BREAK THE WORLD

Sometimes, I wanna break the world

like the way you broke my heart.

Sometimes, it feels like everything's broken,

because we're now apart.

Time has passed, but the wounds still fresh,

scraped raw by the lonely nights.

When I can't help but remember the good times,

before all we did was fight.

Sometimes, I wanna break the world

like the way you broke my heart.

Sometimes, it feels like everything's broken,

because we're now apart.

My life's a picture, a frozen photo,

just fading in the sun.

I can't move forward, I'm losing ground,

even though I know we're done.

Sometimes, I wanna break the world,

like the way you broke my heart.

Sometimes, it feels like everything's broken,

because we're now apart.

Now the light is dying as the memories fade.

Is that kind? Or is it cruel?

Did you ever love me? Were we ever real?

Or was I just your fool?

Sometimes, I wanna break the world,

like the way you broke my heart.

Sometimes, it feels like everything's broken,

because we're now apart.

Sometimes, it feels like everything's broken,

because we're now apart.

Writing is Hard

 Tales from the Red did not go as I planned.

When I first came up with the idea for the stories, the setting was much bleaker.  The Red is a virus, similar to our own Covid-19, but with a 98% mortality rate and only a 2% survival rate. The world I envisioned was one where many people were housebound, working at home, having items delivered from stores and warehouses. Its a world where the police patrol the streets using remote controlled drones. Where people are desperate for contact beyond their bubbles, but are too afraid to reach out and make those contacts in the current situation.

That wasn't conveyed in the stories. They turned into a trio of interconnected personal pieces focusing on a group of people: friends, lovers, estranged family. Just people watching their world tilt and flay from the relative, presumed safety of their homes, scattered across the nation.

There might be pathos there, but it's also a bit dull.  And that's all on me. 

I'm not happy with Tales from the Red. I've thought about continuing the stories, and going darker and bloodier, but I don't really want to write horror stories. The real world has enough horrors in it, the world of fiction doesn't need to add to that, in my personal opinion.

But I wanted to give an idea as to what I was aiming for with the pieces. And how I feel like I've missed the mark.

Like the title of this post reads, 'Writing is hard.'

Tales from the Red: Evening

Boston was on fire. There were riots in New York. A peaceful protest outside the White House had exploded into violence.

Branson watched the newscast until he couldn't take it any more. He switched off the television and wandered outside, onto the small balcony of his small apartment. The night air was muggy and still. He leaned against the iron railing and stared into the east, toward the distant city of Washington.

There was a sunrise curfew in effect, but his neighbors didn't seem to care. They were gathered around one of the apartment complex's picnic tables, staring into their phones. Young people without masks, absurdly confident that they wouldn't catch the red.

Idiots, thought Branson. Young people didn't think they would get it and old people didn't believe it was real. How their stupidity could continue to thrive in the reality of thirty-two million deaths was beyond him.

Sometimes, the cynic in Branson made him wish ill on the young and the old. Sometimes, he wished they would get the red. It was a kill 'em all and let God sort 'em out mindset that was starting to feel less shameful and more pragmatic.

He lit a cigarette and stood there, in the dark, smoking. A police drone buzzed down the street and the youths below him scattered like leaves in the wind. Fines for public gatherings were up to a thousand dollars per violator.

As he watched the youth scatter, Branson wondered.  How many of the rioters and protesters would catch the red? How many of them would be asymptomatic? How many would spread the damn plague before succumbing to it themselves, coughing out their lives in some FEMA tent hospital?

He wondered if Annie was okay. Branson hadn't thought of his sister in ages. Not since she'd walked out on the family, after mom's funeral. He'd heard from friends of friends that she was living in the Midwest. Indiana? Idaho? He didn't remember.

Maybe I aught to look her up, thought Branson. 

She was the only family he had left. Mom was dead. Dad was dead. The world was undergoing a kind of slow motion apocalypse. It might be a good thing to reconnect with Annie, to let bygones be bygones and make some peace.

He went inside and pulled out his laptop. One Facebook search later and he was staring at his sister's face. Older. More weatherbeaten. But definitely Annie.

Shit, thought Branson. When did we all get so old?

Annie looked like their dad. Same wide forehead. Same toothy grin.

"Jesus," Branson muttered. "Am I really gonna do this?"

His fingers floated above the keyboard. 

Fuck it, he thought, and sent her a friend request. He'd made the first step. It was up to Annie to make the second. And if she didn't? Well, then, it probably wasn't meant to happen.

He shut off the laptop and sat on his couch. After a moment, he flicked on the television, his stomach full of nervous butterflies.

Tales from the Red: Afternoon

             "Did you see the news?"

            Annie looked up from the kitchen counter and the magazine she'd been reading. Her roommate, Jen, had come out of her bedroom.

            "Nope," said Annie. She glanced down at an article, something about how the Red was being politicized by the Demorats and Republicraps.

            "There's riots on the East Coast," said Jen, practically bouncing with ghoulish excitement. "They've called out the National Guard in New York and Massachusetts."

            "It's probably fake news," said Annie, giving a careless shrug.

            "Don't you have family in Boston?" asked Jen.

            "None I give a damn about."

            Annie's disinterest seemed to deflate Jen's mood. She sighed and flopped down on their threadbare couch. She picked up the television remote and flipped through the channels until she came to one of the newscasts.

            "Don't," said Annie. "Please. I am so sick of the news."

            "There might be some news about a vaccine," said Jen, teasingly. "I read Dolly Parton just donated a million bucks towards research."

            "Like the government's not already pouring money into research?"

            "Please." Jen waved a hand, dismissively. "Like politicians give a damn about the people dying."

            "They better. It's mostly old people. By the time the Red's through, the whole political landscape in the country could change."

            "I doubt it," said Jen. "People are stupid. They'll keep voting for the same stupid ass parties they've always voted for."

            "Yeah, but the people they're gonna be voting for will be different," said Annie. "How many senators and congressmen have died from the Red? All those old farts who refused to wear a mask or social distance are toes up in the grave. And it was mostly Republicraps."

            "So you think the Democrats are gonna come into power?"

            "I don't know," said Annie. "And I don't really care. I just want the fucking plague to be over with already. I want a week to go by without hearing that someone I know either has the Red or has died from it. And I want you to turn off the fucking news because if you don't I'm going to smash the fucking t.v., Jennifer."

            Annie's flat, cold delivery of the last few lines made Jen stare at her. She picked up the remote and switched to some telenovela.

            "Christ. Who pissed in your Wheaties?"

            "Look, it's just been a rough morning. Okay? I heard they've got rolling blackouts in California and I can't get in touch with Evita and I'm worried. Okay?"

            "It's cool," said Jen. "I'm sorry," she added, almost as an afterthought. "I'm sure Evita's fine. She's tough as leather."

            "Yeah, probably, but I'm still worried. What if there're riots on the West Coast? People are losing their shit, Jen."

            "It'll be okay. Cali people are more laid back than those numbnuts in the Northeast. They'll probably just sit back and smoke a joint or something."

            Annie snorted.  "Can you picture Evita sparking up a joint?"

            "No," admitted Jen. "I figured she'd be more into coke."

            Annie laughed.

Tales from the Red: Morning

            Evita Gerard woke to a hot, dark bedroom. The power had gone out. Again. She picked up her phone and glanced at the screen. Almost ten in the morning.

            She threw back the sheets and climbed out of bed. Her joints cracked and ached. She twisted her torso, right and left, then did a series of gentle knee-bends before walking to the bedroom window and opening the heavy curtains. Bright, hot sunlight flooded into the room, temporarily dazzling Evita.

            Outside the window, Walden Street was quiet and still. As Evita watched, a police drone buzzed down the street. When they'd first started deploying the drones, a few months back, they had been an odd sight. Now, they were just part of the new reality.

            Evita walked downstairs, not bothering to get dressed. What was the point? She was stuck at home, unable to work, until the power was fixed. The blackouts were becoming more common as the summer went on and housebound power consumption skyrocketed.

            Evita grabbed a bottle of KoffiWater from the fridge and stepped outside, onto her deck. She checked her phone for signal, but had no reception. The towers were down, which suggested the blackout was widespread. She could hear Mr. Yugo's generator purring softly down the street, and, once again, Evita thought about buying one of her own. Or maybe getting some solar panels. Lots of people were getting solar these days.

            She leaned against the deck railing and sipped her KoffiWater.

            "Hey, Vita."

            Wincing, Evita turned and saw her next door neighbor, Janice, standing on her own deck. They were separated by small yards and a head high wooden fence, but Janice had the kind of voice that carried.  She was dressed, as always, in gray slacks and a white blouse, as if she was about to rush out the door to work.

            "Good morning, Janice."

            "Did you hear about the Muncies?"

            Damnit, thought Evita. "No. What about them?"

            "They died," said Janice. "DOH carted them off this morning."

            "Was it the red?" asked Evita.

            "I think so. DOH has the whole house taped up."

            "Damn."

            "I know," said Janice. "It's so sad." Sympathy expressed, she segued into irritation. "Evelynn borrowed some Christmas decorations from me last year. How am I going to get them back?"

            "Do you really want them back?" asked Evita.

            "They were nice."

            "Just go online and buy some nice, new ones. Treat yourself, Jan."

            The light above her back door bloomed into life and Evita gave a quiet sigh of relief.

            "The power's back on," she called to her neighbor. "I've gotta go charge up my phone. See you later, Jan."

            She stepped inside before her neighbor could respond. Her phone trilled. Evita glanced down, saw a text from the government. Given the stress on the state's power grid, they were instigating rolling blackouts after sunset. More info would follow.

            Fuck, thought Evita and made a mental note to call Jerry Yugo and find out where he had bought his generator.