The First Day

Billy walked to the back of the bus and sat down in an empty seat. He was excited for his first day at his new school, but he didn’t know what to expect. He held his backpack close his chest and looked out the window as satellites flew past. After another stop, a girl got on and sat down next to him.

“Hi,” the girl said, “you must be new. I’m Melissa, but I go by ‘Issa’ for short. What’s your name?”

“Billy,” Billy said nervously.

“Well, Billy,” Issa said, “welcome. Is this your first time to space-school?”

“Yeah,” Billy said, feeling a little embarrassed to be so new. “My family just moved here. My mom’s an astronaut.”

Issa nodded. “Yeah, most of the space-kids here have space-parents that are astronauts. My dad’s a space-engineer and my mom’s in the space-navy.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘space’ in front of other words?” Billy asked.

“It’s just way we talk up here in space,” Issa said matter-of-factly. “You just add ‘space’ to most common, concrete nouns.”

“Huh?” Billy asked, confused.

“You know what nouns are, right?” Issa asked.

“Um, I don’t remember,” Billy said, embarrassed.

“That’s fine,” Issa said, “I didn’t know what they were when I first moved here. Nouns are words that are the names of people, places, things, or ideas.”

“Oh yeah!” Billy said, recognition spreading across his face. “I remember learning that in school back on Earth. So, should I be called Space Billy?”

“No,” Issa said, “we don’t add ‘space’ to proper nouns.”

“What makes a noun proper?” Billy asked.

“Basically,” Issa said, “proper nouns that are the names of someone or something specific. So, you’d call yourself a space-boy, but not Space Billy. Does that make sense?”

Billy thought for a moment. “So, we go to a space-school, which is a common noun, and its name is Yuri Gagarin Elementary School, which a proper noun. Is that right?”

Issa nodded. “I think you’re getting the hang of it.”

“Don’t you mean I’m getting the ‘space-hang’ of it?” Billy asked, grinning.

Issa shook her head. “No, ‘hang’ is a verb.”

“Verb?” asked Billy, his grin fading.

“Yeah,” Issa replied, “verbs are action words. So like “walk,” “talk,” read,” “write,” “play,” “eat.” If you can do it, it’s a verb.”

This is a lot to keep track of, Billy thought. “I think I’ve got it. I don’t space-play with a ball, I play with a space-ball.”

“Right,” Issa said.

“If I wanted to add to it,” Billy said, “I’d say ‘I threw the space-red space-ball to my space-friend.”

“Almost,” Issa said. “You added an extra ‘space’ that time. “‘Red’ is an adjective.”

“Good grief!” Billy said, channeling his inner-Charlie Brown. “What are adjuctives?”

“Oh, quit being so dramatic,” Issa said while subtly rolling her eyes. “Adjectives are just words that describe nouns, like colors, smells, and other stuff.”

Billy twisted his face in concentration. “So,” he said, “We’re space kids, sitting in a yellow space-bus, on our way to space-school. I’ve got two space-pencils: a green one and a blue one. I’ll use them to write my name on my space-homework. Did I add any extra ‘spaces’ that time?”

“Nope!” Issa said, smiling. “You’re doing great.”

“I think I’ve got the hang of this,” Billy said. “This is space-fun!”

“Oops,” Issa said. “That one was extra.”

“Why?” Billy asked, confused. “Isn’t ‘fun’ a noun?”

“Sure it is,” Issa replied, “but it’s not concrete.”

“Of course it’s not cement,” Billy said, a little annoyed. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Issa said. “Concrete nouns are, like, solid things, you know? Something you can touch. ‘Fun’ is just an idea. Does that make sense?”

Billy furrowed his brow. “This isn’t as easy as I thought.”

“It takes some practice,” Issa said, “but you’ll get the hang of it. Just remember that you only add ‘space’ to common, concrete nouns.”

“So,” Billy said, giving it one more try, “I sleep on a space-bed, but I don’t have space-dreams, just regular dreams. We’re riding on a space-bus having a conversation, not a space-conversation. Right?”

“You picked that up quick,” Issa said. “Most space-kids are still figuring out lingo for the whole week, but you got it figured out before space-school even started. Not bad!”

“How long did it take you to learn it?” Billy asked as the bus pulled to a stop in the loading bay of Yuri Gagarin Elementary School.

“No time at all,” Issa said, flipping her hair behind her shoulder as she stood up. “I was the one who invented it.”

Billy’s mouth dropped open as Issa walked towards the door and stepped off the bus.

Family Values

Jeremy never liked having to confront people about complaints he received, but with so many anonymous submissions, he felt obligated to follow up. He rang the bell and waited, looking straight ahead at the door in front of him. After less than a minute of waiting, the door opened to reveal a middle-aged looking woman with hair past her waist. She smiled warmly.

"Hello," she said cheerfully. "Can I help you?"

"Hello," Jeremy replied. "I'm Jeremy Evans. I'm with Child Protective Services and I'm looking for the parents of Grover Wright."

"Oh my," the woman said, suddenly looking very concerned. "I'm Grover's mother, Verona. What's this all about?"

"We've received numerous complaints about about Grover's treatment," Jeremy said, perhaps a little too cold and business-like. "I'm here to verify the validity of those complaints."

Verona was taken aback. "I can assure you that Grover's father and I are trying to raise Grover the best that we can. Who registered the complaints?"

"All of the complaints were anonymous," Jeremy said, "but even if they weren't, I'm not allowed to tell you. Do you mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?"

"Of course not," Verona said without hesitation. "We have nothing to hide. I'm sure that once we've talked you'll see that these complaints are completely unfounded." She opened the door and showed Jeremy inside. Once they were seated across from each other at the kitchen table, Jeremy reviewed the paperwork attached to his clipboard.

"Now," Jeremy said, "one complaint we've received multiple times is that Grover is not bathed regularly. How often does he receive a bath?"

"That's up to him," Verona said, matter-of-factly. "Grover's father and I do our best to not have him influenced by outside sources, whether from us or from society as a whole. We want him to find his own way in the world."

Jeremy looked dumbfounded. "What? He's five years old. If you let him decide how to run his life, he'd never eat anything but candy."

"Not at all," Verona said. "Grover certainly enjoys candy, but he also loves eating fresh produce from our garden. He constantly helps in the garden and we can tell that he has a sense of pride from eating the literal fruits of his labors."

"Okay," Jeremy said, trying to get the conversation back on track, "but that still doesn't answer the question of how often Grover is bathed."

Verona thought for a moment before replying. "Oh, about once a week or so. Grover does enjoy bathtime, but he has so many other pursuits that he doesn't always get to it."

Jeremy made a note on one of the forms attached to his clipboard. "At his age, once a week is adequate. We've also received some complaints about him using foul language to other children in the neighborhood."

"Oh," Verona said, looking mildly embarrassed. "My husband is fan of the filmmaker Quentin Tarantino and he has watched many of his films with Grover. I suspect that he was just quoting a line from one of them."

"Those movies have hard R ratings," Jeremy said; "they're not appropriate for children."

"If you review the MPAA ratings system," Verona replied a little smugly, "you'll find that R ratings are for no child younger than 17 unless accompanied by a parent. I'll admit that I don't care for those films, but Grover enjoys watching them with his father, who is always present."

Giving up on that complaint, Jeremy reviewed his paperwork to find another topic. "We've received numerous complaints that Grover is often seen outside naked, sometimes relieving himself. Does that happen?"

"Absolutely," Verona replied without hesitation. "Although, we only allow him to do so in the backyard, which is surrounded by a wooden fence, so if people are watching it happen, I believe that makes peeping toms."

"Is Grover toilet-trained?" Jeremy asked, no longer surprised by what the woman across from him was saying.

"Mostly. He still has accidents from time to time, but he's getting there."

"If he's toilet-trained," Jeremy said, "why do you allow him to relieve himself outside? That will only make it harder for him to learn to use the bathroom."

Up until this point, Verona had been nothing but friendly and cheerful. Now, however, she suddenly became very serious and a little annoyed. "My parents raised me to be Christian, just like them. I was only a child, so I was very impressionable. They took me to church every week and regularly forced me and my siblings to read from the Bible. It wasn't until I was in college when I learned that all religion is a sham meant to control the masses.

"I don't want Grover to go through the same thing I did. I refuse to force him to have the same values that I have, even if that means that he decides to become religious. Honestly, the very idea of him going to mass or what-have-you makes me nauseated, but I would still support him if that's what he wants. That means that I let him make his own decisions. If he wants to run around outside while naked, who does that harm?"

Jeremy nodded, finally understanding. "Look, I get it. You want him to be his own person."

"Yes!" Verona responded, her cheerful enthusiasm having returned.

"But," Jeremy continued, "he's still only five years old. You have to teach to do things to do things that are good for him, even if it's not what he likes. You may be mad at your parents for 'forcing' their values on you, but how will Grover feel when he goes off to college and can't sit through an entire class because he doesn't know how to hold his bladder? Or how will he find a job when he shows up to an interview in desperate need of a shower? I know you think these things will take care of themselves, but they won't. I've seen kids living in squalor because they don't know any better. I can tell your heart's in the right place, so I won't take any action today. But I need you to make some serious changes to how Grover is being cared for."

Verona protested, saying that forcing her to act as a dictator to her son was fascist, but she ultimately acquiesced. Jeremy left with an appointment to return to check on things in a month. He was showing leniency, but he couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid, Grover. His parents were so afraid of encroaching on his development that they were actually hindering it. Thankfully, Grover was still young enough that his parents' misguided approach to parenting probably hadn't done any permanent damage.

With that taken care of, he got in his car and drove to his next appointment.

Humilia

INT. OF AN APARTMENT. A man in his mid-twenties is primping in front of a mirror in a bathroom. He’s wearing artificially distressed jeans and an Ed Hardy t-shirt beneath an unbuttoned dress shirt with the collar “popped.” He sprays himself with an excessive amount of body spray before putting on a trilby (a short-brimmed fedora).

MAN: [pointing to himself in the mirror with both hands] Look out, ladies: the man of your dreams is coming for you!

The shot becomes a freeze-frame and becomes black and white. We hear the man from earlier speaking in voice over.

MAN: [VO only] Does this look familiar to you? Perhaps this reminds you of yourself or someone you know.

CUT to the man from earlier in front of a blank, white background. He is now dressed in a solid-colored sweater and khaki pants.

MAN: That was me three months ago. Pretty obnoxious, right? It turns out, I didn’t have any shame.

CUT to an animation of a human brain as the man continues speaking. The animation portrays what the man is describing.

MAN: [VO only] Shame is produced when the chemical mediocris ignominiam is released by the amygdala. Unfortunately, some people don’t produce enough shame and often become, like, just the worst. Thankfully, Humilia can help. Humilia increases the production of shame to normal levels.

CUT to a montage of the man interacting with people in various situations in an amiable way: talking to friends in a restaurant, walking a dog while accompanying a woman, turning his phone off while waiting for a movie to start, etc. During the montage, a female announcer is heard.

ANNOUNCER [VO only]: Humilia is for those who struggle with feeling adequate levels of shame in their life. Most users reported feeling ashamed of their past decisions in as little two weeks. Side effects include being polite to members of the opposite sex, feeling uncomfortable when hearing racist jokes, having better taste in movies and TV shows, no longer bragging about your honestly unimpressive bench press max, seizures, and death. Humilia is not for children or foreigners.

CUT to the man in a bar.

MAN: [to camera] With Humilia, I can actually interact with people like a normal, healthy human being. [To a woman sitting at bar] Hi, I’m Chad. What’s your name?

CUT to a splashy Humilia logo. The chemical name of Humilia, desinas irrumator, should appear in parentheses.

ANNOUNCER: [VO only] Ask your doctor if Humilia is right for you.

END

Not in My House

Scene 1

INT. Kitchen

A husband and wife are finishing up their dinner preparations. What they are making is unimportant. The wife (MOM) places something on the table (like a bowl of salad or a roast).

MOM: You should tell Michael that dinner’s ready.

The husband (DAD) nods and walks out of the kitchen.

INT. Hallway, viewed from inside a bedroom, the door not quite closed

DAD is about to knock on the door, but pauses and looks in. Without saying a word, DAD’s eyes go big and he backs away with a look of horror on his face, bumping softly into the bathroom door behind him, pushing it open. DAD walks back to the kitchen.

INT. Kitchen

MOM: What’s going on? Where’s Michael?

DAD: [to himself] I just can’t believe it. You try to raise your kids right, but it all just falls apart on you.

MOM: What are you talking about?

DAD: [to MOM] I caught Michael using Coke.

MOM: [loud, but not quite a shout] Are you serious?! [quickly looks back towards the bedroom and changes to speaking in a loud whisper] Did you take it away?!

DAD: Why bother? I’m sure he’ll just get more.

MOM: Do you know where he got it?

DAD: No, but I’d guess that friend of his, Johnny, is involved. I never liked that kid.

MOM: Is that what Michael said?

DAD: No, once I saw what he was doing, I left. [ashamed] I just can’t look at him right now.

MOM: Hang on. Let’s find out what’s going on. I just can’t believe he’s using coke! [walks out of kitchen]

INT. Hallway.

We see MOM walking down the hall. This time, MIKE’s bedroom door is completely open, but the bathroom door across the hall is closed. The sound of a toilet flushing is heard. The door opens and MIKE, a teenager, comes out, a strong look of worry and fear is on his face.

MOM: Michael! What is this I hear about you using coke!?

MIKE: I just wanted to try it, that’s all!

MOM: Just TRY it?! You don’t just try something like that.

MIKE: Mom, it’s really not that big a deal. Most of my friends have it all the time.

MOM: And that makes it okay? Your friends don’t know what’s best for you, your father and I do.

MIKE: Okay, I’m sorry.

MOM: Sorry doesn’t cut it. Where’s the rest of it.

MIKE: I got scared, so I flushed it down the toilet. It’s gone.

MOM: [sighs] Where did you even get it?

MIKE: On the way home from school, there’s a corner store.

MOM: And they sell drugs there?!

MIKE: What?! No, I bought a Coke!

MOM: You don’t think that counts as drugs?

[DAD walks into the hall.]

DAD: You should know better, son. In this house, we drink Pepsi! [very dramatically, he opens a can of Pepsi and takes a sip] Ahh!

MOM: [not believing the ridiculousness of the situation] You caught him with Coca-cola?

DAD: Yeah, I did. You know that ever since I took the Pepsi Challenge all those years ago that this has been a Pepsi house.

MOM: [rolls eyes] I can’t believe this [throws hands in the air and walks away].

MIKE: Dad, there are other colas out there.

DAD: Not as far as I’m concerned!

MIKE: Stop telling me how to live my life! [walks into bedroom and slams door behind him]

A black screen appears with white letters:

Everyone has the right to choose for themselves. Talk to your kids about which cola is right for them.

END

Neighbors

“Morning, Marie.”

“Morning, Dave.”

“Bit of a cold morning, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s a bit early still, but yeah, it’s much colder than I was expecting.”

“I just have so much trouble getting moving on these colder mornings. I feel like I’m moving so slow, you know?”

“The sun should warm things up soon enough. What are your plans for the day?”

“Same old, same old. Work until sundown, come back here to rest. You?”

“Basically the same for me, but I’ll stay here.”

“Of course, of course. It must be nice to live where you work.”

“It’s great when I get some traffic, but I don’t always get lucky. I was thinking of setting up shop somewhere else; you know, see if a different location works out better for me.”

“Do what you feel is best, but it’d be a shame to lose you as a neighbor.”

“It’s nice to know you feel that way. I’ve really enjoyed our conversations. Everyone else in the neighborhood has kept their distance, so you’re friendship has meant a lot.”

“I hope things work better for you today and you can stay. Well, I’ve got to head out. See you this evening.”

“Yeah, see you then.”

~~~

“Hello?”

“Dave? Is that you?”

“Marie, you moved! I didn’t think you would relocate today.”

“Yeah, I really didn’t want to, especially after our conversation, but a girl’s got to eat.”

“That makes sense. Still, it’s sad to see you go.”

“How’d you find the new place?”

“I guess I wasn’t watching where I was going and I just wandered in. Can you get me out of here? I guess I got myself trapped.”

“Of course you got trapped, silly. My silk is supposed to be sticky.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it: big scary black widow catches her prey. Come on, seriously, Marie, let me go. It’s your old pal, Dave the ladybug.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Dave. I’ve spent the whole day building this new web and you’re the first thing I’ve caught. Like I said, a girl’s got to eat.”

“Hey! Wait a minute! I was the only one that even talked to you in our whole neighborhood and this is how you repay me?”

“Everyone kept their distance for their own safety, Dave. I guess you should have done the same. I really am sorry. I’ll at least wrap you up quickly so you don’t have to suffer.”

“Hmfph! Rrmbf!”

“I really need to remember to not make friends with species that I eat. This is just like what happened with Portia the fruit fly.”

Stuck

Rose sat on the edge of her bed, her head buried in her hands. Her phone sat next to her, ringing. Why is he calling, again? she thought. I never pick up; can't he take a hint?! Scott was always hopeful to the point of being naive, but he had finally backed-off recently. Now he has one medical scare and suddenly he has to talk to Rose again.

It's not that Rose didn't like Scott, it's that ... well, what did she feel? She hated him intensely for making her follow him to an out-of-state school. The University of Florida was a fine school, but he had to run off to Missouri State, which he later admitted that he didn't like that much. Now they both had mountains of debt and no real prospects for good-paying jobs. Scott was doing better, finding work off in Berkeley in "Nor Cal," as he called it, but even he admitted he was struggling.

She also hated him because of what she'd gone through since they got separated. The way her family treated her, especially her mom, like she was a failure for moving back home, when she's only the second person in her entire family to graduate from college. Maybe things didn't work out the way they should have, but she still succeeded at something that few people had even tried.

Yet, even though she hated him, there were clear feelings of affection. Even as it annoyed her, she did like knowing that after everything, Scott still wanted her as his wife. And since moving to Nor Cal he had stayed steadily employed, like he always had while they were together. Plus, even with his prematurely-graying hair, he was still rather handsome.

Maybe she shouldn't be surprised by her feelings. Scott had been an important person to her for a long time, so it would make sense that she would be worried when he had a heart attack last week. He was fine now, even back to work, but it had really freaked Rose out when she got the text from Scott saying that he had had a heart attack the day before. She texted back, but Scott wanted to talk. She said she would call later, but when she was free, she couldn't bring herself to make the call.

And that was the problem. A simple call is so complicated. Her calling would imply that everything was okay, which it wasn't. But if she didn't call, it would make it seem like she didn't care, and that wasn't true either: even if she didn't want to stay married to Scott, she doesn't want him to die or anything. If she called, she'd probably lose her temper about something trivial; if she didn't call, the curiosity of how he was doing would eat away at her.

That, in a sense, was the same reason they're still married after nearly two years of separation. She had reasons to push for a divorce and end things once and for all, but she also had reasons to want to try to work things out; she wanted both options while also wanting neither. In the end, she felt paralyzed, unable to reconcile or complete the divorce. She was stuck in a sort of purgatory of marriage.

Dammit! Rose thought as her phone rang again. The caller ID displayed Scott's photo. She couldn't hit Answer or Decline. She couldn't do anything. She clutched at the sides of her head and just thought Stop! over and over again.

Enabler

Marcus sat in the living room sipping his morning coffee. The voice of a newscaster droned on in the background, but Marcus just ignored it. His mind was on more pressing matters: his son, Ryan.

Ryan was addicted to heroin and Marcus was at a loss as to what to do to help him. He had talked to Ryan, tried to reason with him to show him how by using heroin, he was putting his life on hold. Ryan was a talented artist, but he had barely picked up a pencil in the last year-and-a-half. To see his son waste so much potential was painful, though not as painful as knowing that his son was under the control of a substance.

And that was the problem: Ryan had no control. He could get cleaned up and things would look good for a few days, then he would disappear into his room, only to emerge hours or sometimes days later in a complete mess. Marcus didn't understand it. How do you lose control of yourself like that? When Marcus saw problems in his own life, he would work hard to fix them. That worked most of the time and when it didn't he could usually justify why it didn't matter. But he couldn't justify his son's problem.

When looking for a solution, people would tell Marcus that he needed to stop supporting Ryan. He may not be buying the drugs, they'd say, but by giving him a place to stay, he was still supporting his son's addiction. Marcus didn't believe that, couldn't believe that he was the reason that Ryan was in his current state. He loved his son; how could he abandon him and make him move out?

Ryan's cousin, Pauly, had offered to help. He had a place of his own and could keep an eye on Ryan to help him kick the habit. Be a "sober companion," as he called it. The problem was, Pauly lived in Chicago, which might as well be a world away from Denver. It's not like Marcus could go visit on the weekend or anything. And with his roofing business struggling right now, if Ryan went to live with Pauly, there would be no safety net. For all intents and purposes, if Ryan moved, it would be for good. He cared for his son too much to send him out into the world without some kind of backup plan.

So, Marcus sat and sipped his coffee and tried not to think about how he was pretty sure that Ryan had gotten high again last night.