Three Minute Fiction--Waiting in the Emergency Room

For the record...this short story is 599 words long.

“Lock the doors. We’ll wait in the emergency room until the helicopters arrive. It’s not safe out there.” I knew it wasn’t safe here either, but it was the best we could do. There was certainly enough food and water for the twenty doctors, nurses and researchers who had survived, in addition to state-of-the-art medical equipment that might be needed very shortly.

The Air Force had said they could get a helicopter to our location within a week. I was skeptical. The country was devastated. The military had enough troubles maintaining order in the Green Zone. They wouldn’t be able to spare anything to make a foray into the Red Zone, even for the most skilled medical researchers in the Midwest. We couldn’t rely on them. We could only rely on ourselves. And ourselves alone couldn’t make it more than a couple weeks. But nevertheless we hunkered down and waited for rescue.

We rationed food and water and shored up our defenses. But most of our time was spent waiting in the emergency room. It was the safest place in the building. And so we waited in the emergency room for our rescuers to arrive. None of us wanted to consider the painful death that would await us if they didn’t reach us in time.

Five days into our ordeal, the security guard picked something up on the cameras. We drew our weapons, put on our protective gear, and ventured outside to the barricaded gate. We were stunned by the sight that greeted us: At least half a dozen police vehicles, all packed full of officers and civilians, all wearing rudimentary masks.

We let them inside to the decontamination room we had set up, hoping against hope for survivors. As the other doctors began testing them, I returned to wait in the emergency room.

It took a full day and a half for the tests to come back on the survivors. They were all negative. The room erupted into cheers. We were now fifty-three in strength, including twelve heavily armed cops. I radioed the Air Force informing them of our new members.

“Hospital to Andrews AFB, do you copy?”

“Copy”
“Be advised Hospital has acquired thirty-three new members. All have tested negative. Members include twelve police officers. Requesting additional evacuation helicopters.”

“10-4, additional helicopter dispatched.  Andrews AFB over.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “Hospital to Andrews AFB, requesting elaboration.”

Silence.

“Hospital to Andrews AFB.”

Silence.

I returned to the emergency room where our group was waiting. I didn’t say anything. False hope would have been worse than no hope. Andrews AFB was hours from here. Those hours felt like an eternity. Finally, just as the Sun went down on another post-apocalyptic day, the radio that had given us so much hope crackled to life.

“Andrews AFB to Hospital.”

“Hospital.”
“Be advised that Chinook 1 and 2 will be approaching your position shortly. Switch to secondary frequency to contact them.”

“10-4.” I couldn’t believe our luck. After waiting in the emergency room of our hospital for almost a week, the Air Force had sent not one but two helicopters to rescue us.

“Chinook 1 to Hospital.”

“Hospital.”
“Chinook 1 proceeding to land on helipad.”

“10-4.”
The thirty-three policemen and civilians went on Chinook 1. We waited behind for Chinook 2. It followed right behind Chinook 1. We boarded it and left the city of death behind. We were saved from imminent death, but our work as medical researchers was just beginning. There was a human race to save from itself. Failure was not an option. We were the last hope.

On The Run

Author's Note: The title is a work in progress, as is the story in general. To consider this complete would be a major error. The ending will certainly receive more attention in the future.

He only knew one life—the life of a man who did not exist. He was unassuming, average in both height and weight. In the past, he was handsome. He was the type of man that everyone saw but no one remembered. The only remarkable feature about him was the scar; the result of the day that changed his life forever. To him that day was his first birthday, even though he was already an adult. It was the irreversible end of his old life, and the beginning of a new life. On that day, he killed a man for the first time in his life.

            Perhaps he was justified. He certainly thought so. Perhaps he could have been acquitted in a court of law. He, as a lawyer, knew that. Perhaps he could have lived a peaceful life. Perhaps he could have had friends and a family. But this man did not deal in perhaps. He dealt in certainty. Admitting to his crime and attempting to justify it would create uncertainty. So he avoided it. And so he ran. He ran and he hid. Early on, thousands of people thought they saw him. The few that actually saw them were lost in the sea of those who didn’t. And so he left the only country he had ever called home under cover of darkness. A while later, a different man turned up in a port half a world away and bought a house in the old city.

            The day he left was forty years ago. The day he killed was forty years and one day ago. He remembered every moment—the fight, the knife, the gun, the chase, even the other man’s last words, fighting even with his final breath. He didn’t remember anyone else from before then. Not his mother, or his father, or any of his friends. He couldn’t. If he did, he would want to return. If he were to return he would be caught. His flight from the law would be proof of his guilt. He would face a jury, a judge, and finally a needle.

And so as he flew miles above the ground, he felt cut off from everyone below. He flew over a port that he had docked in forty years ago. He flew over an ocean he had sailed across forty years ago. It was just him and a metal beast and the past that he could never outrun. He was returning home.

            Since that day forty years ago he had been officially dead. A murderer on the run brought down by either a storm or the wrath of God, depending on which death one preferred. He preferred the wrath of a God he didn’t believe in to an unlucky accident. He had seen the certificates. He had seen his own grave. And he knew that his life had changed forever, as if a part of him had been buried below the earth for eternity.

            The man he became was certainly still alive. The port where he landed was not where people expected dead men’s bodies to wash up alive. That port was in a country where a man with money could easily double or triple his fortune through legitimate business. The man’s goal was not his own wealth. And so within a decade he became known as the philanthropist of the port. In spite of his best efforts, he gained publicity. Not fame, but publicity. Enough publicity that one man recognized him. And so he took his money and his boat and moved on to another port. He became a new man again. He built another career but was more careful this time—more careful to remain hidden. And so he remained in the background of the port, helping it discreetly as opposed to publicly. Operating in the shadows as he was used to.

            And so he lived for thirty years in that port. He became wealthy in that port. He grew old in that port. He wasn’t happy, but he was content. He told himself a dead man could ask for nothing more.

            But that was not enough for eternity. Contentedness does not cure cancer. Nothing does. And so the doctor told him he had six months. One hundred and eighty days. Perhaps a month less, perhaps a month more.

            He had never been a religious man. After the diagnosis, he went to church for the first time in forty years. It was Ash Wednesday.

            “Remember, man, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return.” Soon he would become dust. No one remembers dust. Dust cannot be content. Dust cannot confess to a crime from long ago. Dust cannot apologize for what it has done, for what it has failed to do, through its most grievous fault.

            He prayed constantly for some time. Hours blurred into days, days into weeks. And weeks into month. The clock ticked on.

And so he returned home for the last time. The plane landed. His plane. The plane he had bought with the money he made for himself while on the run. He got off the plane. He walked across the tarmac. The cold, black asphalt on a rainy winter evening just as it was on that day so long ago. He walked. The car was there, just as it should have been. He opened the door. He drove. He drove the reverse of the path he took on that fateful day so long ago. He could still see the blood and feel the searing pain on his face. He could still see the body lying slumped over and the slowly growing pool of blood. He felt sick. For the first time in his life he appreciated what he had done. He had sinned; he had ended a life. He could not atone for his actions. But yet he tried. The door of the police station opened before him. He saw the man he was looking for immediately. The detective that had changed so much in appearance, but yet was still the same man as when he failed to find the man that now stood before him. Stood before him surrendering to the uncertainty of his fate but the certainty of his impending death.      

A Principal Principle

I'm not going to lie to you...I think honesty is an important principle to keep. When someone says "I'm not going to lie to you," I really hope they don't lie to me. Before you lie, think about how much you like being lied to. Then don't lie.

It's important to be honest both in words and deeds. If one is dishonest, then people will distrust them. Distrust leads to resentment, anger, and a general lack of amicability. George Washington said that he "[could] not tell a lie." Yet politicians today seem to be little more than professional liars. When people wonder why everyone hates politicians so much, I don't. It's simply because they lie, or distort truth so greatly that only their supporters think they aren't lying. This leads to distrust between people and politicians, and between the left and the right. For decades politicians were able to resolve their differences diplomatically. Now they resort to shouting "you lie!" at the other side.

We haven't as of yet discussed honesty as it relates to The Road. That doesn't mean it's not relevant or important. Note that the man is at times dishonest to the boy regarding their position. He does that likely because he thinks it will protect the boy, but it is really just deceiving him unnecessarily. At other times, he is very honest. Does he value honesty? Or is that a part of civilization that went down with society?

I suppose I should add the following: The origins of principles are obscure--people tend not to invent them. I inherited this principle from my father. There's no questioning, he is a very honest man and he taught me honesty from a young age. And I thank him for that. (Full disclosure: Both my dad's father and grandfather were politicians...hopefully they were honest ones.)

I'm thankful for a classmate...

I'd like to start out by saying that I'm very thankful for this whole class and all of my peers in it. It's been a fun first three months of the year.

But I am especially thankful for one of my classmates, and that is Jennifer Pang. She has been a great peer editor for all of my writing throughout the year, and while I don't always agree with what she says, I think she has helped my work develop. I thank her for all of her comments, suggestions and ideas. They've really been a big help. Additionally, she is a great writer herself. I have never struggled to learn things from her writing.

She is also a great group member. She makes group works more fun and always shares great insights on the readings we're discussing. It has been a lot of fun to work with Jennifer throughout the year in English II.

We don't share any other classes, but we do see each other on the math team. Having her on the math team is a lot of fun. She brings a lot of energy to the team and is always ready with a joke.

Finally, it's nice to have someone like Jennifer who will always remind me what our English homework was if I happen to forget.

Thanks Jennifer!

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Song of Myself

I celebrate myself, and sing myself, despite my lack of vocal talent.
Perhaps writing a song would be a better idea than singing one.
For every atom belonging to me cannot sing.

I loaf and invite my soul, at least for the first part of this long weekend.
I lean and loaf my soul at ease, putting this blog off until now.
School in abeyance, but work continuing.
Ceasing not until death.

Or perhaps until summer vacation.
Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself.
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

The last scud of the day brings snow.
It flings its whiteness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd city,
It coaxes me to the indoors.

I stop somewhere with this parody (I suppose you could call it a parody. I don't know. What would you call it? (Comment honestly, everyone else hears you, and I check only a bit longer.)), so I might as well stop here.

Anyways...I have absolutely no clue what to write about, hence my interlude.
I celebrate myself for having straight A's in the first quarter, I suppose? And having a good first quarter of math team? And not falling too horribly behind on work (for the most part)?

I celebrate myself for accidentally freezing up my computer right now. Thankfully I didn't lose my work (save draft is your friend, people). I celebrate myself for remembering to save draft.

I celebrate myself for being one of the first in our class to finish this blog. So if it's not following the requirements, sorry.

And if this blog doesn't make any sense, that's fine. I too am untranslatable. You will hardly know what I mean (because I barely do), but I shall be good health to you nevertheless. Or hopefully at least a good read.
(But seriously, if this doesn't make any sense, check out the excerpt from Song of Myself. I celebrate myself for being able to blend that into this blog.)

Poe

Edgar Allen Poe was one of the great early American authors and one of the best examples of a Romantic. In all of his works, the "5 I's" are clearly evident, and that is why I like Poe's works.

The first I is imagination. I think that it's nice to see some more abstract and imaginative works rather than something as rigid as what was found in literature of the Age of Reason. Ligeia is an example of great use of imagination. While some may find it "weird," I just found it very interesting how Poe created an atmosphere and environment in his writing.

The second I is intuition. Poe's writing tended to be based off of feelings and was rather spontaneous, just as was expressed in the Wordsworth quote that called Romantic writing a "spontaneous overflow of powerful feeling." The emotions Poe expressed were very powerful indeed--the depression in the House of Usher, the remembrance of the lost Lenore in The Raven, among many others. 

Idealism is the third I. Poe seems to be an avid supporter of idealism, most clearly in The Fall of the House of Usher. That book uses an imaginative setting to convey the idea that the artistic elite will fall and that the cracks in the aristocracy are in the foundation and cannot be ignored.

Inspiration is the 4th I. Poe's writings were clearly inspired by nature and the natural world. The setting of the House of Usher makes the natural elements (such as the tarn) around it play a major role. Additionally, Poe uses the Raven to express a point, which shows he idea that nature is alive and has supernatural powers.

The final I is Individualism, or perhaps just "I." Poe emphasizes the individual by limiting the number of characters, making each one more important and allowing him to develop them further, giving them each their own individual voice. Additionally, there is no omniscient narrator--but rather an individual voice.

Will there be another writer whose works express these 5 I's as well as Poe?

Quoth the Raven--Nevermore.

What is an American?

               As the most powerful country in the world, you would think there would be a uniform definition of an American. But I don’t believe there is. I don’t believe there ever will be. I don’t believe there ever should be. “American” is not a race. It is not a religion. It is not a uniform culture. But rather, I feel that it’s an ideal. Perhaps it’s even an ideology.

               America has always been a nation of immigrants—the Native Americans—the “original” Americans—make up only a tiny, but still vibrant, part of our country today. We are made up of hundreds of different ethnic groups from all inhabited continents and most every country on Earth. That is why it’s my firm belief that there is no one American race and no one American culture. Each new wave of immigrants adds its own ideas, its own traditions, and its own culture to the American culture. “American” is also not a religion. One of the greatest achievements of our country is the religious freedom we practice. While we are not perfect, as a whole we allow people of numerous religions to practice their beliefs without interruption. Clearly, there is no single image of an “American.”

               So, then, what is an American? While we do not have a single culture, there are things that tie us all together. We believe that all men are created equal and are endowed to certain unalienable rights such as life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The idea of individual freedoms is the source of what makes America a great country. All of our past mistakes have been from giving too few freedoms (or denying certain groups freedoms) rather than giving too many freedoms. One of the basic tenets of America is freedom, and so anyone who does not respect another group’s freedoms cannot call themselves American.

               One final thing that ties all Americans together is the hope of a better life. Most immigrants coming to America hoped for a better life—to be able to live in prosperity in their new home. While many worked hard and failed to find prosperity, the idea still stuck. I believe the hope that you can give your children a better life than you yourself had is a basic part of what it means to be an American.