The Polarity………………………………….…………………….…..…………………………………………….Jake Kornmehl, IV

The Polarity

Jake Kornmehl '24

Winifred lies on her bed. Her eyes are glued to the metal ceiling above. Suddenly, her eyes focus on a minuscule, curved crack resting between the perpendicular white walls. She picks herself up from her rough, incandescent white pillow and crawls forward, her hands gripped tightly to the railings along either side of her bed. Winifred peeps through the tiny crevice.

“Winnie!” a gaunt woman shouts.

The woman’s face hides in a radiant blue scarf and large goggles cover her oval-shaped head. Winnie is not as unfamiliar with the situation as she was last time. Yet, she opens the locker above her bed and pulls down a rack of children's masks, worn to prevent disease.

This is no normal time.

Winifred climbs down the ladder of her bunk bed and runs to embrace the woman standing in her doorway. She follows the lady down the sparsely lit corridor into a dining hall with thousands of other girls her age. Menacing posters with various mandates line the walls, and middle aged men and women stand in front of them wearing electric yellow hazmat suits. One massive 666” flat screen television is mounted in each corner of the vast room with sixty-six foot ceilings. As usual, the anchors spout the “news,” which is both hyperbolic and misleading. Winnifred gazes at the screens only to hear unending propaganda describing the fraudulent benefits of division.

This is a typical evening in Complex R-843272.

A new empire arose from the age of COVID-19. One that promised a world of safety and compassion but brought the opposite upon Earth's children. Unlike before, unprecedented medical biotechnology should have prevented the current epidemic. Yet, the new political climate paved a path for insanity. The

novel age of division allowed even the least malignant of diseases to become international disasters. Humanity descended into extreme polarization; minor infractions became crimes punishable by death; and disease went untreated.

Winifred sits in her seat, Seat 136. The mass of humanity engulfing her sits in seats sequentially numbered 1 to 3066. They rarely are given the opportunity to enjoy the bounty of the Compound’s enclosed gardens. The pantry stocks are frighteningly low on fruits, vegetables, and meats after only the second Category 5 hurricane of the week.

Meteorological disasters were often a daily occurrence.

Winifred quietly sips her cold soup, devoid of any nutrients, and is led back to her room by the same, frail lady that had previously beckoned her. She sits at her desk and opens her box of 16 rainbow colored crayons; the same box her mother gave her when she turned eight. Her smooth, slender, unblemished hand pulls a piece of paper from the desk's only drawer and she starts to scribble. Colorful shapes spring from the crayon onto the empty space. She hears steps coming down the hall, and Winifred quickly crumples the piece of paper and slides it back into the drawer. Her doorknob turns and through the door comes a man holding a packet.

Winifred has forgotten it is Friday.

She gets up and collects this week’s Newspaper and glances at it. Or, that's what they call it.

4/10/2047 Good Evening Citizens,

Once again, it is a successful day in the new nation. Those who were diseased have been expelled as we continue our efforts to keep everyone safe. You hypocritical pigs insist we have done nothing but polarize this country. But, I have only exposed what already existed. All you ever wanted was to be alone with your own kind; the same thoughts; the same opinions. We have only created an environment where that is possible. I protect you from disease and the Lord does as well.

Your Chief - R01

Winifred closes the door and rips up the propaganda and adroitly molds it into a ball with her right hand. She jumps and tosses it into the small cluttered trash bin in the back corner of her room. An old, faded Boston Celtics poster above her unpolished steel desk is all that is left of her unfulfilled dreams of becoming the next great female basketball star.

“Three pointer!” she says quietly to herself.

The woman Winifred calls “ The Collector” comes to her door once again. The Collector peers into the trash can and sees the crumpled paper ball, and knowing Winnie well is certain it is the day's News.

She turns off the light and whispers quietly, “Goodnight Winnie.”

The lights go out, the day abruptly ends.