A stranger emailed me last year, asking if I was the same person who wrote a story called Dust in the Wind. This was completely bewildering to me, as I had written it for my 8th grade school paper back in 1989. Apparently an English teacher at that school has made her students read it every year since, and this man had been one of those students.
He asked me if I could release it under Creative Commons, because he and some other people wanted to do some art projects based around it. I agreed, and he was kind enough to type it up for me (I lost the original, obviously).
It's hard for me to read now. I find it incredibly cheesy, faux-intellectual and pretentious, but hey, I was 13 or 14 years old. Anyway, I've decided to put it here in case anyone finds it useful. Huge thanks for Siddharth Patil for reminding me that I wrote it, taking the time to reach out to me, and for transcribing it.
He pushed open the heavy, wooden doors and stepped inside, a cool wave of air washing over his skin. He stared up at the pink and blue crepe strands suspended from the ceiling. Unfamiliar music flowed in the background. Very familiar faces were randomly sprinkled through the crowd.
"Michael Sampson, good God, is that you?" He felt a hand on his back, and he turned to face the body it was attached to.
"Harry? Harry Smith? How are you? Lord, I can’t believe it! You look great.
"Thanks, You look awful, Mike. When did you start to take the Trysilide, yesterday. Harry stared at the deep lines carved into Michael's face by the fierce talons of grief, sorrow, and worry.
"I... I haven’t started taking it yet."
Trysilide was an amazing new drug, produced from the leaves of a plant discovered in 2032. The drug allowed humans to stop the aging process at whatever point that they start to take it.
"What? Are you serious? Do you want to die or something? Get with it, look around. All of your friends, even teachers, everyone is young, in the prime of their lives. Look at me, Mike. I look like I’m twenty-five. I feel like it, too. Scientists have finally found the fountain of youth and you shun it? You look down on the chance to live forever? Hey man, it's your choice, but I think you're crazy. Look over there. Leslie Green, still as gorgeous as the day she graduated. See, Mike. See the benefits of Trysilide. Go. Go talk to her. She wants to see you.”
Mike walked firmly off, over to the tall woman with a drink in her hand. "Boy, is she in for a surprise," Harry mumbled under his breath.
"Hello, Leslie." The slim brunette's head turned toward the weathered man. A look of stifled shock fell across her face. She took a tiny, green pill from a vial in her purse. She swallowed it with some of whatever was in the plastic cup she was holding.
"Mike. I've missed you." She laid a delicate, manicured hand in Mike's callused and sweating palm. "How have you been?"
"I've been managing." Mike could not bear to look in to her deep, chocolate eyes. He directed his gaze to his shoes, like a child who received a reprimand.
"If you don't mind me being frank, you look terrible. What happened? Did you miss a dose? I hear if you miss just one, it catches up to you fast. I have some, if you need them." She pulled the vial of green pills from her purse once more. She held it out to him, but he declined the offer. She lightly traced the lines of his face with her fingernail.
"Mike, look at me. What's wrong?"
"I haven't missed a dose," he said flatly.
"Are you sure? Maybe you forgot."
"I haven't missed a dose because I've never taken it. Ever." Leslie's grip tightened on his hand.
"I don't understand. Why not?" His eyes flashed with anger.
"Why not? Because I want to live and die. That simple. God put us here for a certain amount of time. It's blasphemous. We were not meant to live for two hundred or three hundred years. I don't want my children to fear death. That's what it all boils down to, you know."
"You!" He motioned to the crowd of people now gathered around the source of all the noise. "All of you!" The crowd's happy murmur died, and all that was to be heard was the soft music in the back and Michael's raspy breathing. "All of you are hiding. Running from your fears. I don't want to hear about that garbage about it being used for medicine and what not. Each and every one of you has become so terrified of death that you've resorted to this!" He grabbed Leslie's purse and snatched the container of green pills from it. "You are a bunch of junkies, hooked on pills. Using them to hide from your problems, from reality for God's sake!" He threw the vial down and stalked off to the men's room.
He pulled open the door and stormed inside. So many feelings were raging through his body. He opened a stall and sat down on a toilet. A choking sob squeezed from his throat. Endless tears streamed down his face until his shirt was soaked.
For no apparent reason, a commercial starring the President of the United States pushed its way through the clouded mind of Michael Sampson. It advertised the county. Liberty for sale. The price was too dire. "Hello, fellow Americans. This is your President speaking. You, as a country, should be very proud of yourselves. You have shown so many countries that democracy is the way to go. You've given them a taste of the bliss of liberty. Most of all, you should be proud of making America the first drug-free nation. It started with drug-free schools, the drug-free counties. From drug-free states, we fought our way to a drug-free county. Congratulations, citizens." Fade to black.
Michael began to laugh hysterically. A loud, humorless cackle, much like a sane man gone mad. Abruptly, the laughter stopped. His blue eyes blazed again, through they were brimming with tears.
"Sure," he laughed. "Sure, we're a drug-free nation. Oh joy! Oh sweet, blissful, smut-free land. That's the biggest turd I've ever seen in this great toilet they call earth. Get rid of all the illicit, dangerous drugs that cost a bundle and cut your life short. Get rid of them quick! Hurry! Make room for new drugs that are dangerous and cheap and string out your life for centuries! Well, fetch out your Sunday teeth, Gramps. You'll need to look nice at your funeral." He walked out of the men's room exhausted. He did not say goodbye, but solemnly walked to his car. He drove home and collapsed on the bed in a dreamless sleep that lasted until 3 o'clock the next afternoon.
Two weeks later, Leslie called. They arranged to have a late dinner at his house, and well, whatever was to follow.
"The filet mignon was delicious, Mike." She delicately wiped her mouth. Michael noticed that Leslie could do anything gracefully, even wipe her mouth. They relocated to the living room sofa, the radio crooning some love song or another. His heart ached to touch her face, but he was yet unsure of her feelings for him. But those feelings were soon clear when she leaned over and gently kissed him on the lips. She drew away quickly to see if he was uncomfortable. It was evident he was not.
She spent the night, through she slept in his bed while he occupied the couch. Before breakfast, Leslie searched through her purse and fished out the plastic vial. Something was wrong. The previous pills of youth did not make the familiar irritate clatter on the walls of the cylinder. Leslie noticed this, and her eyes widened. "Oh no! Oh my God~ I'm out of it! I'm out of Trysilide! I'm missing my dosage. Do you have any I can bor---?" She broke off. "Sorry, she said flatly. "Mike, I gotta get to a drugstore right now. Can I borrow your car?"
Mike looked at her hands, at her crazed eyes. "I'll drive." He grabbed his keys and left the eggs to burn in the frying pan.
"Hurry! I'm twenty minutes overdue. Give it here!" She ripped off the cap and tore out the small, cotton wad at the top. She poured out a green pill and swallowed it. "Twenty minutes late. I've aged one year. I---I could actually feel myself growing older. It was so strange. I---"
"Excuse me," a short, fat woman pushed her way to the counter.
He took her arm and led her back to the car. He tried to forget the trembling hands, the total insanity that corrupted her body for those twenty minutes. He could not. It made him sick. He stopped at her house, got out of the car, opened her door, and pulled her out. "You're a junkie! Just a filthy, stinking junkie! Don't call me, and don't count on me calling you." He ran to his car door and got in. Slamming the key into the ignition, he stomped on the gas pedal. Michael did not look back. He did not want to see her weeping.
Three months later, Michael could not forget that miserable day. Leslie had left several messages on his machine, but he did not respond.
Michael was driving. He did not know where. His mind was drifting from one subject to another. He thought about nothing in particular and everything in general. He turned the radio down to more of a modified lullaby, that rock and roll. All of a sudden a shrill, piercing sound fell over the airwaves. It was on all the channels, he soon found out. A shaking, urgent voice followed it. "Ladies and gentlemen. Do not panic, but we have a national emergency. Terrorists, over 1,000, set the Trysilide groves on fire just hours ago. All 300,000 acres were burned to the ground. Shelters are being set up at your local banks, libraries, and sports arenas. They are getting limited supplies of the drug. If you are very overdue for your dosage, head for one of these buildings. Repeat, all banks, libraries, and sports arenas are being modified to accommodate this situation."
Mike stared into space, his foot pressed against the brake. "Leslie!" The thought flashed before his mind as he said her name. He turned the car around and raced to Leslie's house.
He knocked once, twice, three times. Finally, as he was about to force the door open, it slowly opened. A gaunt, wrinkled figure stood in the doorway.
"Mike!" she croaked. "Come in!" She wrapped her thin arms around his waist.
"Leslie, is that you?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so."
"Good God, you look like you are seventy years old."
"Look at me, Mike. I mean really look at me. Look at what it's done to me. You were right, Mike. As usual, you were right." She collapsed on the floor. Michael sat down on the hard, wooden floor and put her head in his lap. He stroked her hair and held her bony, claw-like hand tightly. Her grip was getting weaker. He gazed down at her, her face creased and wrinkled, her skin sagging from her cheeks, her once brown hair made way for thick, white hair.
"Let me get you to a shelter before it's too late."
"It's already too late," a dry, wheezing voice moaned. "If they give me the pills now, I'd stay this age or grow even older. No, I'm staying here. I love you, Mike. Thank you for coming to me. Now leave. This will not be pleasant to watch."
"No!" He held her head to his chest and wept. He babbled incoherently about how he loved her and how things would be fine. He stared down at her ashen face.
Then she was gone. Michael's lap was covered in a thick layer of dust. He wailed.
After brushing the some of the remains of Leslie into a small pouch, which he hung around his neck, he walked outside. It had been twenty-seven hours since the supplies of the Trysilide had run out.
The streets were empty. "What on earth happened?" he asked himself. "Hello?" he called. No answer. He kept on walking. Glancing around, he saw large piles of dust on the streets and sidewalks.
After a short while, faces were seen peering through doors and shop windows. Children, teenagers, and those few individuals who did not take Trysilide filed into the streets.
"What happened?" Mike asked a boy no older than twenty-two, the age which citizens were allowed to first take the drug.
"The shelters ran out of pills. Gone. They're all gone."
Gone? Everyone who had taken those deadly pills, all of them were dead? That was 98 percent of the United States population. All that was left were the children. Yes, the children. Pure and innocent, untainted by the twisted society. A clean slate, thought Michael Sampson as a cool summer breeze picked up a pile of dust at his feet and carried it away.
