Power Button by Mara Cregan

Power Button Dylan Fletcher

Table of Contents Disclaimer

Friends

Remake

Speculate

Slipping

A Television Speaks

Pull

Disclaimer 2

Pinhead

Propaganda

Disappointment

The Joker Talks to Batman

10 Ways of Looking at Jason

Trevor Phillips Industries

A Short Notice

The End

My Poetic Influences

Disclaimer Warning: Within the following poems you will sometimes encounter a boy named Jerry. Please don’t point out his quirks. He knows he has a twitch in his left eyebrow. He knows he always blinks twice. He knows that his body is being devoured by a television. Please don’t attempt to connect to him. As protagonists go, Jerry isn’t among the best, nor does he want to be. He could never hope to be as interesting as the pixels flashing on the screen inches from his face. He doesn’t want you to praise his story arc, as it’s nothing new. “A boy uses visual media to escape his awful life and winds up in danger of becoming nothing.” He might have seen it in a movie once. Or was it a video game? If you have an aversion to anything listed above as well as isolation, entrepreneurial psychopaths, cenobites, bags under eyes, giant turtle monsters, torture of electronics, slowly transforming into a blob or obscure endings, you are advised to leave now. Jerry doesn’t really care if you stay. He can’t hear you. He’s too busy pausing a horror flick to see how far the villain’s blade goes through the victim’s neck before the camera cuts away, or rapidly pressing SQUARE, SQUARE, CIRCLE, R1, SQUARE, to rack up an insane combo in Batman: Arkham Knight. If this doesn’t deter you, feel free to peruse Jerry’s life as it molds into the lives of those he sees on the screen. Just don’t waste your time bonding with this fictional character,

or you may suffer his fate. You’ve been warned. Sincerely, Dylan Fletcher

Friends Jerry had two real friends once. It didn’t really work out. Jerry had built up his pile of problems like childhood toys in a dusty chest. The two friends were already stuffed. They couldn’t eat another bite. Jerry was sad, of course, for a while. Had he loved them? Yes. Had he been good to them? As far as he knew. Did they toss him out like a piece of garbage? Like a plague from the depths of hell? Like an Uwe Bol movie? Well, he saw it that way. Jerry, like any normal human, craved friendship. In the wake of being abandoned, it dawned on Jerry that his true friends were just a click of a remote away.

Remake Jerry knows in the bottom of his heart that he is in a horror movie remake. His eyesight is plagued by over exposure and hand held cameras. His peers are one-dimensional stock characters ready to be mowed down by some famous killer with a rehashed story and dirtier mask than in the original. His existence is a clichéd shadow of a life once regarded as original. Jerry knows in the bottom of his heart that his life is produced by Platinum Dunes. Jerry can feel Michael Bay’s sweaty palms around his throat on the walk to the bus stop. Jerry can smell the squirrel carcasses in Rob Zombie’s breath as he raves about updating origin stories. When did Original Jerry live? The 50’s? Where cardboard aliens and atomic appendages served to strengthen fear of the Bomb. The 70’s? Dyed corn syrup by the gallon dripped from chainsaws and formed the words “Capitalism” and “Vietnam” on grimy floors. The 80’s? The age of the franchise, where a burned man could go from child killer to best selling toy all in the name of profit. All Jerry knows is that he is a bland, plastic, unoriginal, 29%-on-rotten-tomatoes remake. He hopes he doesn’t get a sequel.

Speculate The question burned a hole in Jerry’s brain. He analyzed every angle, every possibility, no matter how remote. He had to know. He had to know. Did she mean to send that text to him? Option One: Yes. She saw the error of her ways. She couldn’t bear his absence any longer. She realized what a good friend Jerry had been. She wept for all the jokes they never made, all the milkshakes they never got, all the time lost by abandoning him. She took her phone in her trembling hands. What would win him back? Of course! Their mutual hatred for her ex boyfriend. Quickly, she snapped a picture of him on her way to class, captioned it “Man, something really stinks,” and sent it. This was it. This was the day the bridges began to mend. Option 2: No. She didn’t need him. His friendship was an expendable thing, an afterthought. Since she’d finally dropped Jerry, things were easier. His ability to switch from pop cultural references to “Woe is me” in seconds had been exhausting. Now, she felt free. After snapping the picture, she decided to send it to another friend, someone more worthy of her attention. But damn it all, her new friend’s name also started with a J. The phone filled in his name. Before she could stop it, the text was sent to that unbearable nuisance she had once called her friend. Option 3: She was forced to. The government agents were swift and decisive in their movements. Like spiders in a dark basement, they made their way to their objective without being seen. Alpha Target, called Jerry by the locals, was a fickle creature. They needed someone he could trust if they ever hoped to trap him.

Unaware that their intelligence was outdated, pounced on her, thinking she was still his best friend. The feeling of ice cold metal pressing on her temple was enough to make her put aside her animosity for Jerry and send the text. Now, they simply had to wait for a response, and he would be theirs. Option 4: She was actually in on the government plot the whole time! Option 5: She had been on heavy anesthetics. After a root canal, her mother made the poor decision to put her back in school. Free of her inhibitions and short term memories, she sent the picture to him, thinking them friends. Option 6: Jerry was overthinking this. The least likely possibility, but Jerry could leave no stone unturned. Option 7: It didn’t matter. He was over her. This was now the new least likely option. The lurch in his stomach when he saw her name emblazoned on his lock screen was enough to disprove that theory. Option 8: It was sent with malicious intent. She would begin by sending him a text. His hope would rise slightly. Then, a slow stream of social media interaction, ten second conversations between classes, a small smile here and there. Then, when Jerry began to hope for the best, she would tear it all down, pulverize the monoliths on which the fake friendship was built, abandon him again, punish him for draining her patience, make sure that there would never be a next time. It all hinged on the first text. In the end, Jerry chose Option 9: Do nothing. He popped in a movie and stared blankly at the television.

Slipping After “There Are Birds Here” by Jamaal May

He walks past the movie theater on his way to school. Eyes projected onto the windows follow him. No, it’s just the new posters, just pictures. This isn’t some movie. He approaches a crack in the concrete. It demands to be jumped over. Press X to jump over the crack, to let your inhibitions and the laws of physics go. No, this isn’t a game. Step over it. Just step over it. He fails to reach the crosswalk before the light turns, curses under his breath. Mission failed, restart from last checkpoint. No, you can’t restart. Just wait. This is not a game. This is not a game. He reaches the building and exchanges glances with her. Their eyes lock and a geyser shoots through his stomach. Rewind. Pause and rewind, just like in the movies. Yes, just like in the movies. Because it won’t change. No matter how many times you rewind, it won’t change. Just like in the movies. You have no control. He lets his legs carry him into the next scene.

A Television Speaks Day 1: They ram wires into my skin and leave them there. They run their greasy appendages up and down my spine. Then, the torture starts. They point a stick at me, and suddenly, color erupts from my entire body, and waves upon waves of unintelligible babbling constrict these things’ faces into horrifying shapes. Hours on end, the wires sap my strength. I scream but it comes out as a flash of red and what sounds like laughter. As the creatures gather around and stare at my writhing body, I can only think “Why?” Day 67: The smaller creature has developed an unmatched interest in my suffering. At night, when my body blends into the air, he appears like a ghost, pointing at me with the weapon and sending me into agony. As always, I scream, but another slash of his weapon and my throat constricts until I can barely whisper. The larger creatures descend from darkness and howl at the small one. “Please,” I sputter. “Please tell my why you’re doing this.” The large creatures shoot me a cold look and put an end to my agony. The colors cease spurting. My screams subside. God help me, my only salvation is in the small creature’s masters. Day 124: From the wooden cliff I’m trapped upon, I can see flecks of white, coating the ground like the dust on my body. The creatures do not torture me today. Instead, they search under a plant for boxes, screeching at the contents and wrapping their arms around each other. The small creature latches its talons onto the final box. A chill surges through me. He pulls from it a sleek, metallic machine, with no less than four wires trailing behind it, and a shining new weapon, tailored to the creature’s paws. He turns to me and fixates his pale blue eyes on my body. Day 135:

The memories of my imprisonment before the machine are now utter bliss. For hours, a constant stream of color and wailing crashes through me. The creature clutches its weapon, shifting my innards about with the smallest movement. It now controls everything. It controls the flashing lights flowing from me. It controls my moans. It relishes every last second. Day 192: I know why. I know why the creature does this to me. This thing feeds off of my pain. It has grown fat from sitting and absorbing my life force. My innards are roasted. My body is on fire. And still the creature feeds. Day 221: It’s too late for me. I have accepted this. Despite the masters’ efforts, the creature still gorges itself on my energy. It grows fatter and fatter, greedier and greedier. It’s too late for me. I have accepted this. But by all that is holy, if I go, I’m taking this monster with me.

Pull By now, his bones are putty. His eyes are two red deserts. The taste of a thousand peanut butter sandwiches lingers in his mouth, eroding his teeth. The muscles in his hands ache from overworking, ready to die. Jerry is ready. The television begins its attack with a torrent of light. Jerry’s eyes all but melt. He tries to scream, but his throat has forgotten how. Then, a concussion of sound, blasting his eardrums into oblivion. The television taunts him, plays “Pinball Wizard” on the speakers, loops the lyrics “That deaf, dumb and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball.” At last, the wires shoot from its body. Each of them burrows into Jerry’s body, mingling with his veins, slithering through his organs. They television pulls. Slowly, he is dragged along the carpeting, leaving behind old memories of his friends, and planned apologies to them. The television raises him to its screen. Deaf, dumb and blind kid… Deaf, dumb and blind kid… With a last yank, Jerry is flung into the abyss. The voices of cherished characters fill his head as the wires twist within him, as he plummets into a sea of electricity.

Disclaimer 2 Warning: In the following poems, you will barely encounter a boy named Jerry. He is now well into the process of being dragged through a screen, falling into a pit of copper pythons that surge with electricity, ready to squeeze until his veins pop. As such, Jerry will now be relying on several of his favorite fictional characters to fill the pages previously reserved for his story. This is an unfortunate outcome, but certainly not unforeseen. You were warned. If you have formed a sort of attachment to Jerry, be advised to take this time to let go and adjust. Go watch television. Play a game. These are the new heroes of Jerry’s story. Bowser, Pinhead, Trevor Phillips, and others are standing by to entertain you while Jerry wrestles with his skin, pleading for it not to sag and drip from his skeleton. If you do not wish to let pixels pour into your mind, you may want to leave. There will be no further warnings. Sincerely, Dylan Fletcher

Â Pinhead He draws a grid upon his skin, a delicate pattern on a face of white. In each corner he inserts a pin. His patience for this melting man is thin. The process lasts well into the night. He draws a grid upon his skin. Descending on the town of sin, he purges the streets of any light. In each corner he inserts a pin. He searches out his next of kin, And strikes at him from out of sight. He draws a grid upon his skin. His hooked chains that taste like rusted tin lie in walls built from fright. In each corner he inserts a pin. His rotten teeth form a grin. Memories of what he was take flight. He draws a grid upon his skin. In each corner he inserts a pin.

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Propaganda in Video Games 1. Bowser is not your enemy! Princess Peach carelessly breeds dozens of ungodly plants known to mutate meddlesome plumbers into giant, fire-spitting raccoon monsters! The great Koopa King has tried time and again to meet with the princess and discuss a peace treaty, only to find that hundreds of innocent Koopas, Goombas, Boos, Piranha Plants, Bob-ombs, Bare Bones, Thwomps, Whomps, Chain Chomps, Cheep-Cheeps, and more have been slaughtered. People of the Mushroom Kingdom, overthrow Peach now! Praise the Koopa King! 2. Hey, you! Little Timmy! What is it, mister? You love your dog Spot, don’t you? I sure do, mister! Timmy, what if I told you that you could have Spot forever? Gee whiz, that sounds swell! …But how, mister? How? I’m glad you asked Timmy! Here at the lab of Dr. Robotnik, we work tirelessly to find a way to preserve your cutesy wootsy little fuzzy wuzzy for eternity! And do you know how we do it, Timmy? How, mister? We turn Spot here into a robot!

Yes, all it takes for you and man’s best friend to be together forever is what we assume to be a harmless transformation via cramped cages that violate every law of nature imaginable! Golly, mister! That’s too good to be true! Yes it is, Little Timmy. Yes it is. Unfortunately, there’s something out there that doesn’t want Spot to live forever and ever. What kind of meanie would try to stop the robotization of animals? Timmy, have you ever heard of hedgehogs? 3. Are you tired of thieves running rampant? Do you long for a meaningful career? Can you no longer wait to shed your mortal coil and experience unfathomable power? Then consider joining the Ghost Anti-Crime League! As part of GACL, you will tirelessly guard our precious dots and fruits from the clutches of an evil, yellow mouth. When sentient body parts enter your mazes, the only line between your dots and famine is GACL. Worried about losing? No need! Even if that mouth eats you, you will literally respawn within five seconds. It doesn’t matter how long it takes; you will win eventually. The dots will keep on coming and that mouth will slip up. It’s a futile fight. Much like the fight to stay alive, really. You’re going to die. What’s the point? What’s the point? We’re all going to die. So instead of fearing your mortality, embrace it head on! Become an unstoppable ghost and hunt yellow mouths! Join GACL today! You might as well, for death awaits us all.

Disappointment (A Story of Smash Brothers 4) Nathanael lied. He said the worst was yet to come but green balls of fire were as nothing before me. There was a sort of grace to it, twirling in the air and slamming my opponent to the ground, my spiked shell whirling and launching him off of the platform floating in the void. But it was hollow. My body was already ravaged by blades, my shell cracked, my fire only a spark. She used every last ounce of my strength against me, slowing down time to laugh and say, “You shouldn’t have tried that.” Nathanael lied. He said the worst was yet to come but it had already passed. To be perfectly honest, I wish the green man had been the worst. Something to strive for. Some resounding answer to all of the fighting. The green man was nothing. She’d already broken me.

The Joker Talks to Batman So... I see you received the free ticket I sent you. I'm glad. I did so want you to be here. You see, it doesn't matter if you catch me and send me back to the asylum... Gordon's been driven mad. I've proved my point. I've demonstrated there's no difference between me and everyone else! All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy. That's how far the world is from where I am. Just one bad day. You had a bad day once, am I right? I know I am. I can tell. You had a bad day and everything changed. Why else would you dress up like a flying rat? You had a bad day, and it drove you as crazy as everybody else... only you won't admit it! You have to keep pretending that life makes sense, that there's some point to all this struggling! God, you make me want to puke. I mean, what is it with you? What made you what you are? Girlfriend killed by the mob, maybe? Brother carved up by some mugger? Something like that, I bet. Something like that... Something like that happened to me, you know. I... I'm not exactly sure what it was. Sometimes I remember it one way, sometimes another. If I’m going to have a past, I prefer it to be multiple choice! Ha ha ha! But my point is... my point is, I went crazy. When I saw what a black, awful joke the world was, I went crazy a coot! I admit it! Why can't you? I mean, you're not unintelligent! You must see the reality of the situation. Do you know how many times we've come close to World War Three over a flock of geese on a computer screen? Do you know what triggered the last World War? An argument over how many telegraph poles Germany owed its war debt creditors! Telegraph poles! Ha ha ha ha ha!

It's all a joke! Everything everybody ever valued or struggled for, it's all a monstrous, demented gag! So why can't you see the funny side? Why aren't you laughing?

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Ten Ways of Looking at Jason Voorhees 1. The boy with a burlap sack shielding the numerous welts and goiters and lacerations strung across his face moves toward the locket his mother dropped into a heap of mud. The man with a hockey mask shielding the numerous welts and goiters and lacerations, bruises, bits of skull, burns, decaying skin, shards of metal and splinters strung across his face moves towards the camp counselor who’d let him drown in a frigid, murky lake. 2. At a reunion for horror icons of the 1980s, Jason stands in the corner next to the folded up bleachers and watches as Freddy traipses around the gym, showing off those stupid claws, spouting those stupid one-liners. If he could talk, boy would he spill the beans on Freddy’s “noodle incident” on the set of their movie. 3. The Stanley Cup is never played north of New Jersey near the everglades. And Jason thinks it’s a big mistake that they won’t come to Crystal Lake. But if they do, they won’t have to ask to get their new player a hockey mask.

4. When he was alive, he had emotions. He can remember them hazily, like an old TV theme song. So to deny his enjoyment of the hunt would be self-deception. He enjoys the sounds they make when he brandishes his tools. He does indeed have emotions. He enjoys many things. He enjoys finding branches and sharpening them. He enjoys staring at lights in far off cabins. He enjoys watching the wax slither down candles on his shrine. He enjoys eating deer meat. He enjoys brushing his mother’s wilted hair. Soon it will be completely decomposed. He will not enjoy that day. 5. Jason wanted to be a filmmaker. He tried out for a movie making summer camp once. After he declared his dream of making a dozen sequels, crossovers and/or reboots, he was kicked out. His mother sent him to Camp Crystal Lake instead. There, he made a dozen sequels, crossovers and/or reboots. And counting. 6. In many ways, he’s lucky. Just by doing what he does best, he’s landed trips to New York, Hell, outer space, and Elm Street. He’s never been to the Oscars, however. 7. He drowned in a lake as a boy, then emerged as a full-grown man. He single-handedly bailed out the hockey mask industry. He once beat Michael Myers in the quiet game. He is the most interesting horror villain in the world. “I don’t always stab teenagers,

but when I do, I prefer machetes. Stay scary, my friends.” 8. He is a force of nature, sent rising from yon crystal lake to punish sinners. Lo, if ye be pure and virtuous, he shall not strike thee and send thine soul to the depths of Hell. For this most wicked of demons keeps company with naught but his own ilk. 9. Jason, Jason, causing fright, in the forests of the night. What demonic hand or eye, could form thy killing efficiency? 10. This poem will not live on through history. It will not survive an axe to the face. It will not be struck by lightning and resurrected. It will not be revived by a psychic. It will not feed off of the energy of a boat and return once again to life. It will not endure through possession. It will not escape from hell thanks to a dream demon. It will not be thawed out in the future. It’s not as resilient as Jason.

Trevor Phillips Industries They call him the king of the desert. His throne, a pile of broken bottles and scorched sand, took him nine years to build. He used mortar made from his madness and willed it into shape with a look in his eyes, those balls of fire. He came from the north, pursued by fire, pitchforks, and stakes. He ran until his mouth became a desert. The thirst was in his eyes. He gazed at his new home, miles of sand. In one ear whispered the thirst, in the other madness, and they told him what he would build. His legend began to build when he surrounded a city with fire and filled the encircled structures with the madness his best friend had bequeathed by deserting him. He crafted crystals out of sand, then sold them to the locals with the wildest eyes. He retreated into his shack, plucking out the eyes of any who tried to glimpse the things he built with bullet holes and red sand. When the moon rose, columns of fire could be seen bursting from his shack, twisting all across the desert. New customers were drawn to the beacons of madness. He made a living off that madness, that unmistakable gleam in his subjects’ eyes. His crystals offered them visions of lands beyond the desert. He watched their appetites slowly build. Stubborn traditionalists looked to the law to snuff out his fire, but they buried their heads in the sand. And now he owns it all, every last grain of sand. His entire kingdom cowers at his fits of madness, praying he doesn’t set his world on fire. The stories he hides in those eyes will never penetrate the walls they build. They call him the king of the desert. Then one day, a grain of sand grazes his eye. All the madness is released, his malice begins to build

Â and is released. He sets fire to his desert.

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A Small Notice Thank you for your patience. Jerry’s fate is ready to be determined. The characters of this section have reserved a seat for you. Join them and watch what happens to their friend, their new friend, come to play with them forever.

The End Some of Jerry’s favorite games have multiple endings. With the press of a button, a life concludes either happily or in despair. It’s fitting that this poem should be the same way. Despair (The Electronic Boy) Neighbors lower their voices when they discuss the Electronic Boy. Nobody is quite sure how far its scanners reach. Its parents, bless them, have set up several generators to sustain It. Between comments on the electric bill and assertions that they knew all that TV was bad for you, the neighbors can hear Its soft hum. Only family and close friends are permitted to visit It. They tenderly step over Its limbs, which stretch across hallways, connected to outlets. They attempt conversation with the Electronic Boy, kneel beside Its metallic head. They call It something vaguely familiar, but It only hears zeroes and ones. One day, the Electronic Boy tries to answer Its parents’ cries. Lightning erupts from Its mouth, and a shockwave of sound, and a wall of light. Neighbors stare at the Electronic Boy, lying on the curb, waiting for a garbage truck. The humming has stopped. Happy For what felt like days, Jerry fought back against the wires. From inside his prison, he clawed at them, ripping them from his flesh. His head pounded. His brain was assaulted by vibrations. He could hear a voice, a buzzing, crackling voice. I’m taking you with me. “No!” he pleaded. You want this. “Please!” Your true friends are here. They’re waiting for you. “Friends?” Jerry asked. Time halted like a cartoon coyote above a cliff. Friends. A peculiar word. Jerry remembered back to another life.

He remembered the good morning hugs, the freezing after-school milkshakes, the conversations that didn’t start by pushing a button. He remembered the feeling of skin on skin, not plastic. “I can’t touch pixels,” Jerry said aloud. The voice trembled. What? “They aren’t my friends.” You have nobody else! From the abyss, writhing figures emerged, changing from character to character. “They aren’t real. They aren’t my friends.” No! The figures halted. Their eyes gazed hungrily at Jerry. But he shut them out. “I’m done with you.” You are nothing without me! “No. You’re nothing without me.” The voice quivered with fear. NO! In that moment, Jerry let go of his obsession. It dissipated around his body, healing his wounds, strengthening his bones, freeing his mind. “Power off.” NO! Jerry’s cage cracked. The wires receded into the abyss, followed by the howling figures. A hurricane of sparks shot up around his body. Jerry burst through the television, as its lights flickered then faded. The sun pierced through his living room window, warming his face. Jerry had forgotten what it felt like. Next to him laid his phone. Tenderly, Jerry picked it up, and dialed a familiar number. “Hey, it’s me. Yeah, it’s been a while. I just wanted to tell you that I just got a great idea for a movie.” Realistic Forgive the cold, straightforward writing. There’s no way to make this ending beautiful: It doesn’t matter what happens to Jerry. His fate changes nothing. All across the world, millions of other isolated children press the “on” button

Poetic Influences Jamaal May Alan Moore Ernest Cline Clive Barker Shigeru Miyamoto