Winter

The sun broke through the clouds, lighting up the dozens of emaciated bodies outside of my humble home, the bodies of those who could not live without the copper wires and electrical conduits that defined their lowly lives. The blessings of their past did not carry over to their present, however. They bodies that lay there were dead due to their dependence on technology. In a moment of anger, I lashed out. Our lives are not meant to be lived in mediocrity! Our lives are our own, not meant to be tied to others, our rulers, our followers. Our lives are not meant to be defined by superficial wants but instead what we want to spend our life doing.

Apparently those who lay dead at my feet hadn’t seemed to realize that. 

I remembered back one year and eleven months, the first midnight of the new year, the night that humanity had lost its technology. On the first day hundreds of people lost their lives from terror and rioting alone. As the weeks, and then the months, went by, the numbers did not reduce. Quite the contrary, in fact. They went up exponentially. 

I went back to my sanctuary, my very own zoo, filled with animals from all over the world. The only reminder I had from a past life. No matter. This new one is already so much more fulfilling.

Brittany, my pet capuchin, jumped onto my shoulder. I smiled at her. “Hello, my dear.”

She squeaked back. From my years of researching, I knew that I could understand her. “Hello, my one and only love. Hello, my Lord.”

I rubbed her fur and lightly stepped over the graves of my former colleagues, Dr. Demel, the astronomer, and Dr. Lovejoy, the botanist. Together we were a force to be reckoned with. We could have conquered the world if we chose to! brilliant new rulers for a brilliant new golden age. Too bad everybody had died first.

I reached my desk and pulled out my log and a pen. No need for computers! I prided myself on the fact that I could exist solely on my own ingenuity and brilliance. I would have made a fair and just ruler. I commenced observing my friends, the animals. The writing was like a drug to me, a calm ecstasy, a soaring relaxation, a routine that suited me to the extreme. 

I heard a crash outside, and I arose from my trance in a rage. Who would dare disturb me! Me! The savior of mankind! A new messiah for a new age!

A man came in shaking, his skinny arms holding a crudely shaped tree stump. This made me even more furious. This man would dared to kill a tree!

“Please, sir,” the man, well, more like a boy said. “Please give me some food.” His voice shook like the weakling that he was. People like he would be terminated in my new reign.

“No,” I said, plain and simple, and returned to my work.

“Then, sir, I am truly sorry, but you leave me no choice.” The boy raised his beastly club, but I quickly grabbed a knife and stabbed him in the ribs.

“Why…?” he mumbled before he fell.

I kneeled and inspected him. He was suffering from malnutrition and thin bones. His body temperature, declining fast, was still unbearably hot. I added a fever to the list of symptoms.

I got back up and looked at what once had been a human being. Had I truly killed him? This nameless boy was dead before he could truly live. To what end does our anonymity serve us? At what point does a man become a stranger, and thus an enemy?

I turned around. No matter. I had probably spared him a lot of pain and suffering. An alleviation, of sorts, i suppose.

I took the body outside to dispose of it. The rotting meat and juices of a human were good for the plants which supplied my food. The sun was setting fast over the horizon, a chill was in the air.

My stomach grumbled, and with horror I realized that I had not eaten for a long, long while. I ran to my garden, which was probably the only thing that kept me alive when everybody else was dead. I began to dig through the soil, desperation making me animal. There was no food! None! How could there be no…!”

I had thought that I was a god.

And then I died.

Dust to Dust

My fingers dance across my heritage. My grandmother’s trunk has been through so much. It’s journey across Iran, Lebanon, Israel, England, and America had been nothing short of a miracle. I return to the present as a slew of colors greet my eye. I carefully begin unpacking everything, exaggerating my gentleness so that nothing will break.

I reach for a vase and the cold smoothness makes me smile. There are very few cracks, a tribute to my grandmother’s carefulness. The next object, a dusty rug. I pull it out and rub it, sending dust flying through the air. I pause for a moment, as the tiny grains float through the slant of sunlight coming in through the high window. I remember one of my grandmother’s favorite sayings. Her cracked voice reverberates through my mind. “Remember, my shainie maidele [beautiful girl, in Yiddish], remember: we were all made of dust, and one day we shall return to it. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. All of our differences are simply imagined; we are all made of the same thing. This is the order of the world.”

The sun reaches its zenith; the heat and light burn against my bare back.I know that I will be pink before long. I begin to replace the objects. I reach the rug, and something strikes me. A tag reads “Flying Carpet Company.” I smile for a moment, as fairytales come rushing back. Caught up in the moment, I unlatch the windows and sit down.

And I fly!

****

The wind runs through my hair, as I leave the few clouds far, far behind and hold on for dear life. How did this happen? My mind races back to my childhood. My mother tells me that there are no such things as dragons and knights in shining armor and princesses. She dies four months later in a freak sky diving accident.

My grandmother reads me the story of Aladdin and his magic genie and flying carpet. It is past my bedtime. I go downstairs for a glass of water and stumble across my grandmother gazing at the picture of the handsome prince. Tears fill her eyes and mine, as the magic carpet begins to come down to land.

The first thing that strikes me is the immense heat. The second is the wailing, the infinite amount of pain. A man walks by, leading a camel. I quickly roll the rug up. “Where am I?” I ask in Arabic, a language that I learned from my now-dead Lebanese grandfather.

The man looks at me, puzzled. “You are in Darfur, lady. You might be wanting to go now…they are coming.…” The man picks up his pace and strides off, and my mind is left with questions. Who are they, and why should I fear them? I begin to walk in the direction of the wailing.

A woman clutches her dead baby. I kneel and say, “Who did this to you, ma’am?”

She gulps several times. “The…the soldiers. They killed my baby. They stole my life from me.” All is silent for a moment, like the ocean before a wave. The lady looks at her baby and erupts. “WHY?” she yells, beating her hands upon her face and tearing out her hair. “WHY?”

I continue on, afraid to face the all-consuming blackness that the woman is forced to prematurely face. I meet a man prostrate on the ground, vast weeps and screams finding their way out of his mouth only to be muted by the sand. I kneel down once again. “What is wrong?” I ask him.

The man faces me, his black eyes filled with pain.”They stole my cattle. They took my only son.” Knowing that no consolation on my part could make him feel any better, he heaves himself off the ground and walks away, his shoulders shaking.

There is a tent in the distance. A man in a soldier’s uniform walks put, zipping up his pants. A woman cries softly in the tent. I clench my teeth in pure hatred. This is them. This is the one who killed the woman’s baby. What harm did the child ever do? What gain was there in slaughtering an infant? This is the one who took the man’s cattle and took his son. But why? Why these senseless acts of irrational hatred?

“Who are you?” the man asks, his voice cultured and sophisticated. 

I take a moment before answering. “I am a human being, so much more than you shall ever be. What brought you to this madness?”

The man scoffs. “You are too young to understand the complex workings of the government.” The woman’s cries get louder. “SHUT UP!” he yells and throws his knife inside the tent. A deafening thud and a few weak whimpers follow before they cease completely. 

I look at the man one last time. “Complex indeed.”

I run away, for I have seen enough.

“Carpet, take me home.”

The sun still shines, mocking my pain. What type of insanity could bring about these acts of madness? After all, we are…we are all made out of the same thing. Ashes to ashes.

And dust…to dust.

Stupid Death

"stupid death."

Stupid death. A term for a death that didn't need to happen, that could have easily been avoided. In the case of Haiti, a death that could have easily been avoided if there was enough food, medicine, or care.

"Stupid death."

A death that could have been avoided.

An ode to a girl who died a stupid death:

A girl was stuck under rubble for forty-eight hours since the quake. When a group of rescuers found her, she was beyond thirsty and hungry. Her right leg was entirely pinned underneath her.

The team of rescuers took her to a hospital, only to learn that they were lacking supplies to take her of her. They reccomended her to another hospital some miles away.

She died on the way there.

Her last words were, "Mama, don't let me die."

Her uncle decided not to tell her mother yet, knowing that she would go insane from the grief.

Ode to Haiti

Three days ago an earthquake struck Haiti, the poorest nation in the western hemisphere. Many are approximating that nearly 100,000 died. 100,000 human beings.

If these numbers are correct, that is about 1.2% of the population. 1.2 percent seems like a small number, but with a country with a population of about 8,326,000, it is a huge amount. 

Please take a moment to think about that. It could have been your mother or father or sibling or aunts or uncles. It could have been your best friend. It could have been or best friend or your partner or children.

 It could have been you.

The thousands of people injured in Haiti are largely without doctors, medicine, food, water, shelter, and so many other basic necessities.

100,000 human beings.

Living

Levon pushed open the door that read Takeo Saito-Journalist. He walked slowly into the chair opposite the big, oak desk. He took his time, for he did not want to seem eager or excited to be delivering sad news. Takeo looked up, his thin glasses resting precariously on his nose. He pulled his hands away from the typewriter where his newest article rested.

“Hey! Levon! What’s up?” Levon’s solemn expression caused Takeo’s grin to slowly move downwards, finally dissipating into a frown. “What happened?”

Levon waited a moment before answering. “Hoshi…Hoshi died in a car crash.”

Takeo slowly lowered his head to his desk, as his world fell apart around him.

****

Hoshi had loved her car. It was a McGiven’s, that her wealthy parents had given to her for her sixteenth birthday. It had lasted through two graduations, an engagement, a marriage, and a miscarriage.

Takeo, on leave from his job and lacking anything to do, went to the library.

****

“Hello, Takeo. How are you?” The librarian, a plumpish woman in her late forties, looked up from her book, her eyes peering through that precariously thin line between the top of her glasses and her thick eyebrows. “Oh, that’s right. I heard about your wife. I’m so sorry…”

Takeo waved away the condolences with his hand and went to the death registers.

Margaret Smith…aged 25…driving a McGiven’s car…presumed driving while intoxicated …hit from behind…gas tank exploded.

Lindsay …aged sixteen…driving a McGiven’s on the way to her birthday party…made an illegal u-urn and crashed…gas tank exploded…still alive when the paramedics reached her…burned beyond recognition…died soon afterwards.

Hoshi Saito…driving home from her job at the local preschool. A drunk man ran into her car…gas tank exploded…a charred image was found of her slumped against the car door with her hand on the handle.

Takeo reread his wife’s obituary once more and then allowed all of the pieces to click into place as the evidence of his theory overwhelmed him.

****

“Hey, Levon. Do you know who the CEO of McGiven’s Cars is?”

“Yeah, it’s David Amalek. We ran an article a couple months ago about the richest people in the world. He’s number four.”

“Thank you, Levon.”

••••

“Hello, this is McGiven’s Cars.”

“Hello, I would like to schedule an appointment with Mr. Amelek. My name is Takeo Saito, and I’m a journalist with The Times.”

“I see, Mr. Saito. Unfortunately, Mr. Amelek is very busy at the moment. I can schedule an appointment…a month from now?”

“That’s a bit too late for what we have in mind. It will be a very short interview, ma’am. No more than ten minutes. We just want his opinion on something.”

“I see. Well, I can fit you in tomorrow at 3:30.”

“That will be perfect, ma’am. Thank you very much. Goodbye.”

****

The ornate wooden doors stood in front of Takeo. He gulped nervously and tried in vain to loosen his tie. He rubbed the picture of Hoshi in his pocket for good luck and knocked.

“Come in.”

“Hello, sir, I’m Takeo Saito from The Times. I came to ask your opinion on something.”

“Go ahead, Takeo. Ask away.”

Mr. Amelek was a short, Middle-Eastern looking man. He spoke with a faint Armenian accent that some might regard as endearing or grandfatherly. 

Takeo hated it with all of his heart.

“Mr. Amelek, definitive evidence has arisen that your cars’ gas tanks explode in collisions. Countless people have died, people who have had their whole lives ahead of them. I would like to ask if this was sheer stupidity on your part or if there was something more involved. Something like money?”

Mr. Amelek seemed shocked for a fraction of a second, and then his eyes narrowed in something more like fear and hatred. “We manufacture quality cars. Whoever told you this falsehood is clearly a liar.”

“Having said that, sir, how do you explain the countless people dead?”

“Well…well…”

“One more question. How much money did you save?” Takeo stormed out of the room, but instead of leaving, he listened:

“Jones? Hello, it’s Amelek here…we have a problem over here…a Mr. Takeo Saito…yes, he found out…Tonight, hopefully…$200! HIGHWAY ROBBERY!…$120…Good. Thank you, Jones.”

Takeo’s heart thudded like a drumbeat in his chest. He knew what he had to do.

••••

Conclusive evidence has arises that the CEO of McGiven’s Cars, Mr. David Amelek, has omitted a vital part in his cars that keeps the gas tank from exploding in the case of a collision.

The sky weeped as the preacher stood at the head of the coffin. “Takeo Saito was murdered last night in his own home.”

After doing some more research, I have learned that the missing part only costs $0.25. It is my firm belief that McGiven’s Cars knew that the addition of the part would save lives. It is my firm belief that they purposely chose not to include this vital part, in order to save a mere $0.25 per car.

“As many of you might have read this morning, Takeo Saito unearthed corruption and falsehood in McGiven’s Cars. McGiven’s Cars wasn’t happy about this development.”

Yesterday I spoke to Mr. Amelek about this information. After a pause, he denied it, and angrily threw me out of his office, which, I might add, was decorated with several Picassos and one Matisse. After I left, I stayed around a bit longer. I heard him talk on the phone with a man he referred to as Jones. Could he have been referring to Robert Jones, notorious serial killer? Mr. Jones agreed to have me killed for a mere $120. Is this the value of a human life? As I write this article, my every sense is hyper-alert, waiting for that tell tale crash of the window breaking or a door thudding open. My only fear now is that I won’t be able to finish and deliver this article on time.

“As his daring article said, Mr. Saito heard Mr. Amelek sign his own death warrant.”

After doing some more research, I learned that some 500 people died in a McGiven’s car, and more than 400 of them died from a gas tank explosion. My own wife, Hoshi Saito, was among them.

“Mr. Saito went home and wrote his article, published in The Times this morning. He gave it to his friend, Levon, to deliver to the newspaper. That was the last time anyone ever saw him alive. When he was found this morning his throat was slit with a rusty knife, bearing DNA from the infamous serial killer Robert Jones. 

Takeo had a smile on his face. Mr. Takeo Saito will be remembered as a brave and honorable individual who dared to question an event which will turn into one of the biggest corruptions of our decade. We will all miss him dearly.”

I have proven McGiven’s Car’s to be run by a money hungry man who has no morals or ethics. As a last word, I would like to question Mr. Amelek directly. How much money is a human life worth?

Author’s Note--

This short story is based on a true story regarding the Ford Pinto Case. In this case, the car company Ford chose to remove the vital $0.25 piece that would protect the gas tank from exploding in case of a collision.

Several people who had never heard about the actual occurrence thought that my story was unbelievable. After all, which company would withhold an incredibly cheap part that would save lives?

It is my belief that this story reflects upon one of the lowest points in human history. It is my belief that this story shows how low a human being can go. 

Is a human life worth $0.25?