”s cruel mistreatment of black characters since they started doing black/yellow/redface to avoid hiring minority characters.

Now, that’s not to say that their race and background don’t matter, but let’s face it. If in the first ten minutes of meeting a person, you know their whole life story, you are most likely going to run away from them. Just like knowing someone lets you slowly learn about them and their quirks and their story and whether or not you like them, your story should do the same for the reader. Take us by the hand and introduce us to your character. Tell us who he is. How he is as a person. That he keeps his shoes crispy (clean, so you don’t have to consult Urban Dictionary). That he hates Kraft mac’n’cheese. That he only listens to opera and Mozart. Then as we get to like him, add more. His mom works late and he has to take care of his younger siblings on Tuesday. Then keep going, unwrapping layer after layer like you’re peeling an Ogre. (It’s a Shrek Joke.)

If your characterization is good and you pull us into a friendship with this man, no one will even notice when you make a socially unconscious mistake since normal people don’t walk around charting their social unconsciousness. Long story short, make it unique and be you and don’t worry about what other people say because, let’s be honest, if they’re complaining, they already bought your book and you’ve already won.

LA GUERRE

folks cry out with

hearts full of grief

this war is like a thief

taking away any & all:

the young, and old~

men, women, ‘n’ children

families torn- separated

left wondering if they will

ever be re-united again

this war brings death

many bodies lying ’bout

like nev’r before— woe.

#LAGUERRE

Inspired by Chinua Achebe’s Collected poems~ poem picked:

’Air Raid

It comes so quickly

the bird of death

from evil forests of Soviet technology

A man crossing the road

to greet a friend

is much too slow.

His friend cut in halves

has other worries now

than a friendly handshake

at noon.’

Scotty was a dog, not unlike your own dog. Scotty, in fact, is a tribute to the canine that made the largest impact in your life. For even the end of the world cannot stop a dog’s fellowship to humanity.

Before Scotty even had a conscious thought, Sara was there. Her, and the two others in his pack were there together with Scotty to enjoy grand feasts, go-for-a-walks outside, and especially toytime with his ball. Scotty’s favorite memory was of Sara laying on the floor, staring at him with her lovely yellow tinged eyes. He always thought those eyes had this shine. A twinkling of communication that always spoke to him. Him only. In his younger years, Scotty would always try to surprise her by licking at her face whenever she was close enough. She would always laugh, and say: “No,” but Scotty always knew that Sara’s version of “no” was a friendly one.

When Scotty and Sara had grown up , Sara would say “no”, and “work”, and Scotty knew he would be left for hours. The rest of his pack friends were always gone in the mornings, so there was often no company while Scotty was on duty. His job was to watch his home from enemies. The wait was forever if there was no strange children and hooded figures to bark at. It took Scotty several years to learn to properly enjoy his solitude without Sara.

When he was very young, Scotty found certain ways to spend his boredom alone. He used to find great fun in ripping up the toilet paper. --Before a trip to the cage corrected that behavior. As soon as Scotty was forgiven and released from the cage did he decide to dive into an after-feast of bird on the forbidden counters above. He found out soon enough that his pack friends knew what he did, even if Scotty couldn’t understand how or why. All he knew was the cage meant that he was a bad dog.

In more recent days, Scotty found himself enjoying naps under the sunlight, where he can dream of Sara, and the things he’s always wanted to do. Constantly, Scotty found himself dreaming of go-for-a-walks. He didn’t even need to be outside! After trial and error, cages, and kinship, Scotty found the pack not only accepted his new habit, but encouraged it. When Scotty saw Sara looking at him after dreaming, she said he was doing “Nap-time.” So he wagged his tail, she laughed, and nap-time stayed. For Scotty, that simple kind of time travel was the cure to his torture away from Sara, and he loved it. However, Scotty never knew that a dream come true would bite him in the end.

Scotty was eating his daily breakfast as fast as he could muster. He was hungry from the long night at the foot of Sara’s bed, but he didn’t want to eat. He wanted to attend his daily goodbye to Sara. Often, sometimes with success, Scotty glued himself to the door to see if she would take him along, just this time. It failed though, and she said “No,” and “Work,” and that was that. He bathed in Sara’s hands for only a moment. Then she shut the door, off on her own go-for-a-walk. Her smell lingered just a short while. After waiting exactly 10 minutes to see if Sara forgot something, he did his rounds about the house. After inspecting the bathroom, the kitchen, the master bedroom, and out the windows, Scotty laid down on his favorite spot against the sun drenched rug illuminated by the window. He had decided to nap-time.

He found himself having a familiar go-for-a-walk, trotting along the concrete path by himself. Scotty busied himself with the smells of the trees, and the pollen that danced in the air. Today on this very bright day, everything had quieted down. There were no travel bugs along the middle of the road, when usually there would be at least a few to chase. Walking up the path, Scotty noticed a strange entity --he didn’t know if it was a man or a woman -- patting its knees and encouraging Scotty forward to meet it. Scotty was unsure of himself, but it didn’t seem like a stranger. As he got closer, Scotty noticed that it didn’t smell like anything. It was hard to look at too. Where what should have been it’s body was a blurry, black, and skinny mass that moved independent of the wind. It introduced itself.

“Hello, Scotty. Your pack friends would call me Death, but you can call me Salvation.” It said.

Curious, Scotty thought. The entity was talking to Scotty, but, unlike his packfriends, it spoke plainly inside his head. It’s voice sounded airy but firm, and talked to Scotty as if he was a part of his pack.

Scotty grunted and cocked his head. He didn’t know the meaning of death or salvation.

“I’ll show you,” Death or Salvation said.

And Scotty suddenly knew he would see the end of the world.

He was no longer on the familiar path but instead was facing the Earth from above. He somehow knew the name of the planet, and that this ball was home. First, the wispy fog of swirling blues and yellows of the aurora enveloped the world, turning and churning more red as the seconds counted down. After the aurora, swathes of the Earth burned where the solar flare hit the hardest. What didn’t burn yet, scorched fiercely later as the rest of the flare splashed across the surface. Scotty knew these things, but didn’t understand them. He also knew it didn’t matter. The Earth was his home, and he and Sara were going to be burned alive in it.

Scotty was forced to take the form of a portion of the gargantuan flare. He was careening at high speeds towards the Earth. He ruptured through the atmosphere, boiled away oceans, and burned all life trying to hide from his unending flame. All in the blink of an eye.

“The humans and all that they’ve touched will be cleansed for their sins in seven days, Scotty.” Death or Salvation said from nowhere. Then the image of his home interrupted Scotty’s mind. It flashed into flames. Scotty howled for it all to stop, and continued to howl when he awoke.

Even with the company of Sara, Scotty couldn’t stop shaking. He certainly couldn’t stop thinking about the reality of the situation. Scotty had always knew his nap-times were premonitions of things to come, but he’d never known them to be bad.

“You’re a good boy, Scotty.” Sara said before she continued her babbles. She seemed worried for Scotty, but Scotty was more worried about her, and he couldn’t tell her why.

She enveloped him in her warmth for hours, yet his shaking trembled to the core. Seven days until Sara’s gone, Scotty thought. And he whined to her. The rest of Scotty’s pack friends stopped by to greet them, though Scotty ignored everything. Even belly rubs couldn’t stop the knowledge of impending doom. During the attention, his pack friends babbled to each other and to Sara, where Scotty’s name came up a lot. The only word Scotty could understand was the word “vet”. Scotty groaned audibly just thinking about another visit to the cold place. He forced himself away from Sara, and further forced himself to drink from his water bowl. Scotty didn’t want to nap-time anymore. But he knew that in order to get answers that he would have to meet Death or Salvation again. Scotty thought of so many questions as he curled up next to Sara in bed.

Why do you want to kill Sara? Humanity? All of us? Why? Why… Why!? Scotty thought these things as loud as he whined. Eventually, he fell asleep. -- Not before focusing on Sara’s hand as she comforted him.

Scotty found himself to be a puppy again. He had almost forgotten what it was like to be this young. Full of excitement and wonder! The sun was out, and it was a rather hot day. In this dream, he was playing in the Park. --Or had been playing there. Scotty still had a ball in his mouth, like he was in the middle of a game of Fetch. However, no one was there to play. Except one. In the middle of the field, Death or Salvation was intently looking to the sky. Despite the fear, Scotty knew he had to approach. That he must approach, in order to save Sara’s life. At any cost. He dropped the ball, eyeing it longingly for a time before going on.

Now on unstable legs, he clumsily walked over to the entity’s side. Scotty sat beside it, when Death or Salvation bent down and reached out a hand to pet his head. Scotty immediately avoided the ethereal hand, and opted to lay down to soak up the sunshine instead.

There was silence for a moment. Then the creature spoke:

“I understand why you have so many questions,” Death or Salvation said.

Scotty looked up to study its eyes, though only saw darkened blurs across the whole of its gray white face. It seemed to smile at Scotty. Annoyingly, it prompted an involuntary wag of his puppy tail. A cloud had passed in front of the sun now, and darkened the park ever so slightly.

Why? Scotty thought to Death or Salvation.

The entity looked at the cloud, and said: “It’s like I said before, Scotty. The sins of humanity need to be washed away.”

Death or Salvation said this like it was a matter of fact. Scotty wasn’t so sure.

What sins? Scotty thought.

The dark mass appeared to have laughed.

“There are many, but I’ll only tell you the sins they have committed against you, Scotty.”

Scotty looked at his large paws, and pondered what it meant. Sins were a blank in his experience. Sara, and the rest of the pack had taken care of me since I was a puppy! I have Sara, and Sara has me, and more! I have a ball too, and my pack, and pets, and belly rubs, and I even join them in their feasts! Scotty thought. His tail thumped the grass just thinking about his life with Sara. He couldn’t think of anything more divine.

“What about the cage, Scotty?” It said.

Scotty was transported back to the thin metal bars, and uncomfortable towel bedding. Where he would go whenever he was a bad dog.

“There! Hold that thought.” Death or Salvation said.

Scotty found himself back in the park. The entity was cradling little Scotty in its arms now.

“Scotty, have you ever thought about what being a bad dog truly means?”

No. Scotty replied. He never wanted to know.

“Some would say the first sin against you, Scotty, would be that they prevented you from living the life you wanted to live.” Death or Salvation began walking.

“Why do your pack friends get to feast, when they only feed you scraps? Why can’t you go out into the world without them controlling your every move? You can’t even crap on the ground without them saying where to go. Why do you have to spend hours alone, where the only thing you can do is sleep to avoid it? It doesn’t seem so fair, does it Scotty?” It said.

Death or Salvation sat on the metal bench. Scotty wriggled himself free as soon as he had the chance, and opted instead to sit straight on the bench next to it. He looked at the cloud as it nearly passed the sun. He only just noticed he was starting to pant. Aside from that, Scotty couldn’t deny the questions Death or Salvation had asked. He couldn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. Even more importantly, Scotty wanted to beg the entity to spare Sara for being bad.

Whatever she’s done to me, she didn’t mean it! Scotty thought. She was just doing what she knew how to do!

Scotty could only think of Sara’s eyes. He didn’t want to see her burn. She’s a good girl, he pleaded to it.

“I should’ve known it was hard for a dog to see reason,” Death or Salvation said. The entity seemed to sigh in disappointment.

The sun emerged again, this time red hot. The temperature rose sharply, and the sky quickly turned from blue to orange. Scotty also began wheezing as the air suddenly dried. Around the hot bench, the grass had begun to wither, turning black before lighting aflame. When Scotty yelped in pain, Death or Salvation forcefully held him as they began burning too. Fur stuck to metal like charcoal. It was petting him all the while. The yelping continued until Scotty opened his eyes.

Instead of the entity next to him, Scotty saw Sara and her tears. Scotty knew he had been yelping in his sleep. Both Sara, and his pack friends had been woken up in the middle of the night. The alpha pack friend didn’t sound too happy to be woken up by Scotty. Though, to Scotty’s surprise, no one told him he was a bad boy. Throughout the night, Sara held Scotty in her arms again, Though, this time, there was no more sleep.

A few days had passed, and Scotty thought...no. He hoped that Death or Salvation had decided to stop the solar flare, and stop hurting Scotty in his dreams. Scotty also thought about what Death or Salvation had said. It was true that Scotty didn’t really get all that he wanted. Scotty began to feel resentful of his pack friends after the second dreamless day. On the fourth day alone, Scotty decided he would try to do whatever he wanted to do, and see if that would better his own life.

When Sara and the rest of the pack friends were gone, Scotty chewed at the toilet paper until he was content that every last piece of paper was shredded to his satisfaction. He jumped up on the forbidden counters, though this time he didn’t find any after-feast. So, he followed his nose and raided the garbage cans. There, he found morsels only a few days old and fresh enough to eat! Scotty had always wondered why his pack friends would throw anything so delicious away. Later that day, despite feeling guilty about his actions, Scotty opted to nap-time for the first time in a few days, all so he could see Sara again faster. The rug was tantalizingly warmer today, but Scotty avoided the sunlight.

There was only a black void this time. The only figure that was visible to Scotty was Death or Salvation. To Scotty’s horror, it had its blurry arms outstretched like it was greeting him, just like on the path. Scared of the void around him, and in disbelief that Death or Salvation was still there, Scotty ran. He ran in the blackness forever, it seemed. No matter how much Scotty wished to wake up and see Sara again, or for the scenery to change to familiarity, the void continued on, yet he felt wind on his face, and strange smells. Hours seemed to pass, and Scotty still ran faster than ever. Eventually, he was now sure that he was away from the thing. He turned to see Death or Salvation was in the same spot. Like he hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

“There’s no running away from me, I’m afraid,” It said.

Panting in exhaustion, and feeling hopeless, Scotty laid down and whimpered.

“There will be no more fire and burning this time, Scotty. I am back because I actually think you took to heart what I said. About humans.”

Scotty remembered the forbidden counters, and the trash, and the toilet paper, and felt disgusted with himself for being such a bad dog.

“Why is that so bad, though? It’s the humans that ruined the lives of all dogs, and more. They should burn for what they’ve done to you,” Death or Salvation replied.

Scotty thought he’s heard enough from this thing. This enemy, that would turn dogs bad and burn humans for living. Scotty barked at it.

“I’m not burning the humans, Scotty. This was always meant to be,” It said.

Scotty didn’t care, and he barked at Death or Salvation again. And again. The entity was visibly annoyed now.

“Don’t bark at me, dog! I’m trying to save you from their sin! Can’t you see?”

Scotty growled in reply and got closer to it.

“Can’t you see that they’ve turned nature against itself!?” Death or Salvation yelled in his mind.

Scotty stopped. He knew through experience that if humans could rule nature, than that was in their nature. Then Scotty thought that humans like Sara need dogs like Scotty to keep sane. Scotty remembered Sara yelling and crying nonsensically many times in his life before he had snuggled up against her. Lapping the sadness away. Scotty could calm humans, and he would certainly guard humans. It was what he was meant to do.

Death or Salvation took to take a step towards him, and it’s limbs shifted evasively.

“So that’s what you think, then, dog? You think humans and dogs are intertwined? Some of your kind would disagree.”

Scotty found himself above the parking lot of a shopping center, though how he came to know it was a shopping center was unknowable. It was still familiar, where Sara would sometimes take Scotty in her travel bug. In the lot, Scotty witnessed three humans beating a tired dog to death. They were laughing at their cruelty. Scotty knew their thoughts. They had decided to skip school, and noticed the old dog in the parking lot. Scotty focused on the one in the middle, who he knew had convinced the others that it would be fun to take a baseball bat to the dog’s skull. As the bat struck, Scotty felt it in its entirety. He was back in the void with Death or Salvation.

“Sara could kill you like that too, if she wanted to. If she had to.”

Scotty barked again at the liar. This boy was not Sara! Sara is not bad! The boy is bad! You are bad! Scotty snarled at the blur.

“No, Scotty. I’m afraid you are. You are a bad d-”

Scotty had jumped and toppled onto the being at full speed, and latched into its neck with his teeth. Hard enough to draw warm blood.

He suddenly found himself awake and snarling. Instead of Death or Salvation, Scotty found his teeth had actually sunken into Sara’s arm. She yelled in pain, and Scotty barked in surprise and released her.

“Bad dog!” Sara yelled.

To Scotty’s shame, blood had begun to pool into her hand and drip to the ground.

The last few hours were a frenzy of foreign shouting, “bad dog!”, and shunned silence as the rest of Scotty’s pack friends eventually came home to a ravaged house and a hurt pack member. Strange men in white and blue had been called to attend to Sara. Scotty longed to be with her, and he howled when they took her away. Scotty himself had been relegated to the cage, which was smaller than he remembered. Scotty could only lay down to sulk, and curse the entity for what it had done to him.

Scotty remained there for two days, and no matter how much he whined, he wasn’t let out besides a trip to relieve himself and to eat and drink. Each day grew hotter, which only multiplied Scotty’s fear of the inevitable. He heard constant talks of the vet, and much more babble, but Scotty didn’t know when he’d be going. The alpha pack friend was especially strict to Scotty. And of course he should be! Scotty thought. Scotty had been a bad dog because of his dreams. Sara had been gone during those few days too, and Scotty assumed that Sara was avoiding him. On the third day in the cage, early in the morning, his pack friends started to shout. It was the last day.

He sensed their fear, and Scotty couldn’t help himself but to bark uncontrollably. Let me out! You’ll die! We’ll all die! Let me see Sara! Scotty’s efforts were fruitless. Both of his remaining pack friends began to leave without him, and Scotty howled again. Let me join you! I’m not a bad dog, let me show you! Sara! Sara!

The alpha pack friend stopped in his tracks before closing the door behind him. With a loud shout, and a grunt, and the word “Scotty”, his packfriend opened the cage. Scotty tried following him through the front door, but was kicked away. The door was shut before Scotty could even protest again. He watched them go into their travel bug and speed away from their home.

Scotty knew that today was the last day. He waited at the door for hours, waiting for his pack to come back for him. They’re just on a go-for-a-walk, he thought. They’ll be back, he hoped. The sky was turning from blue to orange, albeit slower today than in Scotty’s dreams. Even being inside the cool home didn’t spare him from the encroaching heat. Scotty missed Sara deeply this day. The end of days.

Then came a rapping at the front door, and a crash. Instinctively, Scotty barked, but whined happily. They’re back! But it was only Sara that had burst through the door. She looked hurt, and just as confused as Scotty. A bandage was wrapped around her arm. Sara shouted louder than he’s ever heard her shout, and she rummaged around the house.

“Mom!” She said.

“Dad!” She cried.

But the pack friends had already gone. After shouting herself hoarse around the house, she collapsed on the bed. She looked at him sadly, though Scotty didn’t know why. She got up and picked him up, and carried him like she did when he was a puppy to bed. She began to cry, and Scotty howled with her. They both knew the end was coming.

After a time, they were silent. Scotty and Sara only looked at each other now. Scotty decided to lick at her nose to surprise her. Just one more time. She yelped in laughter, but began crying again too. Though they were supposed to be sleeping that night, Scotty knew that Sara wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. And for that, Scotty was happy. Scotty thought that maybe Sara had forgiven him for biting her. While she held him, he drifted off to sleep in the uncomfortable warmth.

This time Death or Salvation wasn’t there. Sara was there though, hugging him just above the Earth. After a long time, she ended the hug, and looked at Scotty. Scotty noticed her eyes were different now. A beautiful shade of green, but the twinkling there was the exact same. Together they witnessed the solar flare’s aurora, which continued after the world had burned to ashes. There, as the Earth burned, they conversed for the first time. Scotty told Sara of his dreams, and of Death or Salvation. Of how sorry he was for biting her. For not being able to tell them about the flare.

Sara listened to Scotty intently, and she smiled. She told him that she knew. That somehow, she knew more about the universe than she ever did alive. That Death or Salvation was a jealous and manipulative trickster taking advantage of a world well lived.

But Scotty had to know.

Am I a good boy, Sara? Scotty asked.

“You’re a good boy,” Sara said as a matter of fact: “The best boy.”

And Scotty knew he was.

__

“Thorns may hurt you, men desert you, sunlight turn to fog;

but you’re never friendless ever, if you have a dog.”

- Douglas “Brother” Malloch, American Poet