01. Writer
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Jonathan Diener

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02. Theme
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Cells

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Hot Snakes:
Candid Cameras

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04. WRITING
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I don’t know exactly how it happened or honestly when it happened, but it did. It did and it’s terrifying. I don’t know how I’m writing this without them seeing, especially if I’m the one seeing it too. I don’t have much time, so I’ll make this brief: the future is here and we’re all fucked.

The ocular implants were the logical extension of Bluetooth technology. The sweaty monsters at the gym and the runners were sick of wires getting in the way while they listened to music and worked on their god-like physiques. The rest of us—we never asked for it—riding the subway or sitting in coffee shops followed suit. I guess it wasn’t that bad—at least at the time.

Then having to hold your cell phone to look at it instead of pretending to pay attention to your friends, families, clients, bosses, etc. became too daunting of a task for our feeble humanoid forms. When the tech came out to see your phone’s operating system directly through your line of sight… well, I knew it would take off. And so did the investors. Those evil fucks.

We were already paying close to $2,000 for our phones and their plans every few years, but implants were cheap—like, REALLY fucking cheap in comparison. We started seeing the major companies fading out and then Facebook developed FaceFone. While we were laughing at the dumbest name in history, the company was getting ready to take over the world.

Soon YouTube, SnapChat, all of the social media apps weren’t at your fingertips—they were hard-wired to your brain. Worried about a hacker getting a hold of your credit card information? What about your social security number? Now imagine them hacking into your memories, your thoughts, your motor functions. It was about a year into FaceFone when we started hearing about the kids in Russia bombing capital cities. Senior citizens in retirement homes in Florida setting the buildings on fire and locking themselves in. You thought cat videos were annoying? You thought telemarketers were the end of the world? Imagine never being able to turn off advertisements in your own head. We couldn’t do anything to stop it.

They had our information and instead of simply controlling our lives they started taking them one by one. Population control.

Advances in technology gave us electricity, but in the wrong hands, we get a nuke. We’re in the next revolution and it all started with those shitty glass rectangles glued to our hands. They were always filming us, listening to us and tracking everything. Now they know everything about us and we’re defenseless.

Oh god, I don’t think I have much time left. So if you’re listening, please, I need you to know that if you’ve ever had the juicy, cheesy, iconic Big Mac it’s alright if you want to start smaller. The new Mac Jr. is a single patty with no middle bun. Available for a limited time. I’m lovin’ it.

01. Writer
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Jonathan Diener

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02. Theme
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Mathematics

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Death Cab for Cutie:
The Sound of Settling

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04. WRITING
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Mr. Gilbert’s 2nd period geometry class was always something I dreaded attending. I don’t know if it was his lack of caring about educating us—you know, literally his only job—or the fact that he was always picking favorites. Those favorites happened to be the athletes and cheerleaders, as he was a coach. Coach Gilbert, they would call him. I never called him that.  I was a musician.

It was my junior year of high school and I knew I wouldn’t be moving on to college. I felt as if I knew everything an aspiring touring musician would need to know. I was picking blow-off classes, draping study guides across my lap just out of the teacher’s eyesight to cheat on tests and mostly trying to concentrate on advancing my social life. As a blossoming teenager with acne on my chin, braces on my teeth and acid reflux, I had to get a head start before the cruel world swallowed me whole. Music was my thing and I had to wear it as a shield.

Each day I would wake up as a zombie, shove cereal down my throat, brush my teeth and accidentally trigger my gag reflex when the toothbrush would get too far down the back of my tongue. I jumped in the shower and prided myself on taking very little time. I read an interview a year prior about Jennifer Anniston taking three minute showers to save the environment. I loved that idea. It lasted only a few months before I started to have ideas in my head for music or stories and I would completely forget about the time I was wasting. The water I was wasting. The world was on fire and it was all my fault. I was late for school a lot that year.

The school had block scheduling, which meant only four eighty-seven minute classes one day then four other classes the second day. I only had to attend the bland, unhelpful geometry class from Mr. Gilbert every other day. Thank God. I also was well into not praying or thinking about God at this point thanks to punk rock and my friend group. Again, I was shedding my blissfully ignorant skin quicker than I could realize. I wanted to expand my mind, but the monotonous teachings of bored, suburban teachers to a bunch of ungrateful students wasn’t doing anything for me.

My parents had a good relationship with our next door neighbors. My father rarely drank alcohol, at least in front of my brother and I (who also never drank), but he kept beer in the fridge to entertain our neighbor when he would walk over. It was what men did. Or maybe it’s what men thought they should do? The beer was in the small, lonely refrigerator in the basement as part of our underutilized bar. We had a pool, we had a Michigan State University themed paint job, we had a pool table and we should have had the best parties imaginable. I preferred to play music with my friends. I sometimes thought I could have been better at being a man.

One night I was watching a movie in my basement, not sure exactly what it was, but I had a thought: What if I drank one of those lonely beers? I wonder how it would make me feel and I knew no one would ever know I took one unless they were keeping count. I had no intention of being included in the parties of my peers as I was already frequenting house shows and parties in Flint, Michigan with an older, cooler crowd. They accepted that I didn’t drink, which is something people my age should have been experimenting with already, but I truly never cared enough to try. Less temptation and more curiosity, I figured tonight would be the night to do it.

I quietly, yet casually walked to the mini-fridge sitting under the dimly lit, forgotten bar in our basement. I counted about seven Bud Lights. I didn’t know what made it Light or Lite, but I was concentrating on the number making sure no one would notice. Would the even or odd number be a giveaway? Maybe my neighbor could have snuck over and snagged one for himself on a hot summer day? How many days or months were those lonely beers sitting in that tiny fridge in the forgotten, under-utilized bar? I stopped questioning and reached for one.

I held the cold can, sweating with condensation to match the bead of sweat falling down my brow. I wasn’t scared, but I knew this may be a line I cross from which I can’t find my way back. I pulled the tab as I’ve done with so many cans of soda (or, “Pop” as we call it in Michigan) and I smelled that strange smell I’ve inhaled from years at parties, open houses, shows and more. I never had any desire to take part, but I was about to give it a sip.

I headed to the downstairs bathroom, locked the door and sat on the toilet. It was the only place with a locking door. Worst case I could make the excuse of taking a shit. No one would question me. I finally took a sip and tried to fully understand the taste or see if there was something secret that I’ve been missing out on all of these years. It wasn’t very good, but I could understand how it would eventually grow on people or at the very least, get them drunk after a few. I got through half a can and decided I couldn’t do the rest. It wasn’t for me. I didn’t feel anymore connected to my peers after having tasted and consuming it. I poured the rest out in the sink and buried the can in the trash can upstairs to camouflage it with forgotten paper plates covered in ketchup and so on.

Once I was in bed getting ready to retire for the night, I sat and thought through every situation where and how this could somehow better my life. Did I betray my ideas of never drinking? Did I really care enough if I did?

The next day I did my routine of eating cereal, brushing my teeth, gagging, showering then heading to school where I still wouldn’t care. I was in Mr. Gilbert’s geometry class once again, sitting in the corner of the room, escaping into the music blasting through my headphones thanks to my futuristic iPod and I mindlessly did my homework. A few minutes into class I felt a rumble in my stomach. Immediately I thought about what I did the night before and even remembered a song from my friends in a band called Takeout, called, “Beer Shits.” I think I was about to have one. Was I hungover? I had no idea what was going on or how a hangover would feel. I had less than half of a beer. Maybe that could give me a hangover, I thought.

I got a hall pass to head to the bathroom, did my duty and returned to class deciding that I didn’t like what I did the night before. I felt gross and lethargic. I blamed it on the lonely half Bud Light I sipped in the downstairs bathroom while sitting on the toilet. In retrospect, I knew it was something I ate earlier in the day. The feeling matched how I felt about the teacher. I didn’t care for him much and hoped I wouldn’t have to be in his presence again, or at least for a while. Maybe he would grow on me in my later years.

01. Writer
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Jonathan Diener

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02. Theme
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Commute

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03. MUSIC INSPIRATION
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Nada Surf: 
Hyperspace

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04. WRITING
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Hyperspace

Tommy walked out of school with a smile on his face. Surprisingly it wasn’t because Derek gave him half of his chocolate chip cookie at lunch or because Brittany smiled at him in the hallway. Today Tommy was going for a bike ride into town all on his own.

After jumping down the steps of the school bus, he rushed into the house, hung his backpack on the hook in the laundry room, filled his water bottle using the new filter in the kitchen sink and ran to the garage. The rush of humidity from opening the door gave him memories of the indoor swimming pool he frequented as a little kid, but he wasn’t a kid anymore. Not today at least.

A blue Schwinn bike was leaning against some boxes his mom never unpacked from years ago. She was visiting her sister a few towns over and gave Tommy permission to go on his own adventure. He’s had adult supervision for years and today was the big test. He could finally prove he was mature enough to explore on his own. If things went well this would become the new normal.

Tommy connected his water bottle to the frame of the bike using a handy clip that came with it. He put on his favorite helmet—the one with the skull on the top—and reached for his goggles. His friends said he didn’t need the goggles and he looked like a goofy wannabe fighter pilot, but that didn’t matter. He hesitated and looked at his own reflection in the lenses and let out another massive smile. They couldn’t be more wrong. He looked awesome.

Now, fully equipped with goggles, helmet and an ice cold water for the trip, it was time to head out. If he was lucky there could be some straggler school buses making their rounds in town full of his peers ready to witness his awesomeness. They’d stare with jaws dropped as Tommy would fly down the roads as a solo rider. While imagining this he began to hum the song he heard on the radio that day. He felt cool.

Riding through the subdivision was easy. The guy who lived a few houses down with the annoying dog was checking his mail and waved. His dog barked like she always does. Tommy waved back and hoped they noticed he learned how to stay balanced with only one hand on the handlebars. They must have been impressed.

Construction on the new subdivision across the street was in the early stages, but the roads were paved and the workers had the day off. Not only was it a shortcut into town, but it was the perfect place to learn new tricks just like the guys he saw on TV. After pedaling and taking a water break, Tommy made it to the big hill at the back of the lot. He stared for a few minutes, gulped and tried to muster up the courage to finally conquer it. He wasn’t sure if he’d make it down the hill without any problems, fall down the hill and die, or gain so much speed that he’d set on fire. They were all real possibilities, but he didn’t want to talk himself out of it this time.

The hill was too steep and the air too humid, so Tommy walked his bike up slowly while replaying any and every scenario in his head. Finally, at the top, he looked down at the winding streets and houses that ants could live in. He was terrified. This was the real deal. He closed his eyes and imagined he was on a motorcycle with bad guys on his tail. The only way to get away was cruise down the hill and he’d be in the clear. While adjusting his goggles, his terrified frown turned into a determined grin. It was go time.

Tommy took a deep breath and used his right foot to push himself forward. Within seconds he felt the decline increase, the wheels pick up speed and the wind start to blow at his face. The loose stones on the newly paved streets started to crunch under his tires. He started to shake as he continued down the hill, but he flexed his arms and knew his shocks could withstand any bump that got in his way.

Halfway down the hill the wind was blowing at Tommy’s ears so hard it sounded like static on his TV. He made the mistake of leaving his mouth open and swallowed a mosquito, which was gross. This was the fastest he’d ever been on a bike, or maybe ever, and it was almost over. The hill began to level out and the smirk turned into a full blown celebratory smile. He was cruising with the wind rushed at his face right until he forgot to turn with the street and rode straight into the curb.

Tommy felt his stomach sink when the bike came to a halt. It was like the end of a cheap ride at the carnival. His head jolted down and he lost control of the blue Schwinn bike that he once felt was part of him. After doing a front flip off of the bike, he fell into the sand and dirt of the unfinished yard.

He looked around and screamed for help before assessing the damage. He was all alone and he started crying. Not sure if he was in pain or just in shock, he looked at his knees and elbows that were now covered in cuts and gravel. It stung like a sunburn and felt so bad. Scared of trying to get back on the bike, Tommy started walking it home, using it as some sort of an alternative crutch even though he didn’t have a limp from the crash.

The sight of a crying, bleeding boy alarmed some of the neighbors who tried calling out to aid him, but it was too embarrassing to respond. Tommy made it all the way home, laid his bike against the boxes in his garage and jumped in the shower. The water stung, which made him cry more, but at least he was getting the small stones and gravel out of his cuts.

Tommy found the first-aid kit in his bathroom and frantically put Band-Aids on every visible cut.  There were only really four or five of them total. While looking in the mirror with his bloodshot eyes and tears going down his cheeks, he decided to wear his pajama pants and a sweater to cover his wounds. He came back to the mirror, washed his face in the sink, wiped his face and tears with a towel and forced a big smile. He nodded to himself with approval.

He got to the couch and started playing a video game right as his mom walked in. She was still glowing from a great day with her family and hummed to herself as she closed the door and put her purse on the kitchen table.

“So, how was your big solo adventure?” she asked with excited and interrogative eyes.

Tommy hesitated and tried to decide if he should come up with a story or just pretend nothing happened. He finally looked up and tried talking, but his voice cracked.

“It was fun, but I—,” he couldn’t finish the sentence and started crying again.

Tommy’s mother rushed to the couch and gave him a big hug. While she was holding his head, her warm breathing into his hair was comforting and relaxed him. He sniffed a few times and was finally able to muster up the courage to tell his mom the big reveal.

Before he could talk, she rolled up his sleeve to see the Band-Aids on his elbows. It was like some kind of maternal mind-reading power that he didn’t understand. He looked at her, terrified, assuming the worst was about to spill from the same lips that were just breathing into his hair.

She returned his watery-eyed stare with an apologetic and comforting look. In some unspoken bond, it made Tommy smile again.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of telling me the truth,” she said as she held his shoulders, looking right into his eyes. “We can all make mistakes as long as we learn from them. Did you learn from yours?”

Tommy looked up, wiped his eyes again and nodded with a cute, little smirk. He knew he wouldn’t be grounded and that his life wouldn’t be over. This was only the first hill he’d have to conquer.