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Colorless; or, What I Talk About When I Talk About Dying
Topic Started: Mar 26 2017, 12:27 PM (234 Views)
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The evening sun, setting over the desert, cast long, dark shadows as it passed between the trees. The cars parked on the side of the street shimmered in the light, reflections bouncing off and cascading through the windows of houses made silent by absence and mourning. Somewhere nearby, on a neighboring street, someone yelled, in pain. Whatever the cause of their pain, it was enough to get them to start shouting expletives at the top of their lungs. All at once the tranquility of the evening disappeared, shuffled to the side and swept under the rug, as if it had never been there in the first place. Nothing to see here.

The front door opened, and out stepped a young man holding two glasses of lemonade. He walked over and sat down in a lawn chair, placing both glasses on the wooden table - its stature making it more like a step stool - and sighing. Again, from a couple of streets over, the man shouted, this time in harsher language, and the sound of a door being slammed resounded through the neighborhood.

Charlie picked up his glass and took a sip. His lips puckered as he set the glass down.

"Needs more sugar."

The girl curled up in the chair next to him reached out an arm and took her own glass, gulping down half of her lemonade. Charlie stared at her, a look of confusion on his face, wondering how she could stand to drink something so sour. She flicked her eyes up at him, meeting his gaze for a moment. Then, she drank the rest of the glass, and, leaning across to the table, slid it over to Charlie's own drink.

"I'll take yours, if y'don't want it," Marie said. Charlie shook his head.

"I'll just go inside," he explained, "To put some more sugar in."


Charlie went back inside with his drink, leaving Marie alone on the porch. A light breeze blew through her hair as she struggled to stay awake. The past few nights had been spent sleepless, staring at a screen, constantly on edge. Her father had told her not to watch the broadcast, on the first day. The second day, early in the morning, he had stormed out of his room, the sound of the door hitting the wall sending shock waves through the house. Marie had been watching television in the living room, eating toaster waffles.

"I can't do it," her father had said, trembling as he put on his coat (outside, a warm summer day) and opened the door, "I can't. I just can't, see? You can't fault me for trying."

Later that day, he checked himself into the hospital. For his own safety, the nurse said, as Marie sat in the waiting room to see if he was feeling up to seeing her. A small middle aged Asian woman. She asked Marie if there were any other guardians or people that could take of her, living nearby, anywhere, really.

Marie thought for a moment. Then, they called her eldest brother to tell him what had happened. He already knew about the game, and was coincidentally on his way to Kingman to be with the rest of the family, to support. The only time he'd come home in around six years, and it was because someone had - essentially - died. He told the nurse that he'd be at the hospital in a few hours. It took him four hours and 31 minutes - there wasn't much else to do in the waiting room except count the minutes ticking by - for him to arrive. The first thing he did when he entered the room was apologize for being late. He had made extra emphasis on slowness in order to drive safely, which cost him a bit of time.

In all honesty, Marie was surprised that he had gotten his license at all.

Before she left the hospital, Charlie had to fill out some paperwork that Marie wasn't allowed to see. She stayed in the waiting room with the nurse.

"This usually isn't what I do," the nurse said, breaking the awkward silence, "But there have been much cases like this recently, and I had to transfer over."

"What do you usually do?" Marie asked.

"Nursing assistant."


The two sat in silence for some more time.

"My daughter is on that island."

Marie was too busy looking at the floor to listen.

"Her father has taken a week off of work to be home and watch. He says she is safe. I cannot look."

The dust on the floor was very pretty, as were the colors and tiles and the tear stains rapidly appearing on them.

"I..." the nurse said, and then she closed her mouth, unsure how to express her feelings in English - or in Chinese, or in any language really - and the room was quiet again.

Charlie drove her home later. He had a lot of suitcases in the trunk, as if he was going to be staying for a while. Marie could hear him breathing heavily when he walked up the steps to his room. She understood. It was going to be hard for both of them.

The door swung open again. Charlie had a new glass of lemonade in his hand. Wordlessly, he sat down.

"He's dead," Marie said, blinking her eyes a bit.

Charlie was silent.

"I saw it, earlier today," she continued, "And I'm not going to see it ever again."

There were no tears. The two of them were used to this by now. Their father would have to stay in the hospital for a little bit longer, of course, and he probably still wouldn't be able to take the news well, but as for the two on the porch, they'd be fine. They knew it, deep in their souls. To them, he'd already been dead, and it was just a matter of time before the world realized and moved to correct its accounting mistake. That's what he was, now, a name on a form marked incorrectly. A pen stroke, and he was corrected.

They did a lot more looking at the floor that evening. Later, the man came back outside, hit some things with a hammer, swore a bit more, and hit more things with a hammer. Marie could hear him through the open window as she lay on the floor, her gaze lost in the ceiling fan.

He had a lot to say, it turned out.
~~~~~ "We were wrecks before we crashed into each other."




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James never came back home.

That wasn't particularly surprising, given that the last thing he had said to his father was "I hope you die jumping off your ego and landing on your I.Q," an insult that wasn't funny then and still isn't now given the fact that Marie's father was a man without an ego and with I.Q to spare, but it still cut deep. Deeper than she thought. It had been so long since she'd seen him, she was almost worried about how he was doing. Charlie told her that he was probably in jail somewhere, busted for dealing drugs, but Marie didn't like that thought. She preferred to think he found a way to turn his life around and had just forgotten about them. In her mind, James had a beautiful wife and a young baby boy, living in the suburbs of a big city with all they ever need within arm's reach.

Still, he never came back.

Charlie played Super Smash Brothers Melee with her one night. "It's been a while since I picked up one of these," he said, holding up his controller, "I forgot just how much weight it has." Marie smirked, and navigated her way through the game's menus at lightning speed. Her brother didn't notice - he was too busy figuring out how to put his hands on the controller so that he could reach every button. Marie gave him a light tap on the shoulder, looking at his face illuminated by the pale glow of the television in the dark. Charlie was starting to grow his goatee into a full beard. She thought it looked rather silly.

With caution, he moved the analog stick all the way to the right from its starting position, holding it between his thumb and his index finger. Quietly, Charlie mouthed the names of all the characters that his cursor glided over, unsure which one to choose. Marie had already made her selection. Even if Kirby was technically the worst character in the game, she liked having the extra jumps. Plus, he was cutesy enough that being defeated by him felt like a solid slap in the face - she'd experienced that firsthand. Many times.

She scrolled through the list of names, looking for her tag in a sea of one to four letter abbreviations and references to in jokes and mishaps lost to time.


Charlie had picked Roy. Marie smirked. He didn't know what he was in for with that character. A neutral special that did 10% damage to the user, fast falling, and a noodle-esque hitbox on his sword; The only people who picked Roy unironically were either new to the game or felt like they had something to prove.

She kept scrolling.


The team flag icon flipped up next to Kirby's character portrait, turning him a deep shade of red. "My bad, didn't know what that did," Charlie said, pressing the button again to turn it off. Marie whistled and rolled her eyes, turning back to the name feed.


Then, she made it to the bottom of the list.

Charlie glanced over at her.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his tone softening.

She stared into the screen.

"Yeah, I'll be just fine."

Marie pressed the A button and the name field dropped away, a red bar telling her to push start striping across the screen. Charlie did the honor, probably accidentally, and the stage select screen came up. The cursor, a silvery clear hockey puck of an icon, slid over to the Random button. Marie sat back on the couch, sinking into herself as the Onett stage loaded into play. The clacking of controllers and clicking of buttons echoed off of the walls of the room, for minutes, minutes stretching into hours, until stars filled the skies and their eyes had gone bloodshot, laughs and laughs spent on polygons dancing on screen in a frenzy of rhythm and balance, all with Marie's character displaying four proud letters above his round head.


They fell asleep with their controllers in their hands, and woke up with the sunbeams the next morning.
~~~~~ "We were wrecks before we crashed into each other."




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Her father came back from the hospital a new man. Whatever had happened in there had changed him on a deep, almost unconscious level. Marie wasn't sure if he was even aware of how different he had become. For one thing, all the lights in the house were always on whenever he was home. No more dust floating around in the air, or dimly sunlit hallways in the middle of the day. Charlie was still around, but spent more time out of the house than before. Avoiding his father, more than likely. Dad seemed to be avoiding him, too: avoiding everyone in the family. He came back home one night with another woman. Never before in Marie's life had her father gone out dating again after her mother died. She took this as a cue to head upstairs to her room, and shut herself up in there until daylight came.

Her dad had regained his confidence in himself. All it took was one more death.

Soon enough, Marie was avoiding him too. She tagged along with Charlie wherever he went - down to the park, to the grocery store, on all errands and excursions - and spent less time at home. Several of her friends from school - those that didn't have siblings who were dead or dying - invited her with them out of town, something that Arthur would never let her say yes to. She was still cautious with where she went, though. Never to Vegas, that was for sure. She did go to Flagstaff once, though, on a college tour with one of her more academic friends. Marie thought the city was beautiful, but strange, because of how nestled away it was.

Marie tried alcohol for the first time at a party, a bottle of disgusting beer that fell to the ground and shattered soon after she took her first sip. She decided it wasn't for her.

Neither was wine. She never really had a taste for grapes.

Eventually, Charlie left, going back out east. He left Marie with one last parting gift, sealed in a white box tied with a red ribbon. When she got back to her room and opened it, she found a picture of the four siblings all together, smiling, that Charlie had held onto during college, and a note telling her to stay strong.

She resolved not to let him down.

And so, the days spun on and on, each one with less color than the last.
~~~~~ "We were wrecks before we crashed into each other."




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To put that color back into her life, she got her hair done in a pixie cut and dyed it neon blue. Arthur would have never let her do something like this, and indeed, it had never occurred to her to do such a thing before his disappearance. Now, though, she wanted to make something clear to herself: the person she was before and the person she was in the process of becoming would not be one and the same except for the body they occupied, and even that was, admittedly, transitory. This was the only major change in her life for some time, until eventually she started the next year of school with a fresh set of worries in her head.

But one summer's day, Marie saw something that gave her pause.

It was a beautiful day like any other, not a cloud in the sky, the sun's white heat beating down heavy on her brow. She was going on a walk, taking any excuse she could to find a way out of the stifling house that she had been planning on leaving for some time, when she decided to take a detour through Liberty Park. She took cover in the shade beneath trees, dodging out of the way of the cameras that childhood had taught her were peeping through the bushes, until eventually she found a tall weeping willow and sat down, out of the way. There, she zoned out, letting the soft breeze wash over her like waves over a sandy shore. All she could do on a day like this was stare into the empty sky until her brain turned to hot fumes.

But then, all of a sudden, something blocked her view of the sun, and she snapped back to attention, pulled out of her hypnagogic (a big word she found peering through her brother's journals, filled with story after story, all beautiful, all worth remembering, stories that he would never be able to share) state through no intent of her own. She stood up and further scrutinized the presence, still close to the sun, twisting and swerving through the air in elegant dives and glides. It looked like a bird to her, at first, but soon enough she was able to tell that that was not the case.

No, the thing flying through the sky was, quite clearly, a kite.

It looked big enough to completely swallow somebody if it fell on them. If it fell on her, she wouldn't even be too concerned; it was so patterned and interesting that it reminded her of a warm hug, or childhood, or something of the sort. Its tails glittered in the sunlight, the colors refracted like stained glass patterns onto the grass. Eventually, whoever was flying it landed it skillfully on a hill, next to a middle aged Asian man in a gray business suit.

Confused, Marie got closer, and realized that the man was holding some kind of device in his hand. Two and two finally made four, and Marie realized that this man was flying the kite. How strange, she thought, I don't exactly have anything against middle aged salary-men who fly kites, but it really is a weird sight to see, especially in the middle of the summer like this, isn't it?

Marie turned around to walk away.

She stepped on a twig that broke beneath her foot.

"Hmm?" the man hummed inquisitively, turning to face her. Marie turned toward him, realizing that it was rude to look as if she was fleeing, and waved a hand sheepishly.

"Were you watching my kite flying?" the man asked, almost too invitingly, "Very pretty thing, right?"

Marie nodded and said, "I was mesmerized by it." The man nodded, and picked it up off of the ground to bring it over to her. She tried to turn down the closer look and guided tour of every kite-flying term there was in the book, but the man insisted. Besides, he was nice enough, and she wasn't doing anything, so what worry was there, right? No worry in exchanging names either, though she couldn't quite figure out how to pronounce his.

At some point, the man started talking about his wife, and his daughter, and how they sounded somewhat alike, and that his wife had left him for some inane reason at some point, moving out to the big city, the city where he used to work, when now he spent his days back home, flying kites, with his daughter, who was, as he said, her age. He sounded like he was hiding something, almost as if he was somewhat mentally unstable, but her own father was somewhat like that. Men who lost women, in her experience, were often hysterical, and didn't listen to reason.

Eventually, after a few jokes and laughs, she felt confident enough to ask the question that had been on her mind from the moment she had seen him and the kite together. She had lost most of her reservations recently, and she knew that she would never know the answer if she didn't ask.

"Sorry if I'm being rude, but...this doesn't exactly seem like a middle-aged man sort of thing, don't you agree? Especially this kind of kite, it looks more like something that would be flown by, well, someone like my age, or like me in particular...you get what I mean?"

The man laughed. "What, just because I'm old doesn't mean I can't fly kites!" Marie laughed along too, before the man began to speak again.

"To tell you the truth," he said nonchalantly, "It's my daughter's, and it's even secondhand for her."

"Where'd she get it?" Marie asked.

"Why don't I introduce you to her?" he said, dropping the control bar to the grass. For a few moments, nothing happened. Marie looked around the park, expecting the man to call out his daughter's name and call her over. Still, nothing. She turned back to the man, and found him gazing off into the park with a smile on his face.

"...Where is she?" Marie asked, the silence stuffing her head full of static, stuff like white cotton balls, keeping her from thinking straight. She felt another wave of sleepiness come over her.

"Shh..." he responded, "Just listen for a moment."

Marie waited and listened with him. One moment became five, and eventually moments became minutes, fully grown, sent off to college by their parents, coming back stretched out and disfigured.

"I give up," she said, throwing her hands up, "I don't understand what it is you're trying to show me."

"I understand," he said, shaking his head, still smiling, "I understand."

Marie took a step backwards from the man as he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted a name into park grounds. Suddenly, a small figure popped up from the grass, waddling over toward him. The little girl hugged his leg affectionately, calling him "papa." This couldn't be his daughter,
right? He said that she was my age, and this girl looks like she's only five years old! If she tried to fly that kite, she'd take off with it!"

Something else stuck out to her; the girl looked nothing like him. He was Asian, she was white. He had black, straight hair, she had blond curls. Marie didn't have anything against interracial couples, but something told her that this wasn't the case. This girl wasn't his, not by flesh and blood.

"This is my daughter, Lili," he said, "Meet Marie. She also likes kites, just like papa, okay?"

"Kites!" Lili said, beaming at her, "Papa loves kites!"

"Kites are cool," Marie said, somewhat unnerved. Then, in a half-whisper, she added, "Didn't you say your daughter was my age?"

"What are you talking about?" he replied with a laugh, "Isn't she silly, Lili? Lili's always been just four years old! Not older, not yet!"

"Silly Marie!" the little girl laughed.

Something was definitely wrong here. Marie was unsure where all the hunches were coming from, but this one was especially strong. It urged her to figure out more about what was happening.

"Okay then, Lili," Marie continued, "Then whose kite is this?"

"Lili's!" the reply came, as emphatic as ever.

"But the kite is too big for you, isn't it?"

"It's not mine! It's Lili's, silly!"

After a while, the man and his daughter left the park, the little girl riding on his shoulders. It reminded Marie of something her father used to do when she was a child, and then something her brother used to do when she was a somewhat older child when her father couldn't muster up the strength to do it anymore. That night, she went home, shut the door, ignored her father's greeting, walked up the stairs and straight to her room, and turned on her computer. With a few clicks around the internet, she found herself staring at something that her eyes couldn't quite believe.

If she - Lili? - was roughly Marie's age, then she'd quite possibly be one of the children that was abducted, what felt like ages ago. Long enough for a man and a woman to get a hasty divorce, or at least separate physically. Long enough for grieving to stop, or start, or never end. Long enough for papers to be filed, and visits made. Long enough for a child to move in with a foster parent.

The night was long enough for her to put the pieces together. The night was long enough for more than a few Google searches.

Lili Williams was among the list of the abducted.

She had looked like her father in almost every way.

Lili was on a charter for the local elementary school.

Lili Williams was replaced.

Marie went to bed knowing that it was entirely likely that she was completely wrong. Even if she was right, or wrong, or somewhere in between, it felt disgusting to intrude so personally into someone's life, to unearth such trauma. How would she have felt if she was a mother in that position, having lost an only daughter to a tragedy so unbearably fantastical that it could be, with god-knows-what, be turned into a bad dream? Would she do the same thing? In all honesty, probably not; she didn't even feel like she was the kind of person to have children in the first place. It was this same kind of morbid curiosity, the desire to know what happened, that fueled the tragedy. If people didn't want to know that, then there would be no point to the whole thing. It was curiosity like this that killed her brother.

And yet, try as she might, she couldn't stop thinking about it.

So she didn't.

She got up out off her bed, walked back over to her computer, opened her browser, and searched further, not about the father and his daughters, but about the tragedy itself, and that oh-so-specific wonder: the wonder of what-had-happened.

When her father found her slumped over her computer the next day, sound asleep, she had two tabs open on her computer: the schedule for the week's train station for departures heading northwest, and discount hotel prices in the rough area of Seattle, Washington. He closed the door, and thought nothing of it, heading downstairs to make himself breakfast and get on with his day.
~~~~~ "We were wrecks before we crashed into each other."




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She had taken up night-walking to pass the time. Her father didn't seem to mind, so long as she came home before midnight. Quickly she realized just how little there was to do, now that Arthur was gone. Maybe it still hadn't really hit her yet, or maybe she was over the worst of it. She couldn't be sure of the answer. Marie didn't like to think about things like that when she went walking. She preferred to absorb the night air, to take in the sparse lights and noises of the outside. A thoughtless, unconscious movement. Even if she would sometimes wander out to the edge of town, her walking route gradually leaning in the direction of "anywhere but here", she would always return on her time, and her father wouldn't take any notice. Occasionally, he'd be asleep already.

One night, while she was walking, she thought she spotted Lili's father, and hastily made to turn the nearest corner. She was content with her contempt.

Arthur's room was just as he had left it, though slightly dustier than it had been before. Marie spent a few hours each weekend sorting through his things, picking through the rubble of his life. Most of the time, she would spend the time in his room reading a few of his favorite books, which he had thoroughly filled with post-it notes and scribbles in the margins. She hadn't exactly realized it before, but her brother had always been somewhat distant, despite how close the two had seemed. Sure, they had spent lots of time together, playing video games and hanging around the house, but these books hinted at something else she had never seen in Arthur. From On the Road, she learned that he had a longing to escape. 1Q84 taught her that he had an odd relationship with women, and the idea of sex. Animal Farm made him seem a bit more childish. Or literary. She had read online that the whole thing was some kind of metaphor for communism, but she shrugged it off. What wasn't, nowadays?

What stuck out to her the most, however, were his own writings.

Hidden in shoe-boxes and paper bags underneath his bed were mountains of journals, each one filled to the brim with stories and poems. It took her a few moments to realize, upon discovering them, what they were, because she had never understood Arthur as a writing person. He seemed all the more passive, someone who reacted to change rather than creating his own. A defender, a protector, not someone to go out of his way to make any moves.

The night she found the notebooks was the first time in weeks that she had allowed herself to cry.

Some of the stories were whimsical. A whole three notebooks were spent on an office-place comedy, about a corporation that only pushes big red buttons all day long, competing with a small start up that pulls levers. Other stories were a bit darker, more realistic. One of the more perplexing was a several page long short story about two young women, college roommates. They quickly become friends, realizing they came from the same area of the northwest, but soon enough their relationship is destroyed when one roommate discovers the other sleeping in, apparently something they never do, and muttering in her sleep suggestively about the other. Marie felt unsure what to make of it, but she appreciated the prose on its own. Arthur, too, seemed to think lowly of it, as it had been at the bottom of the box where Marie found it. Another book, started just days before the abduction, was about a post-apocalyptic society. All modern electronics had been destroyed or made unusable, and humanity was returned to medieval times, abandoned skyscrapers becoming castles and subway systems turning into villages. Not wholly original, but solidly executed.

Slowly, she began to sort the books into three piles. The first was stuff that she was decently sure Arthur really wouldn't have wanted anyone to see. Writings from fifth grade and the like. The second was stuff that he had written that was decent, but more of value to Marie than anyone else. The final pile was the tallest, and the most important.

The final pile was what Marie thought the world ought to read.

Early the next morning, the phone rang. Marie was sitting on the couch, and got up to answer it, but her father already had the receiver in his hand.

"Hello, Phil Bernstein speaking," he answered somewhat loudly. Marie watched as the receiver buzzed in his hand. He nodded, making affirmative noises every now and again. The conversation, if it could be called such, was mostly just this, going on for a good five minutes before Marie turned back to her breakfast and continued to eat. Local news was airing a story about-

"I don't want you calling this house ever again, do you understand? My family wants nothing to do with this, this, project of yours, alright? We're trying to recover, over here. We don't need you digging up what we've all just managed to bury. Goodbye, sir."

Marie spun around in time to watch her father slam the cordless receiver down onto the base unit. He stood for a few moments in front of the phone, with his hands on his hips. He shook his head, and walked towards the front door.

"What was that about?" Marie asked.

"Some bozo wants to do some documentary feature, or something," he explained, unlocking the door, "about the kids." He stepped outside onto the porch, then turned back around and walked through the front door again. "I'm going to the store to get some food. Don't pick up that phone if it starts ringing again if I'm not home, alright?"


With that, he shut the door. Marie got up and locked it, watching out the window as he drove away in the minivan. For some time, she stood in silence, gazing out the window.

Then, her eyes turned back towards the phone. She walked over and picked up the receiver, scrolled through the caller I.D. list, and found the number.

Michael Shelley.

Without a second thought, she pressed the call button, and waited for him to pick up the phone.
~~~~~ "We were wrecks before we crashed into each other."




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Marie sat on the floor and flipped through one of the more beat-up journals in the dustiest shoe-box underneath the bed. It looked to her like one of the first drafts for the Push-Button story, written while Arthur was still a sixth grader. Was it seventh? The journal's date was all smudgy, and she couldn't really tell. Regardless, she rifled through the book until she found a passage that caught her eye. Full of letters spilling out of their lines and, occasionally, drawings in the margins, the page was one of the hardest to read in the entire collection. It didn't help that the fan was blowing the pages all around, either. She turned it off with her foot, unplugging the power cord with her toes. The breeze flowing between the air conditioner and the space in the window that it didn't quite fit would be cool enough for her to focus on the reading without starting to sweat.

"Let's see, here..."

Her eyes scanned the passage.

Then, they scanned the passage once more.

For a few moments, she stared at the page dumbfounded. The short snippet was, put plainly, a mess. With a sigh, she slid the notebook away from her and shut the lid of the box, shaking her head and sucking her teeth. There were probably better ways to pass the time while she was waiting than to summon ghosts. Arthur probably hid all of these things for a reason, anyway. Not just because of shyness, but possibly also out of shame. Marie didn't think she could find it in herself to blame her brother, but she couldn't exactly excuse him for making her read this, either. She gave the rug a playful punch in the arm in his stead.

Then, she stood up and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

The notebook, still open, was facing upwards towards the ceiling.

"Joe Johnson pulled up to his reserved parking space in the parking garage. Today was tuesday, November 11, 2032. Just another boring day at work. But Joe didn’t care. Joe is the kind of guy who just takes everything in stride, grins all the time, and never admits to stealing your $50 pen right under your nose. As Joe pushed the button to call the elevator for floor 14, he thought to himself, “Is there more to life than pushing buttons? What is beyond this metal and concrete jungle we call New Cabbage City? Really, what does it all MEAN?” Then Joe stopped thinking about life.

'It’s stupid to ask questions. Things will be told to you when you are ready.' Joe remembered the boss say once. And the boss is AAAAAALWAAAAAAAYS RIIIIIIGHT! As Joe sat down at his cubicle and pushed down his button, “CRASH!” he heard numerous tremors and quakes.

'PUSH THE BUTTONS FASTER PEOPLE!' The supervisors yelled, pacing madly back and forth. Drew, Joe's next cubicle neighbor, slid a piece of paper underneath the wall. It read:

'Joe, what do you think this is all about?'

Joe would have replied, but he didn’t decorate his cubicle like the other workers. No pencils, no paper, no nothing but a button. “KEEP UP THE GOOD *rumble rumble* WORK, EVERYONE!” The supervisors screamed over the chaos. “CRASH!” A potted plant fell over. “HEY, SUPERVISORS!” Carl, one of Joe’s “friends” yelled, “WHAT'S THE DEAL? WHY DO WE NEED TO PUSH THESE BUTTONS SO FAAAAST? AND WHY ARE THE SHADES DRAWN OVER THE WINDOWS?” The supervisors looked at each other, then back at everyone else. People looked up, continuing to press buttons.

'You aren’t going to like this.' The head supervisor, whose name is Jack, said. Then, he opened the windows.

Everyone gasped a gasp of awe, as a Giant Robot made out of Buttons fought a Giant Lizard Monster made out of levers. “KEEP PUSHING YOUR BUTTONS, IT POWERS THE MACHINE!” Jack yelled, and everyone kept pushing the buttons as fast as they could.

'AAAAAAAAAAH!' Bob shouted, and held his finger. 'IT’S RUBBED DOWN TO A STUMP!' Bob began to cry as paramedics entered the room, put him on a stretcher, and carried him away. 'BOOM!' Joe looked out the window as the button robot smashed the lever lizard to pieces. 'WE DID IT!' Joe yelled, as the room burst out in applause. Jack picked up his megaphone, and began to speak. 'Attention please: We lost 65 workers today because they burnt the fingers into stumps. Please, people, pace yourselves.' He said as the room went back to it’s normal routine of pushing buttons."

Mercifully, a gust of wind came along and blew the cover closed.
~~~~~ "We were wrecks before we crashed into each other."




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