Synopsis: When a nobody decides he'll no longer be a nobody and stands up for one of those genemorphs who attends his school, the repercussions are surprising and severe . . .

Title: A work in progress. Any suggestions?

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Chapter 1: The World I Know

There are always the few, strange kids who you never really know, never really say anything, never really do anything extraordinary . . . and never really amount to anything. These kids are the silent ones, the grey-eyed ones, the pale kids who sit in the back of the class and silently slip by either on straight C’s, or straight A’s. They are the wonders of the world, the geniuses, the inventors, the novelists. They are also the mass murders and assassinators.
We see them everyday as the kid wearing dull clothes and shuffling aimlessly, listlessly, through the hallways of our school to their next class. They’re random people on the bus, wearing a grey suit and anticipating something we cannot guess by the look on their face. Nobody really knows who they are, and few probably ever will. They are losers, they are geeks; they are slackers, stoners, moaners, nobodies, no-faces. They have no future, a hidden past and a present cloaked in mystery. They aren’t but anything are they.
But we watch as nobodies are launched to the spotlight and are elated by it. Einstein was a slacker who couldn’t even pass Algebra while in school, who later became a nuclear scientist. Teddy Roosevelt was the asthmatic slacker of a hardware salesman who, after several bouts of depression and a possible attempted suicide, returned to society to reform America as President. Martin Luther was the son of a lawyer, who trained as a monk after being nearly struck by lightning, wrote several protests against the Catholic Church and ended up changing the face of Europe and setting in motion the Protestant revolution, the Catholic Reformation and the Quest for the New World.
But that is not exactly what we see every day. Those aren’t the people that I want to talk about. The people that I want to talk about are those who make a difference by doing everyday things, like donating to charity, helping out a neighbor or cleaning up the neighborhood. But the most powerful things that we can do to make a difference, often have very bad consequences, depending on what action was taken.
That is what landed me in trouble, big trouble. I decided one day that I was not going to be some shrinking violet, clinging to the back of the classroom. I decided that I was going to make myself known to my own town, which has ignored me for eighteen years. And the repercussions for my actions would not only be dire, but severe enough to make me regret my course of action.
I had watched as the times changed right before my eyes, seeing people come and go. My friends, the few I had, left town when their parents found new, better jobs in far away cities. Technologies changed and seemingly crazier devices have awed the people in school. Everybody has some new robotic servant, communication device, powerful car or fantastically boring piece of equipment they do not deserve nor appreciate.
But one of the more amazing things that have gripped the world in which I live is a thing called gene morphing. It isn’t exactly what you think. It cannot give somebody the ability to shoot lightning from their hands or summon fire at their command. That would be awesome, but, very much irresponsible to allow people to have. It is something much stranger, but, often admired, if somebody has the money to be able to have the procedure done.
Gene morphing takes the human DNA code of the patient and rewrites it with select features of other creatures, human-like or far from it. Sporting fur, tails, paws, strange faces, heads and limbs seems to find people’s fancy, I suppose. In Hollywood, obviously, it is all the rage. Foxes, tigers, lions, white minks and other exotic creatures walk the red carpet, showing off prestige, money and influence. That was years ago. Now the common man is able to afford the procedure, but, it is still expensive. It costs around $150,000, to be accurate, give or take a grand or two.
I had never seen a person who had the procedure done on them, not until a fateful day a few weeks ago. One had moved to the area and had started to attend my high school. And, of course, they immediately were persecuted, singled out by their peers as being a monster. It may be fashionable in big cities, but in little old towns like mine, it screams only one word: freak.
Until that day, I was nobody, a no-face hugging the back of the class and slipping by, a secret hard worker with a job, a car, a home and a bright future. But, nobody knows I exist as I’m pretty much just a face in the crowd to Andersonville High School. And I sort of liked being just that. Especially when it comes to being a target of the schools bullies . . .

Sitting quietly, I stare down into my United States Government text book and read a chapter on the separation of church and state. With my head propped up on a sturdy hand and arm, I read the boring, yet interesting, sentences and paragraphs while waiting for my sentence to come to an end.
On the wall above, the clock ticks away the minutes and tocks away my time in this prison. With merely minutes to go, I try to kill some time while appearing to be doing something productive. Our teacher, a bloated and very much boring, bloated, balding buffoon named Mr. Pulison, sits at his desk, his eyes lazily scanning over us as if appearing to be doing something productive. I believe he is waiting for us to leave about as much as we are.
Laughter from the front of the classroom as Brett and Michael, two of the school’s bullies, toss paper at each other. As balls of crushed paper land upon one another, giddy giggles erupt from the two. Mr. Pulison doesn’t seem to care as he rolls his eyes and looks away. I shake my head and look over to the window, just desiring to be on the other side.
Closing my eyes, I imagine myself on the other side of the wall, enjoying the warmth of a nice June day. School is coming to a close again and I am so happy for it to be doing so. Happy and anticipating going to college and heading for the freedom of a university campus, I imagine myself strutting across a quad and basking in the summer sun. But sometimes even the realest of fantasies must come to an end.
My eyes fly open as I hear the bell begin to ring. The classroom immediately begins to bustle as the excited students eagerly bolt to their feet to make a stampede towards the exit. Text books are slammed shut, backpacks are zipped up and soon there is a herd thundering towards the door.
Happily, I slowly begin to pack my own things up, but, take my time as I see there is no way to get out of this room quickly anyways. Michael and Bryan are obviously the first ones out, being nearest to the door and, since they’re dumb as posts anyways, don’t carry any books or binders to pack up. Even if they weren’t, they’d bully their way out first anyways.
Pushing my binder down into my backpack, I zip it up and then slide out of my cramped seat near the left-rear of the class, near a row of windows that look out onto an open field in the rear of the school. Then, throwing my backpack over my shoulder, I shuffle through the quieting classroom towards the door.
The last of the students squeeze through the doorway and then blend with the rest of the student body out in the hallway, all of whom are hoping to get out of here as much as the rest of us. I round the front row of desks and pass by Mr. Pulison’s desk. The heavy man looks down to his desktop, as if either depressed about his class, or just tired and drained from them. In all honesty, it could be both at the same time.
As I exit the classroom, I turn and begin to walk the long hallway filled with bustling crowds of people, hoping to get out into the parking lot without being trampled. Hugging the wall, I pass by door after door of empty classrooms and work my way around groups of stopped students who chatter away the hours talking about the other groups of students.
Without noticing me, I pass them by and continue towards one of the side exits. Managing to time everything right between walking kids, slamming locker doors and roving bullies looking for their next target, I weave through a crowd of students and go to the door. The doors swing open as I push against them with both arms and, finally, I am outside.
The warmth of June hits me as the sun bathes me in its rays, bringing me a bit of happiness, glad to be out of that penitentiary. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, drink in the rays and then begin forward. As I walk towards the sidewalk that leads around the school and towards the street and parking lot, I grip the straps of my backpack and looks out into the grassy field that sits behind my high school.
Green grass waves to me as a light breeze pushes and pulls at it, making a glare roll across the field as the sun shines off of each little blade of green grass. Smiling, I turn away and look down to my brown shoes as they swing back and forth above the tan-colored sidewalk. I suppose I’m that kind of person, somebody who can watch their shoes while walking and be alright with it. Hey, it’s how I find change and even dollar bills on the ground.
Other people walk by without even noticing me as I walk towards the street. Coming to the corner of the building, I turn and raise my eyes up to look ahead as I follow the path around the corner of the building. The street is packed with cars already, people escaping this place in more of a hurry than even I am. That’s alright, though, I didn’t park in the parking lot and never will. I know better because it quickly becomes a bumper-to-bumper mess on days like this.
Following the pathway, I cross over a small grassy area to another pathway that leads towards the football field, but follow it in the opposite direction. A little bit ahead is a road that comes out from the side of the parking lot and I want to get across it without having to wait for traffic to stop for me, which it won’t.
Car horns blow and people scream obscenities to each other as they push and shove, trying to get out of the intersection quickly. The road that leads from the parking lot immediately goes to the street. It’s an extremely busy intersection and a traffic cop has been posted there to control traffic. The thing is, he’s miserable and hates young people so he doesn’t let too many people go at once.
Smiling, I look into each car as I walk along side the street. It’s ironic as to what car people drive. Most normal people drive a cheap car like a Chevy Cavalier or an Oldsmobile Ciera. The rednecks drive a Ford F-150 from fifteen years ago or an old Suburban. And all the ‘cool’ douchey bullies drive a nineties Trans Am or Camaro. They seem to be the ones that are the most pissed off.
As I look away, I shake my head and look up the street. At the corner ahead, I turn right and begin to follow the sidewalk along side the street which runs parallel to the football stadium, the soccer field and the lacrosse and field hockey field. Up ahead, just before the elementary school, is where I park my car.
Cars begin to drive by on the road beside me as the cranky old crossing guard finally allows some of the students to get out. Diesel engines of school buses begin to rumble to life in the bus parking in front of the school, readying themselves to join into the traffic. Looking ahead, I see my car coming up and begin to fish in my pockets for my keys.
As I look downwards, I hear the jingling of keys in my pocket and feel metal brush against my skin. Knowing I have my keys there, I hook them with a finger and reel them to the surface. Once out of my pocket, I throw them in the air and catch them as I walk towards the street so as to step down onto the pavement and round the back of my car.
The truck I drive is a 1989 Bronco II painted red and white with a spare tire and cover on the back. It’s an old truck with high miles and some wear and tear. But it has a reliable six-cylinder and a five speed manual transmission. When I near the front of the Civic that is parked behind me, I step down off of the curb and step between the cars.
Traffic doesn’t slow down nor does it yield to me when I stop to peak out, trying to get to the driver’s side door. I watch as a black Trans Am flies by, its 350 rumbling under the hood and the ram-air intake shining from being re-chromed and polished recently. I’m not sure who’s behind the wheel, but, I’ve got a good guess.
Finally a man in a Ford Econovan lets me out. I wave to him thanks and then go the door. Quickly unlocking the door, I swing it open and climb in. As I climb in, I slip my backpack from my shoulders and throw it into the passenger side seat and slam the door shut just as traffic resumes.
Making myself comfortable, I stick the key into the ignition and then sit back in the soft, comfortable cloth seat. I groan to myself as I stretch my back out and then slump forward with a sigh. Finally, I turn to the side and reach towards the seatbelt to secure myself behind it.
But before I can pull it from its resting spot, I stop and look out of the window. Across the street is a church with a huge open field between the street and the building, as well as between it and the road that diverts from East High, the road I’m on now. But that’s not exactly what I’m interested in. It’s what’s happening between me and the church.
A group of three boys, all of whom I know, stand around a girl, taunting her and throwing things at her, threatening her at the same time. The girl covers her head and clenches her face tightly, angry and upset, but not knowing what to do. I can see the tears running down her face even from here.
The girl’s name is Elizabeth Wentzel, the daughter of a lawyer father and a surgeon mother. She is roughly five-foot six, has blue eyes and is a Siberian Husky. She and her family moved here just a few weeks ago and I don’t think she has enjoyed even a second of being here in Andersonville. She has been tormented like no other person has ever been tormented before.
The boys, named Nate Roof, Kirby Turner and Bryan Range, all jockey assholes, sons of rich parents and with egos big enough to apply for nationality, surround the poor girl and yell curse words at her and push her around. I feel as if something within me begins to stir, like the tide pulling back before a tidal wave.
I watch as they push and scream at her, but never truly harm her, and simply sit quietly, silently, observing the persecution going on within my own town. She holds herself even more tightly and cries, the tears running through blue-tinged fur and off of a black nose.
My hand creeps slowly towards the door handle as I feel myself compelled to step out and confront them, as if my tiny, weak frame could stand up against three ‘football players’. The cold metal of the door handle touches my fingers and I slowly pull upwards. The door bumps open and begins to slowly creak open. My eyes focus on the three boys and my anger begins to well up within me. I’m so tired of being on this end of a fight. I want to be in the fight, whether I win or not. I wanna . . .
Suddenly a horn honks loudly and I slam the door shut without thinking. Looking upwards, I see a big, yellow school bus waiting for me to pull out. Probably the only people who will let you pull out from a parking space, or cross the street, school bus drivers are taught to be kind. But I believe now it’s just being annoying.
I pull the seatbelt across my body and secure it. Then I turn and hold down both the clutch and the brake before I turn on the engine. Pulling up the parking brake, I shift into first gear and gently lead the Bronco out onto East High. Even though my body and eyes focus on driving, my mind swirls around the bullies and the girl. I don’t know . . . I feel strange. I think I need to talk to Dad. Oh, god, what a talk that’ll be.