Happiness

I am a gurgling stream, slipping down an incline

I am young, because I’m born again each spring

I am a deer, shy, quick, and wild, slipping out of view

I am a transparent, crystalline blue, never murky

I am from the mountain, and never will stop moving

I am shiny rocks picked up by children for their collections

I am happiness, made to be assaulted by man’s inhumanity

War Song

War is the devil’s entertainment,

            explosions his demented giggles.

Our soldiers are his toys,

            tossed, dumped, tortured, maimed.

Coming home, will things get better?

            probably not, no not at all

The cancer has already chewed on your heart

            and your uniform attacks you when you open the closet.

Stay far far away,

            for the devil wishes to play today.

The Anatomy of Terror

Terrorist and extremist groups in the Middle East.  Child Soldiers and civil war in Africa.  Communism and nuclear warheads in Asia.  Drug cartels and gangs in South America.  Harsh memories and fear from the past in Europe.  Homelessness and corruption in the United States of America.  Ours is a world in turmoil.

            Chaos swarms throughout the Middle East.  Egypt has recently experienced violent revolts and rebellions asking for their president to step down.  Iran’s leaders claim that their nuclear capabilities are peaceful, yet many nations and organizations have expressed their discomfort over Iran having nuclear technology.  Iraq is attempting to rebuild after years of bombings and gunfire ripping their cities to shreds.  Afghanistan’s mountainous terrain is the current hiding place for extremist groups and their leaders, such as Osama bin Laden.  The United States of America’s “War on Terror” has been a controversial one, and current president, Barack Obama promises that he will start to pull troops out of the Middle East, and leave the innocent citizens of the area to fight for themselves.

            Africa’s current situation is probably the most ghastly and horrendous of all.  National flags with AK-47’s on them.  Rebel groups brandish these weapons of choice.  Bombings, civil war, riots, and the regime of oppressive governments cover Africa like a plague.  But what really murders one’s soul, is the story of Child Soldiers.  African rebel groups are no longer receiving support from a population tired of war.  In order for these groups to replenish their ranks, they abduct children from villages, orphanages, and schools across Africa.  (The preferred age for these Child Soldiers is 8-14 when they are small enough to sneak into orphanages and schools, yet they are big enough to carry their AK-47.)  These children are forced to kill.  Their peers are killed before them for crying or talking back.  The Child Soldiers are taught how to kill efficiently, and they do, for no one wants to kill a child.  Starvation, dehydration, and battles for resources silently pull the African people to death.

            North Korea has on numerous occasions threatened the United States of America with their nuclear warheads.  The communist government enslaves the population to work in factories and on farms.  They kill those who do not obey.  No one is allowed out of the country.  North Korea has also harassed South Korea with shellings and supposed sinking of battleships.  China’s government censors the Internet and any form of media in the country, also controlling their population under communism, and surrounding their country with an iron curtain.

            Drug cartels and gangs are the government of fifty percent of South American countries, unofficially.  Drugs control everything.  Poverty and mass corruption are the ruling forces in South America.

            The fear of the past is very real and pertinent to this day in Europe.  On most occasions, a look into the past is a very painful one, as World War II is still a fresh wound.  Nazis managed to gain control starting in impoverished Germany, and meticulously slither into other countries, while destroying and wounding countries that tried to stop them.  Jews were killed violently, soullessly, and systematically.  Although the past is grim in Europe it has perhaps the brightest future of all other areas of the world.

            Slowly yet steadily, and beyond the view of most, one of the greatest world powers is beginning to sink; the United States of America.  The Roman Empire comes to mind.  The United States of America has amassed such a huge and depressing deficit, most Americans today can’t tell you how much their great country is in debt, nor do they want to.  An end is not in sight at all, and many wonder if America will ever come out of debt.  Most frightening of all about the deficit though, is who we are in debt to.  Two of the three countries that we owe the most to are the USA’s allies, yet one of them is not.  The USA owes most of its debt to China, a communist country who most Americans view with slight distaste, distrust, and a little bit of fear.  Furthermore, America’s once great economy is falling quickly, and while it falls, the level of homelessness and hunger rises.  To add to the slight fears in Americans’ hearts, their elected officials usually never do anything with the country in mind, but their own agendas.

            The world is falling apart.  I do not mean to be a dooms-dayer, nor am I trying to say that the end of the world is near.  The point I am merely trying to get across is that the world needs new priorities.  The world’s population needs to be able to give to make things better.  The world needs new leaders that will be firm and courageous, and the world needs to slowly start turning in a new direction.

The Tradition of Prejudice

Tradition: noun, a custom or belief passed within families or other groups from one generation to another.[1]  Prejudice: noun, a strong feeling against something.[2]  Strong prejudice has always been a tarnish, or to some a beautification, of the south.  Prejudice is simply an idea.  An idea passed from generation to generation.  It’s an idea of hatred, isolation, discrimination, and disconcertment.  Some people would rather live with ignorance in their hearts then love and understanding.

                Prejudice is a tradition.  Children do not come into the world hating others of a different race, religion, ethnicity, lifestyle, or past.  Young children don’t hate; they love.  A dictionary is not needed to know the true definition of love; merely the presence of a young child can describe the virtue in its fullness.  The next generation, the next lawyers, politicians, doctors, and teachers of the world must be taught prejudice to have it.  That is why it is a tradition.  It is a custom or belief passed from one generation to the next.  Traditions can be ended.

                “Prejudice is a burden that confuses the past, threatens the future and renders the present inaccessible.”[3]  In its most hateful, horrendous, and clear form, prejudice can be horrifying.  In 1955, a fourteen-year-old Negro boy visiting family in Money, Mississippi was tortured and killed, to be found later in the Tallahatchie River.  Two men, Roy Bryant and his half brother J.W. Milam would eventually be arrested and tried for murder.  An all-white jury acquitted them.  In an interview published in Look magazine three months after their acquittal, Bryant and Milam described how they kidnapped, tortured, and finally murdered Emmett Till.  The third white man and woman involved in the kidnapping and subsequent events were never identified or apprehended.[4]

                If you would, with me imagine this: you are a teenage boy in an unfamiliar and humiliating environment in which you must practically bow to any white person.  Two burley men with guns and flashlights drag you from your uncle’s shack in the middle of the night for whistling at a white woman.  After you are literally dragged across the rocky ground to their truck, you are thrown (again, literally) into the bed.  The men get into the truck where two other silhouettes are waiting- one male and one female.  Gravel and dust spit from below the tires of the truck as it accelerates away from your screaming and crying uncle, aunt, and cousins.  These four people drive far out into the Mississippi countryside where your screams won’t be heard.  (And even if they were heard, no one would help you anyway simply because you were born with brown skin rather then white.)  The men slice you with knives.  They castrate you.  They whip your bare back.  The women watches with an evil smile tickling her lips.  Finally, the men attack your face with a baseball bat and then tie a noose around your neck with barbed wire.  You’re excited as they shoot a bullet through the back of your skull.  One end of the barbed wire is attached to a cinderblock, and the other is wrapped around your neck.  Your lifeless body is thrown into the Tallahatchie River.

                All because of prejudice.  All because of hate and racism.  Why?  It’s a one-word-question, yet it’s hard to answer.  You did this to an adolescent because he’s brown and you’re white?  It’s disgusting.  Life destroyed for a reason that sounds ridiculous even if you were the killer.  “Bigotry or prejudice in any form is more than a problem; it is a deep-seated evil within our society.”[5]  Emmett Till’s story is my definition of prejudice.

                There are ways to destroy the nasty monster lurking in our homes, schools, and government, though.  One way: destroy ignorance.  “Prejudice is the child of ignorance.”[6]  Teach people the wonders of their enemy.  Instruct them on their enemy’s successes, downfalls, heartbreaks, troubles, and culture.  Another way: end the tradition.  Even if you are prejudiced against one group of people or another, don’t teach your children of your hate.  Why show them the horrifying ideologies and feelings of the world they have barely entered when you could be teaching them of love, hope, and charity?  My goal for you: kill the demon the killed Emmett Till.

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[1] Definition found on page 332 of A Student’s Dictionary (ã2004, The Dictionary Project, Inc.  Sullivan’s Island, SC 29482)

[2] Definition found on page 249 of A Student’s Dictionary (ã2004, The Dictionary Project, Inc.  Sullivan’s Island, SC 29482)

[3] Maya Angelou

[4] Historical Note (with slight alterations) found in Mississippi Trial, 1955- Chris Crowe

[5] Judith Light

[6] William Hazlitt

The Song of Crying

Remember my child,

Don’t cry until the time,

When crying is the wild.

The wolves shall sing,

And the owls hoot,

Until the night, they bring.

The night shall hide the tears,

Of your day’s guilt and sorrow,

And tells you of your fans’ cheers.

For that’s what the night was made for,

Be it made for the all of the crying,

Because crying can make you cherish more.

Of its daughters and sons,

There be the quiet creatures,

That a singing creature shuns.

The insects, the moon,

And all of the others,

Is what the dark can cocoon.

Then the night after such,

Remember, it doesn’t, your tears,

Even if they might have been much.

And when the morning dawn,

Better you shall feel,

As you no longer are the (k)night’s pawn.

But remember my child,

Don’t cry until the time,

When crying is the wild.

Such A Small Casket

Such a small casket, we lay in the dirt,

For worms and moles and beetles to hurt.

Such a small casket can make grown men cry,

And such a small casket makes her mother want to die.

From the prognosis, we knew that in the end she would go,

But when we talked eye-to-eye, I could never tell her so.

The doctors, they tried, I know that they did,

But why couldn’t they save such a pure, innocent kid?

Now my sister is gone, she was only five,

And, oh, how I wish that she were still alive.

I remember when she nearly counted the stars,

She got all the way to eighty-ten, and in the darkness, she had no more scars.

Though the battle was short, it was extremely intense,

But now, at her funeral, I pay recompense,

For all the times that I was not a loving brother,

A child so forgiving, there will never be another.

Cancer’s the devil, this I have concluded,

For what else could kill a five-year-old girl, whose thoughts weren’t polluted?

In fact, she even still knew, stupid’s the s-word.

Such a sweet voice, thousands will never have heard.

“I love you, I love you,” I wish I could go back and say,

On the day when her eyes closed, and in death did she lay.

But now it’s too late, so I must really try,

To get to heaven to see her, and tell her what I meant at the hospital when all I did was cry.

Dedicated to anyone who has lost a loved one to cancer.

Someday

I painted a picture with my tears.

It was a picture of dark clouds, rain, and thunder.

It was a picture of an ocean that had been created by the tears, sorrows, and pains of humanity.

It was a picture of my own river of life’s little torments.

My river contributed to the mighty sea, as its beaches were continually being swallowed by new troubles added to the ocean of tears.

But soon my river, which has flooded over, will turn into an insignificant stream. 

But for now, I wallow in my torturous condition hoping that someday my river can turn into a stream.

Someday, someday, someday…

Inspirationless

I sat down to write this, for it needed to come out.

Pen in hand, paper on the table.

But inspiration didn’t whisper, and it didn’t shout.

My ideas sidestepped my grasp, my frustration arose.

The game of tag entered my fingers, telling my pen things that I didn’t mean.

Needless to say, the going was slow.

Hoping for enlightenment, I tried to remain keen,

But it’s not all that easy when you’re fatigued.

Why does haze blur my mind’s eye?

Inspirationless, I ramble on and on.

But then I remembered what was capable of making me fly,

And it’s you.

I Woulda...

I woulda told you I love you, if I could’ve found a way to say it,

I woulda told you I love you, if I could’ve found a time that’s right,

I’ll tell you I love you, to get rid of this secret.

I woulda told you you’re beautiful, if my tongue wasn’t so twisted,

I woulda told you you’re beautiful, if I could stop my hands from shakin’,

I’ll tell you you’re beautiful, even if my legs are quakin’.

I woulda held you when you cried, if I could’ve got my arms to work,

I woulda held you when you cried, if I was sure that you’d accept me,

I’ll hold you when you cry, ‘cause it’s your tears I want to dry.

I woulda asked you to be with me, if I’d known you wouldn’t want to say no,

I woulda asked you to be with me, if you weren’t so dang beautiful,

I’ll ask you to be with me, and I’ll let you tell me where you wanna go.

I woulda gave you all I’ve got, if I knew it woulda helped you,

I woulda gave you all I’ve got, if I knew that you would want it,

I’ll give you all I’ve got, ‘cause your eyes are a candle that’s always lit.

I’m gonna tell you I love you.

The Indestrucibles

            “…they wouldn’t need to breathe air!  They could tolerate all sorts of temperature changes, and changes in atmospheric pressure!  Think of all the possibilities.  Simply implant the best traits of each species on earth into these people.  We could send them to mars, or into nuclear wastelands.  They wouldn’t be able to get sick!  They’d be indestructible!”

            Dr. Farlan looked around the table.  Amused, fearful, hateful looks met his gaze.

            “It could work…” Dr. Farlan stammered.

            Dr. Beufont answered Dr. Farlan’s desperate attempts to convinced his colleagues of the potential of his project by clearing his throat before saying, “You’re right.  It could work.  But do we want it to?  I’m not sure if this is ethical, wise, or even appropriate.  I don’t think the population would disagree with me.”

            “But think of what it could do for mankind; what it could do for the world!” Dr. Farlan argued.

            “Dr. Farlan,” this time it was Dr. Berrins trying to convince her associate of the error of his ways, “I think, that overall, none of us want any part of this.  Think of the repercussions that an act like that could—would surely produce.”

            Murmurs of agreement swirled around the table.

            “Fine.  I understand.  I see why you would not want to be a part of this wonderful shift towards knowing the secrets of the universe.  I shall just take my ideas elsewhere.  It has been quite a learning experience working with all of you, and I thank you for it,” Dr. Farlan acknowledged.

            He then picked up his black briefcase filled with white papers, straitened his suit, and waltzed as affably as he could out of the conference room’s door.

            The other scientists said nothing after Dr. Farlan’s departure.  They stared out the windows providing a panoramic view of the polluted city beneath their high-rise headquarters, they fiddled with their pencils and pens, they coughed, but no one broke the awkward silence.  One by one, the scientists filed out of the conference room, saying nothing to each other.

            Dr. Farlan’s feet hit the tiled floor of the International Collaboration of Science’s hallway with ferocity.  Whack, whack, whack.  He enjoyed the pain sparkling at the end of his toes.  Whack, whack, whack, ding!  The elevator door opened automatically for him ten paces before he reached it.  When the glass tube felt the pressure of Dr. Farlan’s body on its floor, it shot itself downwards.  The elevator started to slow.  The doors opened and Dr. Farlan stepped into the massive building’s lobby.

            People roamed throughout the white-tiled lobby in crazy patterns; attempting to weave their ways through the tightly packed crowd.  Protestors, employees, police, guards, and other scientists filled the large room.  Dr. Farlan set his sights on the side door.  It was much closer to his current position then the front doors, and the path towards them was the tiniest bit less crowded.  He didn’t hesitate.  Quickly, Dr. Farlan weaved through the crowd in an experienced manner.  Once he was through the plain side door, it was merely a matter of fifteen minutes before he was at his house; fifty miles southeast of Seattle.

           

            Dr. Farlan’s gaze swept over his extensive property with pride.  He enjoyed looking at his manicure lawn, small glades of quaking aspens, and his romantic two-story white house.  Soon, though, he snapped his eyes off the splendor of his abode, and got back to work.  His self-directed car pulled to the end of his extensive driveway.  Dr. Farlan exited the car.  Walking briskly, Dr. Farlan found himself in his home office within a minute.  A call was made.  It was a call that would change the world.

            Markyallen Shautab was surprised by Dr. Farlan’s phone call.  Surprised, but always poised.  It had been ten years since Markyallen had last spoken with the professor.  There had been a seminar at the headquarters of the International Collaboration of Science.  They were fast friends.  Phone numbers had been exchanged, along with pledges to assist each other in their scientific endeavors whenever possible.

            The call had only lasted about two minutes.  Fast and direct had always been the two scientists’ personalities.  Markyallen had been quick to offer what his colleague Maurice Farlan was desperately in need of, people to conduct tests on, guinea pigs.  With a snap of his fingers, Markyallen had three white slaves by his side.  He spat at their disgusting, pale skin.

            “I giving you to a friend of mine.  His name is Mau—you will address him as Dr. Farlan,” Markyallen stated.

            “When do we leave, sir?” a younger, and less wise, slave asked.

            Markyallen glared at the brash slave with hatred before slowly saying, “The three of you will leave immediately.  Dr. Farlan wants you in his possession as soon as possible, so, I’m going to have to Cyberport you all.  Besides, it will do the science world well to know that the new technology of Cyberporting is still behaving as it should, that is, if you arrive in Seattle in your original state.”

            The three slaves glanced nervously at each other before bowing towards their master and leaving his presence.  Cyberporting had only been tested three times, and only on slaves like them.  Since Markyallen was one of the richest men in South Africa, he owned a Cyberporting terminal.  The slaves assumed, or at least hoped, that Dr. Farlan owned one as well.

            The testing started off with ease.  Dr. Farlan received his first three subjects the day he had been rejected by his colleagues at the International Collaboration of Science.  From then on, when he needed more “subjects” he simply called Dr. Shautab.  He’d buy a few slaves at the market, and then Cyberport them to Dr. Farlan.  Dr. Farlan would send a check in the mail.

            Although, at first, the testing had been exciting and moving forward with great speed, eventually progress began to slow.  None of Dr. Farlan’s tests had worked.  He had tested on twelve people.  His subjects weren’t affected at all.  The scientist’s excitement quickly turned into a feeling of frustrated-angry-disappointment.  Attempts had been made to add one positive trait to the human race at a time; attempts had been made to add two, three, or even ten traits at a time to his subjects’ DNA.  Nothing worked.

            Finally, though, a new thought, a new idea, had popped into Dr. Farlan’s mind.  It happened when he had screamed in anger at one of his “subjects” at a lack of a tough shell on his back, even though the lowly servant had been injected seven times with the DNA from an armadillo.  The man had cowered in the corner of Dr. Farlan’s home lab until his rage had started to melt away.  Exasperated, Dr. Farlan had told the slave that he was now free to leave whenever he wanted, he was of no importance anymore to the doctor.  The slave didn’t want to be free in America.  He wanted a return trip to South Africa.

            “What!  You indignant good for nothing…  Why do you even want to return to that despicable nation when you could be free in the Land of Promise?  Be free in the United States of America?” Dr. Farlan had sputtered furiously.

            “My wife and children,” those were the slave’s short sentiments, yet he had triggered a horrible, disgusting, idea in his master’s mind.

            “Children…  You can have your return trip to South Africa, my good fellow!  In fact, I will Cyberport you right this very instant!  I cannot promise you your freedom or safety in that country though," Dr. Farlan exclaimed excitedly.

            “That is alright, sir.  I would still wish to return home.”

            The poor, white slave had found himself back in South Africa within minutes.  Back in Washington, though, Dr. Farlan paced up and down the marble floor of the hallway outside of the Cyberporting room.  He chuckled.  He giggled.  He laughed in that horrible way that can only be performed by those with the title of “mad scientist”, which the doctor had achieved approximately a month ago, when he first injected that first amount of animal DNA into that first slave.

            The air was crisp.  The setting sun cast warmth over the quiet town fifty miles southeast of Seattle.  A recent rainstorm gave the area a clean feel to it.  Summer air carried a certain quality in it unknown to the other seasons.  It was the perfect night for a stroll.

            Vallerie Carlington’s feet quietly dropped to the white plastic cover of the sidewalk in a hypnotic rhythm.  Her stroller glided in front of her.  It was not Vallerie that had attracted the three slaves that Dr. Farlan had left (the biggest and most formidable of his original twelve).  It wasn’t even the stroller that had attracted them.  The stroller’s contents were what they were after.

            Vallerie didn’t hear them, because she was gently humming along to her MentalChip, which was playing her favorite songs at the perfect volume.  She didn’t see them, for they were directly behind her.  The young mother didn’t know what hit her.  Attacking viciously, and quickly, one of the slaves slammed a collapsible metal rod into the back of Vallerie’s head while the other two made sure that there were no witnesses.  Collapsing his metal rod, the first slave brought the stroller to a stop.  Carefully, he removed the slumbering two-year-old from his comfy seat.  Then, one of the lookouts took the toddler.  Roughly, he placed a hand over the awakening child’s mouth.  They were gone before Vallerie woke.

            Over the next few weeks, six children ranging from ages two to seven were reported missing in the general Seattle area.  People started becoming fearful.  Dr. Farlan was scared as well, but for different reasons then the parents of the missing children.  He was scared of being caught for kidnapping, but mostly he was scared of failing again.

            Dr. Farlan began testing on the eldest of his new subjects.  Simmy.  A seven-year-old girl who thought princesses were okay, but basketball players were cooler.  The doctor was able to administer the first dose of animal DNA on Simmy with ease.  A few simple lies about basketball players getting shots every day, and Simmy allowed Maurice Farlan to inject her with a shark’s DNA that controlled the fish’s unending supply of teeth.  Doses and lies were given to Simmy each day for a week before she entered observation.

            Next came seven-year-old Marcios.  Marcios prided himself on being the toughest little guy in his school class.  Again, Marcios’s own personality greatly assisted Dr. Farlan.  Tough guys don’t worry about shots.  After saying that once a day for seven days, Marcios was placed in observation as well.

            After Marcios was six-year-old Tomi.  Then came four-year-old Laurezen, who was followed by three-year-old Camebridge.  Dr. Farlan had no trouble with any of these children.  To some, he would feed them lies.  To others, he simply poured some sleeping serum in with the milk in the breakfast cereal.  He did whatever he had to do; after all, it was for the betterment of the human race and the world.

            It was early September when Dr. Farlan started testing on his last subject.  He had noted that Laurezen and Camebridge had both responded well to the testing.  Simmy, Marcios, and Tomi ended up exactly the same as they had started out.  His oldest three subjects had been dropped off at safe public locations in Seattle after Dr. Farlan realized that they hadn’t been affected by the tests.  Laurezen and Camebridge stayed in observation.  Laurezen’s back was now the thick hide of a rhinoceros, while Camebridge had the eyesight of an eagle, the ability to pick up scents as well as a bloodhound, and the roar of a lion.  It was quite impressive, yet extremely disturbing.

            When Dr. Farlan had finished reading the foldable touch-screen of his ePaper, he strolled towards the observation room.  He glanced at his two super-children with pleasure, but his main focus was the one child in the room who had yet to have a test conducted on.  Alk happily played with his roommates, not at all apprehensive about their strange characteristics.  The boy didn’t want to stop playing.  Two-year-old Alk was determined to enjoy playing with his friends for as long as possible, thus causing Dr. Farlan to eventually enter the observation room and scoop the little guy up.

            “I want to keep paying with fends, daddy!” Alk proclaimed stubbornly at being lifted from the imaginative fun of the three boys.

            Alk had started calling Dr. Farlan “daddy” the day he had woken up in the observation room.  This was not at all amusing to the doctor, and his three henchmen always had to struggle to hide smiles in the presence of the young boy’s language use.  Not only did the boy’s grammar annoy the doctor, but confused him.  Dr. Farlan didn’t like to be confused.  The boy spent no time whatsoever with him, Alk’s only relationship with the mad scientist being the few glimpses of him watching him through the thick Plexiglas of the observation room’s windows.  Alk could have labeled any of the doctor’s three servants as “daddy” (they were all men), yet he had picked Dr. Farlan.

            “I have somewhere special to take you today.  Aren’t you excited?” Dr. Farlan stated in an obviously fake “happy” voice.

            “Yes!  Alk be ex-it-id!  I can say my name, daddy!  My name Alk!  Alk, Alk, Alk, Alk, Alk, Alk!” the boy exclaimed, punctuating each “Alk” with a firm thrust of his little thumb towards his chest.

            “Wonderful,” Dr. Farlan groaned while hurriedly transporting the toddler to the lab.

            In the lab, Dr. Farlan started to strap Alk to the testing table.  This caused a problem, because Alk could no longer move either of his tiny arms.  He couldn’t punctuate his “Alks” with happy gestures towards his green shirt and denim overall covered body.

            “No!  No!  No!  Noooooooo!  You be a poopy-pants,” the little boy screamed, capitalizing his statement with a raspberry at the end.

            “That’s not a very nice thing to say to your daddy,” Dr. Farlan attempted to play off of Alk’s own views of the doctor, while strapping his legs to the table.

            “Let me goooooooooo!  You poopy-pants, you poopy-pants, you poopy-pants!  You don’t ove me!  Why awe you doing dis, daddy?  You don’t ove meeeeeee!” Alk roared.

            “You’re right, I don’t ‘ove’ you, and I’m not your daddy!” Dr. Farlan screamed.

            Alk started to ball.  He screamed and thrashed wildly while salty tears flew from him as his head slammed back and forth.

            Dr. Farlan’s very small and hollow heart twisted in his chest.  He set aside his guilt at the ferocity at which he had yelled at such a happy, innocent, little boy.  The doctor removed a needle from one of the glass cabinets attached to the wall farthest away from the testing table.  The needle was slowly filled with a thick liquid that contained a chameleon’s DNA.

            Alk’s frenzy intensified; “I no wanna shot!  Nooooooo!  Go away you poopy-pants!  You not my fend!”

            Maurice Farlan sighed.  He grasped the needle, and quickly thrust it into the boy’s stomach.  The doctor ripped out the needle violently and observed the boy.  His eyes were wide in such a way that made them look as if they were erupting from his skull.  Alk’s screams changed tone; from anger to sheer pain.  His thrashing developed into seizing.  Dr. Farlan slowly started to back away from his subject.

            “Help me, daddy!” Alk screamed, terrified.

            “I can’t,” Dr. Farlan cried helplessly.

            That’s when Dr. Farlan viewed the most horrid sight he had ever been shown in his whole life.  The boy exploded.  One minute Alk was wailing, the next minute he was chunks of steaming flesh flying around the room.  Blood soaked the pure white walls, forever staining them.  Ashes floated aimlessly throughout the room.  Only the young child’s head remained intact and his eyes stared at Dr. Farlan, willing him to help him.  That’s when, Dr. Farlan went crazy.

            Dr. Farlan didn’t run around acting like a lunatic.  He didn’t start chewing at his own flesh.  He didn’t sit down and sing.  But he definitely went crazy.  The doctor removed the straps from the testing table.  With the straps, he made one long rope.  Maurice Farlan opened one of his glass cabinets, removed paper and pen, and wrote his suicide note:

Death, come slow,

I do not know,

How the devil entered,

But he clawed at my soul.

He made me kill a child,

He made my thoughts gruesome.

He said I was doing good,

But lie, he could and would.

            They found Dr. Farlan with a rope cinched tight around his neck, sitting on the floor of a blood soaked room, with his mouth agape and his eyes pinched shut as if he would perpetually be screaming.