This story is something I wrote for a writing prompt proposed by an online forum. The prompt is as follows:
[WP] A scientist has discovered the drug for immortality. The only side effect is, though, infertility. After the whole world got vaccinated, it turns out immortality is a hoax― it really is just an infertility drug.
MARCH 20th. YEAR 2068. AFTER THE INFORMATION ERA. LAST RECORDED ENTRY.
I stood at the brink of destruction.
For myself, at least.
I have never felt more special, more important in the cosmic scale of things. The bloodthirsty crowd was roaring for my head. The government wanted to torture me to death. Each individual person, man, women, young, old, rich, poor, wished to see me suffer. The world wanted me more than dead― they wanted me to hate being alive.
They hate me because of I developed a cure for death. Dramatic right? This cure would save the world from death― and I made it cheap. Everyone sought the cure to their eventual, unforgiving end, and it worked. Death kneeled before me and retired his rusted, bloodied scythe. My parents always wanted me to develop a cure to disease, and lo and behold: the ultimate disease― death. So why did the public want me dead?
It was a lie. No one has developed a cure for death, nor will it happen anytime soon. Or at least as I tread this Earth. However my cocktail of various chemicals allowed the public to not live forever, but for a quite a while― giving the illusion of immortality. The public gobbled it up like children at a candy store, and everyone took the irreversible, incurable, absolutely permanent, easily transmitted― infertility drug. Yes, you heard me: I just doomed the human race by making them unable to reproduce.
You can see why they hate me just a little, tiny bit.
But I have no intention of dooming my own race. I am no maniacal evil genius with a long monologue who wishes to see the world brought down with their own mortality. No, I wish to save the world. I wish to save the world in the most twisted, disturbing, yet most reliable way: hatred. Hatred is a motivator, and though I do despise Machiavellian ideals― the guy was spot on about this. Like Jesus on the cross I am going to die for the world’s sins― and it is going to hurt. A lot.
They are breaking down the doors to my bunker. Hatred is certainly quite the motivator. So I will say this: the world is falling apart. The people have been lenient. The wheels of production slow, and research dulls. The people are too content. They need something to hate. They need something to work towards. They need a problem― and that problem is me. Or rather, this infertility drug that I just administered to the whole human race.
But, humanity will unite in their research to cure their infertility easily. From there, they will combine forces to achieve new achievements on a global scale. They will unite in their problems. They will unite and prosper and sail to the stars― without me; that is my one and only regret. I don’t regret that I will be probably be tortured to death, nor that I may of doomed the next few generations. No, I regret I will never be able to see the future.
So, curse my name. Call me a cocky, homicidal maniac who believes that the future is their responsibility. You may forget me― but you will never forget what I did.
And perhaps one day. One day you will really discover the key to immortality.
To quote Orwell from the book 1984.
“War is Peace”.
And I just brought the war.
Following this, shattering of wood and crash of cement was heard. Followed by screaming. Then silence.
NOVEMBER 20th. 2129 EARTH YEARS. DURING THE UNITED ERA
“End the recording”, the disheveled woman sighed. Heavy rings circled her exhausted eyes. The glowing glass screen in front of her faded to dull throbbing grey light. The room seemed to be a library yet there was no books nor workers in the vicinity. After pondering in silence, the women turned to the chrome screen.
The screen fluttered in luminosity as it spoke― enunciating each syllable with a flicker of light.
“Have you reached a conclusion?”, inquired the softly pulsating device to the tired women. This was the 156th time the device asked this question, simply because the women has listened to the recording 156 times.
The women looked at the screen with tired, yet wary, eyes. “Because of the infertility drug, humanity soared for years afterwards. Developing international practices and technology that led us to the stars and beyond.” The scientist slowly rose up from her seat. “Had the infertility drug not been developed and dispersed, had we not banded together against the common enemy, we would of never made it this far.”
“Have you reached a conclusion?”, repeated the screen.
The women answered quickly, almost passionately: “I have always learned that history repeats itself. No matter how far in the future you are. It seems that we always ended up making the same mistakes.” She began to pace the room. “But what if, what if it wasn’t a mistake?
“Have you reached a conclusion?”, repeated the screen, ignoring the question.
“Humanity is once again getting lenient, we stopped doing things. We stopped being curious― we became too content. Like a person who played a game and finished it, once, twice, thrice, we became bored. But what if, what if we throw in a curve ball? Something to get the gears of production moving again. Something to move us forward?
“Have you reached a conclusion?”, repeated the screen.
“Yes. Yes I have. I― I think it is time to start researching an immortality drug.” the researcher said with a wicked smile.
NOVEMBER 21th. 2129 EARTH YEARS. DURING THE UNITED ERA
On November 21th, Dr. Ambre published her research in the field of immortality― inventing the universe’s first immortality drug. In addition, she has made the drug widespread and extremely easily accessible. The human race will forever remember the incredible impact her actions will have. Some might even say, we have beat the game of life.
Wallowing songs of the crickets filled my head. The moon stood low over the desert valley, sobbing quietly in her loneliness. There were no stars in the sky that night.
The dusk-drunk heavens sagged with their own bitter memory of yesterday, yearning of the blue promise of a painfully hot day in hours to come. I missed winters on the mountain, where the sky knew nothing of color for weeks, except for a burst of it at dawn each morning. For hours until that dawn, the sky was riddled with white clouds and one would never imagine that it once was blue.
To my neighbors living in the village compounds back home, I was often deemed queer for my early-rising tendencies. I had enjoyed the blunt cold and the quiet that came with the special hour, and no amount of teasing could convince me otherwise. An old man who used to live across the road from us would tell me every morning, “Enjoy the cold do you? Cherish it now; we’ll forget the feeling when we’re sweating off the glow of hell’s fiercest fires.” He was a small minded man.
Now that I was away from my home, the only things that entered my mind were the old memories of my unforgettable childhood.
A frighteningly large beetle scuttled across the dirt floors of the tent. My heartbeat quickened and I scampered away from it, trying not to be loud enough to wake the others. I didn’t want to bother them this late in the night. My mother had always said that a sleeping problem should only concern the bearer and no one else. But I think that it was just her way of teaching me not to bother her with such issues.
I miss home, my heart sighed wistfully, gazing at the shadows playfully swaying across Eve’s face as she slept. I know, I answered lightly, patting my chest to comfort it. I was grateful for the meal and the shelter the nomad people had so graciously given to me, but I knew I couldn’t stay for long. I was needed back at home—I had been convinced that my sisters were not coming back. My heart still believed they were alive, but no part of me believed they would return back to the shabby adobe hut amongst the worker’s compounds.
Bitter winds of ice struck my nose as I slipped quietly out of the tent. The entire village was very still—so still in fact, one would believe that there wasn’t a soul among the pitched tents that was breathing. My older sister Venus once told me that if a house of people all slept in complete silence through the night, it was an omen of death. I wondered how that would apply to a whole village.
Not much happens in the small town of Dawson. The quiet, utopian town in the middle of nowhere is its own little piece of paradise. The little suburban town has a homey feeling.
That was until the mysterious disappearance of sixteen year old Leila Harold.
Maybe the tiny town was becoming antsy, and it needed something, anything, to happen. Maybe the people were becoming stultified with the same everyday life, going through their days like thoughtless zombies: wake up, eat breakfast, brush teeth, get dressed, go to school, greet friends - or so-called friends - go to class, go back home, do homework, have dinner, go to bed… and repeat. “The days turned into months and the months into years,” that clichéd saying rang true for the people in Dawson.
Things were shaken up when Leila suddenly disappeared. The news of her disappearance had spread like wild fire; it was the talk of the town. People in Dawson started to question the cause of her disappearance and started asking suspicious questions. Everyone had a theory, even if they couldn’t back it up with any facts. Some said she was threatened and had to leave, whilst others would swear she was murdered. No one knew for sure what had happened… at least that’s what they would tell you.
Most people thought Leila Harold was a quiet, sweet girl, but some knew better - she had a temper. Getting on her bad side meant you were committing social suicide. On a good day at Dawson High, Leila would only degrade two girls. Maybe that’s why Madeline Clark, a former classmate, moved away; the constant din of Leila’s abuse might have been too much for her but, then again, maybe it was just that her parents really did get relocated for their jobs. For the purpose of the story, however, we’ll go with the former.
One gloomy Sunday, Leila didn’t show for Church. People assumed she was sick, naturally. But what most uneducated people of Dawson didn’t know is that on Saturday night, Leila told her parents she would spend the night at her friend Kara Humphrey’s house. Leila left at 7 pm in her new cherry red VW convertible with a tan top, a far too extravagant gift from over zealous parents, and made her way to the Humphrey house. Somewhere along Highway 221, rocking out to her favorite band, Pink Floyd, Leila saw a shadow in the back seat of her car. She dialed 9-1-1, but all the operator could hear was a muffled voice whisper meekly, “Help,” followed by the screech of car brakes, the crunch of metal, and the breaking of glass. Hearing the deafening sound, the 9-1-1 operator sent a dispatch team to Highway 221 to check it out. When officers arrived, however, there was no body to be found, just the remains of a cherry red VW convertible with a tan top.
Maybe for the purpose of needing an interesting topic to write about, I was the culprit in Leila’s mysterious disappearance. But even if I was, I would make sure to cover my tracks. And so as our story comes to a close, we are left having to ponder what tragic end met Leila Harold, if any end at all.
Lola was flipping pages as the clock ticked by, fully sucked into and enticed by her new book when it happened. The distant buzz interrupted the words being spoken in her mind, the same words that were plastered on the crusty old page she had her gaze locked onto, ripping her out of her fantastical daze and back into reality. Lola reached for her phone and swiped into the Snapchat notification.
The photo with a caption sent from her sister, Sabrina, saddened her. It was like her heart was sinking, no, like it was drowning, into a vast open space of pure darkness. If Sabrina wasn’t going to care, Lola would. She took a deep breath before repeating the words on the screen in her head. I just failed my english test. I’m not gonna graduate because of it.
Whoever is reading this might think that Lola was saddened because of the fact that Sabrina might not graduate, which was true, but...
It was more than that. The fact that Sabrina didn’t possess the ability to be able to open her eyes. To be able to see that it wasn’t her english teacher’s fault, the school’s fault, or her brain’s fault.
It was her lack of motivation and care for going to school. It was her lack of even showing up in the first place and doing the work assigned to her.
It had hit Sabrina as soon as second semester and new classes started — why try?
The question sparked in her brain and was like an electric buzz in her veins. Like she knew everything and didn’t need anyone. She could practically feel the light bulb beaming above her head.
As much as her family members cared and offered constant help, Sabrina would always snap and reassure them that they shouldn’t worry. That she would graduate. That she had everything handled.
The unexpected plot twist: she didn’t.
Well, unexpected to Sabrina, at least.
Her family saw it coming from a mile away.
They pried her to go to class. She wouldn’t.
They pried her to do her work. She wouldn’t.
They pried her to talk to them. She wouldn’t.
They pried her to at least try to enjoy school, try to be motivated. She wouldn’t.
No matter what they did, she refused to listen. She assured them she had full control, when in reality her grip was loosening on the reins.
She was beginning to slip off the railings.
She was uncontrollably falling, like her shoe was already stuck in place.
So, yes, reading that text stung. It stung bad, because Lola and her family tried to warn Sabrina.
Sabrina was fully convinced that it was not her fault. Lola had always wondered what was with this generation’s lack of ability to take responsibility for their actions, and this was just another one of those examples for her. Sabrina kept blaming people around her for her fall. Her english teacher, she claimed, was “bad and everyone thought so.” Her school, she complained, was “horrible and boring.” Her school work, she cried, was “hard and impossible.”
But the problem wasn’t her english class or her school or her work — it was Sabrina’s lack of motivation, care, effort, participation, and getting up after she fell. The lack of all of these important aspects led her to her ultimate worst decision:
To just give up.
To not give effort.
To not go to class (which she had missed countless times, hence her failing).
It led her to fall into this pit she can’t dig herself out of.
But to dig yourself out of a pit, you have to get up again.
You have to realize that getting up is easy, and that moving forward is the tough part.
You have to take responsibility for your mistakes and move on.
You have to realize that the walls you’ve created are the same ones you can tear down.
You have to use the opportunities around you.
You have to give effort.
You have to ignore the dread and fear of failing to fully rise.
You have to accept that you can’t do everything on your own, and get help from the ones who care.
You have to try.
It’s never too late to learn a lesson and meet the deserved consequences, but you have to remember that the lesson and the consequences are for your benefit, not your disadvantage.
They allow you to learn, and they allow you to grow.
If you never forget that, you will rise above it all and gain your control back.
The choice is yours:
Will you learn and grow, or will you refuse and give up?
Author’s note: All dialogue has been translated to English from Tyrannosaurian by means of my team of hard working translators in collaboration with modern T-rex researchers. Although collecting audio and/or written samples of Tyrannosaurian speech was overwhelming hard to gather (due to the nature that Tyrannosaurs are a rare and often forgotten species not to mention hostile (R.I.P Gary Smithers 1986-2018)) we were still able to create what we believe to be the closest depiction of authentic Tyrannosaurian dialect to date! I would also like to mention that all “ö’s” should be pronounced like the “o” in “bother”. Finally, you may find that many of the Tyrannosaurian words lack their proper tense, part of speech, etc. I assure you that this is merely to mimic the exact words that T-rexes use in their tongue.
Prepare yourself dear reader for a tale of awe
As two tyrannosaurus rexes, fight over a buzz saw
In the midst if the night shaded eve of the theft mania
Corl was overwhelmed with a pungent urge of kleptomania
Into his brother’s bedroom he crept
All the while, Karl peacefully slept
With little foresight into his brother’s inevitable disown
Corl claimed the saw blade as indisputably his own
Karl the mighty T-rex stood dumbfounded over his younger, smaller, thieving brother: Corl. Wrapped tightly in Corl’s small, T-rexion hands lay Karl’s beloved buzzsaw. He loved that buzzsaw with all his giant ancient reptilian heart, but now his closest cold hearted comrade had stolen it from him in his sleep! By the time Karl had awoken, Corl had already used it to cut a total of 1,845,330 slices of his personal secret salami supply! With a roar that shook the walls of their secluded cabin that lay deep in a mountainous pine forest, Karl screeched:
“Bröther, you hab taken mine prized saw blade. I must ask from the depths of mine bowels, give me back mine saw blade or face dire consequences the likes of which none hab the raw intellect to comprehend,”
Corl appeared to set aside his usual timidness around his brother and gain a rush of confidence that invigorated him to an extent he had never felt before. With this newfound confidence, he replied to his older brother in soft but stern tone:
“Mine beloved bröther, mine actions were not conducted out of hatred, but rather out of required rebellion. For you see, I have gone far to long without the sweet, savory, salivating taste of skillfully sliced salami. Yet whenever I ask of you for a sampling of thine meats, you quickly change the subject to less pressing matters than my hunger as a means of preserving your own overfilled coffers of precious chow. While you create thine delicious delicacies, you too consume them at an equivalent rate as your production!”
Taken aback, an expression of disbelief at his brother’s defiance materialized onto Karl’s face. In a split second of self reflection, Karl realized that his anger had begun to control his entire reptilian body and contort his reasoning into a defensively hostile mindset. With this knowledge, Karl relaxed his tense teeth, as well as his constrained cerebellum. Encapsulated in a calmer demeanor, Karl softly replied:
“Bröther, mine intend for monopolizing the saw blade was never under the influence of a heinous conscious. Rather, the reason for my actions, which you alone perceive as despicable, where of riches authority for if you do recall, it was I who found thine saw blade far away from our cabin in the depths of this great forest we have forever dwelled inside,”
With Karl’s haughty thoughts now released to the small, reptilian ears of his younger sibling, Karl smirked and closed his eyes in triumph as if he had already won the bikery, basically blasfomacious, battle of the brains. With a smug look, Karl formally proclaimed:
“There is no need for charity over such earned rights as that as the privilege to wield mine sensational salami slicer. Forgive me bröther but you must understand that only the more kind, charismatic and caring kinfolk can be bestowed with the responsibility of lacerating the rightfully earned victuals. Thou must have to suffice with our other stocked aliments,”
Like a unstable chemical reacting to a foreign element, Corl’s afresh anticipating arrogance overtook his unprepared mind. The entity thrashed and grew violently within Corl’s mind, and soon surfaced into a perceivable expression of anguish towards his supercilious sibling. Suddenly, Corl’s creation of corruptive contempt began to control and covolude his teeth into a unwelcoming snarl; and without warning, Corl lunged at his unreadied brother with an unwavering intended to assert his dominance and claim his rightful ownership of the saw blade!
The results of this battle have never been agreed on by any predictor
To this day, we still wonder who was the righteous victor
Yet, some rare few may proclaim that they
Truly believe that the Tyrannosaurus still fight to this day
Besides the ramblings of a maniac who is best to dismiss
I believe that the moral of this story is this:
It is with great gravity that I warn you, the reader
To never, ever, steal a buzzsaw either