The news report is on.

“THE PRESIDENT IS DEAD.” The text flashes on the screen, white and blue. “SHOT 3AM BY SECRET SERVICE AGENT. INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY.”

“A shame, a shame,” Mother says. “He was a good man.”

The news report repeats its message.

“THE PRESIDENT IS DEAD. SHOT 3AM BY SECRET SERVICE AGENT. INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY.”

Father finishes cooking the meal and sets the kitchen table. Mother finishes writing up the spreadsheet. Sister stalks over.

“Mother, mother, Brother has my phone again,” whines Little Brother. Big Brother grins.

“Mother, mother, Brother-“

“I heard you the first time, Little Brother,” Mother says. “Help Father set the table, please.”

Sister grumbles as she sits down.

“What’s wrong?” asks Father. She doesn’t respond. Father doesn’t press her.

Little Brother pushes himself onto his seat. He wriggles for comfort on the cold chair. Mother wipes down his grubby face. Big Brother collapses onto this seat and lounges, spreading his legs wide.

“Man, I’m bored,” Big Brother sighs.

The meal is a feast - sparkling red lobster, golden chicken fried to a crisp, glistening, smooth mashed potatoes. Large, juicy cuts of red and brown steak, overflowing with spice and sparkling vitality. Bowls of heaping salad; lettuce, tomatoes, onions, avocado, red and green peppers; Father even threw in some bamboo shoots. Glasses of blood-red wine for the parents, thick grape juice for Sister and Big Brother. Little Brother receives obligatory apple juice.

The meal commences in silence.

Sister crunches on her celery stalk. Diet.

A ping.

“Maurice Applegate broke up again. And she’s fifty,” Sister says to the void. “…The actress?” Deaf ears nod in agreement. Sister places her phone down.

A stomach rumbles. Another crunch.

Father’s eyes glow blue as he reads the news.

“ISIS wages war on China,” he reports. Little Brother nods off to sleep, his face in his food. Father continues reading the report, word for word. “The leader of ISIS continues his rampage throughout the Middle East and Indochina. The entire nation of India is now enslaved. The European Union leads the war against Putin and ISIS. China and the United Conglomerate of Americas have remained out of this world conflict for some time.”

The article contains a video. Father does not watch the video. The video has flies in it. Father does not like flies. It gives him trauma.

Thump, thump. Grandfather moving about upstairs.

Crunch.

Diet.

“You know what we need? An effective leader,” Mother says. “Someone who can take us to war. Someone who can say, ‘let’s destroy everything!’ Then, the UC of A can come out on top. We’ll win!”

“Destroy everything!” Little Brother wakes up and laughs. “Destroy everything! Destroy everything! We’ll win!”

Sister lights up a joint.

“I think that’s too extreme,” she says. Big Brother waits until her eyes get droopy.

He snatches for her phone.

“Haha!” Big Brother laughs. Big Brother is a tech wiz. A geek. Geek Squad. Best Buy. Save money, live better, Walmart. All that blue stuff.

“Mother, I need more money,” Sister says.

“Why?” Mother asks.

“All that blue stuff,” Sister says. “Blues…Blues stuff. Jazz. I need money…Corporate greed shall bring the downfall of the Americas. When the United States still existed, we fell to the power of the greater good. We fell to the power of peace. To the power of love. That is why we annihilated borders around our nations and bonded together as one great mass. One great mass. Like a candle. We love each other. No more internal hatred between Latin America, the US and Canada. Like a candle. Humans. John Lennon was right. Humanity will bond together. We will learn to love. We will set apart our differences and bond together. Bond. Bonds. Bonds. Wax. Bonds. Candle.”

Big Brother peers over Sister’s phone. He glares at her slightly. He worries for her sometimes. Just a little bit. Just enough to stalk her phone. Just to make sure.

He makes sure. She’s very submissive. Almost like a disease.

Chronic submissiveness.

Mother clears her throat.

“Honey, I know you like to smoke weed, but we really don’t encourage that in the house!” Mother says.

“Amendment thirty-eight,” Sister says, “Rights for adolescents.”

Little Brother points.

“Can I have one?”

“Rights for adolescents.”

Thump, thump. Grandfather upstairs.

“How do you know my passcode?” Sister asks. Big Brother smiles.

The Family finishes eating and begins clearing the table. Father begins washing dishes. Mother dries them. Little Brother carries over giant stacks of dishes, towering precariously over his body. Sister wipes down the table. Big Brother crashes on the couch and watches.

“Big Brother, help out your family a little bit please,” Father says.

“Rights for adolescents,” Big Brother says.

“Big Brother is always just sitting and watching,” Sister whines. “Sitting and watching.”

Big Brother smiles.

Suddenly Grandfather appears on the stairs.

He hadn’t come out of his room in years. His face is thin and taut, his body fragile. His faded yellowing clothes seems to blend into his sagging, grey skin. Bloodshot eyes frantically scan the room. Broken teeth juts out of his gums at irregular angles. Thin white strips sparsely cover a wrinkly bald mat. His body is covered in botches of brown disease. The only part of his body not yet dead are his red pants, and it seems to be covered in ashen soot.

Grandfather’s eyes dash about the room.

Rumor has it that he had been locked up in his room, writing a new novel. Or something. Writing something. They always heard pen scratching on paper. Like a homeless man constantly itching his foot. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Sometimes three long rips. A cross out. Didn’t like it, garbage, gone. Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Nobody really knew what he was writing about. One time Mother went inside to give him food, and the entire room was covered in paper. He just sat and scratched, scratched, scratched.

“Looking for answers,” he would say. “Why are we here? Why now? Humanity is dying, dying, dying…”

Grandfather peers down the stairs to the rest of the family. Sometimes his vision botches out the periphery, and he can only see pale patches of white receding in the distance. Frail fingers would be raised, trying to clear his mind, his head-but alas! - To no avail.

Sometimes Grandfather wondered what it was like to be human. Sometimes he thinks about it so much his mind hurts, and his stomach growls; but every time he eats or sleeps his body crashes and he sinks into despair. If life was a giant river, all his youth he was a salmon fighting the current. So why stop questioning now? He had fought against his body for years and years, whittling away the pen and dashing away the paper, hoping for once and for all to end the depraved cavity called humanity.

Granddaddy’s ears listens to the silence. At first, he welcomed it - peace at last! But now his mind recalled younger days lost; those were the days when you could still feel grass under your feet, the sun on your face, the wind in your ears. Cars were loud, busses were louder. People yelled on the streets, calling out prices for apples, newspapers; dancers and bandstands dominated street corners... The walls were not monochrome grey, but dashed with pink and purple…purple….graffiti! Then the people came and covered it in sleek silver armor and metal bolts. They locked up the breathing paint so that the art suffocated and died, and Grandfather slammed his fists against the walls, the walls that separated him forever from his creations, his children.
Scratch, scratch, scratch. All crossed out. Just like that.

Grandfather can feel it in his bones. His mind whispers in his ear. The white botches in his eyes solidify, and the silence grows deafening. He now sees not a house and a family, but a city street with flashing lights, neon signs…

Grandfather walks into the kitchen, cans of contraband in his hand.

Mother and Father stare. Little Brother begins dozing off. Big Brother and Sister pause their wrestling, her phone hanging limply from his hand.

The salmon flounders in the river. The tide of time comes crashing down on the poor fish, and they are swept away, swept away into large fishnets for food.

Slowly, methodically, a streak of red paint appears on the wall.

It’s an art. The paint falls down to the left in a perfect line-then twirls and bounces back to the lower right-it looks like a lip. He makes the O round and bulbous-he smiles as he fills in the O with bright white neon paint. He deftly switches between colors, alternates hands, shakes a bit, sprays a bit-he laughs, he jumps, and ends letters with a flourish and toss cans with fervor. He tops the V with slanted edges, sloping downward, angled in such perfection barely noticeable. His mastery and vitality reigns supreme; the blood courses through his body and his mind fills with glee; no longer can he contain his soul, and his mind is filled with music and popping saxophone notes, his eyes are filled with words and books and lines of poetry, and his fingers are tipped with paint - neon paint, streaking throughout the bleak grey and black, like dancing fire, like dancing fire!

He finishes with an E.

Mother and Father stare at the word.

Sister turns to Big Brother. Big Brother turns to Little Brother.

Little Brother turns in his sleep.

Grandfather smiles.

Grandfather collapses.

Grandfather dies.

“A shame, a shame,” Mother says. “He was a good man.” The parents turn back to the dishes.

Sister takes her phone back. She quickly changes the passcode. Little Brother wakes and giggles. The news report is back on.

Big Brother yawns.

“Man, I’m bored.”