No one could expect World War III to be launched upon the world. Ever since the International Global Warming Reversion Act (IGWRA) had been established, most of the world had become friendly and started cooperating to reverse the effects of global warming. North Korea had stayed silent for over half a century. It was sudden… the first missile hit a city in Hawaii, USA. Everyone thought there was no way one country to could beat the rest of the world. They had no clue that North Korea had been participating in underground discussions, and forming alliances throughout the world. Soon many countries turned traitor against their previous allies. Bombs were being dropped on countries like rain coming from the sky. The world was in absolute chaos. It didn’t take long for Moscow to be hit by a North Korean Bomb (NK Bomb). The NK bomb had been designed to release bacterial spores that first infect the body and then duplicate until there was no space left in the body, causing the host of the bacterial spores to burst. It was a gruesome and horrible way to die. Most sickening, the bacteria hack the leukocytes, the very defense of the body, to attack the other immune cells, and normal cells,  leaving the person helpless as the disease finished them off.

When the NK bomb hit Moscow, the spores traveled like fleas, people were getting sick like wildfire spreading through a forest. Ekaterina Polinkova was one of these people.

Ekaterina Polinkova, or Katya for short, was a small girl the age of thirteen. She was one of the innocent people walking the streets of Moscow the day it was bombed. Like any other, she was simply going to the store to buy groceries for her parents. Since her parents worked hard from day to night at one of the many phage laboratories in Moscow, she had to buy and cook food for her two little sisters and little brother everyday. It was incredible that she could be at full energy from the time she woke up to the moment she was back in bed at night. The power of youth, one would guess. Today, however, she wasn’t so fortunate. Today, the day of the bombing.

It was December 21st, 2115. There was a terrible blizzard stirring up in the air. The wind was strong enough to turn the treetops 5 degrees from their initial point. Katya was treading through the snow wearing a thick, gray, fur coat; a pair of warm black snow pants; tall, red boots; green, cotton mittens; and a cozy, black hat. The wind harshly stuffed her face with snow, making it cold, but comfortable at the same time. Katya slowly stomped her way toward the marketplace, then she stopped, frowning slightly. She stood in the snow, staring at the sky. Time slowed down, and then everything stopped. It was peaceful and quiet for just a moment, then it went off.

She couldn’t hear it, but she felt it. The explosion slammed her through the glass windows of the marketplace and threw her across the floor and into the concrete wall, causing ripples through the ground. Now, she couldn’t feel either, the immense amount of pain made her numb. She couldn’t move, both her kneecaps and a shoulder had shattered. She lay there hopelessly staring as blood pulsed out of her arms and legs, staining the white snow; her boots; everything, as red as the wine her dad drank when he read her stories in the past. Tiny black spores surrounded her body and slowly seeped through her skin. Katya’s head started spinning, she saw her mother smiling at her.

“Katya, come here,” her mother said in a sweet voice.
“Ma…” was all Katya could say in reply, before she drifted off into darkness.

 

“Katya…” a voice cooed, “My poor, sweet Katya….”

“Is she going to be ok?” a high pitched voice asked.

“I…I  don’t know.”

Katya’s eyelids separated, forming a blur of her mom and siblings. Her mother’s cheeks were stained with fresh tears. “Ma…” Katya managed croak out.

“Katya?!” her mom yelped. She rushed out of the room, coming back with her father, who’s thick, bushy brows were furrowed with concern.

“Katya?!” he asked.

“Da…”  she whispered. Katya wanted to jump up and hug him, but she realized she was laying in a hospital bed with shattered bones. Instead, she looked towards the right. Her sister, Natasha’s hands flew to her mouth, and tears started dripping down her porcelain white cheeks.

“Tasha…” Katya breathed .

Alina, the smaller of her two sisters, flung her arms around Katya.

“Alina, where’s Dom?” Katya whispered hoarsely.

“Kah-tee.” Dom gurgled.

Feebly raising her hand to brush against Dom’s cheek, Katya smiled softly. She felt like a hundred needles were being driven into her skin. Slowly, Katya stuck her arm out towards her mom, “Help….” The darkness once again engulfed her.

Katya’s mother stared at her child, who had already developed black speckles on her skin. She turned to her husband. “Vladimir, we absolutely must do something about this!”

“Patricia…” Vladimir shook his head, “What can we do? The bacteria is going to kill her immune system!”

“Oh, come on, this is a case of bacterial infection, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Have we not worked on producing many types of bacteriophage our whole lives?”

Bacteriophage, also known as phage, is a virus that destroys bacteria in the body. In the past it has only been effective on skin infections, but in recent years phages have evolved to be able to kill bacterial infections inside the bloodstream, which happened to be exactly what type of illness the NK Bomb released. However, this evolution was at a price. Different types of phages correspond to different types of bacteria, and they became deadly when they were inserted to kill the wrong bacteria.

“Yes, but....”

“But what?”

“But… nothing, we shall check her blood right now.”

Patricia smiled. “That’s my Vladimir.”

 

Patricia and Vladimir rushed Katya to the blood testing room.

Where am I? Katya thought through the midst of her throbbing head. What is happening to me…. Am I dead? As Katya reached the testing room, black splotches were already dotting her pale skin. Patricia turned white as snow when she saw them.

“Vladimir! She’s developing splotches!”

Vladimir didn’t even flinch. “All the more reason to hurry!”

“Right!” Patricia replied, but her voice was shaking badly.

Vladimir and Patricia proceeded to wash their hands and fixated blue, non-latex gloves on them. What’s that noise? Mom? Dad?  Katya’s head was spinning, I’m sorry, so sorry, you must be so worried. It’s all my fault. Katya sighed. She felt a warm breeze stir against her cheek, and froze. Something about that breeze tugged at her heartstrings. She envisioned herself, sitting in the lush, green grass with Natasha and Alina. The sweet scent of pine was overpowered by the strong fragrance of her parents cooking. Oh what she would give to eat her parents’ cooking one last time, to feel the warm sun against her face, to see her siblings…. Tasha, Alina, I’m sorry… and Dom, little Domonick, how delightful your smile was.

Katya tilted her chin up to the cerulean blue sky, watching the fluffy cotton-like clouds float across the summer sky. She sighed. I wish I could stay here forever….

The skies suddenly darkened, and it started to rain missiles. World War III…. I had forgotten about it. Katya gripped the grass beneath her, which was now turning a sickly yellow color. She hated the world war, she hated the missiles, Why? Why did it happen? She glanced helplessly at the sky, watching the bombs pour out in thousands. NO!  Her thoughts were useless, they couldn’t stop something that had already taken place.

Vladimir palpated Katya’s skin for a vein in her left arm. He took the blood out of one closer to her hand. Pain? Why do I feel pain… am I still alive? It’s gone…

 

After taking the blood sample from Katya, Vladimir and Patricia needed to test which phages would work on it, so they said goodbye to their child, and rushed to their laboratory. They arrived without a moment to spare and immediately started testing many different phages on the bacteria in Katya’s blood. Minutes turned into hours of testing for something, anything to work. By the time they finished it was dark outside. Rain filled the skies, occasional thunderbolts clashed with the quiet, dripping sound of the rain. There was only one phage that worked on the bacteria, but it worked at the speed of a snail. By the time it could kill the bacteria in one section of the body, Katya would have already died. If only there was a way to speed it up… but there was no way to make the phage kill bacteria faster, they were hopeless.

“Whatever will we do?” Patricia leaned against her husband, her tears were pouring onto him.

“I don’t know… this illness will slowly infect all of us, and eventually there will be no one in Moscow to tell of this catastrophe.”

“Slowly… if only this stupid infection progressed slowly!”

“Wait, what are you suggesting?”

“If this infection progressed slowly then the phage would have plenty of time to kill all the bacteria infecting our sweet Katya’s body!”

“That’s it! We can’t speed the phage up, but if we suppress her immune system, it means we can save more time before her own immune system kills herself!!”

“How?”

“We must head back to the hospital to get some immune suppressors!”

In a flash they were back in the hospital, with the phage in hand. They rushed up to the front desk.

“Would you happen to have immune suppressors?” the words jumped out of Patricia’s mouth and were quickly followed up by short breaths.

“I’m afraid not…. ” The man asked, boredly resting his chin on his hand, Patricia let loose a sob,

“Please can you check? Our daughter’s life is on the line!” Vladimir put a hand on his wife’s shoulder

“There’s none.” The man looked up from his computer and sighed, “I’m very sorry, but you’ll have to find another place.” Patricia shot the man a destructive glare.

“Are you sure?” She narrowed her eyes, Patricia’s mother, Nikita, who had worked at the hospital,  had told her that the Moscow hospital never ran out of anything, including sick people.

“Yes!” The man snapped.

“A substitute perhaps?”

“Not that I know of!” The man growled, slamming his fist against the wooden desk, “Do you want me to lose my sanity?

A tiny girl walked up to Patricia, and showed her a sample of cytoxan in a flask. “This might work as a substitute.”

“By the Lord, where did you find that?”

“That’s irrelevant isn’t it, don’t you have a child to save?”

“But, you’re so small how did you know what-”

“Take it! Hurry!”

Patricia nodded her head. “Yes, I will. Thank you very much.”

“You can thank me later.”

Patricia and Vladimir rushed up the stairs and to Katya’s room, clutching the flask like a baby bird. They ran up the stairs and burst into Katya’s room

Patricia immediately ran to her sleeping daughter, she shook her shoulder gently, “Katya? Katya? Are you alive?” She whispered, Katya stirred, groaning, Patricia sighed with relief, she felt Katya’s forehead, which was surprisingly hot to touch,

“Vladimir!” She urgently called to her husband, who was in the lab, “Get the needles ready!”

Katya’s father soon walked into the room, taking quick, urgent strides, he placed a tray besides his wife, who chose a long, thin needle.

“Get the phage ready!” She told her husband, she filled the cytoxan up to the bolded line, along with a mixture of other fluids. She took Katya’s arm gently, ignoring the still growing splotches of necrosis, and swabbed it gently with rubbing alcohol mixed with a pungent smelling liquid.

“Be strong sweet! This is going to hurt!” She murmured, she lifted the needle with a shaking hand, placing it on a vein, she injected the fluid quickly and bandaged it up, she glanced up at the ceiling, now I just need a miracle….

Vladimir soon was finished with the phage, which was soon also injected into his daughter's body. They couple clutched onto each other, waiting for any signs of life. Katya coughed quietly, to both parents great relief,

“Tricia, you should go home. You must be exhausted.” Vladimir put a hand on Patricia’s shaking shoulder. Patricia shook her head.

“How can I bear to rest when my Katya could die any second?” She sobbed, burying her face in her husband’s chest. Vladimir stroked her hair.

“You have to go take care of the little ones, Tasha must be worn out.” Patricia nodded, and Vladimir brushed a tear from his wife’s cheek, who kissed her daughter’s forehead before reluctantly leaving father and daughter.

 

Quiet tweeting noises filled Katya’s ears. Birds? Am I in heaven? Katya looked down, and saw her little brother. Dom?! Dom grasped her legs. “Kah-tee!” He smiled at her. Katya felt like her heart would shatter into a million pieces.

“Dom, what happened? Why are you here?” Katya hugged her little brother, “Kah-Kahtia!” he said, pleased, “Wakie wakie!”

Wakie wakie? Katya turned around, confused, Dom happily led her around, proudly pronouncing her name. “Kah-tia! Kah-tia! Kah-ta….”

“Kah-tia!” A small voice rang, Katya groaned, her eyelashes fluttering open. She blinked, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light.

“Kah-tia!” Small arms flung around her neck. Katya gasped, it was actually Dom! She set him down and sat up.

The door creaked open, and a thin woman with porcelain skin, dark hair, and blue eyes stepped in,  a concerned look on her face.

“Mother?” Katya stammered, as two young girls and a tall man followed right behind.

“Dad! Tasha! Alina!” They all surrounded her and hugged one by one.

Katya had survived and with her survival a new vaccine arrived in the world. This vaccine cured the world of the terrible disease released by the North Koreans. With their best weapon stopped, the North Koreans were cornered and soon surrendered. Patricia was never able to thank the tiny girl in person as she disappeared soon after Katya’s miraculous recovery. After time the girl was forgotten by Patricia, but she continued being helpful behind the scenes.

The world recognized Katya’s family as saviors, giving them the 2115 Nobel Prize.

Katya never stopped being called “Miracle.”

 

L i f t e d

 

Breathe.

All I needed to do right then, at that moment, was breathe. I knew nothing bad was about to happen. All I had to do was explain a few things. Personal things. But, I still felt a wave of dysphoria. It felt strange sharing anything with a stranger, especially someone who was writing down everything I said.

“Okay. . .now look up.”

My eyes stayed fixated on the floor, on the small crevices in the dull, grey tiles. I can recall how dim the room was, with just a speckle of light beaming in from a single window. I wondered how old the clinic was.

“Please listen to me.”

I refused. Not me, but my brain refused. I guess it wanted peace and tranquility after everything I had dealt with up to that point.

There was no point, and no need whatsoever to be there. Psychiatrists could never help. They’d just spew comforting lies to cover up the truth, that they were clueless. At a loss.

I looked up for a moment as my mom spoke to the doctor. I noticed on a wall that the doctor had a collection of butterflies pinned up in rows. It sent a chill down my spine.

“Where did you get those butterflies?” I interrupted. Mom gave me a funny look.

“Oh, those ones?” the doctor said, peering over his shoulder at them. “I caught them myself. They’re from the Amazon. My wife and I vacation in South America a lot. Pretty cool, huh?”

I looked back down at the floor. He cleared his throat.

“Are you ready to talk about it?”

I nodded. Slightly. Here goes nothing, I thought.

“This has been going on for awhile, now. I don’t remember when it started, but it’s stuck with me. I have visions. But not different types of visions, like seeing bears and babies. My visions are always similar to each other. I see wings.”

“Could you elaborate on that?” the doctor asked.

I pointed at a butterfly in the collection, the one with brightly colored wings in a shade of blue. A morpho.

“You see that blue one? I saw a boy one day, a little younger than me. He had those exact same wings on his back. He stared at me for awhile.”

“So you see angels,” the doctor supposed, cleaning his glasses. “How many angels do you see?”

“At least five a day. They come in all ages, all races. They even have different kinds of wings. I saw one yesterday with wings like a snowy owl.”

He put his glasses back on. “Do the angels interact with each other? Do they talk to humans?”

I was already feeling overwhelmed. There was so much to explain, but I didn’t feel comfortable. I could sense my stomach tightening with every second.

“I’ve never tried talking to them. I just watch them. Sometimes, two angels will look at one another. Not speak, but study each other’s eyes as if they are having a conversation. They don’t speak to people.”

The doctor must have noticed me looking uneasy because he relaxed his shoulders and feigned a smile. Regardless, I stayed tense.

He studied my eyes a bit, which was understandable. At that particular moment, my eyes were a glaring tint of teal similar to the color of a robin’s egg, light enough to be startling. After another 20 questions and four pages of his documenting, he turned to face both me and my mom.

“Well, it seems your son has all the symptoms of a condition called Cornuary Disorder. It’s very rare. Only 200 people have ever been diagnosed with it. Period.”

My mom looked at me with the most pity I’d ever seen. As a toddler, even until I was nine, it just seemed normal for me to see angels. She thought it was just the imaginary nature any healthy child had.

“There is some good news. Most of the people who had this illness said it went away as they got older, and by the ages of 20-25, the disorder was completely eradicated. For now though, I’m going to prescribe you Ativan.”

I didn’t listen to the rest of what he said about activities to help the visions die down and what not. I knew that session would lead nowhere. I left the building feeling discouraged, and assumed my mom would treat me like a fragile string of thread from then on. But I was also disappointed because I didn’t tell him. I never described what I saw one afternoon in the hospital, 3½ minutes after my grandfather’s last breath. The doctor has no idea an angel surfaced next to his body, picked him up, and carried him away towards the skies.

There was something more to this, more than just hallucinations. I needed to know what was really happening to me.

That night, I remember dreaming about butterflies. Thousands of them, fluttering to the heavens, vanishing into the sun.

 

 

Breathe.

This shouldn’t be a bad thing. Veritably, it’s what I wanted...right?

Correct. But it still seems to be happening all too soon. After every venture I’ve taken, every hardship I’ve gone through, I can’t stop searching for answers now. I’m so close to cracking this case right open, and discovering why that angel carried my grandfather away. Nonetheless, there’s no way for me to slow the progress of time. I knew after that trip to the clinic that my days of seeing angels were numbered. Being a nine-year-old, I didn’t worry at all. I was confident in having at least a decade to figure out why I could see the winged beings. I now realize how unmindful I’d been.

Turning nineteen isn’t particularly stressful for many. Yet, each week, my visions get more debilitated, my eye color gets darker, and the number of angels I see is dwindling. Some days, I don’t see them anywhere - none on the streets, in restaurants, in my college. I’m starting to break down. I can’t remember the last time I witnessed an angel, now that I’m reflecting on it. What I do know is if I don’t accomplish my goal within the next few weeks, I’ll live the rest of my life questioning, wondering what I missed out on discovering.

 

The day feels...unblemished. Sunlight beams across every corner of Orono, leaving me with a sense of cheerfulness. Finally, summer has arrived. I take slow strides, drawing in the warm June air. Not a speckle of clouds are out today. Lots of people are walking their dogs, and there’s a long line at the Dairy Queen. I’ve never been a fan of ice cream.

As I step into downtown, reality settles in. Again there are no angels in sight and I begin to feel like all of this is incoherent. Right when I believe I’m getting somewhere with the angels and what they mean, they disappear. Then again, could their vanishing symbolize something too?

I’m taking theology and, boy, am I glad I decided to. It’s proven to be a key aid in my studies of angelic events. I was never taught about religions as a child, which led to me never having much fascination in it, initially. But after finding out how fluently religions and mythology connect to my visions, I never miss a single class.

Most Christians know about God’s messengers, angels that are explained to be “there but unseen”, and “between heaven and Earth”. Buddhism has devas, winged forces of nature that watch over earthbound beings and approve of those practicing meditation. Though, one main thing that stands out to me is how in all of the religions we’ve covered, angels seem to occupy a kind of astral plane. They visit Earth from that location, primarily to contact humans. Isn’t heaven very much like an astral plane?

I mosey into theology at the same time as approximately 15 other students. I haven’t tried making too many friends in this class, yet I get invited to pubs and movies all the time. I think they like me because of how quiet I am.

“Enjoying the heat?” Professor Copeland says, walking into class. He grabs an Expo marker off his counter and starts writing today’s agenda.

“You better appreciate it while it lasts. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”

We didn’t accomplish anything important this time, just went over the simple story of David and Goliath.

I usually go down to the undergraduate library during lunch. Whenever I go, I always find a new area to hide. It’s like a small labyrinth of stories and other quiet people, similar to me.

I journey through the place looking for a seat. It’s packed today. I turn haphazardly, searching aimlessly for a place to sit. Eventually I make my way to the back, rounding one last corner.

For a moment, my awareness of what surrounds me is eradicated.

I see it.

I see her.

Her motionless back  and aurous wings, slightly bigger than ones of an albatross, display folded before me. She bears a gown, pigmented with sapphire beads partly covered by her broad, amber curls. This is the first time in countless weeks that I’ve witnessed an angel. I step back, trying to stay calm. Breathe. This is my chance. I will not waste it.

Cautiously, I step forward. My hand extends practically on its own. I was never courageous enough to touch an angel, to make sure they are really here, in physical form. Now that I’m 90% sure this is the last of them I will ever see, I must ask her what happened to my grandfather. I must hold her here until I get some answers. I start to move a bit faster.

Standing behind her, I reach for the right wing. Please be real, I think to myself. At last, I place my fingers onto the tip of her feathers.

A shock, or rather, surge of crashing and indecipherable modulation washes over me. I feel as if I’m vibrating from head to toe. Yet through this entire phenomenon, I can still catch sight of the angel. As Earth itself seems to be succumbing to darkness, I watch her turn. She faces me, eyes wild though remarkably placid.

That was the last thing I saw before my conception of reality altered entirely.

 

First, there was nothing. Absolute emptiness. I felt confused.

Is this a vision, or a dream? I questioned. I was standing, but immobile. The space around me, which seemed to span for infinity, was pitch-black. There was a sense of aloneness .

Until the angels arrived.

Hundreds of them flocking in a group, entering from the corner of my eye. I recognized some of them. They were going somewhere; I was was sure of it. But where? The encompassing area was only darkness.

Their wings flapped effortlessly at a leisurely pace, as if they were in slow-motion. It was incredible. I observed them in awe as they disappeared over a non-existing horizon.

It didn’t take me long to notice they were each carrying something. Initially, I couldn’t make out what it was they were holding so carefully. It looked like pure fluorescence, glowing blue. Then it came to me.

They were people. Or really, figments of people. On the day my grandfather was lifted by an angel, his physical body wasn’t the one getting taken. It was a version of his body, like his spirit. The angels are taking the spirits someplace.

I was ecstatic to have found out what the angels do. I was happy they meant something, that they had a purpose. Still, I needed answers. Where do the angels take the spirits? Why do they need spirits in the first place?

Instantaneously, I see a crack in the infinite darkness - a white light. It consumes everything, including the angels, and it comes to me, an answer whispered in the flutter of the angels’ wings: the spirits are the matter that feeds the universe. We are stardust. We are creation, itself.

 

Breathe, I tell myself as I load another body into the hearse. I never see a winged being again, but sometimes I can feel them as I work in the morgue, preparing the earthly bodies for the grave. I know they are there, lifting.

 

It was a cold fall day. The leaves were starting to change color, and were  gradually falling off the trees. Some leaves would get picked up and carried around, then threw in a whole new place, a whole new environment. Just like my life.
 It happened 2 years ago, the accident that altered my life completely. That night it was raining outside. Not just the raindrops that would lightly tap against your windowsill, but the type that was so hard, that it could make dents on the road. Since my parents were both going to be working the night shifts at the hospital tomorrow night, they wanted to have a family dinner. But, the only thing they could cook were the noodles that you would stick in the microwave and 30 seconds later you had dinner. So instead we went out for pizza.
 “Dad,” I said, “Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, look at the rain.” I press my finger against the window. Outside, I could see our neighbors taping the cracks of their doors shut, and people parking their cars in garages.  Ten minutes later, we were on our way, driving on slippery, dangerous roads. If I could have, I would have said, “I told you so.” 
 “We got 3 patients needing emergency treatment. One male and  two females. Two of them are adults in their mid forties, and the other is a child-looks around 12.” 
  5 minutes after the car crash
I sit up, surrounded with blue and red lights; the two front seats covered with broken glass. Two  airbags in the front seats were popped. I could see that mine wasn’t there. I am left behind. Finally the medics come back for me. I am placed on a stretcher, and loaded into the ambulance. In there I see both my parents on oxygen, struggling to breath. A thought strikes me hard. I want to take it back. “What if my parents die?” I keep telling myself that it won't happen.  I hoped it wouldn’t happen. I was so caught up in my thoughts, I didn’t realize how much pain I was in. My head was throbbing, and my ears were ringing.
That night, a nurse walked into my hospital room, her head down.  When she looked up at me, I instantly knew my parents were dead. 

For two years now, I’ve been in fourteen different foster homes, all experiences the same. They plaster on  a fake smile and say they're so happy to have me. (But they're not). Then I lock myself in my room, and they beg me to come out. They normally get so mad, that they contact my caseworker and I leave. 

Today, it was time to go to the fifteenth family. I knew that in two weeks I would be driving away from this place. I sit in the backseat of the car, looking outside the window as we pull away from Mrs. Martin's house, my caseworker from the Child Fostering Agency. The first time she drove me to my new foster parents’ house, she thought she was getting rid of me once and for all. She was wrong.
“Now listen up Teresse,” she says, looking at me as she backs the car out of the driveway, “This is your last chance. I try so hard for you to be happy and in the right home, but all you do is turn me down, us down.” She clears her throat and turns back around so she’s back facing the steering wheel. “Last chance, you got it?”.
“Yes,” I mumble, still not looking up at her. 
2 hours later, we arrive at an old house in front of the ocean. It has what looks like gray paint, although,  I can’t tell because half of it is chipped off. There are bikes, scooters, and toys laid out across the front lawn.
     Mrs. Martin and I get out of the car, trying not to to stumble over the pebbles that make out  the driveway. 
“Okay, here we are,” Mrs. Martin says, glancing around at the house. We walk up onto the front steps, and I knock on the door. 
“Why hello,” says a cheerful, plump woman. There were kids surrounding her huddled up, probably wondering who I was. I was wearing a dress that looked like a picnic basket. It had a square pattern and white sleeves, with buttons on the back. It was a dress from my old home. I hate it.
“Hello,“ Mrs. Martin said, reaching out to shake her hand. “Thank you so much for opening your home up for Teresse. She’s really grateful. Aren’t  you Teresse?”
    “Um..., yeah, thanks.” 
“Oh, don’t mention it,” the lady said, bending down to smile at me. 
   After discussing money, food and clothes,  Mrs. Martin started to look antsy.
“Well, thank you for your time.” she said, glancing at her watch, “Unfortunately, I have to go.” After a couple good buys, Mrs. Martin headed towards her car. As soon as she was out of sight, the lady, pulled me close and said, “My name is Rosa McAllister, and you can call me Nana.  Well, that's what all the kids call me,” she said, smiling.”But you don’t have too, I’m fine with anything.” Rosa smiled. She had yellow teeth with lots of cavities and brown, thick hair tied up in a bun.  She was wearing an apron. 
“Mrs. Martin informed me about your experiences with other foster families. You should know I am not like other foster moms. I will not let you be ignored. I will love you, laugh with you, and we will make memories. Now go get dressed, dinner is in five.” I couldn’t explain the feeling I had inside of my stomach. But I guess it was happiness, for the first time in forever.
    
I sit on the sand, looking out at the ocean. My arm around Rosa. I have a pink bathing suit on, white stripes covering my shoulders, and my hair is pulled back into a tight bun. Sunscreen is all over my face, and I am smiling. This time, it's a real one.

 

“A Long time ago, there was a world where all humans had roamed free. They walked from place to place without a care in the world. They breathed the fresh air, they swam in the expansive bodies of water and camped in the seemingly endless patches of trees. They felt the warmth of the sun on their faces and the grass between their toes. This was of course before the antibiotic crisis. The antibiotic crisis starts out in the mid-twenty-first century. People were getting infections as usual. Doctors did what they knew to do, prescribed antibiotics. But during the year 2046 people began to get infections, doctors prescribed the antibiotics but the people began to die. It became known if you got an infection then you may only have about 3 weeks to live. Scientists raced to find a drug stronger than antibiotics, but they weren’t finding it fast enough. People began to hole up in their homes in fear of bacteria. Society came to a halt. The politician's approach was to build giant bacteria free bubbles over each city one at a time. Scientists were skeptical and needed time to do the research. The general public saw it as something that we could do “right now” to save themselves. By the year 2051 half of America was under bubbles and half was DEAD!” I finished.

 

My sister, Scherri, replied without even looking up from her phone, “Don’t ya think that it is a bit over dramatic for a history summary”. I huffed in reply,  “If you don’t care then just say so”. Instead of replying, Scherri just walked out. I sighed loudly in frustration and glared at the worn-out dark green chair where she was sitting.

 

I glanced back at my computer and re-read my summary. I decided that I liked it enough to turn it in. I sent it to my printer and waited for the chugging of the old printer to begin. I sat for the two minutes and my printer still hadn’t printed. I stalked back over to my computer and saw that the screen was completely white. I tried clicking on the screen but when I did, the screen went black. I jammed the power button for a minute, but nothing happened.

 

“AARGRG” I shouted. Scherri yelled back, “SHUT UP CALLISTA”. I was so enraged! Nothing is working and Scherri is being annoying, “I HATE YOU”, I screamed in my fit of rage. “Fine”, was all she said back. I stormed up the stairs making sure that I made a boom on each step. I stomped into my room and picked up my book.

 

My mother was going to be home soon I remembered. I really didn’t feel like interacting with anybody else tonight, so I shut my drapes and turned off my big light and used my reading light instead. She won’t come into my room if she thinks I am asleep. I am a really light sleeper and even the smallest noises wake me up.  After about fifteen minutes of reading, I saw the headlights of our car turn into the driveway. I was feeling tired anyway so I turned off my light and began to fall asleep.

 

I woke up to the sound of a large crash.  My bed gently quivered under me.  I went to the drapes and saw that the garbage bin had been knocked over by the collection truck. “No problem here”, I thought to myself. I decided to get some water. I groggily stumbled to the bathroom and filled my glass to the top. I listened to the silence around me then headed back to bed and fell asleep.

 

In the morning, I  groggily opened my eyes. Glancing at my alarm clock, I was shocked to see that it was 9:09 am! School starts at 8:00 am! Why hadn’t my mom woken me up? I pulled on my clothes as I ran down the stairs. I grabbed my apple and backpack and rushed out the door. I went to the city bus stop and waited. The bus comes to this stop every 5 mins. I glanced at my watch. It read 9:20 am.  I craned my head over the street to see if I saw anything coming. When I didn’t I stood straight up and tapped my foot anxiously. I quickly glanced up and down at my watch. It was 9:27 and the bus still wasn’t here. I ran down the street, practically flying down the street towards my school.

 

Panting, I stopped to take a breath. I noticed that it was unusually quiet. Not a person walking to work and not a whiff of diesel. There was no movement around me. I fished in my pocket for my phone and called my mother. No answer. I called again. Nothing. I called one last time for good measure. Nada. My mother always answers her phone, something must be wrong. I was still out of breath so I urgently walked back towards my house.

 

I swung open the door and flew up to my mother's room. I trudged in and saw her sprawled across her bed doing something I had only read about in our history books, coughing. And out of nowhere, air shot out of her nose with a loud “Huhchoo”! “What was that” I exclaimed! She rolled over and moaned.  I cringed back at seeing her red, puffy, snotty face. She looked horrible. She weakly stated, “check your sister”. I stared at her for one more moment with worried eyes then ran out.

 

I peaked around the door preparing myself for the horrors that await me inside. When I entered I saw her peacefully dosing away in a mound of fluffy blankets. Her head lay softly on her pillow. I padded up to her bed to get a closer look. No coughs, no puffy eyes or red faces here. I shook her awake. When she saw me she groaned and threw her pillow over her face. I pulled it from her and told her she had already missed school, but she needed to get up now. “Why” she mumbled. “You need to see mom” I whispered. She rolled out of bed and followed me down the hall into the ripe-smelling room.

 

“Whoa, what the heck is wrong with her?”, she said. “I don’t know, you’re older shouldn’t you know!” I uttered. Mom just stared at us with half open eyes and exclaimed, “My babies are okay, they’re fine” and went back to sleep.

 

Scherri yanked me out of the room and back into the hall. She quickly pulled the door shut. “What are we going to do” she cried! Seeing that she wasn’t going to take charge I decided that I was. “I’ll go search the net to see if I can find anything helpful, while you go check on the neighbors and keep mom happy,” I instructed. Before I could get in another word, she was off. I went to my computer and plopped down in the spinny chair. I pressed the power button once and nothing happened, not even a flicker. I waited to hear the reassuring sound of the login sequence but, no. I remembered back to last night and how it crashed when I was trying to print. “MIERDA!”, I cursed, slamming my forehead on the keys. I gave up on the computer and decided to comb through my textbooks instead. Where had I read about coughing? I opened the book to the page about thermometers. That means I am on the right track. I skimmed through the pages until I came across one titled “The flu illness” This is the section where we learned about coughing. One of the pictures was an old add for flu illness medicine. There was a little medicine capsule with an overly happy face saying, “ Are you COUGHING and SNEEZING? Do you have RED PUFFY EYES? Do you have A FEVER? Well, then I have the thing for you! Rytinian is the most efficient drug to aid you AND cure you of your symptoms.” My mother must have the flu! I needed to get her some of this magic medicine. The only problem was no one had any medical supplies because it just wasn’t needed, because our bubble was completely germ and bacteria free, so no one ever got sick. If we had a problem we should just go to a place with people who are allowed to practice hospital skills.

 

Just then my sister burst in and told me that all of the neighbors were also sick with the same symptoms. “How did you get into their houses?” I inquired. “When they didn’t answer their doors, I broke in through the ground window” she replied breathlessly. I nodded and showed her the book. She quickly scanned the page and burst out, “Where are we going to find this Rytinian?”. I don’t think we can. What was I was thinking! But I wasn’t going to give up that easily. “ Maybe we can check the artifact section in the museum,” I said.  “ Let’s go!” she said quickly while pulling on her fluffy, red coat. I grabbed my pink rain slicker and followed on her heels.

 

After about a half an hour of fast walking we reached the hub of our city, where almost every important thing is located. We passed deserted grocery stores and office buildings as we got nearer and nearer to the museum. Our city only had one large museum with every typical exhibit in it. My personal favorite happens to be the technologies section. In that section was all the stuff that we had made prototypes for but never fully developed because of lacks of resources in our bubble.

 

As we entered the museum, which was always left open, we headed straight up to the second floor and all the way to the back. They kept that display in the back because no one was particularly interested in it. We walked past displays of life-sized animals. I have never seen a live animal, we don’t have them here. Too much of a risk and a waste of resources to take care of them. I spotted the entrance to the technology section. We walked past glowing green sign I nudged Scherri to go into the velvety entrance. We walked into the dimly lit artifact section, we saw lots of random objects in the front room. We went deeper into the exhibit and into the hospital tools room. “I think this is our best chance in this room” I stuttered.

 

We looked around for a good fifteen minutes but with no luck. I looked at my sister and sighed. “We better go”, she muttered. We walked through the long corridor draped in red velvet curtains. As we headed back to the exit I noticed the green technology sign again. “Maybe something in there could help...!” I wondered. Before my sister could answer I was already combing through the glass boxes hold all sorts of wonderful tech. I stopped at a particularly small box that held a machine called CRISPR, the prototype of a legend. This machine was designed originally to only knock out bad genes but instead ended up being able to strengthen genes. Now is there anything that could be strengthened to help mother? I thought back to my fifth-grade health class. We had learned about systems, the respiratory system, the nervous system, the digestive system, the immune system, THE IMMUNE SYSTEM! That’s it! We need to alter her genetic code to strengthen her immune system. Doctors had always told dad that he had an extraordinarily strong immune system, but he brushed it off as nothing because we had no use for the immune system. He must have passed that trait down to me and my sister! “Scherri” I called, “I found it! The answer to our problem!”

 

We looked around for something to break the glass with. I spotted a fire extinguisher which we promptly grabbed and smashed away. Each thing in this department always had instruction for use printed on the sign as an interesting fact. I slid the paper out of its holder and shoved it in my coat pocket. My sister had CRISPR and we began the trek back to our home.

 

We burst in and ran upstairs. My mom was still laying in her bed, she hadn’t moved all day. She gurgled a few words that were incomprehensible. I pulled out the instructions from my pocket, “CRISPR”, it read, “is used by placing on the site in need of strengthening, then just press the green button”. I placed the CRISPR over the left side of her body where the spleen is located and clicked the button. It started glowing and getting really hot. All of a sudden, it stopped.

 

Mother gave another weak cough. “Would you get me something to eat” asked mother. I nodded and walked downstairs. What if it didn’t work what if it was all a waste. Doesn't matter now. I grabbed a slice of spinach quiche handed it to my sick mother and went to sleep.

 

The next morning I went in to check on mother. Scherri was already there. Mom looked better. Still some lingering sniffles but overall much better. It worked. CRISPR was still laying on the floor next to the bed. Mom who was still peacefully sleeping, turned over in her bed.

 

THE END

 

We never figured out what broke the bubble in the first place.

 

          Fourteen. I remember the day I met you, because Mr. Joffrey had just switched our seats in Biology. I was mad because I’d been sitting at the same table as Lex, and we were just becoming friends. I knew her better than anyone else in class.

          Fourteen-year-old me rolls my eyes at Lex, now sitting across the room by the window, but she doesn’t see me. Mr. Joffrey is droning on and on about mitosis or something, and I remember wondering how he could expect me to pay attention when he just screwed up my life? It’s the worst when teachers just don’t understand.

          That’s when I feel a little tap, tap, tap on the side of my desk. Some kid is fidgeting, which normally I hate, but today I can’t blame them. I turn, and it’s you, sitting at the adjacent desk. You give me a little smirk and motion me to lean closer so you can say something. I ignore you, regretting this new seating chart more than ever. You lean in because I won’t.

          “Bored?” you whisper with a purposeful drawl. I roll my eyes and begin to direct my attention back to the front of the room, but you reach out and touch my hand.

          Oh my God. It doesn’t stay there for even a second before I yank my own away and glare at you, but you are as oblivious as a slack-off student. “Hey,” you say. “I’m Noah.”

          “I know,” I mutter, only because it would be rude not to say something back. When you look a little creeped out, I quickly explain, “You’ve been in my class for the whole year!” and then add “you weirdo” at the end.

          It seems like you’re waiting for me to say something else, so I remember and tell you, “I’m Ada.”

          You grin a little, and only one of the windows is open, but I swear some butterflies—just a couple—fly in and land in my stomach. “I know,” you say, and I can’t help it—I feel my lips start to spread, my teeth start to show. My hand flies up to cover it.

          You reach out again, more slowly this time, gently pulling my hand down and putting it on my desk. It takes everything I have not to push you away.

          When my heart slows down a little, I give you a questioning look. You shrug. “Don’t cover your smile,” you say. “You look nice with it on.”

 

          I make it through the next hour just fine, because I have a math test, and I focus my energy on remembering trig formulas and not thinking about anything else. No, it isn’t until English that things start to happen.

          I’m sitting at the back of the room and actually doing my work this time when a little nudging feeling enters the edge of my brain, not unlike your taps on my desk earlier. Hey, my brain says. Remember Noah in Biology? I think he was trying to hold your hand, you know. But I whisper shut up and stare really hard at the semicolon handout on my desk, because there’s no way I’m letting that brain of mine ruin this, too.

 

          Fifteen. I’m walking down the hallway after fourth hour, and even though you’re on the other side, the second you see me, you call out, “Ada!” I feel my face burning cherry-red, and I turn to you with just the tiniest bit of frustration, which I try to shake but can’t.

          “Hey,” you say, a little out of breath—probably running late, like always. “I missed you yesterday!”

          I think back to yesterday. I woke up at 6:30, same as always, but for some reason I started mentally planning out my day—all the people I’d see and talk to, because I actually knew lots of people now. I even had friends now. I even had friends now. And suddenly, my brain was hyperventilating a little and I couldn’t explain it but I knew I couldn’t face them all today, so I pressed the snooze button again to turn it off and crawled back into the blanket cocoon that hides me from the world so well.

          “Sick,” I say, shrugging. “Hey, there’s only a minute before class starts, you know.”

          You look around for a clock and see that I’m right. “Crap!” you say dramatically and take off in that comical run toward Photography.

          I watch you go before I turn and walk in the opposite direction. At first, my brain is quiet, because it can’t settle on one thing to think. But it only takes a minute before my frustration at you turns to anger at myself, because I love you so much and I don’t understand why my head keeps getting in the way of my heart.

 

          Sixteen. Part of me regrets not getting ready with you, because you’re running late again and so I’m standing near the food table instead of dancing, waiting for you. A song comes on that nobody likes, so hundreds of bare, dirty feet make make their way in my direction.

          A couple of girls from my chemistry class come over to me. One of them can’t decide whether to ask some guy to dance, and I tell her she should. The other one agrees.

          “Where’s Noah?” they ask. “Coming,” I say, and then, there you are, at the edge of the doorway, already scanning the room for me. I break away from them and walk over to you as quickly as I can in my four-inch heels.

          “You look perfect,” you say when you see me.

          “So do you!” I tell you, then grab your hand and pull you toward the speakers. It’s a fast-paced song, thank God. We join a group of your friends, and they all say “ooooh” and “dang, Noah!” when they see me. I laugh a little and with the music blaring in my ears, I start to relax.

          We all stand in a circle and dance for the rest of the song, and for the three songs after. My feet are starting to hurt and I’m wondering if I should take off my heels when a slow song comes on. You step away from the circle, and even though I feel your friends’ eyes on us, I put my hands on your shoulders and we sway, back and forth, to the sound of Ed Sheeran’s voice.

          The song picks up, and we sing along, a little. When it goes back into the chorus, I rest my head on your shoulder. “I love you, Noah,” I whisper.

          “I love you too,” you say.

          And it’s all so perfect, and I just want it to last forever, you and me in the moment, not in my head. But then, I remember how I said I loved you. Remember? my brain nags. Of course I remember—it just happened. Who cares? I’ve said that before. My brain doesn’t like that. Yeah, but not when you were dancing. But why does it matter? You know it matters, Ada.

          It goes on and on like that, and suddenly I’m more focused on my mental argument than on the dance. I sway a little too far to the right, and I knew I should have taken off those heels, because I lose my balance and my ankle buckles. When Ed Sheeran sings his last note, I’m sitting ungracefully on the floor.

          “Ada!” you cry. “What happened?” A few people look over. I don’t answer because I’m so ashamed—not ashamed that I wore these ridiculous heels, but ashamed that my brain had to ruin this, too.

          You help me up, slowly, and it takes four tries because I can barely balance in these stupid things. I can stand, at least, but my ankle already looks swollen. More people are coming over, too, and I don’t want to deal with them or anybody.

          “I’m going to leave,” I mutter to you. You reach out and grab my arm. “Wait!” you say. “Let me come with you.”

          I quickly shake my head, putting a laugh in my voice. “You just got here, Noah! I can walk to the bus stop by myself—just stay and have some fun.”

          You try to walk with me to the door, but I push you away, a little harder than I mean to.

          I don’t want to ruin this night for you, too.

 

          The next day, I walk through the courtyard instead of through the halls after classes so I don’t have to see you. I should go apologize, I know, but I stayed up for two hours after I got home last night, just thinking, and my brain is tired. I’m afraid of letting my guard down.

          After school, you find me on the bench near the bus stop. My brain has finally calmed down a little, and I’m thinking about how I wish I had my license so I wouldn’t have to wait around for the bus so much, when I see you. You sit down right next to me, and I don’t move away.

          “Here,” you say, holding out my gray sweatshirt. “You left this at the dance last night.”

          I hadn’t even realized. I reach out to take it, but the minute it touches my hands, they feel like they’re burning. I let it fall to the ground.

          You look at it and then at me. “Hey, so about the dance…” you begin. “You left pretty quickly—everything okay?”

          “Yeah,” I say. “I just didn’t have a reason to stay if I couldn’t dance. How was it after I left?”

          “Not as good as it was before you left,” you say, smiling.

          I hate myself for lying to you, but I can’t explain, really. So instead of trying to, I take your hand in mine.

          The bus is running pretty late, apparently. While I keep waiting for it and you keep waiting with me, we talk about meaningless things. You mention a movie that’s coming out and how we should go see it, and I’m trying to listen, really, but it’s suddenly becoming hard.

          We’ve held hands so many times before—I don’t know why this would be any different. For some reason, though, I can’t stop thinking what have you done? at myself.

          Please, my brain begs, this isn’t any different than all the other times. But it is—last night, you told him you loved him, remember? Yeah, but I’ve said that before, too! But now you’re holding his hand—the day after, it’s too soon, it’s too soon. This makes my brain mad. Why does it even matter—just let me enjoy my life! I’m just keeping you safe—why can’t I just have a normal life—you’ll be hurt if he leaves—and normal relationships with friends and boyfriends—that will never happen—why am I afraid of getting too close?

          Half of my brain starts screaming at the other half, and then it’s all just screaming at itself, and then I scream too, out loud.

          All I can see is confusion and the look on your face, and I think you’re saying something, but then two teachers and a hall monitor are running towards us, so I get up and run towards them instead. They open their arms to me like the lifeline they think they are.

          No, I want to tell them, he’s my lifeline.

          They just look at you, and I do, too. Your jeans have dirt on the bottom, and I’m pretty sure there’s still one of my lipsticks in your backpack. My sweatshirt lies crumpled at your feet. Even though I hadn’t been wearing it before, I stand there shivering.

          They look at me now, and I keep looking at you instead of at them, and then they ask you to follow them.

          I don’t say a word.

Jan couldn’t find the sense of adventure his father swore was within him.  His older brother, Lars, was excited to leave Liverpool and start the journey across the Atlantic, claiming he hadn’t slept the past week due to his excitement. One could claim he had good reason.  Even though Lars was 15, he hadn’t done much sailing with his father, nothing to satisfy his hunger for long voyages and daring adventures.  Being five, Jan had never left the Netherlands, and he was fine with that.  As England faded in the distance, he was missing his comfortable house back home in Amsterdam.  He thought of his mother and friends from school.  When he thought of his mother, it pained him to think about how she didn’t want him to go.  Ever since Jan’s dad told them he was bringing them to Nova Scotia for Canada’s sesquicentennial, Lars and his sister Lotte were ecstatic, but Jan was worried.  He had spent countless hours before school studying the globe, and realized the oceans were enormous and the trip was long and would take forever.  “What happens if we get lost, Daddy?” he had argued with his father, Captain Nicolaas Schwarzenberg every day since he had announced the voyage.  “Is it safe for me to go?”  

“Don’t worry, son,” he said, chuckling, “just prepare, pack all your important stuff and everything will be fine.”  Of course, he always said the same thing, which never helped boost Jan’s confidence.  He knew his dad was right though.  The only optimism he felt was due to Lars’ positivity.  Lars was always searching for adventure and he had definitely lucked out.  As the tugboat left Liverpool and the cheering crowds, the giant duck rode the waves behind the boat, not minding the salt water spraying at its face.  

“Jan, what could be cooler than towing a giant inflatable duck to Canada across the ocean?” questioned Lars.  

“A lot of things, especially things where there are no sharks,” Jan replied staring blankly off the starboard at the endless stretch of water.  

“Nothing bad is going to happen, Father is experienced,” Lotte said coming out from her bedroom.  Jan didn’t want to spark an argument, but he certainly thought, there’s always a first time.  Jan quickly went to his small room to check one last time he hadn’t forgotten his backpack full of snacks from his stash.  

“Nope,” he said after finding the green sack hanging on the wall in the room.  He sat down on his bed.  “Maybe, this will be okay,”  he repeated to himself about 20 times.  He sure hoped so.  

Up on deck, everyone was enjoying ham sandwiches.  

“Figured you would be back soon for lunch!” said Captain Schwarzenburg, “I know how you love ham sandwiches!”  

“Thanks,” mumbled Jan, sitting down on the deck next to Lotte.  Lotte and Lars were deep in discussion about activities for the nine day trip.  

“We should go swimming, the water wouldn’t we too cold this time of year,” suggested Lars.  

Jan interrupted suddenly with a hint of panic in his voice, “What about sharks and...other sharks and what the boat could sail away without us!  You want to go swimming? Are you insane?”  

Lars shrugged, “Sure.”  

Lotte got up and handed her plate to Captain Schwarzenberg.  She ran to her room and found her backpack on her bed.  She rummaged through the pouches before revealing a note pad with a list of games.  She presented the list to Jan who had appeared at the entrance.  

“What’s that?”

“A list of possible games.  I’m certain we can make something for entertainment.”  “Yes,” thought Jan and he ran off to his room, inspired.  He grabbed a bag of trail mix, which he discovered, expired a few years before and emptied the packet onto his favorite book from home.  He arranged the raisins and different nuts in neat rows on the opposite sides of the .  He lastly decided on a big brazil nut to represent the king,   and he marveled at his makeshift chess board.

“Not bad,” he said to himself, “I’ll surprise Lars and Lotte later”  He quickly shoved the game into his pack as his father’s call summoned all his siblings to the deck.  

“It’s getting windy kids, after supper I need another line securing the duck  Make sure your knots are taut.  The duck mustn’t float away, that’s very important.  I trust you to do this well, so I will be in my room,” he said firmly.  The kids were the first to finish their stew and hurried away to complete their task.  Lars and Lotte nimbly climbed on a thick rope over to the duck resting carefully its edge.  Jan grabbed another rope from a crate and tossed it over to Lars, who almost fell off reaching to catch the end.  The duck rocked on the choppy water.  

“Woah!” Lars and Lotte screamed, grabbing onto the duck desperately.  Lars carefully tying a complex knot.  “Hey Jan, can you secure those knots on your side?”  

“I don’t think so, how about you come do it”  Jan got out of way, so Lars could could back aboard.  “I’m going to help Lotte,” Jan said, thinking himself useful.  He scrambled on top of the railing and onto the rope.  

“Wait, Jan!” Lars tried to grab his little brother before he was out over the water.  He forgot all about securing the knots and leapt over the railing onto the ropes.  The ropes shook violently and Jan and Lars fell into the ocean.  They followed the ropes leading to the duck and joined Lotte just in time to watch to realize the duck was no longer tied to the railing.  The huge yellow bird drifted further away from the boat,  speeding away in the opposite direction before the children even could truly realize what had occured.  The sound of the boat faded away just as the sun hid beneath the horizon.  

Jan wouldn’t calm down, he couldn’t calm down.  He was in a complete panic, as the siblings went inside through the zipper door at the back.  The ducked rocked back and forth as Jan sprinted in circles, fretting.   “Jan, calm down!  Lars grabbed his brother’s shirt.  There is way this will go unnoticed.  Dad will notice the duck has vanished, and he will find us.  He knows where we are, were we are going, the currents, navigation, everything.  He will find us!”  Jan could tell his brother was serious and he took a deep breath.  

“Maybe you're right, but so much could go wrong,”  He sat down and removed his “chess board” from his pack.  “Do you guys want to play a game?” His siblings, who both loved chess, feverishly arranged their nuts.  Jan lied next to the board, trying to relax  

“You guys should try and rest too.  Maybe when your done the game?” Jan suggested, slightly annoyed with his noisy siblings.  

“One second, let me focus.  If I do this...checkmate!” Lars yelled joyfully as he placed a cashew next to the brazil nut, and removing a raisin.  Lotte pulled a small blanket from her backpack and lay adjacent to Jan.

“Good night,” whispered Jan.

Jan awoke early to find everyone very much alive and he was feeling much better.  His father would’ve noticed the duck’s absence by now and began the search for his children.  He clambered up onto the inflatable’s beak and leaned back in between the eyes.  He sat down to try enjoy the sunrise, which his father said was always phenomenal at sea, but instead he saw the gathering storm clouds in the distance.  A harsh wind slammed into Jan as he clung to the duck’s huge, orange bill.  He cautiously climbed back down to warn Lars and Lotte.  

Lotte was reading a novel from her pack, she looked up when entered through the zipper flap.  

“Hey Jan, how are you this morning?”

“Okay, I guess.  We got to hurry though, there’s a storm coming.  It’s going to be rough, I can tell.”  Lotte raced over to wake Lars.  He mumbled, sat up and rubbed his eyes.  Lotte explained the scenario and looked back at Jan, who was munching on an apple.  Lars understood.  

“Just watch Lotte, he’ll be fine.  Not much we can do about it.  Man, I wish dad was here, he would fix this situation.”

“Well, he isn’t,” muttered Lotte, checking to see the zipper flap was sealed and sitting down.  “Lars is right Jan, everything will be okay, we just have to wait it out,”

“Okay, are you sure we’re safe?” asked Jan again.  Lotte nodded as a streak of illuminated the duck’s interior, turning a brighter yellow.  He snatched one of the water bottles from Lars’ backpack, whose backpack held all the bottled drinks, and gulped the contents quickly.   

Jan grabbed a book from his own bag, “Can I come read too?!” The duck rocked suddenly, a violent quake causing Jan to fall onto Lotte.  Lotte yelled in anguish and scrambled out from under her little brother.  The duck lurched again sended Lars to fall back, hitting the side forcefully.  Outside, a large crack of thunder could just be detected over the crashing waves attacking the duck.  The gloom outside was shared by the duck’s miserable inhabitants.  The siblings found themselves clinging to the walls all through the day until the storm had finally passed.  Jan’s face was a pale green as a he scrambled onto the bill again to view the sunset.  He was lucky he did, experiencing the beautiful colors in the sky and reflectected on the surprisingly calm water.  He watched in astonishment and remained on his perch long after the sun had vanished from the sky, replaced with a crescent moon.  A shooting star blazed towards the moon, remembering how Lars always made wishes when seeing shooting stars.  “I wish to be reunited with my father tomorrow,” whispered Jan hopefully, “please.”  

Jan fussed with his jacket zipper, eyes wide awake.  He estimated it was about ten o’clock and he still hadn’t fallen asleep.  Lars and Lotte had separated themselves from their younger brother and were engaged in a heated argument.  

“This is your fault!” Lars snapped bitterly.  

“No way, I was on the duck, not anywhere near the boat.  

“What do you mean!  It wasn’t even ten feet away.  Weren’t you in charge of securing the ropes anyway?”  

“That was totally your job!  So, it is your fault, that we are stuck on a ridiculous, inflatable duck, in the middle of the Atlantic, where nobody will ever find us!”  Jan knew his siblings were fuming, he could practically sense their anger in the air.  

“Both of you!  We will be found!  Within the next week, we will arrive in Nova Scotia with our father!” Jan interrupted, clearly irked.  

“Lars you helped me early on, but now I am helping you guys.  We need to stay together, because right now, you guys, are all I have.  I am all you have.  We will remain strong and survive until Dad finds us, whenever that occurs.  Now get some shuteye!”  Everything was dead silent and Jan was relaxed at last.  

Jan shook his outstretched arms and sat up, alert.  Today would be his second day aboard the duck.  “Any more storms today?” wondered Jan as he quietly opened the flap.  On back of the bird, he observed the cloudless sky.  He started ascending up the duck’s neck, only to leap down gracefully.  Lars awoke instantly bearing a shocked expressions as Jan rushed in.  “Guys!  Hurry!  You have got to see this!”  

“What?  What’s got you so excited Jan?”  murmured Lars, sleep deprived, “relax, what time is it?”  

“Late afternoon, I would guess about five o’clock , just hurry up!”  With that, Jan exited once more.  From his vantage point,  he observed the white tugboat hurtling across the water’s surface at top speed, an enormous arc of sea spray flying behind the vessel.  “I knew it!  Dad!”  

At last, Lars pulled himself onto the head.  “Okay wh-?”  He gasped with surprise and lifted Jan clear off his feet.  “You were right, bro!”  The boat was even nearer know and the children could hear the whine of the engine, their father pushing its limits to reach his lost children.  Lotte appeared a few moments later.  

“What’s that humming noise.  The annoying sound preventing me from sleeping in, to be specific.”  

“Take a look for yourself!”  Lotte screamed happily, when the boat came to a slow near the duck.  

“Thank goodness, I am glad to have found you kids!” shouted Captain Schwarzenberg, relieved.  

“We’re glad to see you too!” shouted the siblings in unison.  Captain Schwarzenberg drove to the rear where Lars was already waiting to throw him the ropes.  Lars ensured his father had actually secured the ropes before scrambling onto the deck, Lotte followed.  

“Where’s Jan, I thought he was with you?” asked their father.  As if on cue, Jan dove off the duck’s back and promptly swam to boat.  He ran right into his father’s open arms.  “I am glad you’re safe, son.  I’m happy to see you again”

“Me too, but what about the celebration?”  

“Golly, thanks for the reminder.  It starts in an hour, so we best hurry!”  The captain ran off, Lars and Lotte left for their rooms for fresh clothes and a proper lunch, but Jan followed his father.  

“How do you plan to reach Halifax in one hour?” demanded Jan.  

“I just finish the journey you and your siblings began”, he replied simply, handing Jan a pair of binoculars, “take a look,”  At the railing, Jan put them to his eyes and peered out at the horizon.  A gorgeous harbour sat in the distance, very faint without the binoculars.  Jan admired the array of sailboats and the looming skyscrapers behind them.  The city seemed alive, vivid, a celebration in itself.  Jan was now eager to arrive, to join the celebration, to complete his adventure.  Jan smiled, “Soon, I’ll have made it through my first trip.  My first trip anywhere.  My very first adventure!”  

The spectacular firework show awed Jan and his siblings.  There live music on the pier and hundreds of happy families enjoying the momentous occasion.  Their optimism was shared by Jan, who was overjoyed to be reunited with his father.  

It was extremely late when everyone aboard had gone to their rooms for the night, except for Jan.  He lay on the deck, gazing up at the stars and identifying the constellations he recognized.  He knew he would cherish this day for eternity and as he spotter another shooting star he made another wish upon it.  “I hope I never lose my sense of adventure.”  

I. The Conventional Law [2119]

 

On this day, it has come into law that all Model X manufactured units will thereby be prohibited from public assembly, governmental institutions, as well as private facilities as seen fit by the proprietor.

 

Protel Colyford - unit 583, manufactured 2087 - stood at the corner of Fray and Huffington, waiting. It was the eighteenth consecutive day of the annual winter downpour and he was in serious danger of rusting, though he had no way to afford the high prices of the auto mechanic shops in town. A parade marched down the street beside him, toting banners and blaring unintelligible music. Though he had always wanted  to from the time of his conception, he was not allowed to partake in the festivities, having been barred due to his heritage; an Absolute. A first generation of Model X’s, his kind had been tossed to the side when the remodeled X-4’s began to manufacture. Their superiority led them to be the perfect labor source and those made prior had been tossed to the side and viewed as the pathetic mistakes of an early era. Many Absolutes had taken to underground jobs or working as seasonal harvesters to earn meager wages that could barely support themselves. Absolutes were not allowed to participate in public demonstrations nor were they allowed to enter many government facilities. There were stores that hung signs prohibiting entry to Absolutes and slurs decorated brick walls in graffiti letters: Make Our Country Skimpman Free and Shackheads Go Home. Following the Uprising, Model X’s had been discontinued after masses of ralliers demanded that the violence-prone automatons were a danger to the safety of society. There were only a handful left, those who still survived, but they were despised and feared and hunted. The new age Boogeymen, children and adults alike steered clear of them, the braver ones spitting at their feet. But Absolutes did not have violence instilled in them. It was hate, Protel knew. Hate for a world that had brought them to life, a world that had turned their backs on them.

 

II. The Treaty of Geron [2099]

 

i. Subsection B, Paragraph One: All humanoid personnels must undertake the Eisenberg-Hummel Examination before being deemed fit to have military authorize departure rights [subnote: departure being defined as being permitted to leave the premise on which such identified humanoids were created - see Subsection B, Paragraph Three and Subsection F, Paragraph Eight]

 

Protel remembered the Release with such vividness, it could have happened yesterday, rather than ten years ago. He had awaited the opening of the doors, perhaps a flooding of sunlight into the grey Conception + Growth building. But as they stood in their pristine rows, hands behind their back, a man in a military uniform stepped into the room.

 

“500!” he called out. “500!”

 

No one moved a muscle.

 

“They didn’t tell me they made a bunch of idiots!” he shouted. “Which of you numbskulls is unit 500, manufactured 2087?”

 

500 stepped forward.

 

“Would you sacrifice an innocent woman to save your life?”

 

500 said nothing.

 

“Unit 500! Please answer the question!”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“You would sacrifice an innocent woman?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Step back in line, Unit 500! 501!”

 

Unit 501 stepped forward.

 

“Is it wrong to murder a murderer?”

 

“Yes, sir,” 501 said with uncertainty.

 

“It’s wrong?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Step to the side,  Unit 501.”

 

And so it went forth, each time a different question. Some he sent back to the line, others to the side. It wasn’t long before they began to realize what the man was asking. But still, there were those who were sent back to the line.

 

“Unit 583!”

 

Protel stepped forward.

 

“Would you steal to feed the poor?”

 

Protel was silent for a moment.

 

“583! Answer the damn question!”

 

“Yes sir,” he said.

 

“You would steal?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Protel repeated. “Damn the consequences.”

 

He looked at Protel for a moment, his mouth twitching.

 

“Unit 583!”

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Step to the door.”

 

Protel remembers that moment every time the sun rises, seeing the light after a night of darkness. That was the first time he had ever seen sunlight and from that moment, he knew he never wanted to go back again.

 

ii. Subsection B, Paragraph Three: No humanoid personnel may be permitted to exit the premises of their original manufacturing company until such a time as they are properly marked and recorded in the Robotic Personnel Identity Database (RPID).

 

There was another man standing outside the door as Protel exited the building.

 

“Number?”

 

“583, sir,” Protel said.

 

“Hold out your arm.” he placed a strange machine over his arm. A laser burned into his arm, forming the numbers Protel had just said.

 

“Please step to the truck,” he said. There were seats lining the inside of the vehicle and Protel sat there alone for what seemed like hours. But by the time the sun had gone down, Protel had been joined by twelve others, each stamped with their numbers, the tattoos still glowing slightly from the machine.

 

“Where are we going?” 547 asked.

 

“Away,” Protel said. “We’re going away.”

 

“To be free?” 592 asked.

 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what freedom is.”

 

III. Alexander’s Rule [hypothesis formed 2056, published 2067]

 

Through artificial simulation, automatons will have exited the conception facility with a basic knowledge of human emotion and action which will only be strengthened by conventional human contact in the external world.

 

Missy worked at the deli where Protel would stop for breakfast each morning. He had never seen a woman as he did her; her charming smile carrying him throughout his day, her lilting voice like a song to his ears. Perhaps best, or worst, of all, she was a human, born naturally as they were meant to be. She had never batted an eye to his black tattoo, never said a word towards his strangely colored eyes nor his stiff words. But despite his budding love, Protel knew he could never marry her; the most Shakespearean of tales. He had never cared about women before, never felt his heart rise at the sight of one. They had taught him well through his growth, Protel knew. He had just never realized how well.

 

IV. First Intermarriage Policy [2105]

 

Wherein the threat of Model X looms above the safety of this country, be it enacted by the power of the President to prohibit the marriage between an Absolute and a natural-born.

 

It was in the newspapers barely days after. Headlines blared: Illegal Marriage between Model X and Human and Scandal Rocks Nation with Violation of Marriage Policy. Protel had first picked up a copy of the Times that morning when he saw the articles, paparazzi-like images that condemned the two. There was outrage in the streets and there were many of those who believed they go to hell. But there was the great smell of hypocrisy in the air; that Protel knew that those who condemned them to hell did not even believe that the automatons had souls, that they would linger in purgatory for all eternity. He had heard their talk, their impassioned arguments. He had learned over the years to never interject. He could only leave worse off than before.

 

V. Second Intermarriage Policy [2110]

 

Where the prohibition of intermarriage has been declared constitutional by the Supreme court, be it additionally amended that conceiving a child between an Absolute and a natural-born has been declared illegal.

 

Protel could remember where he was the moment he had heard the news. At the deli, buying a ham sandwich from Frank while Missy was home sick with the flu. The television in the corner was blasting a program loudly when the broadcast came on suddenly. He remembered the look that Frank had given him, half pity, half fear. He had felt the man’s eyes glance quickly at the numbers burned on his arm. Although the rest of him had grown worn out over the years, the tattoos remained bright as ever, reminding Protel of who he was and who he was not, despite whether he liked it or not. Frank had finished the sandwich, but Protel couldn’t move from the counter. He could scarce even tell whether he was breathing or not; he would never have children of his own, never have anyone to call him their father. Feeling as though he were watching his body move but not at all in it, he took the sandwich from Frank and slowly walked out of the store.

 

VI. Government Status Update [2120]

 

Protel sat at his worn leather chair, a red piece he had lugged home from the dumpsite he had once worked at. It was a dark night and shadows loomed against the moonlit floor. Sighing heavily, he adjusted his antenna and turned on his television set. He could only afford one channel, but watched it every night.

 

The TV crackled but tonight, its screen showed clearer than ever.

 

“An apology—” the reporter cut out. The man was standing before the steps of the Capitol Building, surrounded by others toting cameras and microphones. Protel looked up interestedly. “Issued today by the President— to be given—eligible Model X—compensation for the suffering—outrage sparks but—address the seriousness—we must come together as a nation for the neglected, the hidden—the President will speak from the capitol later tonight.”

 

It was quiet for a moment; the sirens outside dimmed their sounds, dogs no longer barked. His head spinning, Protel sat back in his chair, but he did not have time to collect his thoughts. All of a sudden, he heard a smash and turned his head as a rock sailed through his window, hitting him square above his eyes.

 

“Shackhead!” he heard, followed by the squealing of tires that quickly faded into the night. His exhilaration from the news deflated as fast as it had arrived. Nothing had changed, and how could he have expected it to, and so fast?

 

Pressing against the cut to his forehead, Protel found his way to the mirror, where he saw the blood had begun to trickle down his face. He hasn't bled in a very long time but in that moment, he felt nothing but a different kind of pain. To bleed was the most human of characteristics and yet he bled because no one could see that. There was going to be no change, he knew then. No apology that could change the minds of billions. Perhaps to change was not human. Simply to bleed.

 

When I was 5 and you were 6, I moved in on Blossom street, right across from your house. My parents had been too lazy to potty train me so I still was using a diaper. You were riding your red tricycle in circles on your driveway, and somehow, found your way riding your tricycle in circles on mine. The most vivid thing I remember was your smile. It was bright and beautiful. I thought if I could ride the tricycle it would make me smile like that too. I asked if I could have a turn, but you looked down at my diaper and said no and called me a baby girl. My first instinct was to get angry, as it always is, and after finding no way to defend myself (because I was, in fact, a baby girl), crying.

My dad came out and saw what had happened. Once hearing out the situation through my sniffling voice, he laughed and kindly asked you to apologize. You looked down at your shoes and whispered an apology. Getting annoyed that you couldn’t look me in the face, I yelled, “I’m not a pair of shoes!”

After hearing that, you smiled, with a goofy, warm smile, looked me straight in the eyes and yelled, “I’m not sorry at all!” My dad forced you to at least give me a hug, and as soon as you did, you darted back into your house, and left your tricycle on our yard. You later came back with embarrassment in your dark eyes and came to retrieve it.

 

When I was 7 and you were 8, we were well into third grade. We had become friends over baseball and potato chips at my house, and watching the weekly game was like a religion to us. We communicated by walkie talkie so that we could tell each other what time you could come over to watch the game. My dad called me a tomboy because I decided to wear overalls 24/7 rather than the dresses that my other girl friends wore.

I remember that our third grade teacher wasn’t very nice to you. We made fun of her behind her back, but still she continually picked on you more than anyone else.

I remember you being upset when we were drawing portraits of ourselves in class. Our teacher handed out markers so that we could draw our faces. I was given a peach colored marker, which looked rather orange to me. You were given a pitch black one. You looked around the classroom for any other kids with black markers, but all of them were peach. “I’m not that dark,” you said, “I should have a brown marker.” Our teacher sourly apologized saying that she didn’t have any brown markers at the moment, and that it was close enough to the way you looked.

I could tell you were upset because you colored the same line at least 10 times making a tiny hole in the paper. I patted your shoulder and tried to make you feel better at the expense of my own marker (saying that my marker wasn’t good either, I don’t look like an orange!) You still felt upset, and I couldn’t cheer you up. You colored your face with the black marker, but you also colored over your eyes, and mouth and nose, so you looked more like a shadow.

On the bus home you still didn’t talk to me. There were marker stains on your hands. After school that day I picked up my walkie talkie and said, “Don’t you worry one bit, you hear me. Not a single bit! That mean old lady has a soul as smelly as a wet dog, but you’ve got it all going for you. I promise!” I’m still not sure if you heard me or not, but I’m praying that you did.

 

When I was 9 and you were 10 we had reached 5th grade, . We were now the leaders of our elementary school, and you especially felt adultlike because you had recently entered into the double digits of age. You decided that you would bring in a cake and share it with the class that afternoon. You wore that goofy, lopsided smile of yours that entire day. You made a paper crown for your head  with the words “10 YEARS OLD” written on it.

When the learning part of school was over and the recess part had begun you announced that you had brought cake for everyone to eat. All the kids seemed excited, but our teacher, Mrs. Abellard, didn’t.

“No” Mrs. Abellard said. We all seemed confused.

“No, you cannot bring out your cake.”

“Why not?” you said, “It’s my birthday.”

“I said, No.”

“Why? I’m 10 years old now. It’s my birth--”

“No. I said, no. We will not celebrate your birthday. You don’t belong in my school, not in my town, and definitely not in my America.”

You were shocked. Your paper crown fell from your head even though you were frozen still. After a few seconds you couldn’t bear to hold in the tears anymore and you cried. But silently. Not even blinking, the tears came out itself. And Mrs. Abellard, she smiled. And I was filled with anger.

“You are a no good, fat, stupid, slob, and you should be fired from everything and go to hell!” I yelled. With that, we were both sent down to the principal's office. After an apology, they let me leave. And they tried to get an apology out of you too, but something in your head had clicked. You wouldn’t speak at all. You just sat silent, not saying anything, with tears streaming down your face.

 

When I was 13 and you were 14, you started to drift away from me. And I guess it was because we went to a bigger school, and we weren’t in the same class anymore. You made new friends, and so did I. But I still missed you. A lot.

At the beginning, you still came over to watch the ball game every Sunday, but I remember the day you stopped coming. I saw you hanging outside with your new friends while I was watching the game by myself. I asked you why you didn’t come, and you said because I was a girl. You said that it’s weird for girls to watch sports, and that you didn’t want to watch the games with me anymore. I reacted angry first, yelling all sorts of profanity at you, and then crying, just like I always do. But I later on forgave you. And when I turned 14 you began to hang out with me more again. You got your mother to take us out to places like the movies, and the mall, and countless diners; and I also remember thinking I had become quite a bit prettier than before. I distinctly remember one time. We went to a diner, called Side-of-the-Road Diner, it was your 15th birthday and you were grounded, so you snuck out of your house with a 20 dollar bill and we rode our bikes down the street the nearest place we could find. We got two malted milkshakes and a bucket of fries. With the napkins on the table and the crayons that they set out for little kids, I drew you a crown, placed it on your head, and wished you a happy birthday. You looked at me, and your eyes were filled with tears of happiness. Then you pulled my hair back behind my ear, and kissed me.

 

When I was 16 and you were 17, you seemed to act like the ocean. Hanging around me, and then seemingly acting like I didn’t exist, and then coming back again. I missed the times when we were younger, and everything was simple. Homecoming was arriving, and I wanted to go, but not with just anyone, with you. I remember knocking on your door, and you invited me in. I immediately asked you to take me to homecoming. I was excited, but you weren’t to happy.

“No,” you said. I was confused.

“Why not? I don’t understand.”

“I won’t take you to homecoming.”

“But we’re friends, it won’t be awkward I promise.”

“No, just trust me, no.”

“Please. Why no--”

“I said, No!” I hadn’t even payed attention to the tears welling up in your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered.

“What do you mean what’s wrong? Look at me! I live in the wrong body! In the wrong town! In the wrong America! I am black!” He took a moment to wipe away his tears. “People hate me and there is nothing I can do about it. So just...just leave me alone.”

At that point, I was the one with tears streaming down my face, but I had also finally understood why you wouldn’t hang around me. And I realized that everyone you were friends with was black too. And whenever we hung out, it was almost like a secret. But I didn’t want it to be that way. I tried to talk to you more but you forced me to leave. I wanted to be angry at you so badly, but I was angry at myself. I hated myself, because I loved you, I hated America because they didn’t love you, and I hated you because I wanted you to love me back.

 

When I was 17 and you were 18, we were almost strangers. Almost. I hadn’t talked to you in the longest time, so I put my head low whenever we happened to cross paths. One day at school, however, you stopped by my locker and started up a conversation. I seemed paralyzed when you looked at me. You were wearing that goofy, lopsided grin of yours, and happiness seemed to be emanating off of you. I hadn’t seen you like that in a long time.  You asked to come over and watch the ball game that upcoming Sunday. I couldn’t have been happier to say yes. We agreed that you would come over at a late 9:00 pm when my parents wouldn’t be home.

When the day came I was so excited. I started getting ready at 12:00 pm. I fluffed the couches at least 7 times, set out a bowl of potato chips, and then bringing them back and replacing them with a different kind (because maybe you don’t like that flavor) and then changing my mind again and bringing out the first bowl.

9:00 pm seemed to come slow as a snail, and I waited out on the steps to my front door at 8:50 pm waiting for you to walk over. You came over at a late 9:02. Instead of going inside immediately we decided that we would sit on the steps to my front door for awhile and talk. I remember, you looked up at the stars and pointed to the constellations with your right hand, while your left hand was wrapped around me. And I remember the feeling of it all. It was warm and dark, and my lungs seemed to be filled with love. And everything was how it was meant to be.

 

And then a police officer arrives.

 

He walks up to us, not even looking at you, and asks me if you were bothering me. But I couldn’t answer. When I looked up at the officer I seemed to freeze. You answered no and looked at me for reassurance, but the officer wouldn’t leave us alone. No, he wouldn’t leave you alone.  The police officer seemed to have it in for you, he didn’t like you at all. He searched you, questioned you, and finally asked you to put your hands behind your back because he was going to handcuff you. But you refused, and insisted that you weren’t doing anything wrong.

“Tell him,” you said to me, “I’m not doing anything wrong,” but for the life of me, I can’t remember if I said anything back.

The police officer proceeded to slam you into the wall. You began to fight him back, and I yelled at you both to stop.

“I’ve done nothing wrong!” You repeatedly yelled. My brain couldn’t perceive that this was really happening. It wasn’t hard to see that you were much stronger than the officer, and soon you had him pinned to the floor and you were pummeling him. I looked at the police officer on the floor, his nose was spilling blood and had turned purple. His eye was swollen from your beating, but you kept on going until,

“STOP!” I yelled. Tears started to pour out of my eyes and I ran over to you. You looked down at your fist and saw the blood on your hands and stopped, realizing how much you hurt him. I felt your arms wrap around me.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

“It doesn’t matter, but we need to call an ambulance to--”

 

Two loud bangs, and your body went limp in my arms.

I let go of you and your body fell to floor, lifeless. Your forehead was dripping blood from the two holes shot through your skull into your unblinking eyes.

The full impact of what happened hit me a few seconds later, and everything inside me broke. The police officer got up on his feet, his shadow covered your face.

“What have you done?” I sobbed, and the officer, having nothing to say, and acknowledging the sin, drove away.

I lay my head down on your chest.

“Wake up.”

“We haven’t even watched the ball game yet, please wake up”

I lay down on your chest until you turned cold. Both bullets pierced through the same hole in your temple, but I was left with all the pain. I didn’t even need to blink for the tears to fall. I held you close to my chest. I couldn’t think of doing anything else.

 

When I was here and you were gone, everything seemed to be a memory of you. A certain aura that you had taken with you to the grave had left me gray and sad. The worst part of everyday is walking down my driveway. I remember you pedaling your tricycle in circles like there was no tomorrow. But my most vivid memory is when my dad forced you to hug me. I remember feeling the heat of your body, and the beat of your heart so steady. Even at that young age, I didn’t want you to stop hugging me, but you quickly darted back to your house. However, even though you were running away from me, I remember you looking back every now and then, smiling at me with the bright glow of the morning sun.

 

Un chat a neuf vies, il joue pour trois, pour trois il s'égare, et pour les trois dernières il reste.

A cat has nine lives. For three he plays, for three he strays, and for the last three he stays.

 

I. A woman in a red coat stands in the window, peering in at me. A little boy dressed in a blue sweater sticks his head out from behind her shyly. His sweater has a tiny snowman patch on the collar. I can’t hear voices outside of the shop, but faces melt into laughter and the woman clutches the little boy’s hand, pulling him closer to her to stay warm. His cheeks blush from the bitter cold, but they curl up as he smiles at me. I stretch a paw closer to him and spring up, pressing my nose against the glass to greet a petite hand reaching out to touch me. It finds only the glass window and the boy’s smile disappears as he is led away from me, his blue coat disappearing into the crowd. A small door to the right of me swings open. My eye is drawn to it and a pair of hands reaches in and lifts me out. “This is one of our Persian variety.” I snarl as unfamiliar fingers reach around my soft coat and stroke my fur. The man pulls his hand back and thrusts me back into my cage. Unwanted again. My face is hidden in my paws as I lay back down with my ball of yarn, defeated. A flash of light glimpses in the cage next to me as another kitten is taken out. I wait to hear the click of the lock signaling his return, but it doesn’t come. I peek my head over the edge of my cage. A couple is holding him along with a brand new collar. A sinking feeling of jealousy rises in my chest and bubbles in my throat. Creak. My cage has been opened! As another pair of hands lifts me out, a bell rings, the door to the shop opening. I don’t have time to think before making a decision. I leap out of a woman’s arms and onto the floor at breakneck speed, slipping through the door and out onto the cold, snowy pavement. A man shouts behind me and I sprint into the road, my goal the end of the curb across the street. Squeal! Tires screech as I feel a burn spread across my rib cage and down my paws. I’m not sure if the screaming noise is coming from me or the brakes.

 

Un en bas, de huit à dépenser. Ce n’est pas la fin.

One down, eight to spend. This is not the end.

 

II. My brothers lay around me and drift in and out of sleep peacefully. I nuzzle my paws against my mother. I haven’t been alive in this body for long, but I already know it will be a fun and carefree one. The fuzzy blanket around me makes me purr. “Goodnight!” I perk up as the girl with the braids enters the room. She seems lovely. Her hands are soft against my fur and comforting. The barn is chilly and her hands provide much appreciated warmth. I dream that night of warmth, the sunshine and heat against my body. When I awaken, the heat does not leave my skin. It rages, flickering and singeing me as I cry out. I cannot see my brothers through the smoke but I hear their shrieks. I cough on the flames, fighting to find my way out but only discovering more heat. I lay down on the now ashy blanket, giving into the warmth and letting it envelope my small figure. My breaths come raspily, few and far between becoming fewer and further between before I shudder and stop. I have never known warmth could be such a terrible thing.

 

Deux en bas, de sept à dépenser. Ce n’est pas la fin.

Two down, seven to spend. This is not the end.

 

III. Millie is a kind owner. She never forgets to leave me a saucer of milk and the door open, so I may wander as I please. Paws sinking into the field grass, I come home filthy often. My white fur is clean once again after a bath and I am ready to begin the day anew. The day has started off rainy today and the water pitter patters hard against the window. The prospect of getting wet leads me to curling up on the couch and closing my eyes. I am jolted back to my paws by a flash, followed by a deep rumble from outside. Springing off the couch, I cower under a chair, folding myself into a ball. The lightning flashes again and petrified, I run out of the house and under the porch. Another loud rumble sounds, but this is not one from the sky and is not from far away. Hooded eyes glint out of the darkness of the porch and stalkingly move around me. I turn in a circle to face them, backing up to press my fur into a concrete wall. They creep closer and I whimper softly. My whimper becomes a scream as the creature lunges, tearing at the flesh on my right leg. They back up threateningly and disappear. I sit in darkness as my leg explodes, the pain making me dizzy. As I try to stand, fatigue overtakes my small body and I collapse, feeling the soil give in against my whiskers. I am so tired.

 

Trois en bas, de six à dépenser. Ce n’est pas la fin.

Three down, six to spend. This is not the end.

 

IV. Bright light fills my eyes as I’m dragged out from the cardboard box that has been my home for days. I peel my paws away from my chest and cry out, letting fresh oxygen enter my body and fill my lungs. Hot, human arms surround me on all sides and I breathe in again, inhaling the bitter smell of alcohol and unwashed bodies. The people laugh greedily, tossing me from one to another before I am left with an unshaven, foul scented man. He smiles, revealing yellow, rotted teeth and sets me down on a table. Other cats surround me, each skinnier than the last. They flash narrow eyes at me. I do not understand until I am thrown into the center, a ring, with mean-looking cat. He snarls and jumps on top of me, nipping at my neck and pulling at the soft hairs over my skin. I whimper and paw at the table, creating scratches in the wood surface. The faces around me fill with amusement. I stare at the other cats. Why aren’t you helping me? My vision blurs at the edges as I see little green slips exchanged between men. The fresh oxygen no longer helps, and my ribs feel shattered. As my opponent strikes down on my chest once more, my vision spots into black entirely. “Told you the newbies never last.”

Quatre en bas, de cinq à dépenser. Ce n’est pas la fin.

Four down, five to spend. This is not the end.

 

V. It’s a bumpy ride back and forth to the farm. We cross the fork in the road and then follow the dirt path to the bridged river that connects to the fields. I ride in the bed of the truck with my sister, snuggling into her and playfully swiping at her ears. She bounces out of my reach as we hit another rock and to the edge of the truck bed. I reach to her paw, missing it by an inch. The truck rocks again, sliding me into her. We giggle and lay back, looking up at the sky. My sister taps my paw, telling me that the bridge is up ahead. Together, we sit up to get a look at the fish surrounding the banks. As the truck hits the beginning of the bridge, a stone gets trapped in the wheel and it skids loudly, sending the truck careening into the air and us into the creek. I gasp under the cool water and inhale the river, blinking as fish circle around me in a rainbow of colors. The water above me increases as I sink into the bottom of the creek. The moss tickles my fur and I struggle to keep my eyes open, searching for my sister. A tint of white near the bank catches my eye and I gather my remaining strength to propel myself to it, hitting wet fur and pulling her into me. The black carries us to the dirt foundation together and we close our eyes. I always wanted to see the fish up close.

 

Cinq en bas, de quatre à dépenser. Ce n’est pas la fin.

Five down, four to spend. This is not the end.

 

VI. My little boy and his father always were the ones to feed me, or wash me. Mother was usually in bed. When she came home from the doctor, with the tubes down her nose and pulling the tank, my boy cried into my fur all night. In the morning the tears ceased but the look in his eyes did not. Mommy is sick, he would whisper to me. We can’t take care of you anymore. I should have known something was wrong when I was packed into the car with my bed and my toys and brought to that shiny white office where it smelled like bleach and plastic. A blonde lady with kind eyes took me into a room and with apology in her eyes, thrust the needle into my skin. I could see my boy crying in the window, his cheeks stained, but my eyelids were so very tired and they shut tight. My hearing went soon after and I drifted into a deep blue sea where the tides carried me home and my boy waited for me on a sandy beach, happy at last.

 

Six en bas, de trois à dépenser. Ce n’est pas la fin.

Six down, three to spend. This is not the end.

 

VII. My stomach feels empty and hollow, like a bowl without milk or a home without a family. The pains in my stomach sharpen again and I pull myself into a ball to protect myself. The chain around my neck scratches at my fur and rubs the skin under it raw, burning me. I am so devastatingly hungry and my throat aches for water. My tongue is dry and I poke it out of my soft lips, pulling at the grass around me and chewing it to keep the hunger pains at bay. As the sun goes down, I sink down with it, my knees giving out from under me and collapsing to the hard dirt. I have no energy left to stand and lay sprawled on the ground, the chain tugging at my neck and suffocating me slowly. The night beats on steadily and the stars begin to disappear, leaving tiny flecks of light that entertain my tired eyes cast on the sky. No longer sure of what is real and what is not, I reach out to them, beckoning them to carry me away from them towards their celestial freedom. I lower my gaze and rest my head as the dark blue lightens to shades of pink and orange, greeting a new day. The sun rises, but I do not.

 

Sept en bas, de deux à dépenser. Ce n’est pas la fin.

Seven down, two to spend. This is not the end.

 

VIII. My bowl of food remains full and my hair covers the carpet around me. Kylie pulls me close in my last moments, giving me comfort as I throw up again into her lap. She does not pull away and instead wipes my snout off with her shirt. I close my eyes and let her carry me away with her voice. She tells me of wonderful stories, where the prince gets the princess and the dragon is slayed. I know she is thinking of my dragon and how she wishes she could slay it for me. I nuzzle into her, letting her know that I forgive her. Some dragons cannot be vanquished.

 

Huit en bas, d’un à dépenser. Ce n’est pas la fin.

Eight down, one to spend. This is not the end.

 

VIIII. The smell of warm cookies waft out of the oven, filling my nose and my senses with pleasurable memories. The old man sets his cane down and sits in his rocker chair, his breathing hard. His hands reach up and clutch at his chest, his neck turning purple and his mouth open in a silent scream. I leap off of the chair and to the closet, where I bring out the only thing that I know brings him comfort. Clutched in my mouth is a small blue sweater, fit for a little boy, with a small snowman on the collar. By the time I get back, his breathing has stopped and his eyes are frozen open. I spring onto his lap and wrap the sweater around him, sinking into it and closing my eyes as well. Together, we do not wake up. Together, we are found.

 

Neuf sont faits, aucun à dépenser. Ce pauvre chat a atteint sa fin.

Nine are done, none to spend. This poor cat has reached his end.

 

Akshita

The day after my father’s funeral, my mother locked herself up in a room and didn’t even come down to eat in between. My sister, Indu, is very young—she doesn’t understand much at all, and that morning she wailed and banged on the door screaming and screaming for Ma to open it. I tried stopping her once or twice, but I really didn’t want to, so I just stood by her really still, almost afraid to breathe. I wanted to see what would happen—I wanted to see how Ma would respond.

After a while, Indu got tired and sank to the floor in a crumpled heap. Her cheeks were tear-streaked and her hair was tangled and sweaty. I remember thinking about how a 9-year-old should never have to look like that, but I don’t think I really did anything at all; I just stood there for a really long time.

I don’t remember much of what happened after that, but I do remember Dadi, my grandmother, and how her cold stare dug into me as she picked up a still sobbing Indu from the floor about an hour later.

“You’re older, Akshita. You should know better.”

I averted my gaze, looking down and focusing intently on the little specks on the linoleum and the way the light from the windows reflected off of them. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Dadi looking at me once more, before shuffling downstairs with Indu’s little head buried in the nook of her shoulder. Tut-tut-tut-tut. Even her walk seemed to sound disapproving.

The walls were thin at my house, and if my mother was awake, she would have undoubtedly heard the scolding. She always hated when I disappointed my grandmother.

Respect your elders. They are wiser than you, more experienced than you.

I wondered if she was behind the door, brooding about just what she would do with me. I wanted her to storm out, furious with me, so mad that she wouldn’t even be able to look me in the eye. I waited a couple of seconds like that, eagerly, almost having completely convinced myself that she would certainly come out just then.

A minute passed, and then a few more. Finally, I felt my ears getting hot, and frustrated tears ran down my cheeks. I was angry, all of a sudden, so angry at my mother. I wanted to bang on the door and scream like my sister had done, break the door down and then confront her. You’re being extremely selfish, I would say. Don’t you know that all of us are hurting?

~~~~~

Indu

I turned 10 yesterday, but I don’t feel any different. I feel and look just as I always have, and I don’t know if every 10-year-old feels like this or of it’s something wrong with me. Dadi says that because I’ve turned 10, I have to start taking responsibility for my actions. She says that in our religion once you turn 10 your sins become your own and are no longer your parents’.

A couple of days ago, when I was 9, Ma locked herself up in a room and she didn’t come out even when I cried and cried. I yelled and stomped and banged the door forever, but I can’t do that now. I’m too old for that kind of behavior.

I don’t think this is fair at all, how one day I’m free to do whatever it is that I want and the next day I’m not. I’m just older than I was yesterday like I was older yesterday than the day before. My belly feels kind of weird now whenever I do something I don’t know if I should be doing, and I want to be little again.

If Papa was here, he would say that I was still his little baby, and that I don’t have to worry about growing up. But Papa’s not here anymore, Papa’s dead, and my older sister Akshita says it’s no use thinking about him. Akshita is 14, almost 15, so she’s even more grown up than I am. She isn’t allowed to do or say much at all, but it’s okay for her because she’s already so quiet all the time. I don’t know what I would do when I turn 14. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.

I told this to Ma one evening as she helped me with some homework.

“When I get as old as Akshita, will Dadi never let me do anything?”

Ma looked confused for a second, and the week-old wrinkle in her forehead got deeper.

“What? What are you talking about?

“Dadi is always yelling at Akshita. Even if- Even if she laughs too loudly or something like that.”

“That’s not true, Indu.”

“It is true! I swear, I heard her yelling at Akshita because of that when her friends were over.”

Ma was silent, and then she leaned over and hugged me really tight. When she pulled back, it looked like she was about to cry.

“I’ll never, ever let Dadi say anything like that to Akshita or you, ever again, okay?”

I mumbled something, and looked into Ma’s red eyes. Ma was pretty, but nowadays she always looked too tired and old. She smiled weakly at me before looking down.

“Just don’t tell Dadi I hugged you, alright?”

I looked at her angrily. I couldn’t believe it.

“Why can’t I? Are you afraid of what she would say?”

Before waiting for a response, I stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut on my way out like I was a 9-year-old all over again.

~~~~~

Akshita

My name means everlasting, like the sun or true love or a person you can count on. I don’t live up to my name—I am not a person you can count on. I know that my mother needs me to help her, but I don’t do anything about it. Sometimes I feel awful about the way Dadi treats her, like vermin, just because she’s widowed. The other day, Dadi wouldn’t let me touch food that my mother had made for me. She ordered one of our maids to throw it out.

Ma pretends as if this sort of thing doesn’t bother her, but I can easily see that it does. Dadi doesn’t allow her to go outside either, because she’s newly widowed. With nothing to do, my mother glides around the house in white like an idle ghost.

Sometimes I get so angry at her for not standing up for herself, but my anger morphs into something else when I realize that I am exactly like my mother. Maybe that’s why I try staying away from her, because it’s like looking into a mirror; she’s everything I pray I don’t become.

It wasn’t always like this. It wasn’t until my grandfather died last year that Dadi was forced to move in: from a tiny nameless village south of Punjab to Delhi, a sprawling metropolitan with millions and millions of people. The change should have been difficult for her, but as soon as she moved in, it was like she had snatched the reigns of the household from Ma, who was doing a perfectly fine job at it.

She complained about every single thing, no matter how inconsequential. But it was mostly Ma and I that she complained about. Dadi has a soft spot for Indu, and she often says that Indu looks just like Papa did, so she doesn’t scold her as much. I don’t ever tell anyone, because Ma would get so angry, but I know that Dadi dislikes me just because I am like my mother. I think Ma knows it; I think even Indu knows it.

Another problem is that Dadi thinks that Papa left us enough money for Ma to spend the rest of her life pent up at home, and barely recognizable beneath her white veil. We live in a big house; we have a big mortgage. With Papa gone, even I know it’s only a matter of time before money becomes an issue. Dadi is old—she doesn’t understand things like this. She doesn’t understand that a house in this part of Delhi is so hard to buy; she doesn’t understand that once you buy it, it’s even harder to keep.

I wish Ma would tell her these things. Sometimes, when she sneers at Ma, I wish that Ma would just get up and press her hands deep into Dadi’s shoulders and shake her roughly. Maybe then she would finally listen.

~~~~~

Indu

Sometimes I think to myself that it is almost as if Dadi cut off Ma’s tongue when she moved in. She still looks the same from the outside—she just doesn’t get to say anything for herself anymore. But I think that Ma is much stronger than she looks. I know that she’s much stronger than Akshita thinks she is.

A couple of days ago, I felt dizzy and feverish in the morning and my stomach was in knots. Ma let me stay home from school. Dadi wasn’t feeling too well either, and she lied on the mat in her room, fanning away flies and complaining loudly about the winter weather in Delhi. Must be some kind of bug that’s going around, Ma said, ignoring Dadi, and tucking me into bed.

I noticed suddenly that she wasn’t wearing white anymore but I didn’t think as much of it as I should have on account of my fever. She was dressed in a blue and green sari. I squinted my eyes to look at it; I didn’t think I had ever seen it before, so it must have been new. There was kohl smeared under her eyes, and it looked like she had pink lipstick on too.

“Where are you going?” I asked sleepily.

“I have a job interview.”

Ma smiled nervously, and even with my fever, I knew that this was a big deal. I didn’t know what to think—I felt confused and happy and tired all at once.

“Dadi-”

“Dadi doesn’t know. I’ll let her know when she has to. She’s been in her room all day, and she won’t even notice I’m gone, and neither will you, if you take a long nap. Your didi doesn’t know either, okay?”

“Akshita doesn’t know?”

“No. Now go to sleep. I’ll be back before you know it.”

And she was. I didn’t even notice her gone, like she had told me.

Thinking about it later was like counting the slippery tadpoles in the dirty stream that ran by our house. It was fuzzy and shadowy and it felt like a dream—I wasn’t even sure if it had happened.

But, the next day, Ma exchanged a look with me at the breakfast table. It was a sly look, like the two of us knew something the others didn’t. I was excited again. I looked at Akshita, who was swirling around her breakfast cereal with a spoon and a solemn look on her face. I knew enough not to tell her. I could see that Ma did not want her to know until the time was right. And so, I kept quiet.

~~~~~

Akshita

It has been about a year since Papa died. It has been about 9 months since Dadi moved away, because the weather in Delhi is too cold for the aches in her joints. Deep down, I know that this isn’t the reason she moved. I know this because I know her, and I know Ma.

I know this because the evening Ma told us that she had gotten a job, we were clearing the dining table, and the plate Dadi was carrying crashed into the ground and shattered into a million shards. Ma was quiet as she knelt down to gather the broken pieces, her fingers shaking but careful.

Dadi looked at Ma, eyes ablaze, and for a moment there I honestly believed that she would strike Ma across the face. Bu then her shoulders slumped down and she looked tired and old and weathered. I remember that I almost felt bad for her.

Ma led her gently by the elbow to her bedroom. Indu and I never found out what they spoke about that night. They emerged from the room about an hour later. It was very clear to me that they had both been crying. Ma’s eyes were red, and Dadi kept wiping her cheeks with the pallu of her sari, even though they were dry.

A week later, she left to live with my uncle and aunt in Calcutta. I see her now only at celebrations and funerals. When I went to an aunt’s wedding last month, my cousin had pulled aside my mother and had spoken to her in hushed tones. I only caught fragments of the conversation, but I knew that it was about Dadi’s health. Could be Parkinson’s, or maybe even Alzheimer’s, Akash had whispered and had then smiled thinly at me when he noticed I was listening.

I know that Ma worries for Dadi, but with her gone, we can cry and laugh and hold each other, so I’m glad. Every night the three of us lie in bed and we take turns speaking about one thing that each of us misses about Papa. Sometimes we start to cry, it’s always Ma first and then me and then finally Indu.

But the three of us are stronger than we ever have been, so I know that we’ll manage. Ma has a full-time job now, and though she’s not earning a huge amount of money, it does suffice. Sometimes, when I look at her and see how strong she is now, my heart swells with immeasurable happiness. I know Papa would be immensely proud of her, but more importantly, I know that I am.