2017 Prometheus Unbound

Prometheus Spring 2017

Sky Cui ’18

1

Michael Mehlman

Table of Contents Short Stories Untitled. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Mr. Jones. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 All Sales are Final. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Poetry Like So. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Escape. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Nature & Man. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Waning Crescent. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

United . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Stars and Stripes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

14 15 17 18 20 23

Personal Essays Popsicles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 A Modest Proposal. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Editor: Harsh Singh Assistant Editor: Ari Chadda Advisor: Matt Dougherty

Untitled Andrew Clark

Although my family would quake at what I saw at midnight, I had no fear, because I knew one day it would come for me. I’ve known from the beginning of it all.

I knew when I was drafted from my farm in Hokkaido by dour enlisted men in worn fatigues from China.

I knew when we were bused to the depot and the sergeants beat us with bamboo switches for failing to salute properly, for failing to march properly, for failing to clean properly, for failing.

I knew when all my friends stopped reciting our exultations, and started screaming them, in meaningless defiance of the tiger cleaving its way towards us.

I knew when the papers told of our navy’s greatest victory yet, but the officers clustered around Yokohama’s radio moaned and shuddered until they had to shut off the fountain of infernal truth.

I knew when I saw through the cramped porthole our transport’s sister ship, with half our regiment inside, shatter in two from a dive bomber hit. The steel burned white as the water foamed red, and the steel groaned as our men screamed.

I knew when we were dumped onto Saipan with more weapons than food, and most of all when we realized we were the last ship to ever make it from Japan.

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This is why I was not surprised when the American fleet materialized in the night, bent on tearing our miserable coral airstrip away from our nonexistent air force. And while I wasn’t surprised by the American’s appearance, I was still shocked by their thunderous barrage.

Although it seemed like years in my camouflaged dugout, for two whole days the battleships and cruisers walked their fire across the island. One moment the birds had almost started singing again, and then, as the ominous grumbling grew louder, the ridgeline above exploded in dirtied flames, which cascaded down the slope towards us.

Day turned to night as the shell’s acrid smoke churned the mud upwards, smothering our position. Calling out to each other after the barrage passed, the exhilaration of survival was tempered as the crushed and splintered remains of our radio man were discovered dashed across our position. Only his torso, impaled by the shattered logs of his dugout’s roof, remained frozen in place.

As the bombardment abated, our anticipation spiked. From our position in the draw of a ridge overlooking the landing beach, we saw the landing craft circle around their mothership, and then draw away in hypnotizing lines and waves towards the shore. We reveled as their vaunted swimming tanks and Higgin’s boats were smashed by our artillery, their burning hulks trapped on the reef.

As terrible our fire was, the marines

were still more terrible. For every squad cut down jumping the gunwales onto the bloodied beach, two more made it to the tree line. Our little valley up away from the beach was a natural draw for the fatigued Americans, and the first dozen fell to our elevated Nambus, scything downward.

Wrapping my hands around its dirty wooden stock, my Arisaka felt cold despite the tropical heat. Our machine guns’ singular chatter began to be intermixed with their return fire, and soon stray rounds were whipping through the scrub above us.

The first man I shot was a fool.

Racing forward while spraying wildly, he had almost reached the berm in front of my dugout when I fired. The rifle kicked in my shoulder as my bullet punched into him, just below the right collarbone. The blood blossomed underneath his filthy dungarees even as his momentum and gravity carried him forward into the sandy berm.

The tip of his helmet still lay above the crest, but was yanked backwards by one of his more sensible prone countryman.

As the din of gunfire and screams seemed to crescendo, I no longer waited for targets but fired wildly down the draw. My carelessness revealed my position, and a hail of grenades flew towards me. They exploded harmlessly above me, but the increasing fire on my dugout flung splinters into my face.

It must’ve been one of their “Bangalore torpedoes,” but the fronting of my position suddenly snapped inward

in a deafening, dusty, blast, blocking my firing port and trapping my rifle. Choking on dust and bleeding from the splinters, I threw my grenades out the shattered roof and abandoned my position.

Fumbling my way through the tunnels the natives dug three years ago, I managed to find our hospital.

My scratches were nothing to the men whose torn bodies were a testament to the Americans’ determination. Sent ever further back to find a weapon, I ended up in this position here.

I am quite confident in this new inland position, hewn out of the rock in Saipan’s central ridge. The only cover ahead is scorching rocks and loose shrubs and, along with the spider holes I know concealed amidst those rocks and shrubs, I doubt the Americans could force us out of this one.

However, the man who brought me ammunition told me a banzai attack is being planned for the night, so I must make preparations.

I hope he is right, because although I don’t know if I’ll ever see my family again, I do know the Americans are here, and there is only one path. They must die, or I must die. I wish I could return to Hokkaido, but given that impossibility, I’d rather die a martyr than with shame in my heart.

Farewell.

Luke Glenn

Andrew Engel ’18 5

Mr. Jones Matt Seebald ’17

Each day brought the world away from Mr. Jones; cars drove themselves, Mars was the hot travel destination and people, if they could be called that anymore, became the net sum of their phones.

The hustle of earlier years, the honking of horns in the waking hours, the myriad of voices rising from cafes and office buildings had long receded into an autonomous silence, where pixels, not thought, dominated the land. There was no reason to leave home, no reason to risk the outdoors, as all that one would ever need laid at his fingertips.

Robots, not people, now made the world go round. Drones whizzed in the sky, carrying food, drink and service to patrons sitting on sofas and chairs. Humanoid figures, with long legs and busty chests, lay in seductive poses itching to be bought. Metallic war-machines roamed the streets, their sensors scanning each and every face out of place. Mr Jones, now seventy-six, hated those, having been slain almost seven times.

Men had been reduced to nothing more than users. No longer did mind nor brawn matter, for artificial-intelligence had already solved all. The world grew smart as man, blissfully unaware, grew dumb. The agon of life of yore, and with it true fulfillment, had become a dull, constant satisfaction. Yet he, no longer content with perpetuation, still challenged himself whenever possible.

Mr. Jones did not fit in; he still believed in the superiority of human intellect, of love and individualism. The roar of an engine as he put it into fourth, the red glow along the horizon at sunset, the smell of paper from a new book were far preferable for him than this brave new world of silicon; it was, after all, for the new, not the old.

He did not understand why men no longer talk. He did not understand why virtual reality now beat the real thing. He did not understand why artificial skin, made in a factory somewhere in China, was preferable to the warm, pink lips of a woman. It was a new world entirely, where men live in computers and no longer bleed. Something was truly happening there, but no one knew what it was. Especially, Mr. Jones.

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Zack Werhan ’18

7

All Sales are Final Milo Hartsoe

It’s not getting louder. It’s getting closer.

A rusty red pickup truck is coming down my gravel driveway. This idiot is gonna go right through my fence. The truck stops a few yards from where I am sitting on the porch. The engine still roaring, a burnt skinned man opens his car door. Without looking at me, he walks over to the bed of the truck and pulls out a pitchfork. He looks tired, upset, and angry.

His red eyes see me staring at him. He stomps over to where I am standing. When he two yards away from me, he throws his pitchfork down and says, “I can’t do this anymore! It is too hot, and I am under too much pressure!”

“You haven’t even done any real work.” I tell him.

“I can’t do it! I am done!”

“I knew you wouldn’t be worth anything the minute I saw your weak knees.”

“You don’t even know what it means to work.”

He gets back in his truck and drives away. He is the forty-second worker to leave in the last three months. People are too soft. What am I supposed to do, surrender to the union? Then, I remembered a spam email I was sent a few days ago. The ad is for a company that said they could automate anything. I open the email with the subject “Anthony’s Automation: It is easy to be lazy.” There is a blue highlighted phone number listed at the bottom of the email.

I call and listen to the phone buzz. I hear a voice on the other end say, “Welcome to Anthony’s Automation. We are the leaders in industrial automation and certified by the All-American Automation Association. Press one to hear about are cutting edge technology.

Press two to hear—”

“Operator. Operator. Operator.” I said. I hate talking with these systems.

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“I’m sorry. Did you want to speak with an operator? The current wait time is five and a half hours to speak with an operator. I can handle full sentences and answer most questions. How can I help you?”

“I’d like to automate my farm.”

“How many acres is your farm?”

“I’ve 290 acres of hay and 180 acres of corn.”

“Anthony’s Automation would recommend the 2018 Deluxe Supreme Grade Black package. The package costs $9,998 plus tax and comes with 1,000 Micro-Fliers and three Satellite Support Stations.”

“What is a Micro-Flier?”

“A Micro-Flier is a white sphere about the size of a tennis ball.

Each can lift about four times its own mass. They are powered by radiation from the Satellite Support Stations. Since each MicroFlier is powered remotely, they can fly for decades without stopping and reach speeds greater than 20% the speed of light. The same technology was used by space programs to take pictures of planets 20 light years away.”

“How well can Micro-Fliers work on a farm?”

“Micro-Fliers use high precision time coordination to create swarm strength. People are typically pleased with the capabilities of Micro-Fliers.”

“Can they farm?”

“They can do just about anything they want.”

“When could they be installed?”

“Installation is an automated process. If you put in an order now, then the automation would be fully installed by 2:12 a.m. tomorrow.

Also, there is a one month free trial.”

“Alright, I will take the free trial and the package. But I won’t

pay a cent unless they work.” I hung up. I don’t want them trying to sell me anything more than want I need.

I am waking up to an astonishing sight outside my window.

About 600 yards away, I see a large swarm of orbs lifting my cow Betty. She is wriggling like the day she was branded. The MicroFliers are carrying her across the pasture into the barn. That cow is over 1500 pounds. The They must have setup the satellites at the barn and the back of the house. Let me see if I can find them.

Right next to my stacks of firewood, I see a metal box with a bowl shaped dish on the top. The box is about the size of a minivan.

Each side has four stakes and the same red writing. I move a little closer to read the red letters. The inscription is “WARNING: high levels of radiation can cause fatigue, increased sweating, skin burns, nausea, and cancer. Do not open box without taking AAAA approved safety measures.” I wonder if it causes mild to severe restless leg syndrome. The company is just keeping their lawyers happy. The government would never let companies put radioactive material in the backyards of civilians. While I am reading the label, I notice that the dish is rotating back and forth.

Suddenly, the back door of the house opens. I hustle over to the house to see who just opened the door. It must be the worker from yesterday. When I open the door, I don’t see anyone. I hear the kitchen faucet running, and turn my head. There are about eight Micro-Fliers attempting to wash a pot. Four of them are holding the brush, and the others are holding the pot. I sit down at the table and watch the orbs wash a pile of dishes. All I can think is why didn’t I automate my farm sooner.

I walk over to the hen house to check on the chicken. It is about a half mile walk from the house. When I get to the hen house, I start to collect the eggs. Yet, there aren’t any eggs. All the eggs have already been collected. I double check each nest and don’t find any broken eggs. Next to the door there is a bin full of eggs. These MicroFliers seem to be fast and coordinated. I leave the hen house and walk around the farm. By the time it is dusk, all the chores seem to be completed.

I am waking up late today. Not like it’ll matter. The Micro-Fliers are doing all the work. I don’t have to do anything. I could stay in bed all day, and it wouldn’t matter. Finally, I decide to get up. I reach for the doorknob, and the door is locked. I tell myself not to panic. I try the doorknob again, but this time with a little more force. The door doesn’t move, and the doorknob comes off. I remind myself not to panic. I look through the doorknob’s hole. On the other side of the door there is a Micro-Flier flashing red.

Maybe I should panic.

I run over to the window. The windows are glass with metal frames and swing outward. There aren’t any locks on the windows. I draw the curtains back. In the field, I see a few Micro-Fliers flashing.

The house has two stories, and my bedroom is on the upper level. My windows are about 25 feet above the gravel driveway, and I have a high pain tolerance.

I walk back to my bed. Then, I start to push my bedpost towards the window. I tie one end of my sheet to the bedpost closest to the window. If I hang from the sheet, then I will only be about 15 feet from the ground. I step through the window and stand on the ledge.

I rappel down the side of my house. I can’t make it any closer to the ground, but I am still too far up to make it safely to the ground. I let go of the sheet.

I could feel my foot hit something. It’s not sharp like the gravel.

A bunch of Micro-Fliers are now surrounding me. Just as I saw them lift the cow, over a hundred of flashing red orbs where lifting me. I am kicking and writhing, but they aren’t stopping. They fly upwards and push me back through the window. They are forming a convex formation around my window. I can’t jump.

My back hurts, and I am panicking. I reach for my phone on my bedside table. Who should I phone? The police department and fire department either wouldn’t believe me or wouldn’t help. My brother would laugh. All my workers are gone.

The last number I dialed was Anthony’s Automation. After dialing the number, I listened to the phone ring. After three rings, I hear the recorded intro message play, “Welcome to—”

“Operator.” I said in attempt to hide my panic.

“I’m sorry. Did you want to speak with an operator? The current

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wait time is ten hours to speak with an operator. I can handle full sentence and answer most questions. How can I help you?”

“Operator!”

“The current wait time is ten hours to speak with an operator. I can help you with most operations.”

“I would like to report a faulty product.”

“All sales are final. There are no returns or exchanges.”

“I thought I had a free trial.”

“All sales are final.”

“I would like to fix a broken product.”

“What is the issue.”

“The Micro-Fliers are flashing red and fighting me.”

“There aren’t any repair options for Micro-Fliers. You can order more Micro-Fliers. How many more Micro-Fliers would you like to order?”

“I don’t want to order any more. How do I fix Micro-Fliers that are flashing red?”

“There aren’t any repair options for Micro-Fliers. You qualify for a free trial of 1000 more Micro-Fliers.”

“I don’t want any of your products.”

“All sales are final.”

“Operator!”

“The current wait time is eleven hours to speak with an operator.”

I hung up and hit my phone against the wall. I should’ve known better. I am stuck here. If the company is telling the truth about the technology, then the Micro-Fliers will probably outlive me. I always knew technology could hurt me. I just thought I was smarter than technology.

Back in my email, I open the original spam email from Anthony’s Automation. This time I am reading the fine print. Half way through the email, it says, “Initial investment doesn’t cover the full price of the product. Micro-Fliers work at the union set price and protest otherwise. All sales are final.”

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Max Spiritos ’17 11

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Vernon Holleman ’19

Poetry 13

Like So Michael Berkowitz ’18 Gentle and swift it was.

The action that is, When my girlfriend broke up with me.

Six months is a long time you know.

Well, At least for a high school student like so.

And that’s what she said isn’t it!

“Like so…”

At the beginning of every phrase she spoke “Like so… umm” she said While twiddling her thumbs.

And my heart beat like a drum.

I knew what was too come After that “Like so” And after that “um.”

Gentle and swift it was.

When my high school girlfriend of six month broke up with me.

Well, gentle and swift are the words that she used to describe the scene.

I know this because 10 minutes after she left When tears departed from my eyes as rapidly as leaves do from an Autumn tree, I checked my phone and saw, “It was swift and gentle.”

On my twitter feed.

Looking back on it now, I wish I didn’t have social media to remind me.

I wish that when the event occurred, it was low key And preferably not put on twitter for everybody to see.

And even if the heavens say it should exist in a tweet, Could it be more accurate, To reflect the reality of what happened In its actuality.

Because I know—the first two words of the tweet would read “Like so...”

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Gavin Seasholes ’20

An Escape Jack Graham ’18

Unscathed ice, be there nothing more beautiful, Two Knives cutting into the rock hard ice crystals, A frozen piece of rubber sliding ever so smoothly, A chance to relieve yourself of all stress, A chance to escape reality, A world where everything is perfect, The frigid air completely tuned out, The lows of your love life forgotten, The poor assessment score is irrelevant, A world you wish you could never leave, The sound of a puck hitting twine, The feeling of knocking smoebody off their feet, A culture that is a way of life, A game that you can play forever.

Will Bou ’19

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Like So Michael Berkowitz ‘18

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Matthew Lowrie ’18

Nature & Man Humza Nawaz ‘19

It was a bright and sunny autumn day Crisp air, pretty gold leaves, and a clear blue sky Just like the seasons, people have the ability to change Nature never wears a mean appearance Neither does the wisest man extort her secret Nature never became a toy to a wise spirit I feel that nothing can befall me in life which nature cannot repair I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty The same scene which yesterday breathed perfume is overspread with melancholy today As I was leaving he put his arms around me It was a very strange feeling and I really broke down There is a kind of contempt of the landscape felt by him who has just lost by death a dear friend You have to move on If you don’t there’s something wrong with you Nature always wears the colors of the spirit A man should learn to detect and watch the gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within Yet he dismisses without notice his thought because it is his He only scratched the surface on the story But then it slowly slipped away from his mind

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WANING CRESCENT Will King ’18

By my father’s side in the suffocating darkness of night, We come across a clearing revealing a small sliver of light.

What to him is the expected waning crescent, I see as my father’s unfortunate present.

What was once brightly illuminated in my eye, Now travels to the back of my perpetually occupied mind, The figure that once impressed me so much I couldn’t look away, Now frustrates me as it begins to inevitably fade.

This once wondrous image no longer satisfies me, For the more I learn the more I demand of what I see, I wish I could realize the beauty in it again, Yet the longer I look it saddens me to think of its eventual end.

While at the moment he seems a sorry being, I force myself to think beyond what I am seeing.

At the tail end of this encroaching darkness a sliver of light shall again appear, One that will show what is to come and doesn’t remind me of what I once held dear, One day I will tire of searching for a more pleasing sight, And when this new light reaches its full glory all thoughts will be erased of its former plight.

Once again I will look at him in wonder, And once again he will complete me like no other.

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Connor Pugh ’19

19

United Dara Dilmaghani

“He’s an idiot, a bigot, a rapist!”

“She’s a liar, she isn’t fit for this!”

Hillary Clinton, Donald Trump, Look back to Forrest Gump He said life is like a box of chocolates But today America has turned toxic With the arguments and fights For the so called human rights For when I woke up today I learned to my dismay Not that Trump had won But everyone was done Excuses were made Prayers were prayed Gender was brought into the picture People said the voters were filled with liquor Friendships were destroyed Feelings were toyed Threats to emigrate came in But some people had a grin For their party had the win But it’s America’s loss Because people don’t realize the cost 20

Opinions can be made There is no need to degrade We were all the same But then this news came And America decided to split But it’s time to commit To the next four years I’m not saying there won’t be tears But together as one We can fix what has been done We can stop this fighting We can unloosen this tightening And we can stand United There’s no need to fight it A new man is here But there’s no need to fear I don’t support either But together we will be here Just stop the debates It just brings out the hate Stop the jokes about moving Instead let’s start proving That the fighting gets us no where

Connor Pugh ’19 21

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John Popera ’18

Stars and Stripes Matt Amitay

We all wore stars and stripes, Our family and friends huddled close.

A furnace roared in the room Bereft of light from the moon.

Fireworks scattered in the night sky Yielding no excitement or joy.

This night gives nothing to celebrate, Freedom, sweet freedom, a dream of the past.

A train whistle pierces the silence, Car after car packed with cargo.

The march begins with a shout.

No parade.

We wear our star, of six points.

Our stripes, only black and white.

The ravenous furnace screaming ahead, Gas in our lungs, tears in our eyes.

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24

Andrew Akbari ’19

Personal Essays

25

Popsicles Mitchell Hoffman ’17

I am awakened by two hands shaking my shoulders in the darkness of the woods.

Confused, I look around to see the silhouettes of five other groggy 9-year-olds beneath the white mesh mosquito nets covering our bunks. “Get dressed. Put on dark clothes. Let’s go.” Evan, our camp counselor, is out the door with his flashlight before his instructions sink in.

Five minutes later, we are trekking through the forest of Chestertown, Maryland, with no idea where we are headed. I can see the bright lights of the dining hall slowly growing brighter and bigger. As we quietly enter through the side door, Evan tells us to be very careful not to slam it.

Once inside, he tells us to sit at one of the tables; then he disappears into the kitchen. The five of us exchange puzzled looks, wondering what Evan might bring back. The door swings open and Evan creeps towards us with a cardboard box.

He stops, and violently rips open the box while several popsicles scatter across the table. I quickly grab the popsicle nearest to me. I rip off the wrapper and begin to enjoy the best popsicle I’ve ever had.

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Ahh, a taste of sugary rebellion--something I could only feel at camp. Looking back on this night and this specific moment, I realize a lot. Growing up outside of Washington, D.C. in a nice suburb that is often described as high-pressure, I needed to escape to something untamed during my summer months in order to fully mature as a young man. Busting out of my cabin for dessert wasn’t criminal--it was the kind of excitement that kept me interested in fourth grade.

One might call it controlled chaos, but any way you coin it, psychologically, it worked. My camp was able to create a balance between predictable structure and spontaneous fun, and in that balance, I grew up into the person I am today. I learned how to successfully cope with pressure situations. I learned that individuality is more valuable than conformity. I learned to respect others for who they are, instead of devaluing them for who they aren’t.

Last year, I became a Junior Counselor.

While I had about a dozen of my own counselors as role models over the years, I couldn’t predict what being in this position would feel like. I had the benefit of being molded by my own experience at camp, but it was time for me to create that for six eleven-year-olds--and I had the added pressure of providing some-

thing more interesting and entertaining than iPhones. What I quickly realized, however, was that the freedom my campers felt was the same freedom that kept me coming back year after year. This freedom is more alluring to a young boy than even the most captivating electronics. Within the first few days, my campers acclimated to the routine, happily choosing their activities and planning out each afternoon however they wanted to. My earlier worries about being a Junior Counselor dissolved when I realized that, though things may change, at Echo Hill, they also stay the same. I knew how to lead these kids, because they were just like me.

“Get dressed. Put on dark clothes. Let’s go.” Through the woods we walk, silently, with nothing but a bright light guiding us. I have been here before. The boys sit down at a table, eyes wide, and I disappear into the kitchen. I open the frosty freezer to grab the familiar cardboard box. So this is what this feels like. I burst into the dining hall with the box in hand, ripping it open and spilling popsicles across the table. As I see six arms reach out and grab them, I feel fulfilled. Here, in this moment, I am giving my campers a treasure map--a way to escape the everyday and grow up in a protected but free environment.

Adam Hsu ’17 27

A Modest Proposal Brett Gallagher ’18

It is a most despondent condition to our citizens of these great United States, that they must look upon the old, the terminally ill, and those too weak to survive on their own either on the streets of our towns, or taking up beds in our hospitals, which could be given to patients who have hope of being healed.

These individuals themselves are in the most deplorable state—indeed—many, if not all of these citizens, it can be assumed, would prefer death to their hopeless position. 48 million individuals without health care currently have no means to pay for their health, and those who do have free health care suck our money from our pockets, in the taxes we must pay for them.

I think, therefore, we all can agree that these health care taxes to pay for the well-being of others are a true grievance and injustice. If someone may find a fair, simple, and cost effective solution to make these sick individuals valuable to society, they should be lauded as a true citizen and American. Now, onto 28

my proposal, one which will not only make use of these gross citizens, but will benefit many fields of society.

I have had much time to think to myself of a proper solution for this serious problem, and turn others over in my head, which I have found to be inferior. Now, it is completely true that many sick individuals have hope of being healed, and they will not need expensive care, which can often prove futile.

Therefore, these people will not cost the American taxpayer or family much expense, and are in a favorable position.

I propose that my solution be enacted only upon those who pass this favorable threshold. For example, terminally- ill cancer patients, diseased/ deformed newborns, and the elderly who cannot take care of themselves will be subject to my proposition.

Let it be known that healthcare per individual per year now stands at a cost slightly above $10,000, and the health care tax stands at 2.5% of household income. Considering the millions of Americans who die each year, and the

fact that 80% of Americans do not wish to die in intensive care, we, as a nation, may save an incredible amount of money from what I propose. On top of this, families of the sick can turn a profit from selling their loved ones under contract, much to their benefit. These bodies will be sold at a calculated rate of four dollars per pound, so that a profit can be made off of their use. And I, an upper- class citizen, will surely not benefit from these returns, but the common people will.

Sure—2.5% of my fortune a year to pay for the lives of others is hardly even noticeable in my bank records—but we can all agree that low taxes for all people should be a common goal.

Now to finally propose my thoughts, which I have come to with the most thorough reasoning and investigation.

I have spoken to a few scientists and knowledgeable citizens, and discovered thus: municipal incinerators used to burn our trash, fitted with nearly no new modifications, can burn a human carcass efficiently, and produce the most clean and cheap fuel for our electrical grid. Of course, the question of how the bodies are obtained remains relevant. However, this process will be done most humanely. First, the nearest relative or loved one of the individual will sign a contract forfeiting the body to

the municipality, at the said rate of four dollars per pound. Then, the hopeless sick will be given a painless lethal injection while sedated, and from there, will be transported immediately to a municipal incinerator. After the bodies bloat in a storage hull, and gases build inside the carcasses, they can be burned as a most fine fuel. The combustion of human remains in these incinerator plants will power a steam turbine most efficiently, producing better energy to be linked to our electrical grid. This human-combusted-energy (HCE) will be sold at 60 cents per Kilowatt-hour, five times the current 12 cents per Kilowatthour. However this price is a reasonable one, as the combustion of human bodies produces a very fine energy, one which will power our iPhones, Teslas, and large estates much faster, and much more efficiently. And of course we wont be paying for the health of the sick in life, so why not make a good profit off of them when they’re deceased?

On to the subject of the many benefits of my proposal, I first, as previously observed, will remind you of the great effort currently being put into trying cures for the terminally ill. These cures not only pull billions of dollars to be tried, but usurp a large number of doctors from more meaningful medical fields; these treatments many times fail

at keeping the patient alive, or merely extend a life already miserable, as the state of these individuals is. Therefore, the suffering of the miserable deformed child, the cancerous individual, or the deteriorated elder, will all be shortened.

Secondly, the families of these wretchedly ill persons may now hold something valuable in them. Upon selling their loved ones for a profit, they will not only lessen their stresses with the gain of capital, but also alleviate the fiscal stress that the cost of caring for their loved one put on them, a stress that often tears a family apart, or creates a secret animosity among family members. Furthermore on monetary gain, as mentioned, health care rates are around $10,000 per individual, 2.5% of the average household’s income in taxes. With my proposal, not only will this tax be cut astronomically, but our great America may also have a new export in our energy and bodies. The HCE will also, as aforementioned, be sold domestically, for a most fine profit and boost to the economy.

Last, and most definitely not to be overlooked, is the fact that our country will be saving our oil reserves, and therefore making great benefit to the environment, by burning our ill for energy. My proposal will visibly cut carbon dioxide emissions from the burning of fossil fuels, which are largely

used to create the large amount of energy that the upper class consumes.

I have turned this proposal for a very long time. Therefore, let no individual offer up to me any other solution, silly solutions along these lines: of forcing our upper-class to pay higher taxes, because of their large reserves of wealth: of trying to form a health care system that can cover all American citizens: of promoting American love and brotherhood, that would, as proposed, create a sense of sympathy for the ill: or of valuing the life of a fellow American over money in our pockets.

I repeat

to you, let no fool come to me with advices among these, until said man actually believes that the American people have the heart and sincerity to make an earnest attempt to enact these proposals.

As I see in society Bryce Baylor ’18 now, we have no interest in 29

attempting any of these inferior solutions.

I will conclude by stating, once again: my hand is not in this business, and I will make no profit from any of these dealings. I simply make my proposal to better America’s economy, well-being, and happiness, and to bring a pleasurable new luxury to the rich members of society. I spurned all my love ones by legal contract, for financial reasons; I could not make a single dollar off of any member of my family, as I have no legal kin.

It is a most despondent condition to our citizens of these great United States, that they must look upon the old, the terminally ill, and those too weak to survive on their own either on the streets of our towns, or taking up beds in our hospitals, which could be given to patients who have hope of being healed.

These individuals themselves are in the most deplorable state—indeed—many, if not all of these citizens, it can be assumed, would prefer death to their hopeless position. 48 million individuals without health care currently have no means to pay for their health, and those who do have free health care suck our money from our pockets, in the taxes we must pay for them.

I think, therefore, we all can agree that these health care taxes to pay for the well-being of others are a true grievance 30

and injustice. If someone may find a fair, simple, and cost effective solution to make these sick individuals valuable to society, they should be lauded as a true citizen and American. Now, onto my proposal, one which will not only make use of these gross citizens, but will benefit many fields of society.

I have had much time to think to myself of a proper solution for this serious problem, and turn others over in my head, which I have found to be inferior. Now, it is completely true that many sick individuals have hope of being healed, and they will not need expensive care, which can often prove futile.

Therefore, these people will not cost the American taxpayer or family much expense, and are in a favorable position.

I propose that my solution be enacted only upon those who pass this favorable threshold. For example, terminally- ill cancer patients, diseased/ deformed newborns, and the elderly who cannot take care of themselves will be subject to my proposition.

Let it be known that healthcare per individual per year now stands at a cost slightly above $10,000, and the health care tax stands at 2.5% of household income. Considering the millions of Americans who die each year, and the fact that 80% of Americans do not wish to die in intensive care, we, as a nation,

may save an incredible amount of money from what I propose. On top of this, families of the sick can turn a profit from selling their loved ones under contract, much to their benefit. These bodies will be sold at a calculated rate of four dollars per pound, so that a profit can be made off of their use. And I, an upper- class citizen, will surely not benefit from these returns, but the common people will.

Sure—2.5% of my fortune a year to pay for the lives of others is hardly even noticeable in my bank records—but we can all agree that low taxes for all people should be a common goal.

Now to finally propose my thoughts, which I have come to with the most thorough reasoning and investigation.

I have spoken to a few scientists and knowledgeable citizens, and discovered thus: municipal incinerators used to burn our trash, fitted with nearly no new modifications, can burn a human carcass efficiently, and produce the most clean and cheap fuel for our electrical grid. Of course, the question of how the bodies are obtained remains relevant. However, this process will be done most humanely. First, the nearest relative or loved one of the individual will sign a contract forfeiting the body to the municipality, at the said rate of four dollars per pound. Then, the hopeless

sick will be given a painless lethal injection while sedated, and from there, will be transported immediately to a municipal incinerator. After the bodies bloat in a storage hull, and gases build inside the carcasses, they can be burned as a most fine fuel. The combustion of human remains in these incinerator plants will power a steam turbine most efficiently, producing better energy to be linked to our electrical grid. This human-combusted-energy (HCE) will be sold at 60 cents per Kilowatt-hour, five times the current 12 cents per Kilowatthour. However this price is a reasonable one, as the combustion of human bodies produces a very fine energy, one which will power our iPhones, Teslas, and large estates much faster, and much more efficiently. And of course we wont be paying for the health of the sick in life, so why not make a good profit off of them when they’re deceased?

On to the subject of the many benefits of my proposal, I first, as previously observed, will remind you of the great effort currently being put into trying cures for the terminally ill. These cures not only pull billions of dollars to be tried, but usurp a large number of doctors from more meaningful medical fields; these treatments many times fail at keeping the patient alive, or merely extend a life already miserable, as the

state of these individuals is. Therefore, the suffering of the miserable deformed child, the cancerous individual, or the deteriorated elder, will all be shortened.

Secondly, the families of these wretchedly ill persons may now hold something valuable in them. Upon selling their loved ones for a profit, they will not only lessen their stresses with the gain of capital, but also alleviate the fiscal stress that the cost of caring for their loved one put on them, a stress that often tears a family apart, or creates a secret animosity among family members. Furthermore on monetary gain, as mentioned, health care rates are around $10,000 per individual, 2.5% of the average household’s income in taxes. With my proposal, not only will this tax be cut astronomically, but our great America may also have a new export in our energy and bodies. The HCE will also, as aforementioned, be sold domestically, for a most fine profit and boost to the economy.

Last, and most definitely not to be overlooked, is the fact that our country will be saving our oil reserves, and therefore making great benefit to the environment, by burning our ill for energy. My proposal will visibly cut carbon dioxide emissions from the burning of fossil fuels, which are largely used to create the large amount of energy that the upper class consumes.

I have turned this proposal for a very long time. Therefore, let no individual offer up to me any other solution, silly solutions along these lines: of forcing our upper-class to pay higher taxes, because of their large reserves of wealth: of trying to form a health care system that can cover all American citizens: of promoting American love and brotherhood, that would, as proposed, create a sense of sympathy for the ill: or of valuing the life of a fellow American over money in our pockets.

I repeat to you, let no fool come to me with advices among these, until said man actually believes that the American people have the heart and sincerity to make an earnest attempt to enact these proposals. As I see in society now, we have no interest in attempting any of these inferior solutions.

I will conclude by stating, once again: my hand is not in this business, and I will make no profit from any of these dealings. I simply make my proposal to better America’s economy, well-being, and happiness, and to bring a pleasurable new luxury to the rich members of society. I spurned all my love ones by legal contract, for financial reasons; I could not make a single dollar off of any member of my family, as I have no legal kin.

31

Matt Seebald ’17