The man without a voice, obtains one.

A life full of deaf ears,

never being listed to.

He lived on the fringe;

Out of their trash-bins,

feeding off the scraps they shoved into him,

like he was a baby bird,

yet he was hungry,

and ate any piece of meat,

regardless of its authenticity,

He was either stuck in the nest until he died,

or forced to jump out.

A spiral straight to the bottom,

he fell flat, but now had a story to tell.

His written words carefully chosen,

inked into a font that sets the mood,

and placed on uniformed paper as if he’s in control,

as if there is order in his life,

as if he is preparing his last Will and Testament.

The importance of detail is crucial,

this may be his only shot.

He layers his compilation like a baker building a cake.

A life full of stories, oven set to 450.

A speechless assault on society,

An examination of the human soul,

an autopsy of himself.

An opportunity to entertain, to uplift,

to speak from the heart without ever having to say a word in front of a crowd,

because people scare him;

Trust doesn’t come easy anymore.

He unclogs his arteries,

filled of repressed suffering and inflicted pain,

then soaks the pages with new blood.

Sealed and bound into a time-capsule,

he then shares with the world.

He gains a watchful eye, attached to a mind, attached to thoughts,

and can now send sparks of inspiration directly into their souls.

An electric connection of black and white;

A static symphony of contrast.

The simplicity in his words forms a complex message,

asking questions and demanding answers.

and a man who never had a voice,

now sends shock-waves around the world,

to be heard.

A woman’s scream rises over a cluster of tin sheet shacks and into the thick night air. She’s just watched her son punch her drunken boyfriend in the mouth, blood and spit flecking on white knuckles.

“Bowie!” the woman screams at her son, but she goes ignored.

“Stay down, you lowlife!” Bowie lurches at the older man now curled up on the floor, but he’s choked back when his mother yanks him by the collar. He swings his body violently around to break free of her hold, and — out of anger towards everyone and no one in particular — he shoves her down onto the sunken couch behind. He instantly feels sick when he looks down and realizes what he’s done, dark locks sprawled across his mother’s frightened expression. She’s so frail in her blue summer dress, all thin neck and jutting collarbones that Bowie has inherited. For a split-second, he thinks about pulling up the strap that’s fallen off her shoulder, but instead he snatches his hoodie off the couch and steps over the drunkard now passed out cold. He shoves the door open, ignoring the sobbing behind him as he steps into the moonlight.

Acid Town’s usual crowd is crawling. A barter is going down in front of Bowie’s home just as he emerges. Across the street, two women, dressed modestly and still posted at a sure-fire corner, coo something at a man as he passes by. Somewhere in the distance, there’s a pained howl that Bowie knows better than to mistake for a dog. He feels for the folding knife in his back pocket.

In Acid Town, no one leaves home without a weapon. On an island where the poor and criminal are hoarded together for the government to contain and forget, it’s dog-eat-dog. Bowie learned this at five-years old, when he witnessed his father stabbed to death over a coveted stash of antibiotics from the mainland. As he watched a pair of strangers chase off the knife-wielder and attempt to seal his father’s wound with their bare hands, Bowie learned also this: that even in the most lawless of lands, compassion keeps order.

Coincidentally and almost morbidly, Bowie makes a living off homemade blood stop powder. When the mainland’s scare shipments to Acid Town include potatoes, starving bellies run to devour the starch. Bowie runs, too, but not to eat. Every day he’s thankful no one has figured out the secret ingredient to his magic powder, as the townspeople call it. Where violence measures the days, medical supplies are among the most valuable barters in Acid Town, and people are willing to pay a lot for Bowie’s life-saving concoction.

Bowie’s a good couple miles away from his home by now, still livid. He swears he’ll implode or at the very least slap the town loon that’s been noisily following him for five minutes now. But just the sight of the cemetery in the distance relieves him. He’s able to shrug off his unsolicited companion by offering him a pinch of magic powder in the crumpled paper he finds in his pocket. Then he veers left into the cemetery; it’s a sprawling patch of land behind the hub of the town, scattered with rocks, wooden crosses, mangled dolls — remembrances. His father’s body is buried somewhere in the grounds, but the marking was scrambled and lost years ago. Besides, it’s the area past the cemetery that really matters.

Most consider the cemetery and its surrounding area condemned and haunted — not even crime dare trickle into such an eerie block of the town. But past the graves and over a small knoll, Bowie has found the perfect mix of concrete and vegetation: an Olympic-sized pool, once part of the government’s long-forgotten plan for a grand sports arena. At the threshold stands a towering brick wall, “I” missing and “M” hanging by a wire where “COLISEUM” intended to arch over the entrance.

Bowie makes his way to the empty pool, down the creaky ladder and onto curved, smooth surface. He walks over his own litter of graffiti, scribbled letters and angry abstract creatures, until he reaches a star the size of his body in the center of the pool. He lies down on the star, wincing at the cold cement. And then a long, labored sigh. He looks up at a sky where there isn’t much to see. But it’s enough for Bowie. It lets him dream.

He closes his eyes.

He can do more for his mother. He can offer more than magic powder. He can cure people.

A passenger plane from a luckier land roars across the sky; it stifles the steps of the town loon as he hobbles near, brandishing the folding knife that had fallen out of Bowie’s pocket.

Bowie falls farther into his dreams. A slice of metal swings through the air.

--

Title: The Cure

Genre: Noir, urban sci-fi, psychological horror, techno horror

Age range: Adult

Word count: 806 (excerpt from planned anthology of short stories)

Author name: P. C. Vaan

Why my project is a good fit: I plan for an anthology of short stories set in alternate or near-future worlds that underscore social issues and the dark side of human nature. With a strong emphasis on world-building, I hope to create fresh and exciting backdrops while also addressing, at the core, the emotions, instincts, and vulnerabilities that make us human no matter the setting. I believe my project would fit the innovative and strong voices that TMG champions. With short story format, I hope to entice even the casual reader, creating swift and sharp impact.

The hook: In a world of rapid technology and overpopulation, can humans find a still moment to feel their own heartbeat?

Synopsis: A collection of short stories following different protagonists as they navigate overdeveloped cities, cyborg populations, and totalitarian regimes with the ultimate power of technology.

Target audience: those who enjoy sci-fi and dystopian settings, human psychology, dark and gritty themes; both avid and casual readers alike

Bio: I'm a San Francisco native who has left parts of my heart in New York and Japan. A barber of eight years, I’ve had in my chair many people of different backgrounds and been inspired by their stories. I started a clothing brand in 2020 called Sleepy Bones Apparel, which focuses on street wear with neutral and all-inclusive silhouettes.

Platform: whatifyouflew.wordpress.com

Education:

Bachelor of English and American Literature, NYU

License of Cosmetology, California

Experience: Published essay in NYU’s Helios Magazine, copy writing for colleagues, short story writing for personal entertainment, SEO marketing for my clothing brand

Personality/writing style: I tend towards a snapshot style format, making the most of a few pages to build alternate universes. I zoom in on details at carefully placed moments, because I believe it’s the little things that matter. My dialogue is quirky and surreal; sometimes sarcastic and comedic to serve as a break between an otherwise dark narrative.

Likes/hobbies: Aside from writing, I enjoy drawing, fashion, astrology, and spirituality. I’m a Harry Potter fanatic. I love to travel and learn through foreign experiences. Cutting hair has been great – mullets are a current favorite!

Hometown: San Francisco, CA