I watch as she draws. She is so careful, sketching lightly and going back over with stronger outlines when she finds the right place for them, occasionally brushing her blond hair back when it falls on the paper. I look down at my notebook. I start to sketch a dragon. Its snout is rounded with a gentle slope up to the head. It looks down at a book and sketches something lightly with a stubby yellow pencil. On its back are two softly curved butterfly wings. I look up and gaze at her. She is still drawing, and she doesn’t look up. She wears a pink shirt. A ray of light falls on her, illuminating her face as she looks calm for once. I am glad, I have seen her worried too many times. I sketch a tail and legs carefully folded underneath it, and gentle spikes running down its back like water, or like hair. I shade in most of it pink, with accents of purple on the wings and spikes, and gray penciled eyebrows over icy blue eyes. 

“Hey,” she says, “what do you think?”

Hikes are freeing. I step out of my skin and hear the scurrying of small feet over dry, walked-on dirt. I feel the scrape of my hands against the rough bark. The physical exertion that comes with hiking becomes cleansing. The sweat that comes pouring down washes the thoughts from the nape of my neck to my tingling toes. 

I laugh with my family when we gossip about the fairies living in the forest. A mystique surrounds us as a stump becomes a fairy lodge. The blades of grass become tall trees. I imagine spirits in shadows, waiting until the humans are gone. I talk to anyone, about everything and nothing. Our movements keep us in sync as we push together over the last hill. 

When I reach the top a feeling of joy overtakes me. Accomplishment allows me to collapse with laughter and heavy breathing as success swallows me whole. I slow to a steady breath and look at the view. With my cheeks flushed, I grin.

The way down is an exciting race. We stumble into the car, faces stretched with smiles. I relax into my seat and close my eyes without a thought in my head. Reborn.

The cool metal of the revolver sits snugly against your temple, the trigger already slippery with sweat as your trembling fingers simply refuse to squeeze the trigger.

One in six, you remind yourself. The odds are supposedly in your favor. If your skull isn’t blown to bits within the next minute, the money’s yours, the entire ten-thousand dollars for Grandma’s chemotherapy. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. All you hear is the blood roaring in your ears, your heart pounding like there’s no tomorrow.

“Grandma, if I die now, I’m sorry for breaking my promise, but I had to try for you,” you whisper-croak in one quick breath. 

“Quit stalling and shoot already,” someone snaps. Vaguely, over the tangible impatience of the crowd, you remember Grandma’s bright smile and her warm glow years before she was diagnosed. Growing up without your parents, Grandma was always your favorite. 

You recall your middle-school self once stating solemnly at teatime, “Grandma, I love you. I’d die for you in a heartbeat, you know?”

“Sweetie,” she’d replied softly with a chuckle, “I want you to live for me, not die for me. Promise?” 

“...okay. Promise.”

Well, look where that’s gone. You pull the trigger.

Blue

Clocks chime. Wind whips my hair around, clouding my vision with black strands. But I can still make out the electric blue light of the clock’s face, still see the time displayed neatly for all to see. 1:00. There used to be an analog clock for people like my grandma, people who refused to get with the times. She would always insist upon having me tell her where the hour and minute hands were, so she could know the time and I could learn. But in the 11 years that she has been gone, I don’t remember the trick anymore. And the analog circle is gone.

1:00. Right. My heels click crisply against the tiled sidewalk, each tap another second ticking by. Time seems to run everything. I can’t remember a point in my life when something wasn’t scheduled. Every day, every month, every year. Scheduled to the last second. My appointment, which is at 1:15, looms in my mind. I can’t bring myself to feel nervous about it, not when I’ll be getting what I have yearned for for countless years. My gloved hands connect with cool glass, and doors slide seamlessly open to reveal a clean, open space. A space that screams at me to sit, to enjoy everything it has to offer. So I do. 

“Alaska, Sixteen?” 

A professional sounding voice calls out my name and age, and I quickly push myself off the loose leaf pattern of my chair. 

“Right here.” I smile, walking quickly up to the high desk that I can barely see over. A middle aged woman peers down at me, the glances back to the paperwork. An apple sits next to her, uneaten and apparently untouched. Its glossy finish is so smooth, I can see my pale reflection in it. I quickly look away.

“Netscreen implants?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Down to the right. Turn left at the sign, and enter the second door on the right.” She points in the direction I should go. And adds, “Good luck, Alaska.”

I can’t possibly imagine why she would wish me luck, not when I’ve been waiting for this for so long, but I nod anyway. 

“Thank you.”

The room is chaos. So utterly at odds from the lean space I left just a few minutes ago that I stop dead in my tracks. Just so I can take in everything.

The floors. The walls. The wires that seem to dominate every corner and niche. Combined with the dirt smudged on the walls and floor, the space feels cramped. Like my grandmother’s closet I used to hide in, buried beneath the moth bitten scarves she had saved from her youth. A single light bulb had been present, but I had been too short. So I would wrap the cloth around me, and stare at the door. Waiting for someone to notice my absence, and come find me. I used to keep a tally. My brother was the winner by default.

“Excuse me, miss?”

I whirl around and the deep voice, and find myself staring at a doctor. At least, would assume a doctor based on the clothes, and the amount of technology coating him. But there was no name tag to verify that, and his shoes were of a scuffed brown leather, not the normal white and silver boots. Whoever he was, I was surprised enough to blurt out, “Yes?” I looked around, and suddenly realized. I was in the wrong place. Panic flooded me, and words just started pouring out.

“ I’m so sorry, but the woman out there said to take the door on the right, and I think I took the door on the left, and I didn’t mean to but I just had to see what was in here. My brother always said curiosity was my fatal flaw, and I didn’t-”

He holds up his hands in a stop gesture I had seen on the Screen. I shut up.

“You wouldn’t believe how many people make that mistake.”

He reaches a hand around me to shut the door, close enough that I can smell his cologne clinging to him. He smells like my brother used to, I realize with a start. But he quickly pulls away, taking the memory with him. I blink the surprise out of my head.

“Come with me, Miss-”

“Alaska.” I say automatically.

“Alaska.” He gestures with his left hand to the door right across from the one I had just opened. “Right in here. I assume you are here for the Netscreen implant?”

I nod.

“I’ll need a transport license, as well as a birth certificate and a guardian’s consent.” He holds out a hand, then suddenly gestures  to the azure chair next to the crisp white table that occupies most of the space. “Feel free to sit. I don’t know how long this will take.”

“Not long, I hope.” My half assed attempt at a joke awkwardly fills the space. I curse myself. My brother had always told me that humor was not my strong suit. Silently, I slid into the chair, twisting the hair tie on my wrist into a figure eight before reaching into my pack and drawing out the files he requested.

“Here.” I slip them onto his desk, and go back to the chair. 

“Thank you.” He flips through them, lingering on my guardian’s consent.

“Is this your brother?” His finger points at the signature, and to the picture next to it. I shrug.

“Yeah. He’s eight years older, so it counts. Right?”

He nods, but is still studying it. Finally, he looks away and stands up.

“All right, Alaska.” He points towards the door. “Right this way.”

Pushing it open after him, I follow him down an ominous looking hallway, its silvery white walls perfect for reflecting the streams of light. It looks like a tunnel of mirrors, except the floor is solid white. The taps of shoes against tile are the only sounds as he leads me farther down, until we hit the first door that I’ve seen here. 

He pauses before opening the door, turning to me. “I need you to state your date of birth for me please, before we enter.”

“But didn’t you already see my license? And you saw the guardian approval.”

“Yes, I did.” He looks at me. “But by law, I am required to ask you that. And I forgot.”

“Nice.” I wait for him to laugh, but he doesn’t, and I silently curse myself. Don’t joke!

“Uh, December 17th, 2023.”

He glances at the papers, nods, then gestures for me to enter the room. I do.The fluorescent lights are the last thing I see before my vision goes dark and I’m gone.

My skis were clunky and my feet were heavy and walking felt wrong. I got off of the lift and didn’t move; thought I might never be able to move. I was frozen with fear and freezing in the wind.

My friends knew me as a “go-getter.” They contributed my streak of achievement to hard work and my “go-gettem” personality. I’m not sure of all that. All I know is it’s hard to slow down on a downhill slope.

Anxiety beckoned me forward. I was headed down. I was always headed down. I was waiting for the slope to come to an end; for the falling feeling to stop. I’m still waiting.

Back in school, I was taking harder classes and falling further behind. The more I agreed to, the more people asked of me.

There’s more than one way to go downhill.

I was born into a world of metal. A constant push and pull of pistons present since the day I opened my eyes. The footfalls of the great Colossus beating like a slow drum, both my lullaby and alarm, ceaseless in their movement as we journey across barren landscapes. Always searching. Never stopping. In a continuous state of disrepair, constrained only by the valiant Engineers, worshipers of the Machine, self-proclaimed saviors of humankind. Our last defense against the terrors of the Wastes.

I was born into a world of survival. A constant push and pull between the denizens of the Colossus present since the day I opened my eyes. The footfalls of the Colossus suffocating the last shreds of humanity, fighting over scraps of the upper elites, ceaseless in their movement as we journey under the cloudless sky. Always searching. Never stopping. The lower tiers starving while the upper tiers feast, a delicate imbalance, fueled by prejudice.

This is the reality of the Colossus. One of humanity's ancient land-striders, constantly moving, constantly shifting, like the Wastes themselves. Never stopping. Always searching. This is the world I was born into, yet it is not the one in which I will die.

A flute’s tweeting melody flows through the room. It is her voice. I look in her eyes, they are blue and green at the same time, the colors of a river flowing to the sea, the river that bars my path when I walk in the meadow. Pieces of black seaweed are pulled to the middle by the current, this is her pupil. I close my eyes and again hear the flute. A strange sensation comes over me and I can smell the salty seaweed. I open my eyes, and there she is, in front of me. My knees tremble in the power of the strong ocean waves. Her beautiful eyes leak raindrops fallen into the sea, a sign that the river has completed its journey. One of the tears runs down her cheek, creating a small river of its own, and I wonder when it will, again, reach the sea.

12

She says she wants to be in the army, like her grandfather.

15

She ignores her father’s warnings and hesitation, insisting that this is the right path. That her mother would be happy seeing her this passionate and motivated. Just like she was.

18

She’s off, ready to begin making her dream come true. She hears her father crying in the middle of the night, and she sits outside his door until three in the morning. The hug is brief and sobering.

21

She doesn’t hear much from her father these days. Not since the last argument; the worst one. She’d said she wanted to do something meaningful unlike him, and he’d said that her mother would be disappointed.

25

It’s her first tour in Afghanistan and she’s never been more nervous or alone. Is her mother watching? Is her father praying for her?

32

She met a nice man and got married. Two dogs and thoughts of adoption. Her father visits finally, smiling. “Your mother would be proud.”

33

Second tour. She’s not as nervous this time, only worried and homesick.

35

She gets the news only a day before coming home. The funeral is too much and she breaks down. She swore she’d be strong.

37

She and her husband adopt a baby girl. She’s named after her grandmother.

40

She buys flowers and visits his grave. Her voice is a choked whisper as she sobs, but he still hears it. “I’m proud of you, dad.”

Mr. Cassidy

Vanity is a sin. For it prevents one from seeing their true faults, as they are too busy being their own God. 

“Make me an appointment at the hair parlor,”

Mr. Cassidy snaps to his butler.

“Shine and polish my mirror,”

Mr. Cassidy scolds his housekeeper.

“Don’t touch my suits! You’ll wrinkle them!”

Mr. Cassidy shouts at his wife.

“You’re looking sharp, Mr. Cassidy,”

Mr. Cassidy commends his own reflection.

For in the asylum, all Mr. Cassidy has for company is his own reflection.

     Knees buckled as the prosthetic limb unhinged.  Lying prone, she caressed her remaining leg.  She righted herself then collapsed, a marionette without strings.  Coiled in fetal position, memories returned.  A toddler like a newborn deer grew accustomed to wiry limbs.  Laughter echoed.  She found her footing and raced to her father.

     Holding his bulky camera on the first school day, he commenced an annual tradition.  She gave a gap-toothed grin.  During her first track meet, words of confidence fueled her.  At the mall, the celebratory pair relished frozen yogurt.  As he positioned her hands on the steering wheel and her feet on the pedals, she met him with a look of confusion.  He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and compared driving to the first time she rode a bike.  He would be with her.

     Her heartstrings ached.  He had been present for the firsts and then vanished because of a faulty brake.  Her shoulders rose.  Familiar words of confidence whispered.  With artificial limb reattached, she found her footing and crossed the room.  Reaching the distant wall, she smiled, knowing her father had never left her side.