Writing Assignments by Henry Muller

The Chernobyl Incident

My name is Branwell Moore. I was an ordinary college kid until a couple days ago when I found myself in a car chase with fake policemen who had kidnapped my best friend Warren, while my roommate Wilbur examined a very important Macintosh Portable in the passenger seat.

It’s at times like this that you look at yourself and think: “Now, how did I get here....”

PART ONE

Warren and I went way back. I’d been friends with the skinny, black-haired guy since middle school, where I saved him from a pack of 10th-grade gorillas trying to tear him a new orifice. Turns out Warren had turned them in for cheating off his math test.

He thanked me profusely, and we’d been best friends ever since. We’d even gotten into MIT together—Warren with flying colors, me by the skin of my teeth.

Yeah, Warren had always been a straight-laced, straight-A kind of guy. So I was as surprised as anybody when—well...

It was an ordinary Sunday: April 15th, to be exact. Warren had just come back from a visit to his parents’ house. So there we sat, watching a new episode of The Simpsons in our dorm’s TV room, when the unthinkable happened. Three burly policemen burst into the room and slammed my best buddy against a wall.

“Warren Richmond?” said one, who had a voice like a ruptured accordion.By now most of the other kids had started to clear out of the TV room. Nobody wanted

to get called on any of their past misdeeds.“You’re under arrest for illegally viewing classified material,” said another cop, who had

a brilliantly shiny shaved head.“I didn’t do anything!” shouted Warren, but nobody was listening except for me.The third man had a large golden stud in one ear. He started to read Warren his Miranda

Rights.“You have the right to remain silent,” he snarled. “Anything you say can and will be

used against you in a court of law.”There was more after that, but I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t believe that Warren, Mr.

Perfect himself, would do something so stupid as screwing around with classified documents. I didn’t even know where he would have found them!

There must be some explanation, I thought, but the men were already leading Warren away.

I had no idea what to do. Gloomily, I trudged back to my dorm room, which I normally shared with Warren, and forced myself to enter a fitful sleep.

I was awakened the next morning by a hard pounding at my door. Halfheartedly, I opened it. Another policeman was standing in front of me! “What do you want?” I snapped. I wasn’t feeling very accepting of the police force just then.

“ Branwell Moore?” asked the man. He didn’t seem angry.“Yes?” I said in a somewhat friendlier tone.

“Your college contacted us last night about Warren Richmond’s arrest,” said the policeman. His badge read William Glover. “We’d just like to inform you that the Cambridge Police Department has no record of a Warren Richmond in our system and employ no men that fit the description given by your fellow students. At this point, we are considering Mr. Richmond missing. I’m very sorry.”

I didn’t know what to think. Warren, my best friend since 7th grade, was gone—probably forever.

But he wasn’t gone forever—just about a month. A month filled with worried phone calls, letters, and visits from Warren’s and my family members. A month where no one—not even William Glover, who I’d come to know quite well during the almost weekly visits to the police station—could tell me where Warren had been taken, where he was being held.

What had been done to him. Then one cold evening in May, as I sat on my bed while my new roommate (a chubby slob named Wilbur Mahoney) read comics and picked his bulbous nose, my phone rang. I didn’t know who was calling, but what I heard next made my blood run cold. The voice on the other end, although hoarse and strained, was one I knew almost as well as my own. It was Warren. “BRANWELL!” he shouted. “ARE YOU THERE!” “Yeah!” I said, overjoyed to speak with my best friend for the first time since his disappearance. “I NEED YOUR HELP! WIPE MY HARD DRIVE! DO IT NOW! THEY ARE COMING! CHERNOBYL BASE!” “Wait! Warren! What’s Chernobyl Base!” But that was all I heard. There was a thud, and a click, and the line went dead. I stood there clutching the phone, hoping that it would ring again—but in the end I had to convince myself that it wouldn’t. Well, Detective Glover told me to come to him with any information I might have, I thought, and feeling a little more optimistic—Warren was alive, and probably at this Chernobyl Base, wherever it was—I started down the stairs to the dorm lobby. But my hopes were blown to bits when I saw three men entering the building. Wheeze, Chrome-Dome, and Stud—the fake policemen that had taken Warren. WIPE MY HARD DRIVE...THEY ARE COMING. I charged back up the steps to my dorm, praying that the men hadn’t seen me. Reaching the door, I ran in and locked it behind me. “Whussgoinon?” mumbled Wilbur, finally looking up from Fantastic Four #300 long enough to realize that I was terrified. I could hear footsteps pounding up the stairs. Realizing that I only had seconds left, I grabbed Warren’s old Macintosh Portable from under my bed. The police—the real police—had looked through it, but unable to find anything important had given it back to me. The one reminder of my friend had remained where I didn’t have to look at it ever since. It would have to come with me. I picked it up. And then the men began to pound on the door. “Uh, Branwell? Is everything OK?” asked Wilbur.

“NO! No, it isn’t!” I shouted. The pounding in my heart and on the door intensified. There was no way out—our dorm was on the second floor, and only had one window. The window. We couldn’t jump for it—not straight onto the pavement. But maybe we could cushion our landing.... BANG! A deafening explosion shattered our lock and blew the window to shards. They were shooting at us. “WILBUR!” I screamed. “Get the mattresses!” “What?” “JUST DO IT!” He pushed the mattress off his bed. I grabbed it—man, was it heavy—and began shoving it out the window. The door opened. Wheeze and Chrome-Dome leered at us, while Stud brandished a silenced pistol. I kept pushing. Wilbur seemed petrified. “Now, Mr. Moore,” said Wheeze. “Just give us the computer and this will all go away.” “Don’t shoot!” yelped Wilbur. The mattress popped free and fell to the ground below. “RUN!” I shouted. Wilbur didn’t seem capable of movement, so I took the initiative and leapt out the window. Another bullet soared over my head. And I fell. Down, down, and down. CRUNCH! I hit the mattress and rolled off. I was pretty sure I had sprained my ankle, but miraculously I was still holding the computer. WHAM! Wilbur hit the mattress beside me. “Owww...” he moaned. “I think I broke my finger.” More bullets hit the wet grass beside us. We weren’t free yet. Wilbur ran as fast as he could, which wasn’t very, while I hobbled behind him. The men had evidently decided not to make the jump, as none of them were appearing. I could already hear sirens in the distance and guessed that someone had called the police about shots being fired. Wilbur and I trudged off into the night. Any second now the men would appear from around the other side of the building—and sure enough, they did. “GET BACK HERE!” screamed Stud, and do you think I listened? But we were still fighting a losing battle. Three burly men against two wounded kids—who would you bet on?

Nevertheless, we kept running. Wilbur and I soon found ourselves at a small on-campus parking lot. If only I had a car.... And then, I noticed something. Mr. Goldblum, my absentminded science professor had left his ’57 Chevy parked—with the keys in the ignition! “Wilbur! Get in!” I yelled. I opened the door—thank God it was unlocked too—and hopped in the driver’s seat. Wilbur thudded in beside me. I dropped the computer, started the engine, and reversed onto Massachusetts Avenue. The sirens were a lot louder now. I checked my mirrors and realized that the three men had wheels of their own—a fake cop car, by the looks of it. And it was much too close. Wishing with all my heart that I was Marty McFly, I gunned the engine up to 88. The pursuing car got just a little smaller in the rearview mirror. “Wilbur,” I said without taking my eyes off the road, deciding that I would have to trust him from then on, “can you turn on the computer?” “Why don’t you tell me first what’s going on?” he snapped. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But that computer might have some answers.” Then I realized where Massachusetts Avenue was heading...onto the Harvard Bridge. It spanned the Charles River Basin and then merged back into the city streets—but if Wheeze, Chrome-Dome, and Stud caught up to us on the bridge, there was nowhere to go. A loud pop from behind us and a sudden rattling told me that the men had shot out a tire. This had to end now. And just like that, the bridge ended. We were in the city with plenty of places to hide, albeit with a flat tire. “Wilbur!” I said. “Do you have the computer booted up?” Wilbur seemed to have frozen up again. “Wilbur!” “Oh, right, yeah, the computer!” he said. “ Yeah, I turned it on...then we started getting shot at and I think I blacked out for a second—but here it is!” I maneuvered the Chevy down the street. The cops were still behind us, but we were covering more ground. I began zigzagging randomly down city blocks, hoping I didn’t end up in a cul-de-sac. “Okay, do you see a program called the Finder?” “Yeah! There are all these little pictures of folders inside.” “Great! Now drag them to the Trash, one by one.” Wilbur pulled off the trackball—it was removable—and began swiping it across the screen. “NO! Put it back and roll the ball!” “Oh! All right.” “Now drag every file out of the Finder and drop it in the trash.” “How do I drag?” he whined. “Hold down the button under the ball!” “Okay....” “Now drag at the same time,” I said.

Some people were looking out of their windows at us. As I turned down Newbury Street, I wondered just what was so odd about two college students driving a stolen car with a flat tire down the city streets at midnight, while being chased by three men in a police car. The 88-mile per hour speed didn’t help either. “Where’s the trash?” “On the desktop!” “You mean the dashboard?” It was obvious that Wilbur had never used a computer before. Exasperated and trying to keep my eyes on the road—we were already half a mile away from MIT and the men were a block behind us—I explained to Wilbur just what the desktop was and where he could stick the computer when he was finished. Wilbur looked hurt. “Okay, then,” he said. “I’m dragging the files to the trash...science reports...math problems...oh! Here’s one marked Top Secret!” “Great! THROW THE EFFING THING OUT!” “You have to watch the road. I will take care of these Red Delicious affairs.” “MACINTOSH!” Wilbur opened up the file. I decided to not fight with him any more and concentrate on getting away from the madmen. “Wow! This is weird!” “What? WHAT?” “Look! It’s blueprints! And they all say CHERNOBYL BASE, USSR on them in big letters!” That was the place Warren had mentioned! Maybe Wilbur wasn’t so dumb after all. “Ah, it’s boring. Into the trash you go!” “NO!” Then again, maybe he was. “What, first you tell me to delete it, now you tell me to—” “Shut up! What else is in the file?” “Uh....” He was really starting to annoy me. “Come on!” I yelled. “Well, there’s a letter in here.” “What does it say?” “Um....” Wilbur read the letter as the men slowly gained on us. DEAR MR. RICHMOND, it said.

WE ARE SORRY TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SERVICES ARE ONCE AGAIN NEEDED BY THE C.I.A. YOU MUST GO TO CHERNOBYL BASE, AN UNDERGROUND USSR LOCATION BELOW THE RUINS OF THE CHERNOBYL NUCLEAR POWER PLANT. ONCE THERE, DISCOVER AND RETRIEVE BLUEPRINTS OF THE XJ37 NANOBOMB.WE AWAIT YOUR ARRIVAL AT CIA HEADQUARTERS. A COVER STORY WILL BE ARRANGED THAT YOU ARE VISITING YOUR FAMILY.

THANK YOU,WILLIAM H. WEBSTERDIRECTOR OF CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE

I couldn’t believe it. Warren was a spy...and it looked like he had gotten caught. Now it all made sense. The fake policemen were spies from the Soviet Union. And then our car was rammed from behind. The men had caught up to us. And the flat tire fell off. Now our car only had three wheels and an inner hubcap. “Wilbur!” I shouted. “Delete the file! NOW!” Wilbur did so. “That was the last of them!” he said. “Great!” I said. Now turn it off!” “How?” “Just hit the button you used to turn it on! Hold it down!” Wilbur managed to turn off the computer. “Great! Now close the lid, turn it over, and open the back!” “Why?” “JUST DO IT!” I shouted. “Okay...” “Now take out the hard dr—the thing that looks like a CD! I don’t care if you break it!” “Got it!” yelled Wilbur. Our car screeched to a halt. The engine had given out. I guess the 33-year-old vehicle wasn’t used to going 90 miles an hour. We were rammed again. “Wilbur,” I said. “Put the disk in your pocket.” And he did. “Now RUN! Go to the police station and tell them what happened!” Wilbur jumped out the door and ran down an alley. I hoped the men wouldn’t see him. Wheeze, Chrome-Dome, and Stud got out of the police car and walked up to my window. “Evening, officers,” I grinned. “What can I do you for?” Chrome-Dome yanked me out of the car and hoisted me up by my collar. “All right, Mr. Moore,” he growled. “Where’s that pesky little computer?” “No need, Ivan,” said Wheeze. (So Ivan was the man’s name! I’d make a note of that.) “It’s right here, on the passenger seat. I suppose your friend didn’t have time to take it when he bailed out on you. Which reminds me...Dmitri!” “Yes?” asked Stud. I came to the brilliant conclusion that his name was Dmitri. “Go after Mr. Moore’s rotund acquaintance. Perhaps he has some information for us as well.” Crap. I really hoped that Wilbur would get away in time—he’d have to hide somewhere and then start the long walk to the police station. Stud started off down the alley Wilbur had disappeared into. “And now, Mr. Moore,” said Wheeze. (Didn’t he know my first name?) “we will have a look at that well-traveled computer of yours. Ivan?”

Chrome-Dome let go of me and reached into the car for the computer. I thought about making a break for it, but seeing the large pistol on Wheeze’s belt made me reconsider. Besides, I didn’t think I could get very far on my sprained ankle. Stud came running up to us. “He got away, Stefan,” he said to Wheeze, who I decided was named Stefan. “I followed the alley to an intersection. He could have gone anywhere.” Good job, Wilbur! If I survived this, I would high-five him. Well, he’d have to wipe the boogers off his hands first. Chrome-Dome got out of the car and set the computer on the hood. “It looks like your little plan failed, Mr. Moore,” he said oily. “In attempting to escape with the blueprints we seek, you seem to have brought them directly to—huh?” The computer wasn’t turning on. Chrome-Dome slapped it, but oddly, it didn’t help. “Oh, dear,” I said. “It seems someone has made off with the hard drive. And here you guys were, so close to recovering the blueprints.” “SHUT UP!” roared Wheeze. “Ivan, call headquarters and request an agent to locate Mr. Mahoney. Dmitri, incapacitate Mr. Moore in preparation for the trip to base.” Stud loomed in front of me. “You’re going to come with us, Mr. Moore. You had a chance to get away...but now you know too much.” “I wouldn’t know jack if you had spoken Russian like most citizens of the USSR,” I retorted. “Resistant to the end, Mr. Moore?” said Wheeze. Chrome-Dome was speaking into a cellular phone behind him, presumably to wherever his headquarters were. “No matter.... we have people where you’re going who can make you talk.” “I’d rather suck uranium than go anywhere with you,” I snapped. We’d recently been discussing radioactivity in Mr. Goldblum’s class, but I admit I set myself up for what came next. “Then this is your lucky day, Mr. Moore,” said Wheeze. “You’re going to Chernobyl Base. Dmitri?” Well, at least I’ll see Warren again, I thought, and then Stud’s massive fist descended upon me and everything went black.

PART TWO

I had a terrible headache. And I couldn’t remember where I was, either. My most basic of instincts told me that this was never a good thing, so I began looking around the cell to—a cell? So I was in a cell—that much was certain. But where? And why? CHERNOBYL BASE.... The thought whispered in my ear like a little friend. Somewhere called Chernobyl Base— And it all came rushing back. Warren’s kidnapping, the three men who wanted his computer, my new roommate Wilbur, our daring escape, and my capture and delivery here. Here... Here, to Chernobyl Base. “Thanks a lot, mind,” I whispered. “But to tell you the truth, I think I’d have been happier not knowing.”

And I drifted off again. I was woken up by a hard pounding at the cell door. Whoa, déjà vu... “Who is it?” I asked. “Flowers, plumber or a candygram?” I chuckled at my own stupid Saturday Night Live reference. A slot in the door opened up and a small plate of food was pushed in. Before it could close again, I rushed awkwardly forward (still limping on my bad ankle) and shouted through it. “HEY!” I said. “HEY! What’s going on? Where am I?” I already knew this, but I hoped that if I got a response it would illuminate some other details of my imprisonment. A face that I instantly recognized as Chrome-Dome’s peered in at me. “You’re in Chernobyl Base,” he smirked. “Better get comfortable, Mr. Moore, because you’re not getting out for exercise for two days.” Two whole days... Well, at least I had something to look forward to. I decided to set aside the more pressing matter of escape and cheer myself up with a meal. Turning my attention to the plate of food on the floor, I was slightly disappointed when I realized that the metal dish was covered with a paste only describable as a mixture of sawdust and glue. Still, I didn’t know what I had been expecting from Soviet Union prison food. And I was hungry. Holding my nose with one hand, I stuck a finger from the other into the runny glop and sucked some off. It actually didn’t taste too bad—kind of bland, with a faint aftertaste of olives. I ate half and decided to leave the rest for later, as it had taken the edge off my hunger and I didn’t know when I’d be fed again. As it turned out, I didn’t have long to wait. About eight hours of fitful sleep later, Chrome-Dome appeared at the slot again, this time with a small tin cup of water as well as another plate of gruel. I didn’t bother asking him anything this time. I figured that I still had about a day until my exercise period and resolved to spend it thinking of an escape plan. But I was still pretty hungry. Now that I knew the basic feeding schedule—gruel every eight hours with water every other meal—I figured there was no use saving food and ate my entire plate, plus the half-portion I had left over. I did save some water, though. That was more important to my survival than sawdusty olive gruel. I had been sitting on the floor while I ate. Now that I was finished, I stood up and paced around the cell. I hadn’t looked much at my surroundings, but I can now tell you that my cell was a stone room about ten feet square, with a roughly stitched gray blanket on the floor and a small hole in one corner that I guessed was a toilet. Which reminded me—I had been in the cell for about 10 hours and hadn’t used the bathroom since Wheeze, Chrome-Dome and Stud had shown up at my dorm. I used the toilet (a small, round light on the low ceiling helped me see what I was doing) and continued my inspection. There were no windows—initially I assumed that I just didn’t have the privilege, being a prisoner and all—but then I remembered just where Chernobyl Base was located. I certainly hoped that it was lead-lined. That was all my cell had to offer. Nothing seemed to be particularly useful, unless I wanted to wrap myself in the blanket, pretend I was a ghost, and scare Chrome-Dome to death. But the idea of dressing up did turn my attention to the clothes that I was wearing. An itchy white shirt with my prison number (24601) stitched across the breast, and brown pants that were just as uncomfortable.

Figuring that my prison clothes, while ugly, would not help me find a way out, I looked elsewhere. First at the plates and cup by my feet—they were no good on their own, but combined with— “The light!” I yelped happily, then shut up in case someone was listening. I thought back to my school days. And then I remembered a science lesson so long ago.... “Now, class, standard house current in the U.S. is 120 volts, while in most other parts of the world it is 220 volts.” Thank you, Mrs. Bottermeyer! Yes, it was true. Current in the USSR was 220 volts, more than enough to knock out a grown man. But I didn’t want to go any further with my plan until I had my exercise period, during which I hoped to find out more about Chernobyl Base and perhaps make an ally. Luckily for me, that came soon. After several more feedings, the plates and cups from which I collected, it was finally time for my brief moment of freedom. Chrome-Dome rapped at my cell door. “Come in,” I said. He opened the door a crack. All I could see through it was the barrel of his pistol. “Really, Ivan?” I said. I hadn’t forgotten his real name. “Is that all I mean to you? I thought our relationship was more important than that.” “SHUT UP!” yelled Chrome-Dome. Wow! I’d been through all this and I still hadn’t lost my sense of humor. I was going to write a book about this experience someday, if I lived long enough. Chrome-Dome opened the door the rest of the way and walked into my cell. He snapped a pair of rusty handcuffs on me and jabbed me in the back with his pistol. “Easy!” I said. “I’m not going to try anything!” “Walk forward, Mr. Moore. Not so cocky now, are we?” Chrome-Dome pushed me out of my cell. I blinked at the sudden harsh lights overhead and began to walk forward, limping slightly. It looked like I was in the bowels of a giant beast, and I realized that couldn’t be far from the truth. Chernobyl Base had evidently been carved straight from the bedrock below the ill-fated nuclear plant, and then wallpapered with lead. The only recesses in the rippling tunnels were heavy reinforced doors that all looked a lot like the entrance to my cell. Some of the doors were less imposing, and I gathered that they must lead to offices, surveillance rooms, and the like. But one door that I only glimpsed before Chrome-Dome yanked my head forward again was larger than any of the others, and looked much thicker. It had to be the way out. And then we were there, at the entrance to the exercise room. It was one of the smaller doors, wooden with a small window near the top. Chrome-Dome opened it, and shoved me into a room about half the size of a basketball court. A couple other prisoners were standing at other corners, but in the dim light I couldn’t make out any of their faces. It was definitely the biggest space I’d seen in quite a while. Chrome-Dome slammed the door behind us and leaned against it. “You get 30 minutes,” he said. “Now go play with your little friends.” I walked off into the gloom, still unsure about my escape plot but a little more determined now that I was pretty sure where the exit to this hellhole was.

And then I saw a face I recognized, the person that I had come here to help, the person who had been gone—but not forever. It was Warren. “Warren?” I said as loudly as I could without alerting Chrome-Dome. “Warren, is that you?” Warren jogged up to me, a big smile on his face. “Yes, it’s me!” he said happily. “It’s great to see you, Branwell! ...But it really sucks that you’re here.” I was so relieved to see Warren alive after a month of having no idea where he was. I would have hugged him, if we hadn’t both been wearing handcuffs. “Don’t worry about me, Warren,” I said. “I can take care of myself just fine. It’s you I don’t know about.” Warren laughed. “I suppose you’re wondering how we both ended up here. They probably came in the dead of night before you knew what had happened, right?” “No,” I said, feeling underestimated. “They came in the dead of evening. I jumped out the window with my new roommate, stole Mr. Goldblum’s car, and drove through the city while Wilbur—my new roommate—wiped your hard drive like you asked. He got away with the hard drive, so that the Soviets couldn’t get any information off of it. But they caught me, and brought me here.” Warren seemed a little shaken. “Wow,” he said. “You did all that and still managed to clear the data off my computer. I didn’t even know the guys who took me weren’t policemen until they knocked me out in front of the dorm. And I should have known, too! I’m a—” Warren shut up, evidently thinking that he had said too much. “It’s all right, Warren,” I said. “I know that you’re a spy. Wilbur opened your Top Secret file.” “Oh,” said Warren. “Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter. Just please promise not to tell anybody.” “Will do,” I said, hoping Wilbur hadn’t blabbed to everyone he passed on the way to the police station. I hoped he had made it and that something was being done about us. “And thanks for the phone call,” I added. “It gave me warning enough to escape my dorm.” “Right! The phone call,” said Warren. “I overheard some of the Soviets discussing going back to MIT for my computer. I knew I couldn’t let that happen, so one day as I was being led to exercise I broke away and found a phone in an office. I had the door locked long enough to talk to you, but then they broke it down and knocked me out. I get less food now, but it was worth it.”“Oh! Warren!” I said, remembering what I had been planning to tell him. “I had an idea to escape this place.” “Let’s hear it,” said Warren, looking hopeful. I quickly told him my plan. “You know,” said Warren, a slow grin spreading across his features, “that just might work!” “So we’ll do it?” I said. “Yeah, why not?” said Warren. “If we fail miserably, at least we know we tried.” “OKAY, EVERYBODY!” yelled Chrome-Dome. “EXERCISE TIME’S UP!”

“Well, see you when we escape, Warren!” I said, trying to sound jaunty but secretly a little worried. I’d never broken out of prison before. “Goodbye, Branwell,” said Warren, and then I started off towards Chrome-Dome. I figured that he would lead us back to our cells one at a time. There were only about 10 other prisoners that I had seen. Chernobyl Base didn’t seem very big. Chrome-Dome jabbed me with his pistol again. I glanced back at Warren one more time. He raised his hand in farewell. I walked to my cell with Chrome-Dome’s gun in my back. He led me in and started to walk away. “Wait!” I shouted. “Wait! When are you picking up my dirty dishes?” “We do it once a week,” he hissed and slammed the door. One week. Or really five days, counting the two days I had already been here. I passed the time by jogging back and forth in my cell (my ankle was feeling much better). And then the day came. The day where I’d have to risk everything in one desperate bid for freedom. It was time to work. I jumped up as high as I could and hit the light. It fell to the floor with a clang, exposing a small bulb underneath. I carefully pulled it out—it took a couple jumps. There was no light now, but enough filtered in from under the door that I could just see what I was doing. I smashed the bulb in the corner of my cell, making sure not to cut myself. Then I used the sharpened edge to cut two large squares of cloth out of the blanket, wrapped them around my hands, and stood up again. Now came the tricky part. Making sure that the cloth stayed in place, I jumped and grabbed the wire that had been connected to the light bulb. Luckily, there was a lot of slack in it and, keeping my hands insulated, I pulled it down to the floor. Now it had to go somewhere. I had made a habit of saving some water after every meal. Now, I poured it all into one cup—it just filled it halfway—and carefully dropped the wire in.

Now I had an electrified cup—I just hoped that Chrome-Dome would pick it up and not notice the wire. And once again, I heard a knock at my door. “Time for dish pickup, Mr. Moore,” said Chrome-Dome. “Place your hands on your head and stand against the wall.” I did so. Chrome-Dome walked into my cell. He started picking up the dishes. Please, I thought, please pick it up.

Chrome-Dome reached for the electrified cup, and then stopped. “What’s this, Mr. Moore?” he hissed.

PICK IT UP, PICK IT UP, PICK IT UP....“Just my cup,” I answered.PICK IT UP....“What’s this wire?”“I dunno.”PICK IT UP!

My prayers were answered. Chrome-Dome tried to pull the wire out and screamed. He fell on the floor, twitching and jerking. A terrible smell filled the air. I did hope that he wasn’t dead. I bent down next to him and noticed a Taser clipped to his belt. Noticing that Chrome-Dome had dropped the wire when he fell, I decided that it was safe to remove it. I picked the Taser up and slipped it in my—wait, I couldn’t do that. These itchy pants had no pockets. Well, no matter. I’d just carry it in my hand. Perhaps it would come in handy. I had almost forgotten. I’d need a way to get out. Bending over again, I looked around until I saw a small key ring on Chrome-Dome’s belt. I took that, too. I peered out of my cell. No guards were to be seen. Brandishing the Taser, I stepped into the hallway. Warren and I had compared cell locations. I had figured out that his was a right turn, and then a left turn from mine. I just had to make sure that I passed the exit door on the way—that would tell me I was on the right track. Continuing to look back and forth, I walked down the narrow hallway. Left, then right. Left, then right. Finally, I reached Warren’s cell. Warren was standing in his doorway, over the smoking body of Stud. “Warren!” I hissed quietly. “Come on!” Warren looked up. “Oh, it’s you!” he said. “Wait!” I said. “Grab his Taser.” Warren reached down and plucked the Taser off of Stud’s belt. “Should I take his keys, too?” he asked. “Why not?” I said. “There might be more than one door to go through, and maybe Chrome-Dome had different keys than Stud.” “Stud? Chrome-Dome?” asked Warren. I started walking quickly and cautiously to the heavy door. “I gave the three fake policemen nicknames,” I said. “Stud is the one with the earring, Chrome-Dome is bald, and their leader is Wheeze. But I haven’t seen him since I was brought here.” “You have now,” said a scratchy voice. Wheeze was standing in front of us. I was petrified. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide—so I held up the Taser and zapped Wheeze in the chest. He flopped over, twitching. Warren had evidently had the same idea. He had shocked Wheeze as well. I wondered what the force of two Taser blasts would do to someone. I didn’t stick around to find out, but I did grab his keys. Another turn and we were back at the big door that I hoped led to the outside world. It had three keyholes in it. I guess it was pretty lucky that all of the men had been carrying their keys. I looked at my two key rings. Only one key looked like it would fit the huge door. Luckily, both rings had one. I inserted them into the door. “Warren!” I said. “Put your key in.” Warren stuck his key into one of the large locks. “Okay,” I said. “Now turn it slowly as I turn mine.” We did, and the door slowly opened with a rusty creaking sound. FREEDOM!

“Stop right there,” said a voice from behind me. I turned around and saw Chrome-Dome and Stud. They had evidently recovered from their electrocutions, and looked madder than ever. “We’ll take those,” said Stud, plucking the Tasers from our hands. I had no idea what to do. “Warren,” I whispered. “What?” “RUN!” And run we did, out the door and into the darkness that lay beyond. “AFTER THEM!” yelled Chrome-Dome. He and Stud set off in pursuit. I couldn’t see a thing. Frantic, Warren and I charged down the corridor. We had been running for what seemed like hours, with Chrome-Dome and Stud hot on our heels. Then, I saw it. A glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel! I ran just a little bit faster, Warren hurrying to keep up. Shots pinged off the tunnel walls beside us. And then we were free, in a small field with a chain-link fence around it. With to angry men with guns coming at us. Okay, strike that. We weren’t free. Not yet. Chrome-Dome walked slowly up to me. “Caught again, Mr. Moore,” he said. “You know, Stefan will be most displeased to hear of this when he comes to.” And then a helicopter soared over our heads, a helicopter with an enormous American flag on its side. Inside the cockpit were Detective Glover and a face I thought I’d never see again. Wilbur had come through. The helicopter landed behind us. “Branwell! Warren! Get in!” yelled Wilbur. I didn’t need to be told twice. Warren and I took advantage of Chrome-Dome and Stud’s dumbfounded looks to open the door and hop in, ignoring the deafening roar coming from the rotor blades. “Wilbur!” I yelled happily. “You made it! How?” “Well, it wasn’t easy,” Wilbur said proudly. “But I managed to get to the police station and tell Detective Glover what happened. And he flew me here himself!” “Thanks, Detective,” I said. “Thank you, too,” said Detective Glover as the helicopter lifted off. “You rescued a secret agent of the United States of America, and for that you will be commended. I’m sure we can straighten out all that grand theft auto business.” I had almost forgotten about Mr. Goldblum’s car. “Yeah, that’d be great,” I grinned. “You know, young man,” said Detective Glover, “you and Mr. Mahoney here showed immense bravery under pressure. I think that after you graduate from college, we might consider putting in a good word about you two to our friends over at the NYPD.” “Cool, Branwell!” said Warren. “Send me a postcard from New York.” “Policemen?” said Wilbur. “I’ve always wanted to be a policeman!” I couldn’t help it. I high-fived him. And the helicopter whirled through the glorious sunset all the way back home.

EPILOGUE

Warren eventually retired from being a spy, and spent the rest of his life playing golf. William Glover had a son named Jerry who grew up to work at Vons. William wasn’t very pleased. And Branwell and Wilbur graduated from MIT with top honors. Branwell admitted that he had been a little too quick in judging Wilbur, and they both ended up working at the NYPD. You might have read about them in a book called Eggshells.

Apple Inc.: A Company With Youth Appeal

Apple Inc. is an electronics company that originated in 1976. It was founded by two young men, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak, in Jobs’ garage. Steve Jobs remains Apple CEO to this day, despite a brief hiatus in the 1990s. You probably already know a bit about what Apple makes: the iPod, iMac, and all. But in this essay, I'm going to try to go a little deeper. I’m going to try to explain just how Apple appeals to America’s youth as we know it today. First off, marketing for Apple products is often designed to attract a younger audience. The comedic “Get a Mac” ads or the bright, colorful iPod silhouette campaign appeal to children, teens, and young adults alike. The highly successful Apple “Switch” campaign showed various celebrities who had switched over to Apple's products. Says tech magazine Wired: “Apple appeals to young people because celebrities they perceive as cool use their products, like musicians, filmmakers and designers” (Kahney 1). Apple products are also created with a youthful crowd in mind. Their design is very simple and austere, with lots of metal and glass. Sleek lines and curves further enhance the appeal. BusinessWeek magazine said in 1999, “Apple Computer Inc. appeals directly to [teenagers] with products such as its rounded, space-age-looking iMac computer” (Neuborne 1). Everything about the items is futuristic, with the newest ones incorporating multi-touch displays. If an older person approached one of these devices, they’d probably be a little confused by the incredible simplicity. Not so for America’s connected youth. The simplicity is more of an inviting challenge to figure the machine out. Another thing: having an Apple anything automatically makes you that much cooler. Look at the popular kids at your school. Chances are at least one of them has an iPod, MacBook, or whatever. According to a 2007 survey by CNW Marketing Research, only 20% of 16-29-year-olds think a new car would impress their friends. The rest would rather have an iPhone. (Tutor 1). So, that’s it then. That is how Apple does it: how they appeal to a young audience and stay cool at the same time. Apple has come a long way in their 34 years, but they still have a long way to go. So now that you’ve finished reading this essay, try using an Apple something for a while. Even if you’re over 29.

Attack on the Bradbury

Captain’s log: February 11th, 2061. Life on the U.S.S. Bradbury is passing as normal; all instruments are functioning at 100%. As we orbit Mars for the 367th time, my thoughts turn again to Robert Jennings, our youngest crew member, who perished two weeks ago in a still-unexplained equipment malfunction. Again, the Bradbury’s crew offers their sincerest condolences to Robert’s family. We hope that they can move on in the months and years following this dreadful calamity as NASA and our crew members look for the cause. Timothy Andrews, February 11th, 2015 “What a load of bullshit.” “Excuse me?” said Timothy Andrews, turning away from the computer in his bolted-down swivel chair to face the speaker. “It’s all bullshit,” repeated the man. “You and I both know full well Jennings’ death was no accident. It’s another one of those things on the surface shooting at us. That was just the first time it killed somebody.” “Rumors of indigenous life forms on Mars’ surface have neither been confirmed nor denied,” said Andrews to Jonathan Welch, first mate, unstrapping his waist from the chair to move freely about the cabin. “Listen to yourself, Andrews,” said Welch. “You’re just spewing out the crap NASA’s feeding you. There’s something down there, and God help us when it gets a little angrier.” “I believe what NASA told us after the accident,” said Andrews. “And even if there was something down there, there’s no way it could get up here. We’re a hundred miles up in the air.” Irony, as they say, is a cruel mistress. Just then, an outside force jolted the ship harshly, causing a bunch of little beeping sounds and flashing red lights to go off around the Bradbury. Riley Statham, third in command aboard the ship, pulled on a handhold and floated into the small computer room. “Captain!” he shouted. “It’s happening again!” Andrews extricated his head from in between Welch’s knees, looking slightly dazed. “My God,” he said. “That was the hardest one yet. I’d better call a crew meeting.” “Go ahead, Andrews,” snapped Welch. “Maybe now you’ll believe me about those bastards down below.” Andrews reached for a small comlink on the desk beside his computer. He pressed a red button on its metallic body and spoke into it. “I’m sure you all just felt that,” said Andrews, his voice resonating from hidden speakers along the Bradbury’s corridors. “I’m calling an emergency crew meeting to discuss finding a cause for this strange equipment malfunction more quickly and efficiently.” Twenty minutes later, the fourteen members of the Bradbury’s crew sat gathered in the slightly cramped conference room, strapping themselves to handholds or chairs. There were a lot of unhappy faces in the group. Most of them, like Welsh, believed there was some type of hostile presence on the planet’s surface and weren’t buying the “malfunctioning equipment” story. Andrews stood at the front of the room addressing the crowd, flanked by Welch and Statham. He was a little nervous. I don’t see a lot of happy faces, thought Andrews to himself.

The captain cleared his throat. “Now, I know you’re all a little worried,” he said. “And frankly, I would be too. But we have to figure out what’s causing these disruptions in the ship’s stabilizers.” “We all know what it is,” snapped Welch. “It’s the Martian population fighting back because we’re invading their territory. Didn’t anyone ever see that old movie Avatar? If a bunch of people fifty years ago could get it right, than so can we. We shouldn’t fuck with aliens. We should call this mission off and go back home.” Murmurs of approval rose through the crew. What Welch was saying made sense to them. “Now, wait just a minute, Welch,” said Andrews. “I’ll give the orders on this ship.” “Yeah, come on, Welch,” said Statham. “I stand by what Andrews is saying. It’s probably just a technical problem.” “Yeah?” said Welch. “Tell that to Robert Jennings.” “Jennings’ death was a tragic accident,” said Andrews. “It was caused by an equipment malfunction.” A hand was raised in the audience. The hand belonged to Ronald Jerjerrod. “Um,” he said cautiously, “Can we go now?” “Shut it!” Andrews almost shouted. He really was getting very annoyed. “Go ahead, leave.” said Welch. “It’s not like Andrews here is ever going to have anything worthwhile to say” Andrews turned on Welch with a look of cold fury in his eyes, and the situation might have turned ugly if the ceiling hadn’t suddenly buckled inward. Shouts of terror filled the conference room. “Everybody stay calm!” shouted Andrews, trying to maintain order, but it was a lost cause. Pandemonium filled the vessel as still more forces buffeted it from every direction. “EVERYBODY STAY CALM!” he repeated. Welch ran to the center of the room, blasting two shots into the ceiling with what looked like an illegal XJ-23 energy handgun. Andrews would have issued Welch a formal reprimand for (1) possession of an illegal firearm and (2) discharging said firearm on board a U.S. government-owned vessel, but it wasn’t exactly the best time. And anyway, what Welch did seemed to have worked. The crashes against the side of the Bradbury stopped. Barring any unforeseen leakages as a result of Welch’s shots, the crew seemed safe for the moment. Jerjerrod, who seemed to still have a relatively calm demeanor, volunteered to go take a look around the vessel. “They can’t have already come on board,” he said, now fully accepting the possibility of hostile alien life forms. “I’ll go make sure everything’s okay.” As he unstrapped his arm from the wall, Welch tossed him the XJ-23. “In case of trouble,” he said with a tense grin. “But what if they come here?” said Jerjerrod. “Oh, don’t worry. Always keep a spare on me,” said Welch, removing a second handgun from his onboard suit’s pocket.(3) Possession of multiple said handguns, thought Andrews. Even in this life-threatening situation, the by-the-book part of him was still going strong. Elsewhere on the Bradbury, Jerjerrod floated down a hallway, periodically yanking himself forward with handholds while still keeping a firm grip on Welch’s gun.

There’s no danger, he thought to himself, humming a little. That wet blanket Andrews was probably right after all-- “AAAAAAHHHHHH!” Everyone in the conference room heard Jerjerrod scream. A few of the softer individuals buried their faces in their hands and wept. Most simply clenched their teeth and grimaced. Andrews turned white and slumped, panicked, against a wall. But all of them hoped and prayed silently that Ronald Jerjerrod was all right. It was not to be. As the crew rounded a corner, jockeying for position in the crowded hallway, they came across Jerjerrod’s horribly mangled corpse. Andrews let out a yelp and quickly made for the lavatory. Statham followed close behind him, attempting to contact Mission Control on his comlink. Welch simply bent over and picked up the still-smoking XJ-23. It looked like Jerjerrod had attempted to defend himself before his demise. “Okay,” said Welch, his voice almost a snarl. “Anyone else still think there isn’t anything out to kill us all?” That night, everyone aboard the Bradbury slept uneasily. Some didn’t sleep at all. A few men, including Welch, had volunteered to keep watch for whatever was attacking them. Welch had taken up position on the Bradbury’s bridge. As he sat holding his twin XJ-23s and watching the sun rise over the red planet, his thoughts drifted back to home. Welch was the only crew member with family on Earth. The 260-day journey to reach Mars, and then the two-year trip silently orbiting it, were enough to sway anyone with ties on Earth away from aspiring to reach the planet. Except for Welch. Gruff as he might seem, he really did love being an astronaut. And it really was an honor in the end, being one of the first people who ever lived to orbit Mars. One day, maybe he’d even touch down on the red, dusty surface, jogging along in the microgravity. He just wished it wasn’t so dangerous. Welch’s head snapped up with a jolt. He’d drifted off for a second. Can’t do that again, he thought. The danger is too great. A noise from behind made him spin around in his chair, pointing both guns at the source. But it was only Andrews. “Oh,” he laughed nervously. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Actually, I came, well, I came to apologize.” “What?” said Welch. “For the way I acted in the conference room. You were right. There is something trying to kill us. But it won’t kill anyone else. Not while I’m around. Not while we’re around.” Welch was completely shocked. He’d never heard the captain say anything so, well, not stupid before. “It’s all right,” he finally said. “I was a little out of line myself. You can help me keep watch, if you’d like.” Andrews sat down in the captain’s chair and strapped himself in. “Here,” said Welch, handing him an XJ-23. “You’ll need this.” Andrews looked a little regretful as he took the gun, but he stayed where he was.

It was a good thing both men were secured, because just then the ship rocked again. A series of loud bangs were heard from behind the ship, and several yells echoed down the corridor. “You stay here,” said Andrews in a sudden fit of bravery. “I’ll go meet up with Statham.” “Are you sure?” asked Welch. “Yes,” said Andrews, unstrapping himself. “Yes, I’m sure.” Andrews pulled himself out of the bridge and down a hallway. As he rounded a corner, the captain ran into Statham. “Andrews! Uh, I mean, Captain!” said Statham. “I thought you were asleep!” “Not anymore, Statham,” said Andrews, a small grin on his face. “I’ve been shirking my duties as captain and it’s time it ended. What’s the situation?” “Well, the ship was just rocked again about a minute ago,” said Statham. “And then there were those loud bangs. Personally, I think we should begin evacuation procedure.” Evacuation of the Bradbury would require every crew member entering an escape pod to begin the long journey home. The pods were small and maneuverable enough that they could be launched at any point in time. There were eight on board, fitting two men apiece. The captain traveled alone. “I think you’re right,” said Andrews. “Round everyone up. Get them into the pods and tell Mission Control we’re coming home early.” “Yes, Captain. And what will you be doing?” “I’m going back to the bridge,” said Andrews. “Welch is there.” Andrews pulled his way back to where he had left the first mate. “Welch!” he called. “Welch, come on. We’re going home.” “What?” said Welch. “I’m calling an emergency evacuation.” Welch unstrapped himself from the chair. “About time,” he said. “I’ll go down and ready the pods.” Welch floated out of the room and down a small side hallway. There was a round hatch in the floor there. He bent down and opened it, revealing a set of rungs leading downward. Welch maneuvered himself in midair until his feet were against the ceiling, and then pushed himself quickly down into the hole. It was a long climb. Halfway down, Welch pulled out his remaining XJ-23 as a precaution. Back at the bridge, Andrews’ comlink buzzed. “Andrews,” he said, picking it up. “Captain!” said Statham’s voice. “Captain, are you ready to begin loading the pods?” Andrews took a last look around the command center of his beautiful ship, at the planet he’d probably never see again. “Yes,” said Andrews. “Yes, I think I am.” “Okay, then. I’ll meet you with the rest of the crew in the escape pod chamber.” Andrews pulled out the XJ-23. He turned and left the bridge for the last time, feeling sad but also a little relieved. Taking the same route Welch had, he pushed off the hallway ceiling to enter the narrow tunnel. Halfway down he dropped the gun and had to go back up to where it

was floating. By the time Andrews made it into the escape pod chamber, the rest of the crew was already there. Welch noticed him first. “Andrews!” he said. “I’ve turned on all the pod hypersleep systems. All we have to do is get in and sit tight for the voyage home.” “Let’s go, then,” said Andrews, turning to face the thirteen astronauts. “Okay, I want everybody in the pods!” Quickly--they had practiced this many times on Earth--the Bradbury’s crew paired off and entered the pods. Andrews noticed sadly that the pod Jennings and Jerjerrod might have shared was left empty. It was my fault they died, he thought to himself. I should have seen the signs. But I was stupid. I was blinded by power. Never again will someone die because of me. Eventually, only Andrews, Statham, and Welch were left outside of the pods. “Captain,” said Statham, “if something goes wrong and I don’t make it back, I want you to know that I really look up to you.” Andrews silently shook Statham’s hand. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes, but he kept them at bay. Statham entered an empty pod. “Welch,” he said. “Come on, Welch.” But Welch as well had something to say. “Andrews,” he said. “When I first got on this ship, I thought you were a terrible excuse for a captain. And you know what, maybe I was right. But I think today you’ve redeemed yourself, at least in my eyes. So thank you... Captain.” Welch stuck out his hand. Andrews shook it. There really was a lot of hand-shaking going on that day. “Oh!” said Andrews. “I almost forgot. Here’s your XJ-23 back.” He held it out to Welch. “Keep it,” said Welch. “I think you’ve earned it.” Andrews smiled and placed it in his pocket. “Come on, then,” he said. “It’ll take a year to get home, so we might as well start now.” And then the thing that had killed Jerjerrod burst through the wall in front of them. “Run! To the pods!” shouted Andrews, but it was too late. As he stepped forward the creature reached out a misshapen hand and grabbed him. Shambling forward, it kicked an escape pod, obliterating the men inside. “NOOO!” screamed Andrews. More innocent lives lost! Welch pulled out the XJ-23 and sunk three rounds into the creature’s hide, but it kept moving. Statham retreated to a corner, his mouth hanging open. Andrews felt one of his ribs crack under the monster’s iron grip. It kicked another escape pod into smithereens. He knew he needed to act now. But how? Then Andrews remembered. Keep it. I think you’ve earned it. Andrews squeezed his hand into his pocket and withdrew the XJ-23. Grimacing, he lined up a shot and fired. The beam dissipated across the thing’s right eye. It let out a tortured howl and dropped Andrews. Andrews hit the ground running. He leapt into his pod but didn’t close the door. “WELCH! STATHAM!” he cried. “GET TO YOUR POD!” Statham left the corner where he’d been cowering and dove into the tiny escape pod. “Come on, Welch!” he yelled.

The Martian kicked another escape pod. “Oh my God...” said Andrews. If he didn’t get the pods going soon it would kill them all. Quickly, he typed a command into a small keyboard in the pod. --ACTIVATE HYPERSLEEP PROCESS-- As soon as Andrews hit Enter there would be no escape for Welch. The pods would automatically launch. He would be left behind to die of starvation. “Come on, Welch!” yelled Statham again. But Welch couldn’t go anywhere. The monster had him backed up against a wall, as it prepared to kick out another pod. Then Welch had an idea. He pulled out the XJ-23 and flicked a little switch on the side. The gun started beeping and turned red. “Quick!” said Welch. “Get ready to leave!” He threw the gun towards the monster. It opened its mouth to roar and instead found itself swallowing the XJ-23. Confused, it retreated to a corner. Welch dove into the escape pod with Statham. “GO!” he yelled. “NOW!” Andrews pressed Enter. The pods flew out of the ship, their doors closing. The men inside began to fall asleep. As Andrews felt his eyes shutting, he peered back out of the escape pod’s little window. A mile away from him, the magnificent Bradbury exploded in a fiery halo.

A Cry For Movie Rating System Reform

Here in America, the movies we see are rated by the Motion Picture Association of America, or MPAA. At least once, someone reading this probably hasn’t been able to see a movie because of them. But what you may have noticed is that, besides a couple words next to the rating (G, PG, PG-13, R, or NC-17), the MPAA says nothing about just why a movie gets the rating that it does. The citizens of our country need to be better informed about what gives a movie a certain rating on a movie-by movie basis, so that they can make better decisions about what movies they and their children see. The MPAA doesn’t even have the excuse of not knowing exactly why its members give movies the ratings that they do. As evidenced in Kirby Dick’s documentary This Film Is Not Yet Rated, MPAA members write down exactly which scenes and content gave a movie a certain rating. In some cases, they’ll even tell the filmmakers. However, the MPAA is extremely secretive, and will often tell the movie’s creators nothing about what they need to cut to change a movie’s rating. Right now, if a parent visits www.kids-in-mind.com, they can see a detailed breakdown of all possibly objectionable content found in recently released movies, as well as older ones. However, Kids In Mind is still just a Web site, and its ratings are released only just before or just after movies are released. If the MPAA--who have stated on multiple occasions that their mission is to aid parents in showing movies to their children--would simply create their own, similar, unbiased rating breakdown website, placing text and QR code links on movie posters and before trailers, parents could be informed well before a movie is released, and more people would know about the system. So that’s what needs to happen. And we can make it happen. If everyone reading this essay sends a letter to the MPAA requesting the new system, changes will have to be made. The MPAA holds no legal jurisdiction anywhere in the United States, so it’s time we stopped bowing down to them. The people of this country have a right to know what’s going on in their movies. And the MPAA can give them that. They just need a little push.

Mike Chumble’s Morning

Light from the TV tube was reflected in Mike Chumble’s thick glasses. The pudgy youth watched the glow eagerly, sweat oozing down his forehead in anticipation. Finally, the moment Mike had been waiting for arrived. A mindless, chirpy jingle blared tinnily out of the Panasonic’s speakers and an announcer shouted: “It’s the Biggest Loser Lose-A-Long Challenge! All you overweight viewers out there in TV land, roll off those couches and get moving!” Mike bounced his rotund body up and down until momentum propelled him off of the threadbare couch. “Whoa!” he yelped as he hit the ground cheeks-first.1 As Mike struggled to stand up, an obese woman appeared on the TV screen. “I just want to be pretty,” she blubbered in an elephantine fashion. “Ha,” said Mike. “Chubby broad.2” He hopped up and down—no easy task—as the woman continued. “And I bet all of you want to be pretty too!” she giggled, switching emotions faster than Mike could run when the Good Humor man was nearby.3 “Yes!” shouted Mike, forgetting in his excitement that the woman could not hear him. “Okay,” said the woman. (You know what? Let’s call her Darcy.) “Let’s start out by doing some leg squats. Up…and down. Up…and down.” Mike eagerly squatted up and down, picturing a day when he was skinny, handsome, and didn’t smell like a giant Cheeto.4 “Oh, you’re doing so well!” said Darcy encouragingly. Mike almost fell over with happiness. Darcy continued. “And now,” she said, “jumping jacks! C’mon, show me those jumping jacks!” “CRAP!” yelled Mike. Jumping jacks were the bane of his existence. He managed to raise his arms several inches above his head, before their own sheer mass carried them in rippling arcs back to their point of origin. “That’s it,” said Mike. “Time for a breakfast break. A brekky-break.” He chuckled at his own joke, the funniest one in several years.5 And, yes, it was only six in the morning. Friday morning, to be exact. The last twenty-four hour stretch lying between Mike and the glorious, glorious weekend. Mike left the living room and entered the kitchen, pulling open the cupboard and removing a box of his favorite cereal. “Ah, Fruct-O’s!” sighed Mike. “The sugar-frosted part of my complete breakfast!6” He waddled to the table, deposited the box, and trundled away in search of the other necessary components for a totally kick-ass breakfast.7 Milk, bowl, and spoon secured, Mike returned to the table and proceeded to eat four bowls of Fruct-O’s without stopping in what was perhaps the most horrific display of gluttony in recent history.8 His mastication marathon was only halted from reaching world-record levels when Mike’s mother entered the kitchen. “Mike?” asked his mother sleepily. “I thought I heard a chainsaw in here.” “Afraid not, Mom,” said Mike. “Just me eating. You know how I love my Fruct-O’s.” “I do indeed,” said Mrs. Chumble.9 “You know, you have school in half an hour.”

“Oh god,” said Mike. “Don’t remind me.” Mike hated school. And his teachers all hated him. There’s just a certain something about a loud, obnoxious, grossly obese child who smells like—reiterating—a giant Cheeto, that tends to put off educators. Grumbling, Mike trundled off to his bedroom to get dressed. A full-length mirror covered Mike’s closet door. Mike had insisted on the room that was now his for that specific reason when his family had moved into the house. Now, as he did every morning, Mike faced his reflection, flexed his almost-nonexistent biceps, and screamed, “I am a WINNER!” “Quiet down, Mike,” said Mr. Chumble from across the hall. “Sorry, Dad,” said Mike. He pulled in his favorite T-shirt—it read “I’M FAT. DEAL WITH IT—and his best pants, voluminous trousers that allowed for unusually free locomotion10. Mike left his room and ran down the hall. “Good-bye, Mom!” he shouted, running towards the front door. “Good-bye, Dad!” The front door slammed behind him. Mike Chumble was off to face the day.

The Themes of Fragile Things

Several days ago, I finished reading the book Fragile Things, a collection of short stories (and several poems) by Neil Gaiman. I enjoyed the book immensely, and would have to say it is probably among the best short story collections I have ever read. (perhaps slightly short of Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles.) The stories in Fragile Things are complex, multilayered, and in most cases, highly ambiguous, with many common themes running through them.

Theme One: Childhood Interrupted. Many of the stories in Fragile Things deal with children whose mundane lives are interrupted by the supernatural. “Closing Time” is the story of several teenagers (and their unwilling child companion) who have an encounter with a seemingly haunted estate, more specifically a child’s playhouse on its grounds. “Good Boys Deserve Favors” tells us of a boy who can’t seem to learn how to play the double bass, until something intervenes when it most counts. And “How to Talk to Girls At Parties” is the result of two boys who go to the wrong party, one that happens to be for aliens. One story, “The Flints of Memory Lane” is claimed to be a true story from the author’s past, where he met a very strange gypsy woman who disappeared almost as soon as she arrived. If the story is true (and nothing in the story is too hard to believe) then it may explain why Gaiman seems so drawn to this type of story.

Theme Two: Remembrance of Things Past. Nearly every story in Fragile Things makes use of some type of framing device. Most often, this frame is the narrator or other character remembering an incident in the past, usually in their childhood (which ties into Theme One) or at least several years prior to the story. “The Facts in the Case of the Departure of Miss Finch” is recounted by the Miss Finch’s remaining acquaintances as they eat dinner. “Feeders and Eaters”, arguably the book’s most unsettling story, is told to the narrator by a man from his past he meets again at a diner. This marks another advantage of the framing device, as it is used here to give the story a very strange twist ending. “Goliath,” a story set in the universe of The Matrix, is slightly different, as we don’t realize that it’s a memory until the very end, but the framework of the idea is still there. Actually, I felt that the memory framing device was a bit overused at times, but the good writing usually more than made up for it.

Theme Three: When Worlds Collide. The idea of two different universes meeting is probably what Gaiman is most known for in his stories. The entire book could be called an exercise in this theme, but several stand out as the best. “A Study in Emerald” looks to be a Sherlock Holmes story until you realize every royal in England is ripped straight from the pages of H.P. Lovecraft. “The Problem of Susan” shows what exactly became of Susan Pevensie when her adventures in Narnia were over. And the final story and longest in Fragile Things, “The Monarch of the Glen: An American Gods Novella” is a follow-up to Gaiman’s earlier novel American Gods, and deals with protagonist Shadow’s further encounters with the supernatural.

Overall, Fragile Things is an astonishing and engaging read. It had a few occasional shortcomings in terms of plot, but those were more than made up for by the amazing writing. The many short stories make it both a book that can be delved deeply into, and also simply read quickly to enjoy for a bit. One of the better short story collections of this generation, Fragile Things is definitely worth a read.