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How to Build a Dirty Bomb
By Jacob Oreshan, III
 
This is a fictional story. Any relation to actual events or person(s), past, present or futureis merely coincidental.2006
 
He was sitting there, looking at the walls, waiting. God he hated white walls. As hestood he adjusted his tie, straightened his suit pants and waited. The foot steps echoeddown the hallway. The closer they came, the larger the knot in his stomach became. Hehad never shown fear, until now. As they entered the room, four men the size of giants,chains in hand, John knew this was the beginning of his end.John Jackson, better known as Yashmir Kalaza to his small circle of friends, was justlooking to fit in, to be part of something special, a family. At 23, he woke each day to thesame old grind, take a leak, shave, shower and dress for work. Day in and day out, week after week, month after month, year after year, nothing changes. The same walk to the bus stop, the same seat on the bus, the same faces, everything just blurs together. Buttoday was different. Today would be the beginning of the end.It was a quarter past 5 in the morning when John woke. He was restless. Unable tosleep for more than a few hours, he decided it was time to go. As he rose from bed, helooked at himself in the mirror. What a pathetic sight. At five foot, six inches, John wasless then average height. He could stand to watch what he ate, less hamburgers and fastfood, more salad. But in a few hours, it wouldn’t make a difference.Into the bathroom to shower and shave. “How easy it would be to end this now”, hethought, staring into the mirror. John liked mirrors; in fact, he had them in every room of his apartment. He liked the way things looked in them. Real, but somehow a dream or an
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