Tag: Regional Silver Key

47

The elk stood together. The forest around them was covered in a thick blanket of snow. One doe stood away from the rest of the herd. Her coat was wet from the snow collecting on her back. The breath of the elk gave the area the illusion of smoke rising. The crack of a branch sent all ears facing the old oak that had given up one of its limbs. Its branch lay. The oldest doe turned her head and walked out towards the river.

The rest of the herd followed the eldest does, then their fawns, then the young bulls. Most of the elk were starved, only the fawns of the matriarchs had full stomachs. The elk trudged through the three foot snow banks. The elk were two miles from the river. At the river, the snow was not as deep, and the herd could easily get to the grass that laid in waiting. For thirty minutes, the elk moved in the powder snow, moving their heads at the smallest sound of a bird singing or a chipmunk running up the tree.

When the herd had finally reached the river, they rushed to the bank, drinking. The cold  wind blew across the water, creating ripples that splashed the thirsty, till they could no more. Most of the elk had slipped away, into the dense brush surrounding the river bank. Three of the herd members stood, watching over the thicket that the group laid in. It was late November, and many packs of wolves were prowling the area to feed pregnant females.

The sun had set on the cold land, and the elk huddled together in the snow. As the snow storm got stronger, and the night got darker, the sound of the forest, breaking, scared the animals. In the morning, the forest was quiet. Nothing moved. The elk herd made their way back to the area where they had bedded down the night before. The elk sniffed around the area for anything interesting. The scent of death hung in the air. The group looked to see one of their own, dead, lying on the ground. Frozen in place. The blank eyes stared towards the river. A young fawn, only about five months old. The herd, unable to understand what had happened, moved on. All moved on, except the elks’ mother who  hung back. She would later die too, most likely from wolves.  

44

The cold wind kept blowing, and the elk were forced to move to a warmer area. The town of Bozeman seemed the only place. As the herd moved on, the wind and snow picked up. They  walked toward the town, but stopped at the edge of a cul-de-sac. The people, who lived there, went out of their warm houses to view the beautiful creatures. As the sun set on the town, the lights of the shops came on, and people started to move about. The elk, scared from the movement, moved farther out of town. The herd stopped, at the edge of a golf course, and settled in for the night.

The herd woke, with a start, as gunshots fired. They turned and ran as a man, in a golf cart, came at them, holding a rifle. He yelled at them, and they pounded the ground, sprinting to the town. They ran, oblivious to the the highway in front of them. The sound of metal on fur stopped the animals dead in their tracks. They looked at the road to see a young bull, lying on the side of the road. They continued to move to the plains.  

43

The snow kept coming, and the winter was long and hard. Death was always an enemy, hanging there, waiting for the weak or the sick to come to its gates. As the white turned to green, the mood of the forest and plains grew happier. The Spring and Summer was the best time for the elk. Babies were being born, and the air was sweet with the singing of birds. As the months moved on by, the herd grew with every passing day.

52

As the sun set on the beautiful day, the elk settled in for the night. They sat under the brush and saw the light fade away. The old cow stood alone in the green grass.

The young doe looked spectacular in her snowy dress, its train gliding elegantly across the carpeted floor.  Her chestnut coat was scrubbed to a shine, and she hardly made a sound as she was walked down the aisle in her white booties.

All of the guests had been dressed in only the finest attire and were gossiping madly about the new couple:

Black top hats had been fitted onto the prickly heads of the three porcupines, and the two portly walruses were adorned with monocle and cane.

The lioness exhibited a scarlet gown that had been living in a closet all year, waiting for just this kind of occasion, and the penguins wore seersucker button-downs.

The egret was delighted to show off his navy blue herringbone suit, even though it made him quite hungry; the caimans grinned devilishly in houndstooth.

The tyrannosaurus watched the whole procession from afar, downcast because he was not invited (at the capuchin’s bat mitzvah, he had eaten all of the mini quiches).

No one acknowledged that sad, skeletal monstrosity:

The red river hogs were too busy fighting over a pair of Prada heels.

Four bighorn sheep were butting their way to the front row of fold-up chairs in plaid slacks.

One fun-loving grizzly in a neon blazer made her way through the noisy crowd, asking the partygoers for their phone numbers.

The gibbon boasted a polka-dotted bow tie; his velvety arms stretched outwards to hold a Bible.  He was to be the officiator of this holy matrimony.

And it was impossible to ignore the blue whale who hovered cheerfully over them all in a slim-fitting, yellow blouse.

The human stood beaming at the end of the aisle in his blue coveralls, proud of his work.  Everything was in place, and his bride looked as gorgeous as ever.  He loved the way her furry ears poked out from under the shimmering veil, the way her lifeless eyes reflected his own.

But of course! He had forgotten: she needed to be standing.

Bob – for that was the human’s name – rearranged his fiancé’s corpse so that she stood upright on her two hind legs.  He gave her a kiss on the cheek and then fussed with her body some more.  After making sure she was stable, he hurried over towards the entrance doors to close them; this was to be a relatively private affair.

Bob hummed “Here Comes the Bride” to drown out the clamor of his pounding heart.  His low voice bounced off of the emptied glass enclosures and echoed throughout the museum.

He returned to his betrothed and took his place with her under the altar.  He awaited the gibbon’s blessings, frowned when he did not receive them, and then pried the holy book from the animal’s cold hands to read from it himself.

The groom cleared his throat nervously and wiped the sweat off of his forehead.  “Dearly beloved.”

He stopped and took a deep breath.

“Dearly beloved: we are gathered here today to celebrate–”  A surge of nausea swept over him.  He closed the Bible.

Moonlight poured through the large windows and illuminated the faces of the invitees.

The human, standing before a sea of statues, decided to speak his mind.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate our kinship.  We are gathered to celebrate our kinship,” he repeated for emphasis, “because, in today’s world, each human is an island; because my mother cares for me no more than my co-workers do; because people ignore each other on the subway.  Love is but a game of cards we play to distract ourselves from the unrelenting ennui of our daily lives.  Win some, lose some – It’s all the same.

“Everything is so horribly fickle, but we eat it all up so willingly.  This great city is populated by a mass of walking and talking museums.  Each dinner, each movie, each fuck is awarded its own habitat.”

Bob beat his fist on his breast.  He was stronger now.

“And they are be well-maintained habitats at that.”

He inhaled deeply.

“My friends, we are gathered here today to witness a real marriage of two very real individuals.”

Bob turned to his intended and produced a silver ring he had purchased at a stoop sale for two dollars and fifty cents.  On it, Claudia was inscribed.

The groom’s words were smooth and rehearsed.  “This ring is a token of my love.  I marry you with this ring, with all that I have and all that I am.”

He took her hoof gently with his free hand and tried slipping the band onto it, but to no avail.

Bob glared determinately at the ring, then at the doe, and then back at the ring in sincere contemplation.  He did this for quite a while before he fell to the floor with a pained sigh.

But wait!  Maybe…

The human pounded the dainty piece of jewelry against his bride’s foot.  Hard.  Then her ankle.  Then her thigh.  Her neck.  The side of her face.

No.  It had all made sense in his head.  His darling’s fur was disheveled, and bruises decorated her figure.

Bob’s knuckles stung; so did his quiet tears.  He flung the wedlock’s consummation across the dark hall.  It tottered aggressively, but only for a moment, before becoming inanimate once more.

All my life I have loved being outdoors.  I loved the rain and the winds.  I loved the dew in the morning with little rainbows glittering all around.  And even though it scared me, I loved the feeling of risk being out in the wilderness.  Something feels complete about me when I’m running wild.  I thought it was perfect out in the woods, and that nature was not affected by the big bad world.  I childishly thought nothing could disrupt or harm nature.

I have always loved the mountains.  Their long graceful shapes climbing upwards to the sky.  The wilderness of trees that stretches across them like a long flowing cloak.  Their gray rocky peaks that just touch the clouds.  They are just so massive and old, they have seen so many years pass.  I feel like they watch over me when I’m out in the wilderness.  When I look up at the mountains, there always seems to be something more to them, something hidden in those shadowy woods.  Something magic.

One day I was hiking up the notoriously muddy Mt. Animus with my family.  It was a stormy day, and dark mist rose above my head and spiraled through the treetops.  The deep purple of the sky turned everything to shadows and made the bright greens of the forest a dark, droopy grey.  The air hung heavy on my shoulders as I hiked upwards.  I was a little bit behind my sunny-blond brother who was racing up ahead.  Whenever I scrambled over a slippery blue moss-covered rock, I could see his golden head bobbing in front of me like a lantern in the night.  My parents were a little bit behind me, the heavy fog slowing them down.

I had been taking photographs with my little red plastic camera.  Last night’s constant drizzle had woken up the world.  Fiery orange mushrooms sprung up from the sponge-like ground, and sky blue lichen was bouncing out at me from all sides of the trail like a whimsical pop-up book.  The small bright flash of my camera brought out the colors in the ground, but most of these little wonders were hidden under drooping ferns.  I had to search along the sides of the dirt trail for sparks of brightness in the spongy mud.

Over the course of the hike the fog started to thicken and swirl like homemade whipped cream.  It became increasingly difficult to move and beads of sweat started clinging to the tip of my nose.  My camera fogged up, and my smile turned into a grumble as my wildlife pictures became increasingly blurry.  I wondered how far it was to the summit.

Water droplets started sliding down my glasses bursting into disorienting rainbows whenever I took a photograph.  I took my glasses off to wipe the layer of steam that had accumulated on them, when out of the corner off my eye I saw one of my favorite plants.  “Indian Pipes” are peculiar creamy white plants shaped like clay pipes.  Everyone thinks they are some kind of mushroom, but they are normal plants without the sparkle of green.  They have no chlorophyll inside of them to photosynthesize and create sugars.  Instead they soak up nutrients from the earth.  I love them because they are different from the plants we see every day.

I walked over to a little patch of Indian Pipes just to the left of the trail.  They had sprouted in a perfect circle, which didn’t seem natural to me.  Still, it would make for a good picture.  As I crouched down next to them, I slipped on some wet moss and my precious camera went flying.

“You okay Colly?” came my little brother’s voice from up ahead.

Grumbling I got to my feet.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said grumpily, “But I can’t find my camera.  Could I have some help?  I can’t see a thing with this mist!”

And with that my little lantern came bobbing into view.  But even his wide sapphire eyes couldn’t find my camera.  We searched until Mom and Dad came into view, when I stopped.

“It’s no use!” I cried despairingly, “It’s gone!”

I threw my hands down, accidentally brushing against one of the odd little Indian Pipes and the world faded to black…

When I woke up the world was a blaze of light and the air was clean and dry.  I didn’t open my eyes, but the brightness cast an orange glow through my eyelids.  I felt warmth wash over me and good smells overwhelmed all other senses.  Could that possibly be cookies baking?

I was about to crack open my eyes and ask if I could have a cookie or two, when common sense got in the way.  Wait a moment, I thought, I’d been in the woods.  And this was definitely not Mt. Animus.  A wave of terror crashed over me like ice-cold water.  Where was I?  Had I been abducted?  Kidnapped?  Where was my family?  After terror came panic.  What on earth was going to happen to me?

Then came wonderful clarity.  This situation couldn’t be too awful if cookies were involved.  I cracked open one eye, then another.  I was in a round room with walls the color of fresh cream.  The smell was wafting through a spherical doorway in front of me that strangely started a couple feet above the ground, and the light was coming from straight behind me.

        Suddenly a loud chatter burst out behind my head and the light started vibrating and bouncing around the walls.  I jumped with a start and turned to face something I had never seen before.  The creature standing, no floating, in front of me was a glowing, vibrating humanoid.  The creature was floating inside a little bubble of brightness.  After I got over the shock of the beautiful bubble, I stared in awe at the bizarre creature inside.  It had a small rotund body with wonderful wide eyes, just like my brothers, but neon green.  Small feet stuck out beneath it, although I didn’t know what it could possibly use them for since it seemed to be able to fly.  Similarly sized arms poked out from it’s sides.  It had huge half-moon ears, like a koala, and what appeared to be whiskers sitting atop a little wet heart-shaped nose.  Immediately I knew it could do me no harm, although I couldn’t understand a thing it was saying.

        “Excuse me,” I said clearly and politely, “But I can’t make out what you’re saying.  Do you speak English perhaps?  Or Latin?  I think I can make out a couple sentences in Latin.”

        It cocked it’s head at me, which sent its whole body cartwheeling sideways.  Then it started to speak in a very squeaky, high voice.

        “Apologies for my confusion young miss, I was speaking Lenape.  The last visitor we had spoke Lenape, and a kind fellow was he.  You, on the other hand, appear to speak English.  Good language, English.  But I can’t keep all those pronouns straight.”

        It spoke very quickly and when it was finished I stood in awe.  This little glowing orb spoke English!  It blinked twice then continued, “My name is Phyll spelled P-H-Y-L-L.  My good name is short for Chlorophyll.”  He gave a little bow, which sent him rolling forwards in a summersault.

“Nice to meet you,” I responded, in a shaky voice, “I’m Colly.  Spelled C-O-L-L-Y.  Short for Oecologia.”

“My that’s a pretty name,” he said cheerfully, “Colly reminds me of cauliflower.  Cauliflower is food.  Food reminds me of sugar.  Sugar is sweet.”  And he went on making strange comments like this for quite a while.

“How did I get here?” I interrupted all of the sudden.

“Ahh…” said Phyll calming down, twitching his whiskers and giving me a sideways look, “I knew one as young and curious as you would eventually ask.  Before I tell you, where do you think you are?”

I glared at him, infuriated, “How am I supposed to know?!  I was in the woods with my family near this lovely little bunch of Indian Pipes trying to find my camera when I blacked out and woke up here!  And now I’m having a conversation with a glowing ping pong ball!  Not to mention that it can fly!”

“Hold your horses missy, I didn’t mean for you to get all heated up.  I just find it interesting what visitors think.  I’ll tell you eventually.”

I decided that the best way out of this was to cooperate, “Okay.” I said calmly.

“Did you notice anything odd about those so called ‘Indian Pipes?’” he asked with a twinkle in one of his rather round eyes.

“Well, they were in a circle…”

“Those plants are magical.  Magical portals, yes they are.  And that by touching them you were transported here.”

“Where is here exactly?” I asked.  I doubted very much that the plants had been magical.

“We are presently inside one of the ‘Indian Pipes.’”

It took me a couple seconds to process what Phyll had said.  Then a million questions popped into my mind.

“That’s impossible!” I shouted a little too loudly, “We couldn’t fit inside!”

But as I looked around, I knew it was true.  The white walls of the room were fibrous and looked as though they were made out of plants, and Phyll did look a bit like the microscopic bacteria we studied under a microscope at school.  Did that mean I had been shrunk?  At this point I believed anything was possible.

Phyll smiled seeing my eyes widen as I began to accept the magic that I had just encountered, “Welcome to Vegrandis, a world within a world.”

        Soon Phyll had explained that Vegrandis was one of many minuscule magical worlds inside plants.  These worlds were inhabited by the Parvi, Phyll explained.  Phyll was apparently the head of national affairs in the city of Vegrandis, and often interacted with other nations of Parvi.  Then, after a rather lengthy explanation of the wonderful democracy they had over in Minimus (also known as a clump of mountain sorrel) and a monologue about how awful the old dictator of Vegrandis was (which nearly sent me to sleep, which is saying a lot since I was listening to another species speak), we set about with the “grand tour.”

        We stepped onto a balcony overlooking a huge room filled with other Parvi.  Steam rose from little miniature clay ovens that lined the walls and the air danced with the scent of homemade cookies and pies.  I could smell sugar and butter all over the room.  Sweetness danced in circles around my head.  It was a miniature heaven on earth.

The little Parvi were doing what seemed to be an intricate dance, but turned out to be baking.  Each one had a tray of dough, which they watched over until they slid it into one of the ovens.  All the creatures shared a resemblance to Phyll, although they varied in shades of cream.  All of the Parvi glowed and bobbed, just like Phyll.  Each had their own task of carrying trays heaping with baked goods or stirring bowls of batter.

“Since our mother plant cannot photosynthesize,” explained Phyll, “We bake for her to keep her healthy.  She needs the extra sugars since she supports all of us Parvi.”

        Then Phyll bobbed down a flight of sugar-covered stairs and began to point out different steps in the process of baking.  He also introduced me to all of the friendly Parvi in the room.  They all had smiles on their faces and butter smeared onto their bubbles.  Just seeing their joy made me happy too.  Several cookies later, we arrived at a large door.  I was in a rather jovial mood with sugar and frosting stuck to my cheeks and a smile on my face.  But as soon as Phyll saw that door, his wonderful smiled faded and soon mine did too.

        “There’s something I have to show you, young miss,” he said solemnly, “And I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

        He knocked three times and the door swung open.  We entered a dimly lit room with a few other Parvi inside, all with equally concerned faces.  The source of their concern was soon apparent.  A transparent syrupy liquid had seeped through the wall and formed a lake, and everything the liquid touched shrivelled up and turned brown.  I rushed to the lake that was killing this wonderful world and looked at the damage at my feet.

        “Who would do something this awful?” I cried, tears springing from my eyes at the sight of the wreckage.

        Phyll cleared its throat, “Um, I’m sorry to tell you young miss, but you did this.”

        “What?” No, that wasn’t possible.  I couldn’t have done something this bad.

        “Your people.  Humans.  You have a system that makes you pollute without knowing it.  You don’t mean to, but you can destroy entire worlds by accidentally spilling something or letting something blow away in the breeze.  Don’t worry, we’ll be able to patch this leak up in a couple of weeks, but you need to know that you humans did this.  You love nature young miss, but you destroy it with your love.  There is a whole lot of pollution out there killing your world and ours alike.  It’s up to you to stop pollution from destroying everything we love.  I wish I didn’t have to say this, but I can’t do a thing.  Us Parvi aren’t polluting the world.  Your cars and factories are the ones hurting us all.  So please.  Help us.  All of us.”

And he gave me a deep and sorrowful look, and I knew that helping the world was what I was supposed to do.  All of the worlds.  Because, who else will?  The birds can’t save the sky and the fish can’t save the sea and even the Parvi can’t help.  But we wonderful, terrible human beings can save the world we love so much.  Because right now, we are the bad guys.  But we can also be the heros.  And heros need to make a stand.

To get back to the “big world” Phyll took me into the same circular room I woke up in.

“It will be the same moment when you get back to your family,” he said, “Time moves slower in the big world.  Your parents won’t realize you were gone.”

Then, to my alarm, his shining bubble disappeared with a pop and Phyll toddled over to me on his little round feet.  He attempted to give me a hug, but since the hug was around my knees I lifted my new friend up and gave him a real “big hug.”

“Thank you for showing me your world.” I whispered in a koala bear ear.

“Oh you’re welcome missy.” Phyll whispered back and slipped a little something into my hand, “Do make sure to come back.”

After I promised to come back (which meant hiking Mt. Animus a whole lot), Phyll instructed me to crouch in the same position I was in when I entered Vegrandis.  Then he opened a small cupboard, pressed a button inside and my consciousness started to fade.

“Goodbye!” I heard Phyll shout.

I was about to respond, when the world faded to black again…

When I arrived back on Mt. Animus in the same position as before, with my family all around me, I almost laughed.  Could that have been real?  I looked down at the object in my hand.  It was my camera!  It had gone through the portal!  No wonder I couldn’t find it.  I flipped the camera over.  Scrawled in what appeared to be the glowing essence of a Parvi bubble were the words:

Cauliflower girl-

I’ve enchanted this camera so when you take a picture, it transports you to Vegrandis.  Come as often as you wish!  And remember, you can save the worlds.  All of them.

        -Phyll

        Smiling, I slipped the camera into my pocket.  No more trips up the soggy Mt. Animus,  I thought.

        Out loud I said, “I guess I’ll have to save up for a new camera.  It’s really too bad.”

        Now I know about the harm that can be done to the natural world.  Now I know that the mountains aren’t only a safe haven, they are a place that needs to be saved.  Now I can go out into the world with a goal to help save our wonderful natural world and all the crazy-amazing creatures that live in it.  Because the world isn’t gonna save itself.  That’s what heroes are for.

Latin Names

Animus means mind or imagination

Oecologia means ecology

Vegrandis means tiny

Parvi is the plural of “parvus” which means small

Minimus means very small

ONE

The day the world ends is August 8. Our leader told us so. They stood on the balcony overlooking our town and called us to attention.

“We will all pass on the 8th of August, at 3:30. Our scientists have discovered that Earth will die from overheating, and our reinforcements will melt. The beams holding up our community will collapse, and we will drown.”

It’s kind of sad, I think, to have to accept death, but they say it is the only thing to do. We must go voluntarily. The celebrations will make up for it. My brother is only little, so he cried during the announcement. He hasn’t been taught yet that showing negative emotions in public is considered dangerous.

My friend taps me on the shoulder as our community applauds. She grins, her eyes shining.

“I can’t wait for the celebrations! We’ll get to wear colored clothing, and eat foods we’re not allowed to, and get to act like the people in the shiny books from school!”

“You mean the magazines? Harriet, those people didn’t eat. It would be unhealthy to look like them.” We break away from the crowd once the announcement ends, and head towards the South Tunnel.

Harriet shrugs, grabbing her shoes. “They look so…different. I like the ones that wear their hair down all the time. I wish we could do that.”

We pull on our shoes and walk down the South Tunnel, gazing up at the freshly painted mural. It shows our history, and how we corrected our flaws to become one of the last civilizations left.

After the scientists figured out that global warming would end the world, the builders elevated our communities. Some countries decided to build boats and submarines to live in forever, but they drowned. As far as anyone knows, America’s people are the only ones that survived the flooding. The communities are sparse, and there isn’t much contact with them.

“Johanna?” She’s not looking at me, just gazing at the paintings like I am. “Where did the others go?” She’s onto the last painting, where the ice caps are melting and people are drowning. “I mean, the other communities. Where are they?”

I pull her towards the other wall, where an old map of the world is hanging. Black lines are drawn across it to replace the faded borders.

“See the shape up top that looks like a dog? That used to be called Maine. Some people live in a community there.”

She nods and points to a small shape named Massachusetts. “And that’s us!”

As soon as she presses the shape, a small chime sounds throughout the South Tunnel. A nasally voice from the speakers states, “Community members are prohibited from touching the map. Number 107, should this be filed in your report as an accident which will not be repeated?”

Harriet sighs and looks down at her feet. “Yes, the incident will not happen again.”

“Thank you. We are pleased to hear that Number 107 will follow the rules.” There is a screech of mic feedback, and then the voice is gone.

Harriet is shaking, her eyes wide. “That was the third time I’ve been warned for correction this month. I’m going to have to be corrected if I slip up a fourth time.” I frown, thinking of the few times I’ve been warned of correction all my life. I know how important neatness and promptness are in our community. I hope Harriet won’t be corrected. They never are quite the same after.

“Come on! I don’t want to be late,” I whisper. We run to the exit and pull the huge door open.

TWO

The south end of our community is where all our homes are. We take off our shoes and sprint down the path towards a raised platform. I press the button for my home and a tunnel lights up. I start down the walkway after waving to Harriet.

I open the door to my home, looking for my little brother and my mom. “Owen?” I step into the living room and take off my jacket. There is no answer.

“Mom?”

My mom pokes her head out from the study door. “In here!”

I smile and hang up my jacket, then join them in the next room.

The study is tiny, just like our home, and it’s very plain. My mother is reading to Owen from one of the sites on the computer. I smile and take a place at my desk, digging out the flash drive from my pocket and fitting it into the slot in the desk.

The computer starts up, and it asks me one of the questions from my lesson today.

“What is the procedure for apocalypse-related incidents?”

I grin, feeling proud. I know this one by heart.

“Walk to the raised platform in the south end of the community and press the 9 button twice. Then lie down and rest,” I repeat carefully. We’re supposed to sleep peacefully so that we won’t try to run when we die.

“Very good. Proceed to internet use. Please use responsibly.”

My favorite site pops up on the screen, and I scroll down quickly. It’s a story site, with tales for kids that are written by government-approved writers. I was in the middle of a story about a girl that followed all the rules of her community and grew up to be a painter of the murals in the North Tunnel. I sigh, reading about the girl’s fantastic adventures.

“What are you thinking about?”

I turn to face my mom. It’s standard procedure to ask what another person is thinking, but I like to think people are just being polite.

“I’m thinking about being a government-approved writer when I grow up. I could create stories for people to read!”

My mom chuckles and closes her computer temporarily. “Johanna, you know that the genre of writing has to be chosen by the leader of the community. You can’t ask for realistic fiction writing in your job description.”

“I know, I know.” I scroll down farther to read another story about our community leader. “But what if I got a realistic fiction assignment from the government, and then…”

My brother starts crying when the computer talks about the Earth flooding. I pick him up and bring him into the living room after closing my computer.

“Johanna? Owen?”

“Dad!” I rush over to him. He grins at me after hanging up his jacket next to mine.

“Did you hear when the world is going to end? Did you?” I’m jumping up and down, barely being able to control myself.

“Yes, I did. August 8th, right?” He waves to my mom, who is now in the living room.

“Yeah! There’s going to be a huge celebration, and in only a few days!” I check the calendar in the kitchen: only one week until the three days of celebration.

“One week left! One week left!” I sing. My mom and dad chuckle, and Owen starts giggling. My mom walks into the dining room, shaking her head at our silly reactions. We all follow her, with my little brother in my dad’s arms.

I take my place at the dinner table and straighten my clothing. My parents do the same, and Owen reaches for his bib. With great difficulty, I manage to tie it around his neck.

“Can I press the button?” I look up at my dad timidly.

“Of course.”

I grin and reach for the circle in the middle of the table, hitting it with the tips of my fingers. The side of our house opens up, and our dining table moves down a treadmill.

The tables of each family move to the platform, with each table taking up a corner of the octagon shape. My dad stands up, and we all follow as the community leader emerges from the tunnel.

“Thank you, families of the community. As you all know, our scientists have found the answer to the question that has been on our minds for so long. The end of the world will be on August 8th.” A great cheer rises up from the families.

The community leader chuckles once the applause dies down. “This means that the three days of celebration are in just a week. I advise you to get some rest, spend time with your family, and be happy!  We only have a few more days to thank the Earth for what it has given us.”

I dig into my dinner and watch the laughing families around us. If this is a plain, basic, community with only the essentials, then I can’t wait for the luxury of the celebration.

THREE

-one week later-

“Harriet!”

“Johanna!”

“Oh my goodness!”

We run out of our houses and meet at the entrance to the tunnel, our faces red.

“This is going to be the best celebration ever!” I cry. My parents trail behind me in their special occasion outfits, and my brother toddles over to us. He learned how to walk the day after the announcement, and he’s been the main source of excitement in our community.

“Let’s go!”

We pull on our shoes and race down the tunnel, stopping at the huge metal door. My dad pushes it open, and the community gasps at the sight.

A huge train takes up the meeting place, and most of the government leaders sit inside. We slowly walk towards it and stop when a door slides open. The community leader steps outside and addresses us.

“Good morning, everyone,” she says. “I know you are frightened, but there is really no need to be.” We all relax instantly.

“This train is going to take us to another part of the world, where there are celebrations all the time. But you must know why we do not allow this. We will show a documentary on the train ride there, about how constant celebration is not at all what it seems.” She walks back into the train after motioning for us to come inside.

Harriet, always the bold one, runs onto the train and finds seats for the two of us. I scoop Owen up and step inside. The rest of the community filters in and sits down. As soon as everyone is seated, screens come down from the ceiling and stop in front of us. I don’t really want to watch the movie. I’d rather see the train start moving, but there are no windows. I guess they don’t want us to see the other, primitive villages that got flooded.

The movie starts playing, and I reluctantly turn my attention to the screen. Owen is already drooling like a faucet onto my shoulder, so I sit him between Harriet and me.

“Long, long ago, there was a beautiful place called Earth,” the documentary announces. “People were happy, and they rejoiced when their crops grew and were ready to harvest. They did this every year, and it was called Thanksgiving.” There are scanned pictures and paintings on the screen, with many people eating with their community. I smiled. It seemed like a fun time of the year.

“There was another holiday, which was modeled after the birth of their community leader. The people gave items to others wrapped in colorful paper, and they took trees inside their homes and decorated them.” Harriet and I stifled a giggle. In our lessons, we had learned that trees were ancient things that only grew outside. Why put a tree inside your house?

“There were many other holidays like this, where people would eat rich food and receive material items. They started to think that objects were the only important things in life, and that a green slip of paper could be worth wars. The green paper was called money, and the people got greedy and fat.” The screen changed to a crude drawing of many people, with inflated bodies and little heads. Their eyes were cold and black, and they held wads of green paper in their chubby fists. Owen woke up and started crying at the sight of the inflated people.

“Luckily, the community leader’s grandfather knew this had to change. He asked some of his friends to help him, and they got people back to their normal size. He was the greatest hero the world had ever seen.

“Of course, some people didn’t want to change back. They liked being fat and evil and ugly.” The narrator spits out each insult onto our faces, scaring the little children and disgusting the adults.

“The fat people attacked our community leader’s grandfather, and he fought back courageously. He saved us all from turning out like the inflated people.” I gasped and held Owen close to me. I couldn’t imagine being like the people in the drawings.

“So we built our communities, and saved ourselves from the global warming that the fat people had caused. They tried to build boats to stay alive during the flooding, but they drowned.” Harriet turned and whispered in my ear. “How could they have caused the global warming?”

I frown, just noticing that they never said that. “I guess it was the making of the material items that they loved,” I whisper back.

The documentary ends with a click, and the doors slide open again. The community leader smiles and gestures outside. “Welcome,” she says. As we rush out the doors, she calls after us.

“Remember the documentary- we took this away for a reason.”

FOUR

The crowd of people are too noisy to stand in, so I drift away from them. The trees bend over the walkway and block the magnificent sunset.

“Hey.”

I jump, turning around and glaring at Harriet.

“Don’t do that! It freaked me out.”

Harriet grins. “Sorry. It was funny.”

I roll my eyes and keep walking towards the building in the distance. I’m pretty sure it’s our temporary dwelling spot for the next two nights.

She runs up to me and matches my stride.

“So…”

I look at her. “So, what?”

“So, are you going to the library, or…?”

I stop and peer into the darkness. “That’s a library?” We only had seen them in our lessons, but they sounded really fun. I’m sure they had lots of stories on the computers there.

“Yeah. So do you wanna go?”

“Uh, sure…”

Harriet grabs my arm and starts running, dragging me behind her. We run to the library and pull the door open.

The library is small, with wooden shelves and one dusty computer in the back. I slowly sit down on one of the armchairs.

Suddenly I notice dozens of artifacts on the shelves. I pick the nearest one up to examine it.

It’s small and cloth-bound, with little golden words carved into the outside. The words are too faded to read, so I open it instead. There are pages and pages of paper, with words on them written in ink.

“What is this?” I whisper, flipping through the story. This doesn’t exactly seem…government-approved.

“It’s a book.”

I closed the book, feeling trapped. That was definitely not Harriet’s voice.

That was a boy’s voice.

I slowly turn around. “Hi.” Darn it, I got caught!

“Harriet,” I whisper.

She walks over to us, already deep into another book. She looks up and almost drops the book she was holding.

“Uh- we thought we were allowed to be here! But we’re not! We’ll go now!” Harriet grabs my hand and pulls me towards the door.

“We can’t leave with the books!”

“She’s right, you can’t.” The boy holds his hand out, and Harriet drops her book into his hand without another word. I hand the boy my book too.

He looks at the first page. “You really want to read this?”

“It was the first book I picked up,” I say awkwardly. I kind of want it back now.

He puts the books down and gives me another book from the shelves. I can read the writing on the glossy cover. Something about a photography issue?

“Hey, that looks like the magazines we have in our community!” Harriet whispers, looking over my shoulder at the cover.

The boy looks at us curiously. “Are you two from the community in Massachusetts?”

Harriet and I look at each other. “It used to be called that.”

He nods. “I’m Hugh.”

“Johanna.”

“I’m Harriet, and we need to go. Bye!” We run out of the library with the magazine.

She turn to me and clutch it tight. “Where am I going to put this? If anyone finds out we took this, we’ll get in huge trouble!”

I think for a minute, then walk into the building. Almost everyone’s outside, so no one sees us.

Once I get to my room, I place the magazine between the sheets and the mattress. I pull Harriet into the hallway and talk to her quickly.

“You can’t tell anyone about this, okay? No one. If they find out, we could both be corrected, and our lives would be ruined! We need to go to bed soon, so I’ll stay in my room. You go to your room and pretend like nothing happened.”

Harriet runs back to her room and closes the door carefully. I close the door to my room quickly. I’m too nervous to sleep, so I’ll just read the magazine.

I take it out from under the sheets and burrow under the covers. Flipping the pages, I gasp at the colors and people they have managed to capture. There are crowds of people with many different skin and hair colors. I think back to the boy in the library, named Hugh. He looked…different from us, now that I think about it. I wonder how many people are still alive with the bright blue eyes that he had. I flip through more of the pages and stop at one that looks like him. There is a baby with tan skin and bright blue eyes. I read the caption at the bottom:

“Only around 10 people have this combination of skin color and eye color in the world.”

This is too old to be true anymore, so the number of people that look like him must be even smaller now. I put the magazine back under the sheet and try to go to sleep, turning off the light and staring up at the ceiling.

Hugh must be different from other people in the world. I remember when I used to be proud of my thin blond hair and dark brown eyes, grateful to blend in with so many other people in our community. I used to pity Harriet for standing out with her bright red hair.

I want to be different, too.

I decide to run up to the library next morning and ask Hugh for paper and a pen. Maybe, if I can’t look different, I could write a story of my own and be different.

FIVE

-August 8th, 3:17 pm-

The community leader’s voice rings out from the speakers for the last time.

“Please follow the apocalypse-related incident procedure. This is not a drill.”

I snap my head up from my desk, finishing the last bits of my story. The paper is soft from two day’s worth of writing and crossing out many words. Hugh taught me how to copy the letters on my computer and write them on the page. I spent the whole two days in the library with him, just writing letters over and over and over again.

I stuff the paper into my pocket, reading through the story in my head.

“Once upon a time, there was a girl named Jo.”

My brother starts crying, so I lift him up and whisper the story to him.

“She lived in a community where the people thought they had everything.”

He stops crying and listens, tears still rolling down his cheeks.

“But they didn’t. They were missing out on so many good things.”

I run through the tunnel and put on my shoes.

“Like colors, and inspiration, and stories of their own.”

I have to set Owen down to lace them up, and he starts whimpering again.

“So she stole something from someone.”

He hugs my leg tightly. I carry him onto the platform.

“It was the right thing to do.”

No one else is there, but I still whisper. There could be cameras watching us.

“She tore up the book and scattered the pages all over.”

I can see one of the pictures from the magazine that I hid around the community.

“She wanted the people to find the photos and remember the past.”

I press the 9 button twice.

“Maybe someday they will understand.”

Owen and I lie down and try to sleep.

“Until then…

She will wait.”

More people come and lie down with us. I whisper the words over and over again until we both fall asleep. I hope other communities know what they’re missing, and how they can fix it. I close my eyes and wait, just thinking about nothing.

I hear Owen crying, far away from me. I reach out to him, but feel nothing. Someone’s head is pressing into my stomach.

I open my eyes and look down. It’s dark, but I can make out a few shapes. Owen is whimpering into my shirt, and we’re still on the platform. Everyone’s still sleeping, waiting to die. I wonder what the community leader’s doing. Is she sleeping too?

Wait a minute.

I sit up and pull Owen close to me again. I check my watch.

4:25 pm.

What?

I reach out to Harriet and tap her on the shoulder.

“Harriet, wake up.”

She doesn’t move. I lay Owen down and shake her until she wakes up.

“Johanna? What’s going on?”

I pull Owen into my lap again.

“Harriet, it’s 4:25. The apocalypse didn’t happen.”

“What?”

I look around quickly and whisper in Harriet’s ear.

“They were wrong.”

Bill woke up one morning and noticed he hadn’t quite realized how loudly his knees creaked before. He hadn’t noticed just how cold the hardwood floors got in the winter, hadn’t seen all the dirt on the windows. Had there even been any dirt, before Mae died? The stairs had been a challenge for a while, now. He kept meaning to buy a new cane after the other one broke a few days ago, but he never could bring himself to leave the house.

Soon, he knew, the food his son had bought when he’d been there two weeks ago would run out. Jack had bought him what felt like a year’s supply of food; Mae left the house constantly, so she only used to buy a few days’ worth of food at a time. And she was a wonderful cook, too. That’s what he’d first noticed about her when they started dating.

When he finally got down the stairs, Bill looked around at the living room. When had it gotten so dim-looking? Like an old folks’ home, he thought, that’s how it looks. And Bill always swore to himself he’d never let himself get stuck in an old folks’ home. He sat down on the couch, slowly. The dent in the cushion from years of sitting felt like an old friend. Bill always personified things. The therapist he’d once had had said it could be a sign of something serious. Bill didn’t know about that, much. Mae had said she loved his personifications, when he told her what Dr. Baxter had said.

He felt bad for the cushion that Mae used to sit in. He could relate to it. They both missed Mae. But at least Mae’s old cushion still had Bill’s cushion as a partner. Bill was on his own.

The phone rang, and Bill realized he should have listened to his neighbor and put a phone nearer to the couch. It was so hard just to stand up lately. And he’d only just sat down.

He groaned, feeling a pain in his back that he was starting to think maybe he should call a doctor about. “I’m coming,” he said to nobody in particular; maybe to the phone. “Hello?” he said, once he finally reached the other side of the room.

“Dad,” came the voice. “How you doing? How do you feel? Gone outside?” It was Jack.

“Yeah, I’m fine, kiddo,” said Bill. “Gone on walks, been to the…park.” It was all a lie, of course. But Bill had never been good at asking his son for help. And his son had never been good at knowing when Bill was lying.

“Great, great. Well, just checking in, making sure you’re doing okay. If you need anything, let me know, alright? I’m just a few miles away.”

“I’m sure I’ll be just fine, thanks. Tell Melissa I say hello.”

“Will do. Bye, Dad,” Jack said, and hung up. Back on the sofa, Bill turned on the television. He’d never watched it much when Mae was around. Now he could barely remember what he did when Mae was around. But it sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with a television.

He clicked the on button and the screen lit up, a man he didn’t like the look of yelling at him to “BUY USED CARS TODAY!” and holding a big blue flag. Bill changed the channel and another man he didn’t recognize, but assumed was famous, was being extensively talked about by a group of young men and women. All the people, all at once, unrecognizable, upset him. He didn’t know these people, didn’t know what they talked about, couldn’t even hear their voices clearly. And they made him feel so alone. He shut off the television in a hurry, ready to escape them all.

But what next? He really did need more food, really did need a cane. And he wouldn’t accomplish much by staying seated on the lonely couch forever. Bill barely knew where a person would go to get what he needed. Target, he’d heard Mae talk about. Target. She’d said there was one on every corner, it felt like. His stomach jolted when he thought about leaving the house, being in a room full of strangers. And he would need help, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he need help navigating what he assumed to be a big store? That meant talking to someone new.

Maybe I could have Jack do this, he thought. But worse than the thought of a room full of strangers was the thought of needing his son desperately. Needing anyone desperately. Bill had only let him buy the food because Jack hadn’t asked. Just showed up with it all.

The old man put his head in his hands. He’d known this would have to happen, sometime. Finding his way in the world without Mae, though…always seemed like it could never happen. And he never thought it’d happen this early, if ever.

His stomach growled angrily up at him. I can’t do this anymore, he thought.

And he felt like a coward. He felt angry.

The walls were suddenly the ugliest yellow he’d ever seen; the color of rotten mustard and dirty teeth. The carpet was too thick. He hated how he could see the little spills of coffee, or maybe tea. He hated how the kitchen table had to have a thin plastic-y tablecloth because he couldn’t trust himself with a normal, cloth one anymore.

And Bill hated himself. He felt nauseous, disgusted with himself and his old age and his horrible house. It was never a horrible house back when Mae lived in it, even though he assumed it must’ve looked just the same. But it couldn’t have looked just the same; Mae changed it.

At least the nausea meant he lost his appetite. With a grim smile, he thought that if only he could stay disgusted with himself, he would never have to eat again.

He pushed himself up from the couch, aching as he did so. He immediately regretted his decision; he realized he didn’t have a plan for what to do after he stood. But there stood Bill, head rushing from standing up with what didn’t used to qualify as speed. They had a guest room on the first floor of the house, so Bill decided to go to sleep. Maybe it was about time to move into that room permanently. His hunger was back.

He hadn’t wanted to touch the canned foods that Mae had left in the cellar. He didn’t want to disrupt anything Mae had made with her own hands. He would figure it out when he woke up.

The bed was softer than the one upstairs. This was a relief; it gave him an excuse to switch bedrooms. Not that there was anyone he would have to give an excuse to. But he almost felt like he had to give Mae an excuse for why he left the bedroom they’d shared for so many years in exchange for one that Mae had barely touched.

Bill’s eyes shut, his stomach crying out one more time. Eventually he would have to disrupt the cans of food.

He awoke when a shout came from the street. He turned his head and saw a little girl running past his window, chasing a little boy. The trees aren’t happy with the children’s noise, Bill thought. Neither am I. He wished he could let the trees know he understood, let them know they weren’t alone in their feelings.

He laid there for a moment, surprised to find himself in the guest room. “What the hell?” he muttered.

And then he got hit with remembrance, at the same time feeling a pang of hunger.

He decided he wouldn’t let himself starve; besides, Mae made that food for a reason. Why let all her hard work go to waste?

Slowly, he went downstairs, eventually reaching the door. It was heavier than he remembered, but it had been years since he’d tried to open it. It creaked loudly, and the smell of dust came through the doorway. The light flickered on once he managed to make the stiff switch budge upward. And there were shelves and shelves of jars and cans.

The jars were full of what looked like pickles, olives, blue and red and purple jams.

There were cans of peaches, raspberries, pineapples, and pears. Mae had also kept paper towels on the lower shelves, though Bill wasn’t sure how well he could bend to reach those. He was so relieved to see how well Mae had prepared for a storm. But it saddened him, knowing that she would never know how helpful she’d been. And his pride in her only made him miss her more.

With a sigh, Bill pulled down a can of peaches and a jar of pickles. He hoped he made the right decision. He didn’t want to upset the other foods. “Goodbye,” he said, as he flicked off the light to the cellar and made his way upstairs. He would be back for dinner.

The stairs groaned sadly as he stepped on each one, the wooden planks unused to his heavy feet.

When he reached the kitchen, Bill found the can opener and a bowl. He dumped the peaches in, only realizing afterward that he didn’t even like peaches much. But then again, he didn’t like anything, much, anymore.

He sat in the chair and ate the peaches quickly. He barely even tasted them, but smiled as he thought of Mae’s careful hands slicing the peaches what must have been years ago.

The window watched him, feeling his loneliness. The old man felt bad and, with a great deal of effort, shut the blinds. He didn’t want to cause any sadness to anyone else.

When the peaches were done, he didn’t want the pickles. He left them on the table, figuring he could use them for dinner. He rinsed out the bowl and placed it on a towel to dry.

He had a headache; he could feel it coming on. He walked to the bathroom and forgot what he went there for the moment he saw his reflection. He looked like the dogs with sad eyes and droopy ears. Bloodhounds. He used to have a bloodhound named Georgia. He missed Georgia, now, too. When had his eyes gotten so bagged and wrinkled? When had his hair become so thin? He used to be a handsome man, he knew. In high school he’d had many girlfriends, but hadn’t liked any of them much. He’d never been in love till his sophomore year of college, when he met Mae.

He nearly walked away without the aspirin, but the dull throbbing in his head reminded him once more.

He opened the bottle but couldn’t pick which pills to take. He felt that if he offended one it would surely not work the way he wanted it to. “I’ll dump the bottle and take the first two,” he said. He felt that this satisfactorily explained the situation to the pills.

Bill poured two pills into his hand. “Sorry,” he said into the rest of the bottle, and shut it. Swallowing the medicine, he hoped he’d made the right decision. He didn’t want to hurt anyone.

He was suddenly tired again. It was four o’clock. He walked into the guest room and laid down again, on the other side of the bed this time. He decided to spend an equal amount of time on each side of the bed, so that both sides felt useful. He would do his best to make the bed feel as if Mae was in it, too.

He couldn’t fall asleep as quickly, this time. He just sat in the bed, thinking that maybe he should read. Or maybe he should try the television one more time. He might as well get used to it. Maybe he would learn to like it, even.

After what felt like hours, Bill decided to leave the room and read. The bed was unhappy that he hadn’t slept, he knew. It felt like it hadn’t done its job. It probably wished he was Mae. He couldn’t blame it. He would wish the same.

When he reached the bookshelf he realized he hadn’t read since before Jack visited. It’s been too long since I’ve used my brain, Bill thought. He shut his eyes, randomly choosing a book from the shelf.

Reading felt good. It felt like he was himself again. He didn’t know why he hadn’t done it in so long. Time felt faster when he read. Until he remembered that he was alone in the room. Then he could barely read the words, so he shut the book and stared out the window. The worst thing about missing someone, he thought, is that the only thing that could ever make you feel better is being with them. He couldn’t escape. He said, “how could you do this to me?” And the pattern on the rug swirled and he swore he could see Mae’s face for a moment. She was disappointed, he knew. He wasn’t living well enough without her. And she had always taken such good care of him.

The phone rang, distracting him momentarily. He picked up. “Dad!” said Jack.

“Hey there,” Bill replied. “How are you, son?”

“I’m fine. You know I’m calling to ask you the same thing.”
“I’m doing alright. Read a book, ate some peaches, took a nap. Took a walk. Went to the grocery store. Learning to like the television, even. I’m doing great.” Bill was lying through his teeth, praying the bit about the TV wasn’t too far-fetched for his son.

It wasn’t. “That’s really great, Dad. So good to hear. Do you need anything? Mel and I are on our way to the mall now, anyway, and it’s not that far from your house.”

“I’m really fine. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Alright, if you’re sure. Bye, Dad.”

“See you.” And he hung up with a click.

Bill had never been a religious man. He wasn’t disdainful of religion; he just hadn’t felt that he could use it in his own life. But lately he’d been praying.

When Mae started looking worse and worse, he prayed that she would live.

After she died, he prayed that he would be able to live without her.

And now he prayed for this again, but with a little less hope.

He also prayed that his son would never realize the poor shape his lonely father was in.

He was embarrassed. The walls were seeing him in a way he’d hoped they never would. He felt that Mae could see him through the walls. He wished he could be somewhere empty, somewhere where there were no walls or cushions or pills to be saddened by his inability to live without Mae.

The floor wished it could help him, the empty can of peaches he had thrown out earlier thought it deserved something more than just being tossed in the garbage. It deserved a monument. The burned-out lightbulb on the ceiling was upset that Bill had been ignoring it for so long. The whole world pitied Bill. And he hated being pitied.

He felt trapped, but didn’t want to go outside. He couldn’t bear the thought of opening himself up to more people’s sympathetic eyes. The sadness of his own house was bad enough.

So there he was, standing by the phone, praying as best as he knew how. He hoped it would be enough.

“I know I don’t pray a lot,” he said out loud. “I hope you don’t hold that against me. I just…things aren’t going so well.” He cringed when he heard himself say this. “I’m fine,” he decided, unable to leave his previous words just hanging in the air.