I Won't.
Okay, this is the worst story ever made.
I used a lot of cliches in the story - I was trying to make a point - but it just turned out sounding stupid.
I don't like it but I'm turning it in.
You can laugh at it if you want.
At least I'm done with my homework for today. I also finished my big analytical paper for my lit class. It's okay. I'm not married to it...
But I always think that whatever I write is just... bleh and juvenile-sounding. I suppose it's not the worst writing ever made... but I have plenty of room for improvement.
Anyway....
here's a laugh....
I Won’t
One more pill. That’s all he had left. Hamlet felt the cold little pellet hit the creases of his palm as he tipped the bottle over in his hands and sighed.
“Should I place a new order, sir?” the Guardian asked from its black console in front of him.
“Yes, yes. Take it out of account four and have them bring it by my office” Hamlet tossed the pill to the back of his throat and took a deep drink from his flask.
“Order complete. Receipt number seven six seven, eight four seven three, six sev-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, just tell me when it’s coming” Hamlet tossed the empty bottle into the garbage chute.
“Please expect shipment at five twenty am.”
“Thank you!” Hamlet touched the panel and watched it fade to black. He ran a hand through his curly blonde hair and felt the water in his esophagus make a cold trail down his body. He could feel the effects of the drug as it seeped through his bloodstream. It makes you feel very cold.
Hamlet grabbed his briefcase and slung his coat over one arm. He took one look around the apartment to make sure everything was in order. He noted the aesthetically acute position of every article of furniture and smiled to himself. The black leather couches against white carpet, the angular sophistication of his gray tables and chairs, the comforting coldness of blank walls; all placed precisely and carefully by the best designers in New York. They had stood in each room with arms folded, heads nodding, and lips pursed as a team of men inched each piece into place. It was right. That was how apartments were supposed to look.
With one last approving glance Hamlet left his perfect apartment and entered the crowded street. Men and women in dark suits shuffled past on all sides. Their clothes were all acceptable: dark blues and blacks brushing discreetly past one another. The trees, spaced uniformly every ten feet on the walk, were trimmed in flawless spheres and their springtime green glowed with appropriate vibrancy.
He was soon walking through the steel detectors in front of his office building. He tipped his head politely at the guard and pushed into the revolving doors. Another day at work.
“Good morning, Mr. Kinning. Your coffee is on your desk and your calls are recorded on line three seven three”
“Thank you, Marjorie. How is your mother?”
“She’s fine, thank you”
“Good” Hamlet brushed past his secretary and settled down at his desk. He took one look at the clock: three a.m. exactly. He would be able get two hours in before the shipment came. Hamlet took a long draft from his coffee mug and got to work.
DaVinci Broadcasting. He was Executive Chair for Advertising and Scheduling in division three-seven-six. Seven hundred and sixteen employees catered their activities toward pleasing this man. He held their financial future under the tip of his ballpoint pen as he reviewed proposals and approved commercials for the eighteen hours he worked every day.
He clicked his pen authoritatively and began leafing through the proposals. His eyes slipped easily down several bland paragraphs and he scribbled “failed” in the upper left corner in sleek black. He tossed the papers into his outbox and sighed. Too many fools thinking they knew how to sell. They’d soon be spilling over the edges of his outbox each with a neat black stamp of disapproval in the upper left corner. Failed. Failed. Failed… failed…failed…
Hamlet rubbed his eyes and wiped the saliva off the corner of his mouth and chin. He squinted at the amorphous red lights in front of him. He blinked and the blurs coalesced to form three buzzing red numbers: “6:17”
He hadn’t fallen asleep at work since he was an intern. He took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly. He started shuffling through proposals again. Failed, failed, failed…
“Goodnight, Marjorie.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Kinning.”
The clock read nine-thirty mounted on the wall of his apartment.
Time for sleep.
* * * * * * *
It was three days before he noticed.
He was off the pill.
Hamlet got up on the that morning and touched the black screen next to his bed, “Tell me the ETA for my August shipment.”
The Guardian flashed on, “Shipment was received on August 2”
August 2. Three days ago.
He ran a hand through his hair nervously.
The law required every citizen to take one pill every six hours. The Chemical Protection Act had been passed more than two decades ago. It was punishable by corporeal imprisonment - a practice that had not been implemented since the early 2020s, just after the Act was passed.
He needed a pill.
The pill fortified the human immune system against a string of enhanced viruses. They had been introduced in the states more than thirty years ago by political terrorists. It had nearly eliminated the entire population within days. An antidotal medication had been discovered and Congress implemented national regulations in order to eliminate the virus. It was estimated that the viral string had a half-life of fifty years. Anyone off the pill before 3057 was supposed to die within hours of contact with open air.
Hamlet splashed cold water on his face and looked in the mirror.
“I should be dead by now.”
“Please restate request.”
Hamlet sighed and tapped the black console, “I wasn’t talking to you.”
He grabbed a towel and dabbed his face. The towel felt unusually plush and comforting on his cheeks. He rested his face in the threads for a moment and thought hard.
He’d been off the pill for three days. Three whole days without the slightest sign of illness. None of the old dramatized warning signs: no vomiting, no boils, no fever. Nothing. Three days should have finished him off five times.
Nothing.
He slung the towel over his shoulder and looked in the mirror. His face seemed lighter - less wrinkled - pinker. Was he actually feeling better than usual?
He leaned in close and bore his teeth at his reflection.
“Go to work.”
“Please restate request”
Hamlet wadded up his towel and tossed it at the console then left to get ready for work.
* * * * * * *
“You’re looking well, Mr. Kinning, perhaps the extra sleep is doing you good?” Marjorie handed him a cup of coffee.
He had been off the pill for two weeks.
“Oh, I don’t know that it’s so strange to sleep until seven every once and a while! You know they used to do it every day,” He felt her long nails gently graze his knuckles as he took the cup. She had such slender fingers.
He had been distinctly aware of small details for the past two weeks. The trees were no longer carefully manicured balls of green - they were leafy
“You have an appointment at seven-thirty.” She handed him a stack of stapled papers.
“Cancel.” He took three timid sips from his cup, “Is this coffee getting hotter? It’s scorching!”
“I’ve given you the same cup of coffee every morning for twenty-six years. It’s not getting hotter.” She stared at him, “and in those twenty-six years you’ve never cancelled a meeting.”
He shrugged and set the coffee down on her desk. He leaned on her desk and looked at her. There was something different about her. Her hair? Her nails? They looked the same as they always did - he was sure. There was just something about her.
“Marjorie, let’s go grab a coffee.”
She blinked and said nothing.
“You and me, let’s go grab a coffee.”
She sniffed several times looking very confused; “Well you don’t seem so keen on coffee this morning.”
“Come on, let’s go!”
He dashed over to the door and unhooked their coats from the rack. She followed him cautiously, blinking and sniffing the whole time.
They slipped out of the building and Hamlet led the way downtown. Starbucks. He ordered two tall caramel macchiatos and picked out a small table near the window.
“Sir, we didn’t cancel the meeting.”
“They’ll be alright. It was just a board meeting.” Hamlet waved a hand lazily in the air and smiled, “Marjorie, do you like jazz?”
They settled into a casual conversation about macchiatos, work, and jazz music for the next thirty minutes. It was slightly awkward at first, but both parties seemed to warm up to each other within the first five minutes. Hamlet watched her closely. She would toss her hair every few seconds and it gleamed against the light pouring in the window. Her eyes were deep green. Had he noticed that before? They were very green.
She was lovely.
“Mr. Kinning,” She said after a moment’s silence, “what’s happened to you?”
He took a moment to take another drink from his coffee.
“I’m off it.”
She blinked a few times, “What?”
“I’m off the pill. I haven’t taken a single pill for two weeks.” He chewed the corner of his lip excitedly, “I’ve never felt better in my entire life.”
She shook her head as if to clear the outrageous idea from her mind, “You can’t be serious.”
“My last shipment was lost. I didn’t have the pills for one week, then they finally turned up in my office last week. I just didn’t get back on.” He lowered his voice, “Marjorie, I feel fine. I feel amazing. The trees have more color. The sun is hotter. I can hear music in my head. I can see the little cracks in the sidewalk and the little yellow flowers that spring up between them. I want to quite my job and run away to the Bahamas or Arizona or somewhere I’ve never been. I want to read poetry and go to jazz concerts. Marjorie, I’ve never felt better!”
She sat in stunned silence for a moment.
“Marjorie,” He looked at her pleadingly, “Stop taking the pill.”
“What? Are you crazy? I could be arrested!”
“Stop taking the pill, no one will know - you’ll feel so… so… different!”
“Mr. Kinning!”
“Marjorie, I’m being serious. Stop taking it.” He stopped and looked at her. She had shock written plainly on her face. She was still very lovely.
She swallowed, sniffed, and blinked without saying a word.
“Marjorie, please.”
She looked at him hard for a second, and then said plainly, “I won’t.”
* * * * * * *
Hamlet was pacing.
I won’t.
He sat down. He was back in his office ignoring the ever-multiplying proposals strewn across his desk. He and Marjorie had cut their escapade short.
Her voice tumbled around in his mind.
I won’t.
That was how it would be. That was what people would think - he was crazy - sick even. For spitting off crazy ideas like the colors in the trees and the beautiful imperfections in the sidewalk - they would call him a fool.
I won’t.
He would walk down the streets of New York and be the only man to notice the song of a robin above the hum of traffic. He would be the only one to feel something when he listened to old jazz recordings. He would be the only one who felt guilty about lying to hundreds of people just to inflate his bank account.
He would be the only one.
I won’t.
He jumped up from his chair and made his way over to the cabinet.
He shoved aside a few binders full of fiscal reports and let his fingers wander the back of the shelf.
A bottle.
He popped off the lid.
I won’t.
It was the missed shipment. The shipment that came late.
He dumped one pill into his palm.
He opened his mouth and closed his eyes.
Then he started to feel very cold.
I used a lot of cliches in the story - I was trying to make a point - but it just turned out sounding stupid.
I don't like it but I'm turning it in.
You can laugh at it if you want.
At least I'm done with my homework for today. I also finished my big analytical paper for my lit class. It's okay. I'm not married to it...
But I always think that whatever I write is just... bleh and juvenile-sounding. I suppose it's not the worst writing ever made... but I have plenty of room for improvement.
Anyway....
here's a laugh....
I Won’t
One more pill. That’s all he had left. Hamlet felt the cold little pellet hit the creases of his palm as he tipped the bottle over in his hands and sighed.
“Should I place a new order, sir?” the Guardian asked from its black console in front of him.
“Yes, yes. Take it out of account four and have them bring it by my office” Hamlet tossed the pill to the back of his throat and took a deep drink from his flask.
“Order complete. Receipt number seven six seven, eight four seven three, six sev-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, just tell me when it’s coming” Hamlet tossed the empty bottle into the garbage chute.
“Please expect shipment at five twenty am.”
“Thank you!” Hamlet touched the panel and watched it fade to black. He ran a hand through his curly blonde hair and felt the water in his esophagus make a cold trail down his body. He could feel the effects of the drug as it seeped through his bloodstream. It makes you feel very cold.
Hamlet grabbed his briefcase and slung his coat over one arm. He took one look around the apartment to make sure everything was in order. He noted the aesthetically acute position of every article of furniture and smiled to himself. The black leather couches against white carpet, the angular sophistication of his gray tables and chairs, the comforting coldness of blank walls; all placed precisely and carefully by the best designers in New York. They had stood in each room with arms folded, heads nodding, and lips pursed as a team of men inched each piece into place. It was right. That was how apartments were supposed to look.
With one last approving glance Hamlet left his perfect apartment and entered the crowded street. Men and women in dark suits shuffled past on all sides. Their clothes were all acceptable: dark blues and blacks brushing discreetly past one another. The trees, spaced uniformly every ten feet on the walk, were trimmed in flawless spheres and their springtime green glowed with appropriate vibrancy.
He was soon walking through the steel detectors in front of his office building. He tipped his head politely at the guard and pushed into the revolving doors. Another day at work.
“Good morning, Mr. Kinning. Your coffee is on your desk and your calls are recorded on line three seven three”
“Thank you, Marjorie. How is your mother?”
“She’s fine, thank you”
“Good” Hamlet brushed past his secretary and settled down at his desk. He took one look at the clock: three a.m. exactly. He would be able get two hours in before the shipment came. Hamlet took a long draft from his coffee mug and got to work.
DaVinci Broadcasting. He was Executive Chair for Advertising and Scheduling in division three-seven-six. Seven hundred and sixteen employees catered their activities toward pleasing this man. He held their financial future under the tip of his ballpoint pen as he reviewed proposals and approved commercials for the eighteen hours he worked every day.
He clicked his pen authoritatively and began leafing through the proposals. His eyes slipped easily down several bland paragraphs and he scribbled “failed” in the upper left corner in sleek black. He tossed the papers into his outbox and sighed. Too many fools thinking they knew how to sell. They’d soon be spilling over the edges of his outbox each with a neat black stamp of disapproval in the upper left corner. Failed. Failed. Failed… failed…failed…
Hamlet rubbed his eyes and wiped the saliva off the corner of his mouth and chin. He squinted at the amorphous red lights in front of him. He blinked and the blurs coalesced to form three buzzing red numbers: “6:17”
He hadn’t fallen asleep at work since he was an intern. He took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly. He started shuffling through proposals again. Failed, failed, failed…
“Goodnight, Marjorie.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Kinning.”
The clock read nine-thirty mounted on the wall of his apartment.
Time for sleep.
* * * * * * *
It was three days before he noticed.
He was off the pill.
Hamlet got up on the that morning and touched the black screen next to his bed, “Tell me the ETA for my August shipment.”
The Guardian flashed on, “Shipment was received on August 2”
August 2. Three days ago.
He ran a hand through his hair nervously.
The law required every citizen to take one pill every six hours. The Chemical Protection Act had been passed more than two decades ago. It was punishable by corporeal imprisonment - a practice that had not been implemented since the early 2020s, just after the Act was passed.
He needed a pill.
The pill fortified the human immune system against a string of enhanced viruses. They had been introduced in the states more than thirty years ago by political terrorists. It had nearly eliminated the entire population within days. An antidotal medication had been discovered and Congress implemented national regulations in order to eliminate the virus. It was estimated that the viral string had a half-life of fifty years. Anyone off the pill before 3057 was supposed to die within hours of contact with open air.
Hamlet splashed cold water on his face and looked in the mirror.
“I should be dead by now.”
“Please restate request.”
Hamlet sighed and tapped the black console, “I wasn’t talking to you.”
He grabbed a towel and dabbed his face. The towel felt unusually plush and comforting on his cheeks. He rested his face in the threads for a moment and thought hard.
He’d been off the pill for three days. Three whole days without the slightest sign of illness. None of the old dramatized warning signs: no vomiting, no boils, no fever. Nothing. Three days should have finished him off five times.
Nothing.
He slung the towel over his shoulder and looked in the mirror. His face seemed lighter - less wrinkled - pinker. Was he actually feeling better than usual?
He leaned in close and bore his teeth at his reflection.
“Go to work.”
“Please restate request”
Hamlet wadded up his towel and tossed it at the console then left to get ready for work.
* * * * * * *
“You’re looking well, Mr. Kinning, perhaps the extra sleep is doing you good?” Marjorie handed him a cup of coffee.
He had been off the pill for two weeks.
“Oh, I don’t know that it’s so strange to sleep until seven every once and a while! You know they used to do it every day,” He felt her long nails gently graze his knuckles as he took the cup. She had such slender fingers.
He had been distinctly aware of small details for the past two weeks. The trees were no longer carefully manicured balls of green - they were leafy
“You have an appointment at seven-thirty.” She handed him a stack of stapled papers.
“Cancel.” He took three timid sips from his cup, “Is this coffee getting hotter? It’s scorching!”
“I’ve given you the same cup of coffee every morning for twenty-six years. It’s not getting hotter.” She stared at him, “and in those twenty-six years you’ve never cancelled a meeting.”
He shrugged and set the coffee down on her desk. He leaned on her desk and looked at her. There was something different about her. Her hair? Her nails? They looked the same as they always did - he was sure. There was just something about her.
“Marjorie, let’s go grab a coffee.”
She blinked and said nothing.
“You and me, let’s go grab a coffee.”
She sniffed several times looking very confused; “Well you don’t seem so keen on coffee this morning.”
“Come on, let’s go!”
He dashed over to the door and unhooked their coats from the rack. She followed him cautiously, blinking and sniffing the whole time.
They slipped out of the building and Hamlet led the way downtown. Starbucks. He ordered two tall caramel macchiatos and picked out a small table near the window.
“Sir, we didn’t cancel the meeting.”
“They’ll be alright. It was just a board meeting.” Hamlet waved a hand lazily in the air and smiled, “Marjorie, do you like jazz?”
They settled into a casual conversation about macchiatos, work, and jazz music for the next thirty minutes. It was slightly awkward at first, but both parties seemed to warm up to each other within the first five minutes. Hamlet watched her closely. She would toss her hair every few seconds and it gleamed against the light pouring in the window. Her eyes were deep green. Had he noticed that before? They were very green.
She was lovely.
“Mr. Kinning,” She said after a moment’s silence, “what’s happened to you?”
He took a moment to take another drink from his coffee.
“I’m off it.”
She blinked a few times, “What?”
“I’m off the pill. I haven’t taken a single pill for two weeks.” He chewed the corner of his lip excitedly, “I’ve never felt better in my entire life.”
She shook her head as if to clear the outrageous idea from her mind, “You can’t be serious.”
“My last shipment was lost. I didn’t have the pills for one week, then they finally turned up in my office last week. I just didn’t get back on.” He lowered his voice, “Marjorie, I feel fine. I feel amazing. The trees have more color. The sun is hotter. I can hear music in my head. I can see the little cracks in the sidewalk and the little yellow flowers that spring up between them. I want to quite my job and run away to the Bahamas or Arizona or somewhere I’ve never been. I want to read poetry and go to jazz concerts. Marjorie, I’ve never felt better!”
She sat in stunned silence for a moment.
“Marjorie,” He looked at her pleadingly, “Stop taking the pill.”
“What? Are you crazy? I could be arrested!”
“Stop taking the pill, no one will know - you’ll feel so… so… different!”
“Mr. Kinning!”
“Marjorie, I’m being serious. Stop taking it.” He stopped and looked at her. She had shock written plainly on her face. She was still very lovely.
She swallowed, sniffed, and blinked without saying a word.
“Marjorie, please.”
She looked at him hard for a second, and then said plainly, “I won’t.”
* * * * * * *
Hamlet was pacing.
I won’t.
He sat down. He was back in his office ignoring the ever-multiplying proposals strewn across his desk. He and Marjorie had cut their escapade short.
Her voice tumbled around in his mind.
I won’t.
That was how it would be. That was what people would think - he was crazy - sick even. For spitting off crazy ideas like the colors in the trees and the beautiful imperfections in the sidewalk - they would call him a fool.
I won’t.
He would walk down the streets of New York and be the only man to notice the song of a robin above the hum of traffic. He would be the only one to feel something when he listened to old jazz recordings. He would be the only one who felt guilty about lying to hundreds of people just to inflate his bank account.
He would be the only one.
I won’t.
He jumped up from his chair and made his way over to the cabinet.
He shoved aside a few binders full of fiscal reports and let his fingers wander the back of the shelf.
A bottle.
He popped off the lid.
I won’t.
It was the missed shipment. The shipment that came late.
He dumped one pill into his palm.
He opened his mouth and closed his eyes.
Then he started to feel very cold.