Michelle Kordov PD7 5/10/23

 Michelle Kordov 

Blog 4

2023

Craft a piece of FAN fiction related to any of the reading we’ve done in class that addresses one or more of the following: Literary elements (i.e. structure, tone, diction, mood, irony, and figurative language) to craft a narrative. Structural features of drama (stage directions, character attributions/tags, dialogue, monologues, and/or soliloquies) to craft a script. Multidimensional characters to develop themes and create socio-political metaphors.

“It was all too intimate,” the chairperson said to me with little emotion in her voice. 

I can’t say that I was expecting her to jump with joy after reading my report, but those words did sting.

“Too many opinions, too many feelings. That’s not what this report is about. We need clear facts and figures, unclouded by the human factor.” 

‘The human factor’, she says, with slight disgust in her tone that she doesn’t even seem to recognize. As if it is some nuisance that burdens her. Burdens us. This annoying, arbitrary human factor that gets in the way of our data collecting and our societal duties. 

“Of course, you are right,” I reply, stifling any agitation that started gathering in my chest. 

She holds out the report with one hand as she looks back to her computer screen, sitting and waiting for me to approach her and take the burdensome pages back. Frankly, it pissed me off. It would have been easier to take the criticism if she just threw my work in the steel trash can beside her. At least I would have understood her perspective better if she went to that extreme. But no, her hand remained outstretched with the floppy pages, confused as to why she didn’t hear my footsteps coming closer to her table. Her eyes return back to me with a straight face, her stare urging me to take back the report and leave her office. After too many seconds continue to pass, I take the report and start to walk out, my head slightly spinning. She starts to type something, however, just as I am about to step out the glass door, I feel my heels spin around. 

“We can’t let these stories die.” 

I try my best to sound self-assured, but I still hear the pleading in my words. And I know she does too. Her sigh forces her to stop looking at the screen and back at me, like a disappointed parent about to tell their child they are too busy to play with them. She looks me up and down, seemingly trying to find the right words to say so as to not hurt my feelings; trying to find the words to tell me “go play by yourself, your mama is busy right now.” Finally, her voice fills the room.

“Then don’t. Write a book. You’ve still got all your notes, and the legal freedom to use them. Who’s stopping you from keeping these stories alive in the pages of your own book?”

For some reason, that didn’t really comfort me. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees as we stared at each other. After a few more seconds her typing resumes, and I, free from her gaze, leave the office. 

In hindsight, that interaction should not have bothered me so much. The chairperson was a busy woman, and the official report had to be a collection of cold, hard data; an objective “after-action” report that would allow future generations to study the events of that apocalyptic decade without being influenced by the “human factor.” But something inside me was stirring. Her unnerving glare and the disdain for all the life experiences I have collected with my interviews swam in my mind and chest. Perhaps it wasn’t my anger that was brewing, but someone else’s. My mother and father’s anger whose souls are still alive in my heart. My little sister’s pain banging against the walls of my sternum. If they were still here, my report would be praised and my efforts cherished by them. Yet they became a statistic, just like the millions of other humans who turned into zombies and then were wiped out. I would have dropped my interview travels in a second if it meant that there was a chance I could save them. But I couldn’t. And it was because of people like the chairperson. Well not directly because of her, but the ignorance. People who possess so much professionalism that they lack empathy. Yet their discipline and dedication to organization is what keeps the bureaucratic subdivisions of this planet functioning. 

The next morning was rainy and gray, but the sound of the rain helped drown the tension in the room. 

“Listen, the board asks for data and statistics, so we give them data and statistics,” the chairperson pauses as she looks down and adjusts her gold bracelet on her wrist, a reward for the various profitable projects she took on for investors with the board. I can tell that she is thinking about what else she could say to end the conversation. She looks up at me and continues, 

“I appreciate your passion for your project, but it's not what they want to document at the moment.” She speaks slowly and calmly, but makes sure to enunciate every word - the sharp consonants carry with them heavy exasperation. An irritation that I have become all too familiar with here. The truth is that I never felt such freedom as I traveled around the world. A liberation unlike anything I have ever experienced before. The connections I have made with others - the way I was able to crawl within a human mind and pick out all the nuances that give humans our complexity made this research project a piece of history. 

“Ma’am, you really need to read some of the stories in there. Unbelievable, truly. I already have the documents with the data the board is asking for, but my project will only enhance those numbers!”

It will give life to all of the dead. 

The chairperson didn’t speak right away. She was staring at something behind me but my eyes remained fixed on her. Her hesitation was at a crossroads in my mind - did I get through to her? Or did she truly not believe my words? My chair was starting to get uncomfortable and I spoke up to break the silence.

“I can make my work into a book, or a novel, by myself. But my name will not get out anywhere. Don’t you understand? Here we have the power to preserve emotions for generations to come, and to make sure that those in the future work off of what we, people, say about the war. Not just numbers.”

Once again, silence. One of the things I despised most in this world now. Silence. As I conducted my interviews, the other always had something to say, something to add. There was no concept of silence, quiet, or peace in their minds after all that they have gone through. I now know that their thoughts will never be silent, just like mine, and any silence that occurred during an interview was an indication of pain - a painful memory, an awful flashback, a brief moment where the mind would recall otherworldly trauma. In other words, I didn’t like silence anymore. 

“Is this because of your family Jeremy?” she asks quietly. Her tone is new to me, with some notes of sympathy that I didn’t expect. I didn’t want to answer, something was holding me back. I forgot about the discomfort of my seat and wished for silence again as I racked my brain for a response.

“I think I now understand why you are so adamant about this. I thought it was a bit strange that you were taking it so personally.” Her usually expressionless face held pity. Pity for me. Of course she wouldn’t understand. Her husband, two kids, mother and father remained safe, happy, and healthy in some luxurious underground bunker. I only knew that because I had to gather their personal documents for safekeeping. All while everyone around us was perishing. Good for her, truly. God I had to get out of that office. My frustration was starting to become unbearable. It wasn’t fair. All of this wasn’t fair. I despised how angry I have become, angry towards the chairwoman, the board, and the world. The people that I have interviewed will be forgotten, their stories ignored, but her name will probably be heard for the next few decades because of her “efficient work ethic and dedication to civil service,” as the board stated. 

Before I knew it, I was out of the office and outside, walking to the nearest cafe to grab a bite to eat. The fresh air subdued my angst, but left me melancholy. After I grab my coffee and bagel, I notice a young man sitting near the window. Something drew me to him, a feeling I couldn’t explain, and I walk myself over to him.

“Hello, my name is Jeremy Smith.” I invite him to shake my hand, giving him a smile that I know helps comfort potential interviewees. “I am an interviewer working on a book about World War Z and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions? It won’t take much of your time.”