Rural Mt. Piety

 

Josh Christian

 

I slept with fleas at the house on Skyland Dr., Eastern Tennessee.

We all did, my father and brother atop the wooded floors,

furniture repossessed.

 

Bites ran down our calves and ankles,

red dots trying to spell out a message from God.

 

“Where was he?” we’d ask ourselves,

 

with no hugs the many mornings, 13, awake

to wash my hair under the icy water pumped

through a broken heater we couldn’t afford to fix.

 

If God’s hand existed at all, it was the frigid stiff hand

of a corpse that combed through my hair as I dipped

my head under the bathtub faucet, knees to tiled floor,

in lamentation, in prayer.

​

The Malecón

 

Justy Engle

 

 

She sits atop a retaining wall

while a puppy jumps and

paws at her bouncing feet.

 

She holds the cityscape

on her shoulders

while low clouds and

high tides crash beside her

like a clumsy robber

in a dark stairwell.

 

She stands on the edge

while a lone bird flies and

if she lifts her left hand

higher, she imagines,

a dove might land.

​

Goodbye

Taylor Harvard

 

She lays lifeless

on the scarlet red blanket.

Tears begin to flow

down my flushed cheeks.

 

As I walk closer,

the ache within my heart pierces deeper.

 

Her skin is colorless.

She has a few scratches

surrounding her right ear.

The rest of her body

unblemished.

 

Her smooth, sandy blonde hair

caresses the sides of her face.

Her eyes rest peacefully,

as she lays there, spiritless.

 

My family gathers around her—

wishing she would say one last goodbye.

But we all know deep down inside

she does not have the breath to utter

Goodbye.

 

Now,

just my father and I

accompany Brooklyn in the

gloomy preparation room.

 

We lean in to hug her.

Her body is frigid.

There is no heartbeat—

no breath of air,

no warm arms stretched out to hug us back.

 

There is only emptiness,

hurt, and grief.

 

I know what it is like to lose.

I know what it is like to long for

One more hug—

One more Goodbye.

​

The Devil’s Territory

 

Julianna Bradley

 

Inspired by Wonders of the Invisible World by Cotton Mather

 

I relate to you the following events about my dear friend Cotton Mather so as to reveal the truth in matters which have caused great confusion and concern in the colonies. Some have begun to suspect that the Salem trials were all for naught, that innocent blood was shed, and that there was no witchery in Salem at all. Others have said that the claim that the devil is laying siege to our land is false. I know, without doubt, that the devil was assaulting the colonies, and that there was indeed witchery at the time of the witch trials, both in Salem and elsewhere. The devil is at work, and he is searching for victims. None should know better than I: I have seen it happen.

On the night that it began, there was no roar of thunder or sound of falling of rain. One could not hear the murmur of voices or the scurrying of animals or even a solitary whistle of wind. The air was soundless, immovable. It was not noise that had awakened the fifteen-year old Mather from his slumber to venture outdoors, but silence. The necessity for peace and to experience the habitual sounds of the night called to him.

 Mather’s steps could be heard heavy on the leaves as he walked the outskirts of the grounds at Harvard. As he viewed the night sky, he perceived an absolute absence of stars despite a cloudless sky and an absence of the moon itself.  He could not see or hear anything unusual, but this in itself caused everything to be unfamiliar.

 Mather walked closer to the bottom of a hill towards a large rock on which he would often recline to read the Bible during the daytime. Suddenly, he felt heaviness unlike any other he had experienced. It was as if a force strived to constrain him. The absence of sights and noises caused the feeling of heaviness to become more pronounced. It was an invisible, cold force that felt as though it was caused by the hand of one being tormented.
            Mather was filled with panic. The force was fighting against him, pushing him away, and the closer he came to the rock, the more burdensome the weight became. He felt that if he reached the rock, he would reach security and be rid of the threat. He could not escape the hold of the force and, as he reached the rock, he saw a breach splitting the center of it.  

Mather was unable to breathe, and he could not see or hear or feel anything except the weight. A weight that felt it would never end, a weight that forced him to his knees. Time ceased to exist as he tried to call out but could utter no audible sound. He felt a hot whisper in his ear of a language so dreadful that he knew it was not meant to be heard by anything of God. It was in this moment that he became certain of Satan’s devices.

As he turned his head, he saw the shape of a small female figure with an unnatural gait run up the hill. She turned and looked back at Mather for a fraction of a second, and he was shocked to see that she looked to be the good doctor’s wife, Hannah. They were a great distance apart, but he could see two black, hollow eyes gleaming from her pale face. The lifeless eyes seemed to grow larger and larger, piercing his very soul, until their gloom transfixed him and he could no longer see at all.

 He woke up the next day in his bed as if he had never left at all. This last fact I have hesitated to detail, knowing that some suspicious few would doubt the truth of this event and insist that it was a nightmare. On the negligible chance that it was indeed a dream, the event still carries its magnitude because such dreams are never meaningless. Vivid dreams are sent from the leader to complete his purpose.

Mather’s youthful mind did not understand what was happening at the time, and he never did fully comprehend what had transpired that night. The workings of the devil are not to be understood. Following this event, Mather began to feel despondent and in a constant state of unease; both of these feelings lingered until his death.

After this occurrence, Mather developed a fervent passion for destroying the workers of iniquity and all witches. For the next few years he was constantly on the watch for witchery. Mather spent hours studying the occult and witchcraft. He married a young woman, Abigail. Mather would often isolate himself from his wife and his young children to study.

It came increasingly on Mather’s heart that it was in the devil’s plan to overturn the church. In his sleep, he had dreams of demons being sent out in legions to draw Christians away from the faith. Goody Abigail became disturbed about Mather’s fixation on the unholy practices. One such scene I witnessed.

Mather was unusually quiet at the evening meal and would not speak to Abigail or the children. He pushed his chair away from the table, getting ready to take leave for his studies.

“Pray pardon me, husband, but to where do you go?” asked Goody Abigail.

“To my studies, wife,” said Mather gruffly.

“You do not wish to finish this meal with us? Can you not stay with us longer? We feel forgotten.”

“Do not trouble me!” Mather cried out, eyes gleaming with fury. “My purpose is higher than to stay and linger at a meal.”

“Can you not focus on your sons and daughters rather than the invisible world?” Abigail had tears in her eyes, and her cheeks were flushed.

“Do you not realize that the devil is making an attempt more unintelligible than any that we have hitherto encountered, and that nothing can be more pressing and urgent than to stop it?” yelled Mather. “The Lord has created me for His purpose, and that is to carry out His divine plan. Anyone who designs to stop his plan is not with Him, and anyone not with Him is under the terrible plague of evil angels.”

Abigail dared not say a word but fell to the ground, sobbing.

Mather’s thoughts were troubled as he tried to study. Why was Abigail trying to stop him from doing the good work? Was she being deluded by Satan? Could she have been entrapped by the dark arts? He did not want to think her susceptible to the influence of the demonic. If Satan had it in his diabolical plan to deceive the colonies away from the true faith, the devil must begin by infiltrating the minds of Christian leaders like himself. Mather concluded that if Satan was trying to infiltrate his mind, the most effective method would be to reach the person closest to him:  his own wife. 

Oh, how divisive are the wicked plans of the enemy! thought Mather, beginning to cry. 

Mather knew that it was his Christian duty to watch his wife and be wary of any signs of the devil’s mischief in her, no matter how much it pained him to do so.

The Goody Abigail, a woman of robust health, died nine years after this of a mysterious illness. It did not occur to anyone in their village to ask the cause of the sickness. I know what the cause of the sickness was; I was there when sickness reached her, and I was there when she died. The only information I can reveal about her death, for the safety of both myself and my dear friend Mather, is that it was certainly caused by the dark forces of Satan.

Mather became an increasingly suspicious man, and he and I became increasingly close. He had a fervent nature and desired to rid the colonies of all the designs of hell.

Mather married a second wife, Goody Elizabeth, less than a year later. Mather had confided in me soon after their marriage that he suspected her, like Abigail, of witchcraft. He felt that hell was making a spiritual attack on him again. Mather was deceived: this woman, Goody Elizabeth, was certainly not possessed by anything other than heavenly influences. Ten years after their marriage, she died of a similar illness to Abigail, which was thought to be measles. It is not in my authority to reveal the veritable cause of this death.

Mather’s third wife, perhaps the most interesting of all, was Lydia. Soon after their marriage, Lydia appeared to have gone mad. She would burst unexpectedly into fits of sobs and would often lie awake at night, laughing to herself. Mather took this to mean that there was some kind of ungodly influence on her, and he was correct in thinking this. Lydia and I became good friends; her unexpected changes in demeanor did not bother me. She died after thirteen years of marriage to Mather. Of Mather’s three wives, Lydia was the one I was the saddest to see die.

Mather had fifteen children between Abigail, Elizabeth, and Lydia; only two of his children outlived him.

Mather had firsthand experience with witchery among his closest kin, or so he thought. His thoughts that the devil had targeted his dearest family members with witchery produced in him a deep hatred of all of the devil’s designs, deeper hatred than I had seen in any man before him, or any man after him.

Mather had often spoken to me about one Goody Glover and her children. He had seen in her several characteristics associated with the occult. 

“This Goody Glover, what think you of her? Am I rash in suspecting her of witchery?” he asked me one day.

“Certainly one can never be too cautious in such matters. What causes you to suspect her?” I answered.

“A dream has recurred in my sleep of Goody Glover educating her children on the ways of the devil . . . bewitching them.”

“Such a dream cannot be meaningless. God speaks most powerfully through these visions. Goody Glover cannot be innocent,” I said, knowing that although Goody Glover may have been eccentric, she had nothing to do with the occult.

I knew that in order to keep my close friendship with Mather and help him complete his purpose, which was of paramount importance to me, I had to encourage his absorption with eliminating the plots of the devil.

Mather soon wrote a pamphlet detailing Goody Glover and her children and citing several incidents which might be construed as witchery. His pamphlet was widely read and sent the land into a state of panic. People began to think of Mather as an expert on the occult, and more reports of witchery were sent to Mather to examine. Goody Glover was tried by a court, found guilty, and executed. The Goody Glover incident set a precedent for the Salem trials.

Mather received word of the “dreadful knot of witches” in the village of Salem, and he immediately began to write letters and pamphlets about it to provide knowledge for others and to stop the rooting out of Christianity. Mather would often turn to me for guidance and advice in these times. With my encouragement, he would write pamphlets about different accused people in Salem. These pamphlets so influenced the judges at the trials that Mather was undoubtedly responsible for certain executions. Mather thought he was doing the Lord’s good work and that he was waging war against the devil’s attacks.

Mather was correct in thinking that the devil had poisoned the minds of many in Salem. It was true that Satan had attacked the Christians. It is in the devil’s plan to divide God’s people and draw them away from God. He has already succeeded in leading many down the wide path to hell. There were, in Salem and in other places in the colonies, certain people who were possessed by demons. Many would think after hearing this that it was the people executed for being witches that were possessed.

The devil loves to deceive.

Mather knew many aspects of the occult, having studied the subject for such an extensive amount of time. His fervent passion for ridding the world of dark influences was admirable. However, Mather caused the death and execution of more than twenty-five people, some of whom were his own family and all of whom were guiltless. Mather accused many who were innocent but overlooked the guilty.

The night that it began, the night on the grounds of Harvard, changed Mather. Something entered Mather that night. It was an interest in the occult. But what would have caused this interest?

Mather was possessed by a demon from that night at Harvard until the day he died.

And how was I so sure of this?

 I am the demon.

 A demon whose mission it was to distance Mather from his family, to deceive him, to produce in him a desire to destroy the devil’s work so that he would destroy the antithesis, to cause him to kill sixteen members of his own family, Goody Glover, and numerous people in Salem. I deceived Mather and caused him to believe Christians were participating in witchery so that we could kill Christians, so that we could divide a village and a land.

Mather was misled, but he was not misled when he said that there “never were more satanical devices used for the unsettling of any people under the sun, than what have been employed for the extirpation of the vine which God has here planted . . . ”

The devil used a man who thought he was a man of God to wreak havoc on men of God.

​

​

​

A Perfect Little Doll

 

Rachel Hasty

 

Once, far, far away and long ago, there was a village filled with all sorts of people. In this village lived a man that crafted the most beautiful gifts anyone had ever seen. No matter what he made it turned out wonderful; he would settle for no less. Masses of people came by his small corner shop every week. The well-to-do purchased presents for their homes and loved ones. Wide-eyed children in grimy clothes pressed their noses to the shop windows in wonder, their breath fogging the glass until it obscured their view. It did not matter where the people were from—for it seemed they came from every corner of the world—or how much money they carried in their pockets, they were always amazed.

            One day a wealthy husband and wife visited the shop with hopes of finding the perfect present for their daughter. The couple had been everywhere but could find nothing good enough for their little girl. Someone had told them to try the man’s shop, promising that they would not be disappointed. No one with enough money ever walked away from his store emptyhanded. So they went, hopes high, and perused the shop for hours, shelf after shelf and aisle after aisle, but to no avail. Nothing seemed perfect enough, not perfect enough for their daughter. Having exhausted every conceivable option, the couple pulled the man aside and told them their predicament. He was sympathetic and promised to create something to suit their request. It would be perfect, flawless, marvelous, not to be out shone by any of his other creations. They agreed to pay him heftily for his work and asked that he write them the moment the gift was completed.

            The man went to work immediately. He made this creation his one and only concern. He shut down his shop. He scarcely slept or ate for the week it took him to craft this perfect present. There he sat at his workbench, surrounded by boxes and ribbons and glue, the workspace illuminated by the sunshine of day and the feeble flickering of a candle at night.

            When the creation was complete, he heaved a sigh of accomplishment and gazed down at his work: a doll sheathed in pink lace and chiffon with waving golden hair. It had a flawless porcelain face with a slightly upturned nose and barely parted rose lips. Its startling blue eyes stared up at him as he delicately placed it in its box beside a doll stand. He smiled down at his achievement, pride swelling in his chest and filling his whole being. He had done it: a perfect little doll. 

            He wrote the couple immediately and awaited their arrival. Days passed. No word came. He reopened his shop and carried on with business as usual, hoping with each tinkling of the entry bell that the couple would appear to claim their masterpiece.

He waited a week. Still no reply. A fortnight. Nothing. On the first day of the third week a man came by and asked to speak with the shop’s owner in private. He had been butler to the man and woman who had ordered the gift. A financial tragedy had struck the family he once waited on. They had to sell everything overnight and had gone to live with the woman’s mother, many counties over. They would not be needing the doll.

            The man went into his workshop that night and sat in the quiet where he had slaved away for the creation of something beautiful, nay, something perfect. He unwrapped the box and stared down at the doll, her features pristine as the moment she had been packaged. In that moment he knew that no one in the world could ever deserve such perfection. He would keep her for himself. She would be shown to the public, of course, as his crowning achievement, but they could never have her. And so it was. The very next morning he lifted her from her box and positioned her on a shelf above the mantle, making sure the light hit her pooling eyes just right, so it would make them sparkle to their fullest potential. And there she would stay, becoming the highlight of his attention, as well as everyone else’s.

            People ten towns over heard word of this perfect little doll. They flocked to his tiny shop by the thousands to be dazzled by this masterpiece. Children would stare at her, mouths agape. Little girls’ hearts throbbed to be the first to play with her, to hold her, but it was never to be. The rich often came to name a price, to which the man would sneer and proclaim, “She is not for sale. Ever,” before casting them away with a leery glare.

He would let no one touch her, just look. Only the man himself was allowed to dust her and polish her eyes and fix her hair. While no one liked this unwritten rule, the townspeople followed it, not wanting to be forbidden from a shop filled with such wonders.  

            One day a young woman from a few counties over entered the shop and was immediately entranced by the perfect little doll, though for a much different reason than everyone else. The man had gone back to his storeroom, just for a moment, and did not notice her come in. He did not notice her get closer to the mantle. He did not notice her reaching out, did not notice the toe of her shoe catching on a tile, did not notice her arms whirling, snatching for anything in a frenzied attempt to stop her fall. He did not notice until it was too late.

            Shards of porcelain scattered across the floor. Strands of hair and eyelashes and ribbons drifted to the ground and landed among the rubble of the beauty that had once been. The man released a strangled shout and shoved the girl out of his way, falling to his knees beside the broken doll stand and a shattered crystal eye. The girl just stood there, wrenching her wavy blond hair through flawless porcelain-white hands. Her deep blue eyes watched him, and her rose lips parted just a bit, wanting to say something, not sure what to say.

            But the man was too busy crying to notice.        

​

​

​

Defective

 

Aaron McKinley

 

EXT. A SIDEWALK - DAY

 

EMMETT MALLORY (late 20s), a sloppy-looking, door-to-door firearm salesman, adjusts the large DUFFLE BAG on his shoulder and looks directly at the camera, then shifts his gaze to different off-camera things as he speaks. Emmett tends to stutter and trip over his words.

 

EMMETT

I've been a firearm salesman for about five years now. I started fresh out of college. Yup. Grand Rapids Community College. Right after I dropped out. I just wasn't built for school, you know? I heard Einstein wasn't good in school either. So I guess I got that going for me.

 

Emmett chuckles, then his smile fades.

 

EMMETT

I never really thought about selling guns. Growing up, I always thought I'd be a teacher or a counselor or something like that. But in this economy, it's hard to get jobs like that, you know? And people these days, like, culturally, aren't really cool with people who don't have a degree, you know? In the Fifties or something, I could be anything. But it's just this economy, man. Yeah. Anyway, my dad's the reason I sell guns. Not in the sense that I have real issues with him and that make me wanna deal killing machines, but he's the owner of Pete's Pistol and Co. And he got me this job when I got out of college. Been doing it ever since. It's not the best job on the planet, but it's a job, you know? And that's important because of the—economy.

 

EXT. A PORCH - DAY

 

Emmett walks up to the front door of a suburban house, turns to the camera and gives a thumbs up before knocking.

 

CRANKY MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN (40s) opens the door and glares at Emmett.

 

EMMETT

Hi! My name is Emmett and I—

 

CRANKY MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

I'm really not interested in your Jehovah's Tabernacle of Holy Whatever, so if you don't mind, please f—

 

EMMETT

No no no no no, I'm not a Jehovah's

Witness!

 

CRANKY MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

Fine! Mormon! Whatever!

 

EMMETT

No, I'm not anything! I actually—

 

CRANKY MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

Oh, so you're not anything? Some sort of nihilist come to spread your atheist agenda, huh? My

 

beliefs got you offended and you just can't stand that.

 

EMMETT

No, I'm not trying to spread any agenda! I just have these guns and I—

 

CRANKY MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

Guns? Are you threatening me?

 

EMMETT

No, not at all! I would never—I’m not—you see, I'm actually a pacifist but—

 

CRANKY MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

Pacifist? Haven't heard of that one before. So what, you worship the ocean, do you?

 

EMMETT

What? No. I thought we moved past this whole religion thing. Pacifist just means I don't approve of violence.

 

CRANKY MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

Then why are you threatening me?

 

EMMETT

I'm not threatening you! I'm just trying to sell some—

 

CRANKY MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN

Not interested!

 

Cranky Middle-Aged Woman slams the door and Emmett sighs.

 

EXT. A SIDEWALK - DAY

 

Emmett exhales deeply, then forces a smile for the camera.

 

EMMETT

So that sale didn't go particularly well. That happens sometimes. Probably shouldn't have mentioned the whole pacifist thing. That usually gets people confused. It's true though, I am a pacifist. I know that's strange coming from a gun salesman, but if you're around guns enough, you see what they can really do and it makes you think about things. You know what? It's better if I show you.

 

Emmett rolls up his left pant leg to reveal a PROSTHETIC LEG.

 

EMMETT

This happened on my first month of the job. I tried to demonstrate a Desert Eagle to a potential buyer. Real nasty gun, that thing. I was new and didn't know you aren't supposed to load the guns before you sell them and I forgot the safety was off and when I blew a hole in my leg, I fell over because I lost my balance, and I landed in a puddle of mud and it got infected and the doctors couldn't save it. Dad paid for the operation, though, so that's nice. Didn't have to shell out for that one. I wouldn't have been able to, anyway, so that's good.

 

Emmett rolls his pant leg back down.

 

EMMETT

Not all sales are that bad, though. Sometimes there actually is a sale. I'm actually pretty successful with this one customer in particular.

 

Emmett grins.

 

EMMETT

This woman named Angela Hanson, she lives down on Pine Grove, and I've actually never goofed up a sale with her. She's bought every single gun that I've pitched to her and she, well, she's great, she's great. Not just because she gives me money and stuff. That’s great, too. I need all

 

EMMETT (cont'd)

the commission I can get, but she's got a nice heart, you know? A nice, big heart. Too big, actually. It's a rare condition that I can't pronounce, but the gist of it is she has to be real careful with her heartrate and stuff or she could—things would end badly. That thing about the Grinch and his heart growing three sizes bigger and all, that's actually not a good thing because of issues with blood pressure and all that.

 

Emmett laughs.

 

EMMETT

You guys know what I'm talking about? The Grinch? The Dr. Seuss story with the green guy? You know what I'm talking about. Angela loves the Grinch. I guess she relates to it. With her heart and all. Because it's too big. I already explained that, didn't I? Sorry, I just get carried away talking about Angela. I feel this connection with her, you know? She's got the thing with the heart and I got the leg and all it's like we're both—defective.

 

Emmett's smile fades.

 

EMMETT

Defective.

 

EXT. ANGELA'S DOORSTEP - DAY

 

Emmett skips up to a pastel-colored house, beaming from ear to ear. He rings the doorbell and rocks back and forth on his feet.

 

ANGELA HANSON (late 20s), a beautiful young woman, opens the door and grins.

 

ANGELA

Emmett!

 

EMMETT

Angela!

 

Emmett begins to extend his arms as if to hug her, but quickly folds them back onto his chest and pretends to warm himself from the cold.

 

EMMETT

Real cold one today, isn't it?

 

ANGELA

Yeah, I guess so. It's what, 65 out?

 

EMMETT

Is it really? Wow. Feels a lot colder than that.

 

ANGELA

Guess you're just cold blooded.

 

EMMETT

Like a snake! Not that I'm a snake. I'm not trying to be sneaky or anything. I am totally up front and honest about all my business and you have never once gotten a bad deal from me. I didn't mean like that, I—

 

ANGELA

I get it.

 

Emmett stares at Angela in silence.

 

ANGELA

So, you have anything to sell me today?

 

EMMETT

Right! Yes!

 

Emmett takes the duffle bag off his shoulder and scrounges around until he produces a small, pink handgun from it and holds it up victoriously.

 

EMMETT

Ta-dah!

 

ANGELA

Oh, it's so pretty!

 

EMMETT

Yeah, I saw it and thought of you because—

 

ANGELA

Because what?

 

EMMETT

Because—you look—like you like pretty things. I guess.

 

ANGELA

I do! I love it, Emmett. How much?

 

EMMETT

It's, that would be, two—two hundred and, it's got a nice grip on it, doesn't it? That's not standard, either, that is—

 

ANGELA

Two hundred?

 

EMMETT

Yes.

 

Angela hands Emmett a wad of cash and Emmett hands her the gun. They continue to stare at each other.

 

ANGELA

So—is there anything else you wanted to say?

 

EMMETT

Um, would you—would you like to, uh—

 

Emmett shrugs his shoulders and shuts the door on Angela.

 

EXT. ANGELA'S FRONT YARD - DAY

 

Emmett shakes his head and gives the camera a look of utter dejection.

 

EMMETT

I've been coming here almost every day for about two years now. Most days I don't even try to sell her anything. We just talk. But whenever I do sell, she always buys. I'm gonna ask her out, though. You know that? I am going to ask her out. You know what? I am going to ask her out right now.

 

Emmett walks towards Angela's door, but before he gets to it, he turns around and walks back.

 

EMMETT

I am going to ask her out later today.

 

EXT. ANGELA'S DOORSTEP - EVENING

 

Emmett marches up to Angela's door and rings the doorbell. Angela opens the door.

 

ANGELA

Emmett? Back so soon?

 

EMMETT

Yes, I uh—have a question.

 

ANGELA

Really?

 

EMMETT

Yes. Would you—like to—do me the honor of—buying an extended magazine for your new pistol?

 

ANGELA

Yes, Emmett, I would love to.

 

INT. EMMETT'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

 

Emmett slouches in a plastic chair, eating a cup of instant ramen with cheap wooden chopsticks obviously taken from a Chinese restaurant.

 

EMMETT

I've been trying to ask out Angela since—well, since the second day I knew her. It was the day she told me about her heart, and that really got to me because of my leg and I just—she said she was—defective.

 

Emmett sets his noodles down wipes his eyes.

 

EMMETT

When I got the operation, I woke up, but I guess everyone in the room thought I was still asleep because I overheard my mom and dad talking to each other about me, and I heard my dad call me stupid. He said I was stupid and made a stupid mistake and that I must be—defective. Mom tried to calm him down, but that doesn't matter. He thinks I'm defective. A screwup who can't even think straight. I'm not right. I'm broken. Even Dad thinks so.

 

Emmett picks his noodles back up and stirs one of the chopsticks around aimlessly.

 

EMMETT

Anyway, Angela used that word talking about herself. That word gets to me. I know she was just joking around, but what if she really wasn't, you know? I want her to know that I know what it's like to feel defective and that sucks and I want to tell her that she's not. I don't think she's defective. I think she's perfect.

 

EXT. ANOTHER PORCH - MORNING

 

Emmett looks at the camera sheepishly and sighs before walking up to the door of another suburban home and knocking on the door.

 

CROTCHETY OLD MAN (60s) opens the door.

 

CROTCHETY OLD MAN

What do you want?

 

EMMETT

My name is Emmett, and I have some top of the line firearms for sale. For example, here's a new model we—

 

Emmett begins to draw a gun from his duffel bag. Seeing this, Crotchety Old Man whips out his own handgun and points it at Emmett's head.

 

CROTCHETY OLD MAN

You threatening me, son?

 

EMMETT

No! No no no! Why does everyone always think that? I just want you to take a look at this gun and—

 

CROTCHETY OLD MAN

How about you take a look at this?

 

Crotchety Old Man cocks his gun and Emmett takes off running, along with the camera crew.

 

After a short distance, Emmett falls due to the awkwardness of his prosthetic limb and the weight of his duffle bag. His prosthetic comes off in the process.

 

EMMETT

Damn it!

 

Emmett sits up and grabs his prosthetic. He sighs and begins to reattach his leg.

 

EMMETT

Sorry for swearing. I'm not usually like that, I just get mad with stuff like this. I try and act like having this stupid fake leg doesn't bother me and it's all good and I'm perfectly normal, but it's not the same, no matter how bad I want it to be. It's such a burden. I'm such a burden. I can't walk right, can't run, can't do anything. I just—

 

Emmett temporarily pauses what he's doing, on the verge of tears.

 

EMMETT

I wish I was normal again. I'm so sick of this. I'm sick of having to tighten this leg and I'm sick of having to look at this thing every day and I'm sick of being rejected and I just need something to change.

 

Emmett finishes attaching his leg. He looks up with a concerned, then an enlightened expression.

 

EMMETT

I need change. It's time to change. To stop accepting things as they are and do something about it.

 

Emmett smiles.

 

EMMETT

I know what I need to do.

 

Emmett shifts to his knees and rustles through his duffle bag.

 

EMMETT

You know, that thing didn't go exactly according to plan, but I am not letting that get to me, because today is the day I do something different. I am finally asking Angela out today. And I know just how to do it.

 

Emmett stops his rustling, looks up, and grins, having just found what he was looking for in the bag.

 

EXT. ANGELA'S DOORSTEP - DAY

 

Emmett walks up to Angela's door without his duffle bag and tucks a pistol in his pants behind his back. He turns to the camera and winks before ringing the doorbell.

 

Angela opens the door and smiles.

 

ANGELA

Emmett! I'm so glad you're here. I've been doing some thinking and—

 

EMMETT

Before you say anything, I have something I need to say to you.

 

ANGELA

Oh, okay.

 

EMMETT

Now, this is a long time coming. I've been coming to your house for two years now and have been thinking about doing this every. Single. Day.

 

ANGELA

Oh, alright.

 

EMMETT

Angela—

 

Emmett whips out the pistol from behind his back and pulls the trigger. A loud bang rings out as a flag pops out of the barrel and unfurls. On the flag are the words "Will you go out with me?"

 

Angela screams and falls to the ground.

 

EMMETT

Wow! I had no idea this would be such a big deal for you! I am so happy! I never thought—Angela?

 

Emmett sees that Angela is twitching on the ground, obviously in need of medical assistance.

 

EMMETT

ANGELA!

 

 

 

INT. HOSPITAL WAITING ROOM - DAY

 

Emmett sits in a chair outside a hospital room and twiddles his thumbs. He looks up at the camera and bites his lip.

 

EMMETT

That, uh, that did not go the way I wanted it. Turns out our gag models are very lifelike and the sound of it firing, well, it gave Angela a heart attack.

 

Emmett's gaze moves about the room.

 

EMMETT

But, hey, she didn't say "no," so that's a plus. I mean, she didn't say anything. Because she couldn't. Because of the whole heart attack thing.

 

Emmett puts his head in his hands and lets out a sorrowful groan.

 

EMMETT

Why do I always screw everything up? Why can't just one thing work out for once? Just one thing!

 

Emmett looks up from his hands with tears in his eyes.

 

EMMETT

Dad was right. There's something wrong with me. I can't do anything right, and I never will. I'm just defective.

 

A NURSE opens the door to the hospital room and looks at Emmett.

 

NURSE

Emmett Mallory?

 

EMMETT

Yes?

 

NURSE

Angela is stable and would like to have a word with you.

 

Emmett gives the camera an anxious look and then follows the nurse into the room. Behind the closed door, muffled voices are heard. Through a window that is little more than a slit in the door, the camera focuses on Angela's hand, which reaches for Emmett's. The camera pans up to her face, which forms a caring smile as she speaks inaudibly. She finishes speaking, releases Emmett's hand, and winks at Emmett. The camera backs up from the door. Emmett walks out of the room, in shock, then looks at the camera and grins.

 

 

FADE OUT.