Sensory Overload: The Feminist Future Imagined

Heaven on Earth

TheonethingImissaboutbeforewasbeingabletoswear.Idon’tmindthelongsleeves, thetwelvehoursermons,orthesevenyearsofcelibacy,butIcan’trememberadaywhereI haven’tfelttheurgetojustscream“Fuckme!”atthetopofmylungs.Ofcourse,noone’sgoing tostopme.Icoulddoit.Icouldscreamandshoutandgetnakedandstreakthroughoutthe streets,butIalsoknowthateveryoneIlovewouldprobablydropmefortheirownpurity.Ican’t blamethem.Iwanttoseemyparentstoo.Iwanttohopemybrotherwasrapturedaswell.He diedbeforeeveryoneelsewassnappedaway,soIcanonlyhopethathe’supthereandnot gettingtorturedforeternitydownstairs.

MaybeIdidn’tprayenoughduringhisfuneral.Maybethat’swhyI’mstillhere.

OrmaybeIsaidfucktoomanytimes.

It’snicetoletthesethoughtsfillmyheadasImakemywaytothetreehouse.Oddly enough,itmakesiteasiertoforgetthatwe’realloperatingonadeadline,thatthere’snota certainpatterninthepeoplethatgotleftbehind.There’snotenoughtimetothinkaboutifthere waseveranyhopeinthefirstplacewhenIcanwonderifreplacingeveryForever21tanktopin mywardrobewithlongsleevesandJesussummercampshirtswouldbeenoughtorightevery wrongI’vemadeinthelast23years.

AsImakeittotheoutskirtsoftown,thegrassandtreesstarttotakeover.Peoplehad stoppedtryingtopushitbackgiventhesevenyearsofpiety.Thetreeshadn’tgottenfar.New sproutstriedtobreaktheendsofunmaintainedparkinglots,butmostofitresidedintheforest.I pushforward,steppingoffoftheconcreteandenteringintothetreeline.Timedoesn’texistinthe forest.It’snice.Goddidn’twantthetreesjustyet.

Soonenough,theclearingcomesintoview.Thereusedtobeahouseandayardthat ownedthespace.Theybelongedtothetreesnow.Afirhadfallenthroughtheroofofthehouse, andwhatwouldhavebeenconsideredweedsyearsagohadsinceclaimedtheyard.Theonly remnantfrombeforewasthelarge,oakbuildinglodgedfirmlyintothetrees.ItwasShaw’s before,orratherherparents.Theyweregonenowthough,whichmeantitwasours.Thefiveof uscouldhideinthetreesandexist.

Iclimbuptheladderandpokemyheadin.Jaimeglancesupfromthefloor,andflops backdownoncesheseesthatit’sonlyme.MoiratakesaquickbreakfrombraidingTaylor’shair towavehello,andImutteragreetingback.

“Wherethehellhaveyoubeen?”Taylorhasalwaysbeenalittlemorebrash.It’s refreshingforusall,honestly.IcanseeShawgrimacefromthecorner.Shesits,lookingoutto thecityandbirds,noticeablyawayfromus.Herbiblerestsonherlap,opentoRevelations probably.

“Study.”Iholdupmyblandbook,abouttwiceasthickasitshouldhavebeenwithsticky tabsandsheetsofpaper.“Itranover.”Theydidn’taskmorequestions;theyalreadyknew.If studydidn’tlastagoodtwohoursafterit’sscheduledtime,youweren’tbelievinghardenough. Yourbookshouldbethickerthantheperson’snexttoyou,andtheirsbulgingattheseams.Idrop mybagonthefloor,ripoffmytop,andsplayoutonthecreakingwoodofthetreehouse.I’m joinedbytwoothers,andwealllayforawhile,silent,listening.Thenearbybirdsshouttogod forthejoyoflifeandvigour.Orsex.Theyprobablywantsex.

“God,-”

“Watchit,”Shawinterrupts.WeallknowTaylorhadnothingholytosay,butitisn’ta botherformostofus.Shaw,however,wasalwaysquickonthedraw,andprudishaboutitas

well. Surround yourself with the holy minded,she’dalwayssay,thoughshelikesustoomuchto trulyditchus.

“...Man,I’dkill-” “Nope.”

“Man,Iwouldreallylovetopartakeinfamilyfriendlyactivities.Iwouldliketoplay parcheesiandmancalawithmypops,”Taylorfinishesdryly.Shesitsup,andtheylockvicious eyes.“There,isthatgood?Isthatpiousenoughforyou?OrshouldIendthiswithalittleprayer aswell?”Ifthiswerefiveyearsago,thiswouldhavebeenashoutingmatch.Shawwouldhave startedshrieking,andTaylorwouldhaveescalated,andtherestofthegroupwouldhave watched,andI’dbestuckinthemiddletryingtopreventathroatfrombeingrippedout.Instead, Shawwatches.Weallwait.

“Idon’tneedthis.”Sheturnsaroundtograbherthings,andclimbsdownthetree. “Taylor.” “What?”

Isighandscratchthebackofmyneck.“Youcan’tbesohardonher.”

“Why?Becauseherfuckingparentsgotvaporizedintoabetterplacethanthehellhole we’restuckin?It’snotmyfaultshegotherselfstuckhere.”Sheseemstorecognizehowshe’s messedupbeforethere’sanopportunityforsomeoneelsetocallherout.Taylorwaslucky,or unluckyinsomesenseoftheword.MostofherfamilystayedonEarth.Shelookstome,toallof us,apologeticandregretful,butstillfirm.

“I’msorry,butwe’rehere.That’sit.IcometothistreehousesoIcannotbealittleangel forafewhoursaweek.I’mtired.”

“Weallare,”Jaimesays,“butwe’reallwe’vegotleft.Thelastthinganyofuswantisto loseanotherperson.”Shedoesn’thavetosayaname.Weallknowshe’snottalkingaboutthe peopleinheaven.She’stalkingaboutCasey.Thereusedtobesixofus.Weusedtoallbeinthis together.Caseyhaddisappearedintothewoods,thedeeperwoodsthatfelloutsideoftown. PastorDonaldalwayssaysthosewoodsarefilledwithspiritsofevilandtemptation.He’snot wrong.Therestoftheworldwashereforsomereasonoranother.

ItfeelsasifTaylorwantstoretort,butshecan’t.We’reallhurtingandtired.We’vebeen thisway.There’snothingnewaboutthat.

Shawdoesn’tcomebackthatday.Thesunstartstoset,andonebyoneweallbeginto leaveforhome.I’mlastthistime.Iclamberdowntheladder,lockingthetreehousedoorbehind myselfandstartingtowardstown.

It’sMonday.Idon’tquiteremembergoingtosleep,nordoIrememberwakingup.Idon’t evenknowhowImadeittoservicethismorning.ShawandTaylorhavebeenonmymindfor thelastfewdays.Caseytoo. “Amen.”PastorDonaldshutshisbook,andtherestofthecongregationfollows.Idon’t evenrememberwhathewastalkingabout,whichisprobablytheotherreasonI’mstillhere. Churchserviceneverreallyworkedforme.Myparentstriedalottogetmemoreinvolved,yetI couldn’t.ThebigchurchesweretoograndandI’dstareatthecrownmouldingratherthan pondermysins.Thesmalloneswereatossup.EitherI’dlookaroundandwonderwhywewere inashoppingmall,orIspenttheentiretimefreakingoutaboutbeingtheliteralblacksheepin thepews.ThatwasoneworrythatIdidn’thavetoworryaboutanymore,atleast.Godpicked favourites.

IfeelanelbowshoveitselfintomysideandIglanceovertoMoira,who’sholdingmy bagouttomeinherotherhand.“Doyou want tospendanotherhourhere?”shewhispers harshly

“Oh,yeah,sorry.”Sheclickshertonguewithimpatienceandpicksupherbag.About halfofthepeoplehavestillkepttheirheadsdown,murmuringquietprayers.Theotherhalf trickledoutfiveminutesago.Thestreetsaremorecrowdedtodaywitheveryoneleavingtheir respectivechurchesenmasse,thoughthey’rejustasquietasusual.

“HaveyouheardfromTayloryet?”Sheasksafterawhile.

“No,she’sstillupset.Shaw?”

“Refusedtotalk.”

Isighandpinchthebridgeofmynose.There’snotmuchelsetoaddontothis.Wecould keeppushingandtalkingandfiguringoutnextsteps,butuntileitherofthosetwobudged,we werestuck.Instead,wekeepwalking,silent,reverent.Igrowtiredofit.“Doyoueverwonderif Casey-?”

“No.”JustmentioninghernamewasenoughforMoiratoknowexactlywhatIwas thinkingabout.Wehadallthoughtaboutitatsomepoint: What if Casey wasn’t as insane as we thought? What if there was more to life than fearful servitude? What if the next three years meant nothing if we were already trapped here?

What if our answers lied in the trees?

“I’mjustsaying-.”

“No.”

“Weneverreallygaveherachance.”

“Andthatwasherchoice.Noneofmybusiness.”Moiraturnedherheadforwardand spedup;notfastenoughtoleavemebehind,butclearlyinahurrytogethomeandoutofthis conversation. Eventuallysheslowsdownenoughformetonothavetohurrybehind,andjusta fewminutes

“Arethingsreallygoodenoughheretokeepplayingalonglikethisthough?”Evenifshe doesn’twanttotalkaboutit,Iknowit’sstillonhermind.

Shescratchedatherhead,eventuallyshrugging.“I’vegotthreeyearstoseemyfamily. Thingscanbegoodlater.”Shegivesasolemnwavetomeassheturnsdownastreet,andIturn downtheoppositeone. Ican’tsleep.

Ican’ttellifit’sbecauseofhowsilentthisapartmentisorhowannoyedIamthatthe groupissplittingagain,butIcan’ttakeitanymore.IcanonlyhearTaylor’sdisapprovingtone thatIshouldbemoreupsetaboutthisentiresituation,thatIshouldscreamandriot,butShaw's gazeistellingmethatI’mtooworkedupoverit.Icanpracticallyreadinhereyesthatshewants metogivethatworrytogodandlethimanswerit.Asifhe’sansweredanythingrightnow

Ijustwantanswers.Iwantananswer

Ihavetogointotheforest.TheForest.

IhavetogofindCasey.

By Jay Joseph

Gold and Water

The rain had not stopped for years. Its deluge painted my world grey and blue, murky waters drowning out the warm light of the sun that had filled my childhood. Storms, once a thing of wonder, now swallowed the streets, the buildings, and my remaining hope for the future. The ocean would not ebb, slowly becoming one with my town. I guess all things return to nature, but why us first? Why us sooner? Mother Earth was weeping, and in her grief, she would drown us in her tears, but we were not the orchestrators of her demise nor the destruction of our town.

I make my way to the stove, avoiding the puddles that scatter the chipped wooden floors. My oil lamp's golden light dances off of them, reflecting off the water and hitting the walls. It reminds me of Christmas, but the rain's torrential assault against my tin roof and aluminum shutters reminded me it was anything but. I once planned to dry these floors and restore the electricity in my home, but the air was soaked in water, and electricity proved to be more of a hazard: it was impossible.

I light the stove, listening to my house creaking and feeling it sway beneath my feet. I used to dream of being a sailor when I was younger. In a funny way, I guess I got what I wanted. "Coffee," I say, taking comfort in hearing my own voice. Not many people live in this part of town anymore. I would leave if I could, but I'm only able to for work. I'm trapped here in a house that is a shadow of what it could have been and what it was: a home. My home. No one will take the house, and I can't get compensation for it. An act of God supposedly took my home away from me while the rich across the water become gods as they rebuild their homes a million times over and build God knows what to protect themselves from the water.

I began making my coffee, a small treat for myself after this month's hard work. I deserved it, dragging myself across town to work at the only store that was open. I should be

grateful to have a job there, and I am, but the path and the hurdles to get there were dangerous, even by boat, and exhausting. So exhausting. But I work so that I can escape this pain. This hopelessness. This endless rain.

I will leave one day. I know this much. Just not yet. It isn't time, and I'm not ready, but I will have the means to be one day.

Music is something I've yearned to hear for years, but I have no means for that either. Instead, from my memories, I listen to the music I would play on my mother's phone in my head. The songs that lived in my mind were the songs I lived. They provided me with companionship in this dying town.

An older song, one my mother would play, was the one I chose to listen to this morning: "Arcade." A losing game, huh? Seemed fitting.

The aroma of coffee filled the room, replacing the damp, moldy smell, and I poured the drink into my mug, savoring its warmth. Things could be better today than they were yesterday and I find comfort in knowing that.

My couch, truly my favorite piece of furniture in this empty house, welcomed me into its arms as I sank into it. I would rest today, Rejuvenate myself for the next day, stronger, renewed, and ready to face what's ahead.

I closed my eyes, now humming "Devil Town," the longer and more hopeful version. AIEEEEEEEEEE!

The ringing sound filled my ears, and the room tilted. The sound was all too familiar. I know what's going to happen now. I can't help but wonder if I just stay still, if I keep my eyes

closed, if I keep sipping the coffee that I was supposed to enjoy today, then it would all be fine, but I have no time to entertain such thoughts. I have no time to entertain my happiness.

I jump up, grab my bag from the counter, and shove the tightly sealed jar of money into it, knowing that any food and water I would need was already packed for this very purpose. I'm reminded of the days I would take the lunches my mom would pack for me from the counter before I would run to the bus.

I wish it were the same.

Now, I run away from my house but not to anywhere. I swing open my door, the house shaking terribly. It's dying, but I too will soon if I don't leave it. The rain pelts my face and I look for the boat I got from my neighbor before they left town months ago.

It's nowhere in sight.

I'm done for.

The house shrieks again, and I know I must do something. "Zia, dear, remember to stay away from the water. It's no longer the water of the Earth."

I jump into the water and swim and swim and swim. I think of all of the debris and pray that nothing catches or cuts me as I've seen happen all too many times before. I see a wave in front of me right before it submerges me.

My eyes sting and feel like they are on fire, reminding me of the turmeric soap that would get into my eyes as a child, but the water is inside of me now. A cocktail of deadly disease and poison now burns away at my throat. I need to get out of the water.

And there it is. A wide wooden door a few yards away from me. I swim with whatever I have left and grab onto the door, clawing the grooves of the wood to find a grip before I pull myself on board. I retch and convulse, trying to rid myself of the water that now lives inside and not outside of me. I remember my mom's look of horror when she found me playing that day at the beach so long ago. I look in the direction of my home and see nothing but a few columns of wood peeking out from the water before collapsing as the frigid water takes away my consciousness.

Trying to Reach the Sun

Giselle Lopez

The mail came in that morning When she heard the knock on the door, she was hesitant to get up and look at what had come It was supposed to arrive days ago, but no one truly believed it would To them, it was better this way It was better to live with the belief that everything was fine And yet, she had to get up to look at it

As expected, outside was a pile of mail, lit by the peeking sun Mail filled with words that would only remind her household of the many problems in their lives The bills that were overdue, the threats they received, and some letters of condolences Of course, that particular type was normal at this time of year She hid the mail in her shirt and closed the door, ensuring the locks were secure

She looked around the room, walked around the house carefully, and once she was sure that the bathroom door still remained locked, she relaxed a bit. She sat on a crate by the moldering table and slowly took out the mail.As she had suspected, the first few letters were the usual bills, threats, and condolences. Her mother didn’t need to see those today, not since she had been crying in the bathroom all morning. She tucked those back into her shirt.The last few letters were interesting.There was an advertisement, which excited her since at least it was something different.Aletter from the government arrived too, once again informing them of their presence needed at the monthly blood tests.And mixed in with other junk mail, there laid a purple envelope It wasn’t addressed to their household, wasn’t addressed to her parents, rather, it was addressed to one “Belen Oliviera”

She observed the mail carefully, checking the address, the print, anything that could be an indicator toward what type of letter it was Once she decided that it wasn’t anything dangerous, she slowly pried it open, ripping the paper from the glue at the edge

In the envelope, there was a single paper No, it couldn’t be called paper, for it was too nice It seemed more like a calling, with a shiny gloss finish on it On the flyer, read in big purple letters, “APPLYTODAY! MOVE FORWARD IN LIFE!”To anyone else, it may have seemed too good to be true It would seem like some sick joke that some bored kid played, simply because

they had nothing better to do than sit outside and play with rocks But the more she scanned and skimmed the pamphlet, the more she was intoxicated with the smell of the paper printed just for her It was a shining opportunity It felt like the world had stopped, like her mother wasn’t sobbing Like her world wasn’t slowly falling apart And then, there was a banging on the door She took the mail out of her shirt and quickly put it on the table before running up to the door She straightened her clothes and grabbed her ID before unlocking the door, greeted by the sight of 3 armed officers and their dogs She stood to the side as they marched inside, one stopping in front of her while the others scrutinized the place for anything they deemed illegal Belen held out the plastic card to the man, who scanned it and gave it back She held it in her hand as the man searched her scrawny figure, checking her pockets and any place on her body covered by baggy clothes where one could hide something. She never liked it, but what could she say?After the dogs finished searching the house, one man came out gripping her mother in his hand. Belen had forgotten about her.The armed man shouted, “Why wasn’t she present with her ID when we opened the door?! Does she have something to hide?!”

Belen stood looking down, resisting the urge to tug on her shirt.The armed man reached into her mother's pocket, took the ID, and scanned it before throwing it back at her mother.The men began to search her mother more thoroughly than usual, touching every part of her body and checking every little seam in her clothing Belen continued looking down She couldn’t bear to see Once it was over, one of the men stated, “For failure to comply, we have charged a fine of $3,000 You’re lucky to get away with just that ”As they headed to the door, one man turned back and said with a gleeful tone, “Have a nice day!”

Belen turned to look back at her mother, who had started preparing herself to go to work She ran to hug her, but her mother turned away, mumbling, “You should be at school right now,” before grabbing her bag and coat and walking out the door It was 7:00 am

Treading towards the table, Belen dragged her hand across the roughness of the degrading wood until she felt the smooth purple envelope She held it for a moment before deciding to take it with her to school Before leaving the house, she checked the windows and made sure that anything of potential value was out of sight Stepping out into the icy cold, she felt the wind pass through the patched holes in her coat and those in her shoes She walked down the streets, seeing how the cracks in the road grew as did the amounts of cameras on the broken lamp posts She noticed the one near the alley seemed broken, but she paid no mind If she reported it, they might think she’d broken it While waiting to cross the street, she heard a loud bang She cursed herself for flinching, while using her peripherals to see the officers busting into a neighbor’s home Someone must have been caught with something.There were many people in that house. While some scattered, others complied to make things easier. But she caught the sight of one slipping out through the back.The person stared at Belen for a second before scramming at the sight of nearby officers. She stopped looking, urging her mind to forget what she had just seen. When the light changed, she steadied herself to walk as normally as possible, for even the slightest amount of hurry or fear could make them think she was running from something. She could only hear as they shouted and shoved a group of people into the armored vehicles.

As she got closer and closer to the school, the presence of the fancy cameras and the armored trucks only increased Belen would look inside the trucks sometimes to see the officers on their devices, eating warm food, doing anything but supervising them She wondered whether that was a good thing for them or not Walking through the door, the sounds of people chatting, talking about things like homework and friends, made her forget her morning journey It always did Being in a community with people of similar status, similar problems, and simply being able to relate to each other made her feel more at home than she ever really did Everyone seemed more lively than usual today, perhaps due to the mail that had come They talked about the advertisements

that came, what they would buy if they had money Some even talked rhetoric about how their relatives in other neighborhoods got their mail faster No one mentioned that with the ads, came the bills No one in their neighborhood got the ads without the bills Nevertheless, even as they neared adulthood, they chose to live their last year as teenagers attempting to think thoughts only the privileged could think about Belen thought that they’d have their entire adulthood to think about the future and the problems it brings, so for now, she should try to relax

But she stuck her hand into her pocket, suddenly feeling the envelope again She remembered that near her, she held something no one else seemed to have She had a chance Belen made her way through the day, holding her hand in her pocket and her dreams in her head She thought of what she would do if she were allowed to study what she wanted She could go to college, become a therapist, and serve her underserved community. She could help all the kids who would be full of the trauma of living in that neighborhood. She could help her parents properly deal with their grief and discomfort with their way of living. She really could do anything just because of the envelope. Her dreams wouldn’t end at adulthood, rather they would be just beginning.

Belen could not focus on anything but the future, her mind filled with the color purple and the gloss of the paper. On her face was a slight smile that stayed throughout the whole day. “Belen, I need to talk to you,” her teacher stated as everyone was leaving the class No one paid mind, as it was a common occurrence for Belen to be pulled aside more often than the rest Belen headed towards the teacher’s desk He looked at her, then asked, “You seem much more distracted You’re also more relaxed for someone who should be grieving Can I ask why?” Belen’s smile fell as she avoided his eyes, continuing to feel the envelope in her pocket “Well, if you keep acting suspicious, I’m going to have to report you I really don’t want to, but What do you have in your pocket?” he asked more sternly Belen knew that if she didn’t stop acting so foolishly, she could be risking everything She pulled out the envelope from her pocket

The first thing he did was grab the envelope and check it thoroughly, making sure that no substance was present Then, he wrote down something on a note and handed it to her “Go to the officer outside He’ll take your urine sample You can get the envelope back once you’ve been revealed to be clean It's procedure,” he explained as he put the envelope in a plastic bag

Belen nodded, knowing she shouldn’t do anything to fight it She was used to this If you were found to be acting too differently than usual, you’d be sent to get a urine sample to check if you were on a substance Whether or not you were positive, it would appear on your record It was like a punishment for acting as a human should, but the more you fought it the worse it got Belen knew that, so she did what she needed to do: She handed her ID to the man, took her test, and waited without saying anything unnecessary She tried her best to not squirm or shake her leg. Staying still would result in the best output, even if these tests always made her nervous. Once she was revealed to have been clean, the officer scanned her ID once more before letting her go.

She walked quickly towards the office of the teacher and saw him reading the contents of the envelope. She handed him the paper and he motioned for her to sit down. “So you want to apply for this scholarship?”

Belen nodded. “And what would you do with this?” he questioned

She took a deep breath and announced, “I want to study psychology and become a therapist I want to change the community I live in and-”

The teacher chuckled “You know how hard it is to try to get a job like that There’s hardly anything for you to do here with that kind of job Even if you do manage to scrap one, you’ll barely be making as much money as one of your parents' three jobs if you try to serve this community If you left, maybe, just maybe, you’d have a shot But here?”

Belen looked down and twisted the edge of her coat He looked at her, looked at her moving hands, and signaled for her to stop, using his eyes to point at the camera in the room

She then continued, “I know it's hard, but who says I can’t do it? I want an out of this life, and for once in my life, it feels like I’ve been blessed That envelope holds my dreams, holds my future I can’t just give up on this free opportunity”

“Nothing is free in life Did you even read this Belen?” the teacher queried He put the paper in front of her and pointed at the fine print at the bottom of the flier In small letters, it read, “$100 application fee for service and handling ”

Belen should’ve known Her family didn’t have that money to spare, especially since the fees were constantly adding up She already knew that the fee for the test would appear on her account soon Those add up

Then, there was that Her sister had been found dead a few years ago from a drug overdose. Even if Belen and her family had no part to play in her drug use, they still faced the large fine of $200,000 that they were still paying off today.They never used, but they still faced the consequences of her sister’s actions. From that moment, her already struggling family was put in an even worse position. Her mother and father had to take up more jobs, Belen never really saw her parents and they never really saw her. Every action they had to take moving forward had to be meticulously calculated so as to not grab any more attention than they already had.

This was her life, but she continued to dream She never let go of the thought of being something more than the sister of a drug user Something more than another member of the underserved She wanted to make a change The envelope was her prayers answered, but there always had to be an obstacle

“I’m not saying you can’t do it I’m saying it is difficult and near impossible for you to get that money,” the teacher disclosed

It was difficult, but she needed to do it Belen needed to know that there was a way to stop living in fear She knew she’d have to figure it out, but she knew things would work out in the end She nodded and grabbed the envelope before leaving the room

On her way back, she walked with more purpose, filling out the information on the flyer as she moved along She could do it, she knew it She never thought she would, but she remembered that her mother had saved some money her sister had given her at the bottom of her dresser for emergencies Sometimes, she thought that her mother forgot it existed, with how little they had to eat every day She stared at her written letter on the shine of the flyer, knowing that soon, she would take her first reach towards a new life

Outside her home, she caught a glimpse of the person who had slipped away, before they disappeared again

Unlocking the door, she noticed her father was home Belen saw him quickly cleaning his face with a cup of water, already in his uniform for his next job “Belen, can you get more bread later?” he shakily said as he splashed more water in his eyes. Without hearing her response, he grabbed his stuff and left the house.

It didn’t matter to her. It was better this way. She could grab the money and send in her interest form after getting the bread. She didn’t need them to know, and she needed to be understanding. She crouched down, feeling around the dresser for the money. She found the money in a red envelope. Of the $6,000 in the envelope, she only took $110, enough to pay the fee and pay for the bread. She’d have to apologize later, but it would be worth it in the end.

She tucked the money in the purple envelope, and put that into her shirt before going out to do what she needed to do Belen walked down the street, thinking about how her mother would be home soon She thought about how she might notice the money was missing But she also thought about how proud her parents would be if she managed to get her education They wouldn’t be barely scraping by, they’d have something Maybe they could move to a nicer place, somewhere where the cameras would be for them, rather than to work against them Maybe they wouldn’t even need to move, as she’d succeed in making a change for her people Others would forget all the information that was on their IDs and they could start over as if her sister hadn’t caused their lives to fall apart years ago Was it so wrong to think that?

The sun was setting when Belen walked out of the shop with the bread The sky was painted a yellow the likes that she had never noticed before When she faced toward the direction of the post office, her eyes met with the bright ball of fire The sun was larger and closer at this time of day, almost as if she could touch it She moved forward, when without notice, a thunderous bang rang through the air It was then followed by the piercing sounds of gunshots She crouched down, as did everyone else in the vicinity She gripped onto her shirt, squeezing her eyes shut and praying no officer would see her as suspicious There were screams, more bullets, then nothing

Belen slowly opened her eyes to the bright, setting orb in front of her Her eyes stung as they refocused and readjusted Everyone carefully got up, some continuing with their business, others approaching the scene of the loud noise. Belen didn’t know why, but she had the urge to head toward the sound. She turned around, her footsteps carefully treading on the cracked concrete sidewalk. She didn’t think about how she’d probably get in trouble, about the potential fine she could face. Her body was moving by itself, as if a magnet was pulling her towards the scene of the crime.

There was a crowd of people trying to see the incident that had just occurred. Standing on her toes, she barely managed to make out the officers separating the crowd from the body in a pool of blood Belen shoved her way forward, getting a glimpse of the officers arresting a band of people That was normal, an everyday occurrence When she made it to the front of the crowd, she saw what had drawn her to a scene she would normally be implored to avoid

On the ground was her mother

She had a gunshot wound on her knee Belen could only think about whether or not her mother was dead It was a vile scene, something out of the ordinary, yet she seemed to not move She felt as if taking one step would make her faint Belen saw that one officer continued to put pressure on her mother’s wound She stared for a moment before approaching another officer

“What happened? Why is my mom on the ground? Why was she shot?” Belen mumbled at the officer in disbelief

He looked into her dull eyes, sighing before monotonously explaining, “We thought she was part of the drug cartel we came here to bust She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, so we shot her It was an accident We’ll get her to the hospital ”

Belen thought about how much this would add to the bills But she let them take her mother, because it would be best for her to get the treatment she needed She’d have to figure out how to pay for it later, but she would figure it out She always did in the end

When her mother’s treatment was done and once the necessities were out of the way, Belen asked them to discharge her from the hospital The doctors agreed, asking to scan her ID so they could get her set up with the medication for the pain. Belen waited next to her mother, who had been asleep since her surgery. She held the red envelope in her hand, knowing the money would be gone once that doctor came in with the bill.They were lucky the officers hadn’t decided to charge them with some arbitrary crime. But it was okay in Belen’s eyes. Because once she got accepted into college, she could work in a better neighborhood that would pay her more than enough for such minimal jobs.Then, she could pay off the debt and help her parents. But there is always an obstacle.The doctor came in and handed Belen her ID. His hands were freezing, matching the doctor’s cold expression He began, “We’ve scanned your ID Unfortunately, due to your previous offenses and the inability for us to trust you with medication, we cannot give you the fentanyl for your mother She’ll be in extreme pain, but she doesn’t need it She seems to be fine right now”

Belen stared at the doctor and gripped onto the red envelope She softly spoke with a trembling voice, “But, can we pay the sum of money to get it?”

“Unfortunately, we can’t give it to you The system shows that you’ve had previous offenses in your family with illicit drug use, plus you have recent offenses from earlier today with potential drug use We can’t give it to someone like you,” the doctor explained

“The drug use wasn’t her! It was my sister, and she only used that one time!” Belen exclaimed

“I’m not giving you the fentanyl, and that’s the end of it,” the doctor sternly affirmed “But we don’t need fentanyl Anything will do, please! Ibuprofen, acetaminophen, anything! I’ll pay for it too!” Belen pleaded to the doctor

The doctor turned and began walking when Belen grabbed his sleeve and begged, “Please, you can’t do this to her!The officer said it was an accident, why should she get punished for something that wasn’t her fault?!”

“Let go!” the doctor yanked his arm from Belen’s grip He fixed his white coat and stated, “I’ll get the bill for you, and I will hear no more Or else I’ll make sure to call an officer to take you away.”

They were soon discharged from the hospital.

Walking back, Belen held her limping mother and an empty red envelope.The bill was a hefty $5,900. She paid it on the spot. She had the money, and the interest would be something she’d rather not have her parents worry about, so she did what she needed to do. Before unlocking the door, she noticed the person again in the morning peering from a street corner. She stared for a moment and they stared back before she moved her mother inside the house.

It was night when her father returned He didn’t cry when he saw the state of Belen’s mother He couldn’t, since he had to prepare for his next job They couldn’t afford to waste time now

The mail came in the morning again Belen thought that it must have been mail that didn’t arrive yesterday There were more bills, more condolences, more government documents that somehow always made it on time, unlike the other letters But in between the white envelopes was a blue one

There was no address It was as if someone had directly delivered it Inside was a napkin with the words, “Meet outside” written on it Belen saw as her mother was still sleeping

She grabbed her coat and walked out the door At the corner, the same person stood staring

Their eyes met before the person motioned for Belen to follow them

Belen hesitated for a moment, twisting the edge of her coat and eying the broken alley camera She ultimately decided to casually follow the person

She was led to a space in an alley behind a garbage can The person faced Belen and stated, “I heard what happened ”

Belen stared at the person and said nothing “I knew your sister,” the person explained, “You’re scrawnier than she was ”

Belen didn’t respond She began to get nervous

“I can hook you up with some medication for your mother Only for $100,” the person informed.

“My mom doesn’t need medication.And if she did, I will get it for her legally. We don’t need trouble,” Belen asserted, moving to leave the area.

“What, through the scholarship you can’t even get? Do you really think they’d accept you, a sister of a criminal?You’re much dumber than I thought.Your mother’s pain will come soon, the doctors know that.Then what will you do?” the person pointed out.

They waited for a moment, before the person spoke again, “We do this because we have to You’ll do it because you have to ”

Belen’s thoughts were jumbling in her mind She couldn’t, no, she didn’t need to do it She believed that and decided to make her way back to the house While unlocking the door, she heard the screams of her mother She rushed in and saw her mother yelling in pain She quickly moved to grab some tea She forced her mother to drink it She gave her ice on her knee She tried to calm her mother She did everything she could, but nothing was working Hours passed and the screams and sobs of her mother only got worse and worse Belen curled in a corner, plugging her ears and hoping it would end soon

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door Belen moved to open the door and saw two officers there “Kid, shut the noise up,” the officer immediately said once he saw Belen

“I-I can’t S-She needs medicine,” Belen explained, her voice unsteady She knew this was a problem, but what else could she say?

The officer groaned and stated as he was leaving, “If she’s still shouting in an hour, we’ll shut her up ourselves Figure it out before I give you another offense on your record ”The door slammed shut

Belen sat down by the moldering table, her breathing getting heavy and her throat tightening She couldn’t stop sweating She fidgeted with her clothes some more, trying to think of what to do when the purple envelope fell out of her shirt She thought for a moment, she knew she couldn’t. She’d figure it out without having to use it. She could, couldn’t she? But the screams and sobs of her mother only got louder and louder in her head, killing any silence she needed to think. Her head hurt. She wanted the noise to stop. She opened the envelope and stared at the hundred-dollar bill, then at the paper with the glossy finish. It was as bright as the sun. She reached forward. It was better this way. She was hesitant, and yet, she had to get up to do it.As her mother cried in pain, Belen took the hundred-dollar bill and walked out the door.

Nurturance, for Phumza:AShortStory

byRiaParker

“She was born in Philadelphia a few months before the Gradual Abolition Act of 1780, which stated that every enslavedpersoninthestateofPennsylvania,bornafterthisactwastobe ‘free’. In addition to being enslaved, the girlwasdisabled.Nooneknewshehadadisability No one could tell either Well except her and her parents. Call it parentalinstinctsorwhatyoumay, but the girlshowedno“physical”symptoms.Andthisiswhatherparentswanted.Easiertohide, theytoldher.Oratleast,itwasformostofherchildhood,untilsheturned10.

At that age, the girl was to be an additional dockworkerfortheenslaver’sshipandwork alongside her father, brother, and three other enslaved people. Loading andunloadingcargoand traveling with the enslaver was a physically and mentally demandingjobforanyone,butforthe girl it took 10000timesthat.Thegirltoldherparentsthatshewouldbeokaybutthatnightwhen she came back she suffocated in her sleep for the first time. This was also the night when the girl’sbrotherlearnedofherdisability.

The suffocating in her sleepdidn’thappeneveryday;somedaysitwasspecksofbloodin her mucus. But because of this, the girl’s parents did anything they could to make it so thatshe didn’tgotodocks,tomakeitsothatshecouldhideherdisabilityandstayalivelonger.

The girl’s brother even rebelled so that the girl could stay in the enslavers’ house and work there instead. And it worked, until the night sweats took over when the girl was 12. That waswhenherfamilygrewmoreworriedaboutthepossibilityofthegirl’sfuturebeingnomore.

But the girl had started showing symptoms long before age 10 and 12. Foryousee,jobs that a lotofpeopleliketocall“easy”and“simple”aren’talwaysso,especiallywhentherearen’t accommodations, and what accommodations can be given when society already sees you as disposable. So when the girl had shortness of breath, she worked hard to cover it up. When she had extreme tiredness after standing for a few minutes in the kitchen or severe back pain when shetendedtotheenslavers’children,shecoveredthemup.

Learned this from her parents and the other enslaved peoples. Learned this because she had seen enslaved people who couldn’t hide their disabilities killed and/or sent off to diealone. Or in the rare case, they weresoldtoadoctorformedicalresearchorthecircus.Eitherway,you wereseparatedfromyourfamilyandneversawthemagain.

She had learned this fact from her brother, who overheard the free Black people at the portstalkingaboutit.

So the girl and her family continued to cover up her illness, her disability, and the girl herself grew to be ashamed of it And the girl’s pretending to be fine, to be well, could have workedifherskinneverstartedyellowing,thatoneAugustday

It was hot and humid, like most summers in Philadelphia are. And despite there only being one sewage system that was often used for the trash and decayingdeadanimalflesh.And despitetherebeingnowaterfacilities,Philadelphiawasthenation’scapitalandwasalwaysfilled withpeopleduetothetwomajorriversthatboastedtrade;theDelawareandthe Schuylkill.

Months like these you could expect to see white people, especially the white ones, partying, gossiping, or doing whatever it is they did. You could expect to see the few “free” Blackpeopleworkingandwalkingwiththelittlefreedomtheyhad.ThatwasPhiladelphia.

“But the summer of1793wasdifferentfortherewasweaknessloomingintheair.People experiencing chills, headaches, shortness of breath and frequent vomiting. For some, this stopped, but for others, they dropped like flies after their eyes and skin turned yellow. After they’veexperiencedabdominalpainorbledfromtheirmouths,nose,eyes,orstomach.

There was a disease in Philadelphia and people would do anything to avoid getting it. This meant an end to shaking hands and the start of covering faces with vinegar-soaked handkerchiefs. It meant the start of chewinggarlicandsmokingcigarsconstantly.Thismeantan end to the big parties, and instead the startofhidinginhomesandnailingthemshut.Thismeant shunning those who looked to be infected by the disease, even loved ones were shoved intothe streets and abandoned. This meant that a mass of people left the city for the countryside, including those who were able to help, like doctors. With this, Philadelphia, the once bustling

city was now unmoving, stricken with fear and panic from a disease whose origins were all theoriesandpseudoscientificracialbeliefs.

And amongst those who left was the enslaver’s wife and children; the ones who stayed weretheoneswhodidn’thavethefreedomtodoso,whichbringsusbacktothegirl.

She was a few weeks shy from turning 14 when the rate ofherheartbeatbecameerratic. The girl wanted to sleep more and for longer periods, but she couldn’t. Or at leastshewouldn’t allow herself to. Her family and the other enslaved people did everything they could to prevent theirenslaverandothernearbyenslaversfromseeingthatshetoowasinfectedbythedisease.

By then, it was too late, for the girl was eating less, her skin, once a sepia brown, was now dull, and she could only mumble a few sentences.Sothatnight,whentheenslavergrabbed her and pointed to theshantythatwasinthesamedirectionastheDeadHouse,wherethosewho died from this disease were placed, she knew. She knew she was to walk alonetoherdeathand while her parents and brother protested against it, she didn’t. While they cried for her, the girl knewthatthecryingwouldn’tstopherfromdying,soshewalked.

And by the time the girl reached the single room, she felt like her insides were burning. Consigned to live and die there alonewithoutanyfood, changeofclothing,andnocomfort,she laidthere,eyeswideopen,neverblinking,asthescleraofhereyesbecameyellower

The girllaidthereunmoving,forminutes,hours,days.Itisuncertain,butinthattime,the girl had time tothinkandreviewallofhermemoriesofherillness.Shethoughtandwishedfora world better than the one she was born into. That was when she caught a glimpse of a few figures.

All of them Black and wearing the soaked-vinegar handkerchiefs across their mouths. The girl continued wishing for a better world as her body switched from the cold tohotandthe group that surrounded her slowly bathed her and wrapped her in a blanket. Still wishing for a better world, the girl closed her eyes as coolness surrounded her and the group beganhumming and singing the words: “Earth has detain'd me prisoner long; But I’m grown weary now: My heart,myhands,myears,mytongue.There’snothinghereforyou.Tiredmy-”

The group was interrupted by the chiming of the Liberty Bell and they looked in the direction of it, worriedly. They looked back at the girl and tried to finish the hymn but the Bell chimed louder and louder, overpowering their voices. They couldn’t sing louder out of fearthat they would be caught having the funeral, so they waited. And when the chimesstartedtocease, sodidthegirl’sheart.

On the last of the chimes, the girlvanishedfromthespotasifshewasafigmentofone’s imagination. The Black people who had bathed her were nowheretobeseenandthegirlwasno longer on a cooling board or in the shanty, instead she was on the hard ground next to the Schuylkill River, unmoving. The only way you could tell she was alive was by the erratic breathing.

Atleast,that’show we foundher.

Seeing us tripled-masked, wearing the knittedpolyesterandsilkhazmatsuitsandgloves, with our mobility aids, as well as the sky with the dark fuzzy clouds and constant light, dull

yellow would make Philadelphia in 2043 surprising for anyone, especially if you were an enslavedgirlheretwoandahalfcenturiesprior.”

“Howolddoyouthinkthischildis?”

“Whatever their age, it doesn't seem like they have much time left” I said asIsatonmy rollator and pulled out a first aid bag. As I unzipped it, I softly yet thoroughly examined the child.“Skinisthin.Lookskindayellow.Handsarefreezing.”

Itookoutthecoolingpackandtoldmycousinto“getthewheelchairandany-”

“Icancarry-”

“No.Don’toverexertyourself-”

“But-”

“Please.Thewheelchairandanylongpieceofclothing,ifnotahazmatsuit.”

My cousin walked with their cane as I softly dabbed the cooling pack on the girl’s face and that was when her eyes, now a deeper yellow, opened. Fear creeped into her face and she backedawayasmuchasherbodyallowedherto.

“I’msorry.Iwon’thurtyou.”

ThegirlpointedtotheskyasshestartedcoughingandItookoutamask.

“Canyouputthisoveryourmouth?”Iasked,demonstratingatthesametimetothechild. Thechildcontinuedcoughingbutwiggledherfingersasshereachedforthemask.

“You’regonnabeokay Youhaveusnow.”

The child was hesitant to come with usatfirst.Wewerehesitanttoo.Wedidn’thaveany knowledge on this child. Don’t even know how she got to us. All we knew, or what we put together was that she was used to working without rest. Even when we introduced her to the others, who were like her, like us, she still tried to workwithoutthewheelchair.Thisonlymade herputmorestressonherback.

From that, from other things she did, and from the yellow of her skin andeyes, wealso figuredoutthatshewasn’tfromhere.

“Allofhersymptomsseemtoberelatedtotuberculosisandyellowfever”

“Butthere’savaccinefor-”

“I think we both know that unfortunately a lot of people don’t take vaccines seriously.

COVID-19 was 20 years ago and you can still see the effects of it today. Air pollution doesn’t makeitanybetter.It’sjustgoingtogetworsefromhere.See.”

My cousin handed me the phone, where the social media app, UnderGround, similar to Twitterwas.

A headline that says, “85% of the U.S. are not working, reports wonder why”. Another headline mentions scientists offering money for people who have long covid and want “help” througharesearch.OtherpeopletalkabouthowtheSupremeCourtmaymakeadecisiononwho andwhatqualifiesasadisabilityundertheAmericanswithDisabilitiesAct.

“That’s why we started this movement. We have at least two people from every part of thiscountryinterestedinjoining.

“Stillsmall.Ifmorepeoplearen’twillingtoidentifiedasdisabled,then-”

“Iknow.”Isaidasthegirl,whosenamewestilldidnotknow,wheeledovertous,slowly. ShewasimprovinginusingitandIwasproud.

Thegirlgesturedtowardsthephoneinmyhand,asiftoask,“what’sthat”

“A cell phone. You use it to talk to other people.” my cousin said, making the gesture withtheirhandtotheirear.“Andcommunicateinotherwaysandgetinformation.”

The girlonlynoddedandlookedatus.ThismeantforustocontinueandIdid.Isatdown onmyrollatoranddemonstratedhowtousethephonetoher.

After a few minutes, I handed the phone to her. All she didwasstareatit.Notblanking. A few seconds later, her body began shaking and I took itfromher.Iaskedsomeonetohelpme bringhertoabedandtobringwaterandotheressentials.

The girlhasstayedinbedfor3dayssincethen.Immediatelyaftertheshaking,mycousin had called a neighboring disability activist and medical professional, who had confirmed for us whatwealreadyknew:thegirlhadTB,yellowfever,andwasdying.

When we told the girl all she could do was nod.ShetriedshooingusawayandIsworeI heardhermumblesomethingalongthelinesof“letmediealone”.Butwedidn’tleaveheralone.

We stayed with her Gave her food, bathed her Did all the things that made her feel wantedandtoldherthatshewasn’taloneinherfight.

On the second to last day before she died, the girl had become comfortable with us and could also use the wheelchair again. Her body was no longer shaking, her breathing waserratic still, and she didn’t have much of an appetite, but theyellowfromhereyeseemedtogetlighter Shenolongerturnedusawayfromherorforcedherselftowork.

We each did things to make her feel comfortable. Reading her bedtime stories, hugging herwhenevershewantedone,lovingher.

The next day after that the girl mumbled a few sentences and was able to move in her wheelchair fully. No longer tired,itseems.Itwasaburstofenergy.Happenstoeveryoneintheir lastdays,inthelast24hoursbeforetheydie.

This was when the girl decided to tell us her story. She told us about how she was born disabled over two centuries ago in this here Philadelphia and how she learned to beashamedof her very existence because being a slave and a disabled one at that could lead to death and separation. She didn’t know how she got here. She says she thinks it had something to do with the Bell, but that Bell has never rung in centuries, but we believed her, I believed her. And that wasenoughforhertocontinuetellingusherstory.

She didn’t tell us what she saw happened to disabled people thatsheknewof.Butbased on context clues of the time and now, you could put everything together. You could also tell by whenhervoicefadedawayasshetoldthestory.

As she continued telling us about who she was, we did the preparations for her funeral. Alerting others through UnderGround and other social media that we were having ahomegoing for one of the members of the community and anyone who wanted to say farewells were welcometojoin.

This would be thehomegoingthegirlshouldhavereceivedin1793.Becausethegirlwas not given accommodations and treated like a human being from her enslavers, if the girl was surrounded by people who loved her and wasn’t ashamed of her, maybe she could have lived longer.

“And this is the story of the girl who lies before us today”. IsayasItakeastepforward towards the coffin. “This girl did not remember her name from when she was enslaved, but we have chosen Phumza for her becauseitmeans‘giverest’,‘givepeoplesomerest’,and/or‘relief’ and issaidtobeofBantuorigin.”Itakeabreathbeforecontinuing.“Underbettercircumstances, we’d hope you would have been able to live past the young age of 14 and grow old, but little does this world let young Black kids live, whether they be disabled, queer,fatandwhetheritbe inthepast,present,andevenfuturebutperhapsoneday.”

Ipausedandlookedatthelaptop,wheretheASLinterpreterfollowsalongtomyvoice.

“Thank you all who joined the live stream as we say goodbye to Phumza. Now,Iwould like to say a few words from Christina Sharpe’s In the Wake.” I inhale,thenexhaleasItakeout myphoneandbeginreading.

“What does it mean to defend the dead? To tend to the Black dead and dying: totendto the Black person, to Black people, always livinginthepushtowardourdeath?Itmeanswork.It is work: hard emotional, physical, and intellectual work that demands vigilant attendance to the needsofthedying,toeasetheirway,andalsototheneedsoftheliving.”

The group that surrounds the coffin and those on the laptop are silent until someone beginshumming.

“Hymns like these hold messages that resonated with the oppression ofenslavedpeople, suchasPhumza,andinhonorofherandthoselikeher,pleasefollowalongifyouwish.”

Isendalinktothechatandjoininonthesingingandhumming.

“Earth has detain'd me prisoner long; But I’m grown weary now: My heart, my hands, my ears my tongue

There’s nothing here for you.

Tired myself I lay me down, And upward cast my eyes, Upward, my Father, to thy throne, And to my native skies.

There the dear Lord, my Saviour sits; O see how bright he shines!

And scatters infinite delights On all the happy minds.

Seraphs with elevated strains Circle the throne around; And charm, and move the starry plains

With an immortal sound.

Jesus the Lord their harps employs, ‘Jesus my love they sing,’ ‘Jesus’the God of both our joys, Sounds sweet from every string. Now would I rise to join the song, And be an angel too; My heart my hands, my ears, my tongue There's joyful work for you. I would begin the music here, And so my soul shall rise; O! for some heav'nly note to bear My spirit to the skies!”

“Thank you all and thank you Phumza for existing. Rest in peace and hopefully, we showedyounurturing,somethingyoushouldhavegottenwhenyouwerealivelongago.

As the singingcomestoanend,afaintringinthedirectionoftheLibertyBellisheardas thedark,fuzzycloudsmovetomakewayfortheskythathasnowbecomeavibrantyellow A ding from the laptop shows an email with the subject, “How Can I Join the Movement?”

The End

New Delhi, India- 2086

Diya tried to ignore the twisting pain in the core of her belly for days, but to no avail. One morning, she woke up to her bed sheets and underwear colored with a splotch of dark brownish-red, a stain that she tried to hide until her mother found her crouched over the sink. She had scrubbed at the fabric until her hands were raw and cracked, but she was ultimately unable to

Deep Red

hide her secret. Womanhood crept up on her more quickly than she expected, and at just 12years-old, her time had come. Her mother handed her a piece of cloth and told her to stuff it into her underwear through a barrage of tears. Weeping together, they packed Diya’s bags, and where no one could see, her mother embraced her tightly, knowing this would likely be the last time she would be allowed to hold her baby in her arms.

The car was silent as Diya made her way to the facility. After her mother informed the authorities of what had happened, they sent their own vehicle to take her to her designated isolation space. Diya never thought she would miss the suffocating smell of her father’s cheap cologne, which would fill their family’s car when he drove her to her domestication lessons, but she found that she preferred that to the sterilized scent of the self-driving van ripping her away from her family. She watched out the window as they went through her neighborhood, the carbon copy houses blurring together into one large line as she made her way to the border of the compound. Diya had never left the protection of her compound’s oxygen-bubble before, but the car drove straight through it and soon all she could see through the window was murky gray smoke.

She only realized she had reached the isolation facility when her window cleared to reveal the inside of a factory-like building. When the car doors opened, an animatronic nurse collected her to lead her to her new life. The nurse was built to look humanoid, but it had metal and computer code in place of flesh and blood. It looked like a young woman, its face and upperbody covered in a layer of smooth plastic skin and delicately painted-on features. However, the realism ended from the torso-down, where its abdomen gave way to a pole connected to three wheels rather than legs. Its unoiled wheels made a sharp, squealing noise as it led Diya down a long hallway and to her isolation room.

“We have arrived.” The nurse was programmed to sound kind, and for a second, Diya almost believed that it was more than just cold, hard steel. She fought the urge to latch on to the robot, to tuck herself under its bionic arm and beg not to go. But she knew better. Her entire life had been leading up to this moment. From the day her breasts bud to the size of small cotton balls, her mother would sneak into her bed at night and hold her tight to her chest. Diya remembered the wet heat of her mother’s tears streaming down the side of her neck as she stared up at the overwhelmingly large double-door in front of her. It was floor to ceiling of pure metal, and seemed more like a bank vault than what Diya imagined the entrance to her home for the next five years to look like.

Security was tight, and the young girl watched carefully as the robot aligned its face with the door and a blue light shone over its glass eyeball, scanning it to unlock the gate. The two doors slowly separated with an echoing screech. They disappeared into the walls to reveal three other children, sitting together in a circle on the floor. One was braiding another’s hair as the third laid in her lap. They all wore matching beige kurtas and had dark circles under their eyes. The harsh fluorescent lighting emphasized the way their knobbly knees and sharp elbows poked through the thin cotton of their clothes.

Diya followed the nurse into their cramped living quarters as the doors closed behind them with a resounding bang. The room only contained two bunk beds and four wardrobes lined up against the wall. The other children simply watched as the robot pressed its hand to its abdomen. Its stomach dislodged and slid open to show a compartment, containing five of the same kurtas that the rest of the children were wearing and a set of bedsheets. Diya tried not to display her shock in the face of the other children’s nonchalance at the robot’s disfigurement of itself, but she couldn’t hide suppress her gasp when it rotated its head 180º to look back at her.

“Welcome home!” The robot’s mouth sculpted into a smile, but its eyes remained unmoving, dead. After emptying the compartment and thrusting its stomach back into place, its wheels squealed once again as it moved back to the door. With another scan of its glass eyeball, this time from the inside, it left. The heavy doors closed once again behind it and the air in the room fell still as Diya looked back at the children who seemed to be avoiding her gaze.

“Hi.” The tense moment of silence was eventually broken by the kid laying down. Diya stared at the child’s messily chopped short hair with wide eyes. She had never seen a girl with hair any shorter than half-way down their chests- she didn’t even know that was an option.

“Hi.”

“I’m Aadi.” Diya’s own awkward introduction was cut short by a voice, the same as the robot nurse, ringing through the room.

“Dinner will be served shortly. Dinner will be served shortly. Dinner will be served shortly.” To Diya’s surprise, four slots opened in the walls to reveal plates with two rotis and a modest serving of vegetables each. The other kids darted to what must have been their established places, leaving Diya to trail behind them to the last spot. She picked at her plate as the other kids hunched over and pushed handful after handful of food into their mouths. By the time she had finished her first roti, the others were already done.

“Are you going to finish that?” the girl who looked barely 10 years old, if even that, asked from behind Diya. She was staring at the floor, her hands picking away at her nails where her skin was already peeling and dark red. Diya handed over her plate, her appetite diminished by the deep ache in her belly, and watched as the tiny girl devoured her share of food as well.

“Thanks. I’m Sonam, by the way.” Her voice was just as small as the rest of her.

“You really should eat the rest of your food next time. You’ll need it,” the tallest girl finally spoke from the other side of the room. Diya suspected her to be the oldest of the group based on the confidence in her voice and the reverence in Sonam and Aadi’s eyes when they looked at her. “I’m Raya.”

“I’m Diya.” Her words felt like cotton in her mouth.

“Let me help you make your bed. I hope you don’t mind sleeping on top.” Diya scrambled up the small ladder on the side of the bunk and the two quietly moved together to pull the rough sheets over the mattress. The way Raya smoothed down the wrinkles that had gathered at the base of the bed reminded Diya of her mother and she felt tears prick her eyes. Despite her attempts to hold herself back, she couldn’t help the way she crumpled over and shook with the force of a thousand men marching into battle. Diya could barely hear the children’s footsteps as they rushed over to her, draping themselves over her body as she wailed. She could feel their bones dig into her still-soft flesh as they held her tight.

“We know. We know. We know.” ***

Later that night, when it was time to sleep, Diya crept into Raya’s bed rather than her own. The older girl hugged her tight, as if she was physically holding Diya’s broken, fragmented self together, and told her all about her life in the compound so far. Raya had been a latebloomer, and hadn’t started her menstruations until she was already fifteen years old. A year and a half had passed since she first entered, and her time to leave was soon approaching. In the dark, Raya let her fears tumble out of her mouth like clunky stones rolling down a hill- what if the man she was assigned to on her next birthday was cruel? What if he left her battered and bruised, the

way her father had done to her mother? How could her frail body carry a child when she felt like a child herself?

Diya also learned about the other children and how they had come to be in the facility.

“When Aadi first arrived, he had hair all the way down to his belly button.”

“He?”

“He.” Raya spoke with such resolution that Diya did not dare question her. “Our bodies and our souls are not always aligned. Aadi is Aadi.” And that was that. Diya learned that he had cut his hair using a knife that the children got on one of the rare occasions they were served bread and butter. He sharpened it on the edge of his bunk bed’s metal leg and spent hours sawing away at the strands he had been forced to grow until they lay on the ground like rays of sunshine darting out of him.

Sonam had arrived a year before Diya. Only a nine year old at the time, she had apparently been even smaller back then. Raya recounted how she had rocked Sonam’s delicate body back and forth, like a baby, to help her fall asleep. Her and Aadi would clean Sonam’s wet sheets after she had nightmares, and wipe her mouth clean after each meal.

“She feels so much older already. Her cheeks used to be so chubby.” With that, Raya began to cry, and it was Diya’s turn to rub her hands up and down the knobs of the older girl’s spine. They held each other, taking turns to weep, until they finally drifted into their dreams. The next morning, Diya was the first to wake up. She cried once again when she saw that the cloth her mother had given her had not been enough to keep her blood at bay, and she had colored Raya’s bed and even parts of her kurta red with her leakage. When the strength of her sobs woke Raya up, the older girl simply wiped her tears away with her thumbs, stripped her bed of her

sheets, and taught Diya how to tear one of her extra kurtas up to use the scraps of fabric as protection against the blood.

“One cloth isn’t enough for the whole week. You’ll have to change it or you will keep staining things.” The kids could only use the bathroom if they called one of the nurses to take them there. They could each only go three times a day, though frankly, their chances to drink water were so few and far between that on many days, they did not even need to use all three opportunities. The first time Diya pressed the small red button by the door to call a nurse, she was surprised by how far away the bathroom was from their room. They had to go all the way back down the same hallway as when she first arrived, and then turn to another corner. The bathroom itself consisted of only a small hole in the ground and a sink where she could wash her muddied cloths with dirty brown water. ***

It only took a few weeks for Aadi to open up to Diya the way that Raya had on that first night. His sharp sense of humor began to slip into their conversations, and when he told her about his family, his old home, he let her see him cry. Even Sonam had grown comfortable around her, allowing Diya to dote after her the way Aadi and Raya had been. Every day that passed within the facility was grueling; the children were given nothing to pass their time with, and Diya found herself missing the boring cooking and cleaning lessons that her parents made her take every day, because at least they gave her something to do. Instead, the children could only find solace in one another. They would tell stories from their past lives, and once they ran out of those, they’d spin new ones out of the air.

The closer it got to Raya’s 17th birthday, the more time the children spent bunched together in her bed, comforting her. Her fears of the outside world and what was to come only

grew with each passing day. With only a few weeks left, she panicked at the thought of leaving her best friends behind for some man, some stranger. She had some hope for her future as her features were naturally soft and dainty, her large eyes innocent in the way that men seemed to like. She was confident that she would be picked by a rich man,, but she also knew that in this case, he would likely be much older than her. At night, she would have nightmares of rough hands grabbing at her body, moving it in ways that she still did not understand, but knew would be painful. She dreamt of her future baby, the one she would be forced to carry and could not imagine herself loving.

Aadi wept at the thought of his seventeenth birthday, and Diya wept along with him. She could not begin to imagine his belly protruding with a child and changing in ways it should never have to. “In fact, none of us should have to,” she boldly declared one night through her tears. None of them even wanted to think of little Sonam on her seventeenth, picked at by men like vultures and treated like a toy, an incubator.

“We need to get out of here,” they had all dreamt of an escape, but Diya was the first to speak the thought aloud. And so, in the middle of the night, they began to plan. It would have to be before Raya’s birthday, so they had approximately three weeks before they ran out of time. They had no idea where they would go once they escaped, or where the facility even was, but they could worry about once they were out. The children spent hours debating which approach they would take- would they use brute force to kill all the nurses and pry the doors open? Or would they find a way to hack into the facility’s system? Could they possibly befriend one of the nurses and have an ally on the inside? They stayed up through the night planning every detail meticulously, interrupted only by the alarm letting them know their breakfast would soon be served.

On the third day of her period, Sonam woke up to her body burning from the inside out. The skin in between her thighs had turned bright red and scaly, and she scratched at it so ferociously that she drew blood. Over the past two days, she had already experienced some faintness and a piercing pain when she went to the bathroom, but she had assumed it would pass the way it had many times before. This time, however, she could not ignore the deep ache in her bones, nor the chills that felt like they rattled her body and electrified her veins. The other children were forced out of their slumber by the sound of Sonam’s gagging and could do nothing but watch as she vomited pure stomach acid all over their floor. With nothing to clean it but a few scraps of cloth, its putrid scent permeated through the room and stained the air for days. From that morning onwards, the other children spent all their time by Sonam’s side. They had called a nurse for help, but it was unresponsive to their demands for a doctor. There were no exceptions to the rules of their isolation, especially considering that all the doctors were male. The children resolved to care for her themselves. They would use their bathroom breaks to wet their kurtas with the coldest water possible, and rush back to the room to drape the wet cloth over Sonam’s unwaveringly feverish forehead. Half of all their portions of food would go to their youngest in a desperate attempt to make her body strong enough to fight off this disease. When her rash began to blister, they wiped the pus and blood off the insides of her legs, and when Sonam inevitably grew too weak to stand, they stripped and cleaned her sheets every time she had to relieve herself. Their drinking water supply was completely dictated by how much rainfall they got every week, as the weather was too unpredictable and sporadic for the New Delhi water reserves to collect it in mass during what used to be the monsoon season. Unluckily, Sonam’s illness corresponded with a drought, and so the rest of the kids only took one sip of the one glass

each that they were designated per day, opting to give the rest to their youngest. But their efforts were futile, and with every passing day Sonam grew sicker.

“We don’t have time. We need to leave now.” Diya was surprised by how steady her voice sounded, considering how hoarse her throat felt from the two days she had spent crying over Sonam’s weak body.

“But Sonam-” “I’ll carry her.” Aadi’s doubts were cut short by Raya’s steely voice. “Let's do it.” ***

Diya slid Aadi’s knife, the one he had used to hack away at his hair months ago, up the sleeve of her kurta. She laid it flat against her skin and made sure it looked seamless against the inside of forearm. She had no idea if this plan would work, but at this point, they were all desperate enough that they were willing to risk the consequences of getting caught. No fate would be worse than watching Sonam die in the confines of their small room, or Raya having to leave this prison for another one in the form of an old man’s arms. She looked back at Raya and Aadi, who waited anxiously by Sonam’s bed, ready to swoop her up and run once given the signal. Diya gave her new family a shaky smile, faking confidence in the hopes of giving them comfort, and with shaky hands, she pressed the button by the door to call the nurse.

“I need to use the restroom.” Nothing out of the ordinary, not yet at least. She spent the walk down their long, tunnel-like hallway taking deep breaths to calm her nerves. The nurse kept moving forward but turned its head all the way around, like an owl, to see why she was heaving, but must have assumed it was out of desperation to go to the toilet, and turned back around. Once in the bathroom, Diya couldn’t stop the way her stomach upturned and emptied its contents into the toilet. She could not believe what she was about to do, but she had no other options. Stepping

out of the stall, she moved to the sink as though she was just going to wash her hands. She couldn’t hear the running water over the sound of her booming heartbeat in her ears. Before she could second-guess herself, she darted at the robot and tackled it, using the force of her body weight against it to shove it against the countertop before it had the chance to retaliate.

The robot was incredibly strong, but Diya had managed to catch it off-guard. Before it could retaliate, she grabbed its head and pulled it downwards with all her might. She mustered every bit of strength in her body to force it under the running tap, praying with her entire being that the plan would work. Sparks erupted from the sink, charring the skin on her arms, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins prevented her from feeling any pain. After a few moments, the nurse’s body went limp and its metal limbs finally stopped thrusting into Diya’s frail body. Once she was sure that it was dead, she made it stand upright once again. The skin on its face had melted away so chunks of the hardwiring under it peaked through. She fought past the wave of faintness she felt from the fumes of burning plastic emanating from the robot’s body and finally removed the knife from her sleeve. She stabbed the knife into the robot's eye-socket and pushed to dislodge its glass eye, which was luckily still unaffected by the fire.

With the eye in her hand, she sprinted as fast as she could back down the seemingly endless hallway, ignoring the deep bruises she could feel forming on her body and the biting pain in her lungs. Her legs felt like they were ready to give out by the time she finally reached those cursed double doors. She held the eye up to the center of the door, right where the nurse had always aligned herself, and to her relief, the blue light shone to scan her in. However, just as the huge doors began to open, flashing lights and a blaring alarm rang through the tunnel.

“Security breach. Security breach. Security breach.”

“We have to go, we have to go!” Diya was screaming at this point. Raya scooped Sonam into her arms and Aadi darted out of the room. Together, the three of them dashed through the doors and into the blinding hallway. Moved by their desperation, they ran at a rapid pace, but soon Raya could not help but slow down.

“I’m too weak. I’m sorry, I’m too weak.”

“Let me take Sonam,” Aadi said, determined to keep going forward.

“No.” Sonam’s voice was as small as when Diya had first met her. It was the first time she had spoken in days. “Go. Leave me. Go.” Speaking had taken all of her energy, and she passed out in Raya’s arms. The other kids were ready to ignore her wishes and find a way to keep going, but her body jolted. She seized so violently that Raya had no choice but to drop her to the floor.

Raya wept, “we can’t leave her,” but the tell-tale squeaking of another robot’s wheels pierced through the alarm.

“There’s nothing else we can do.” Saying those words hurt Diya more than the blisters on her burnt skin, more than the deep-rooted bruises she had gained in her fight with the nurse, more than anything else she had ever experienced. But it was true. Sonam had no chance. They kept going, gasping for air in between their sobs as they continued down the hallway. They ran and ran, past the bathroom and further down the tunnel until they finally reached the room that Diya’s car had rolled into just weeks prior. Little enough time had passed that she still remembered where she entered from. They found the gate right as dozens of other nurses entered the room, closing in on them. With trembling fingers, Diya held up the glass eye to the gate, and the three children plunged into the thick smog outside.

Sunwomb

Autumn V. Rose

my life in their eyes

Jasper County

My mother always told me she couldn’t wait til I gave her a grandchild. “A pretty little girl I can dress up and spoil, that looks just like us,” she’d joyously proclaim, with so much emotion that it filled her round face. I wanted so very much to please her, and I would do anything to make her wish come true and be the daughter she would want me to be, to be like her.

Suddenly, her prophecy came true. As did her nightmare, because today is the day I bury my firstborn. She was born sometime after the sun rose this morning, and I lay her body in the ground as the sun set, its movement unknowing of our plights. 7 confusing months, excruciatingly long months, in which I did all I could to be safe, to protect her, yet I still failed.

The birth was gruesome, and they never tell you how bad it is. Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me my skin would tear and bleed incessantly? Why didn’t anyone mention the splotches all over my body and the intense pain? Pain. I was in so much pain. I thought I would die. I wish I died, so I didn’t have to see her when she came into the world. Her delicate skin peeled back as I pushed her out, raw and red flesh, rather than the magnolia bark brown mama told me she’d be. She was raw just like me as my stomach swelled with her growth. She was so small yet wailed as if she pained for a thousand people in one body. She screamed tirelessly and it made me weep because I watched my child flail with agonizing death as she was born. I was quite surprised to see her born alive, but unfortunately not surprised to see her dead only a few hours later. Ten fingers. Good. Thirteen toes. Good enough. My baby was never meant to survive, but I hoped, even if for a little while.

This drove River into a terrible rage. “You couldn’t even do the one thing you were meant to do, Zoe. How could you let my baby die? What kind of mother are you?” He pestered me relentlessly. “Jeanie was able to push out three half-baked kids and you can’t even get out one of em.” And when I had no answer for him as to why that baby was dead and not in my arms, he then pushed me into the dirt where she lay, silent and unmoving I was still so weak, and the fall ripped out the air from my lungs. The soil, rusty with iron, filled my mouth but it was much better than the air filling my lungs with insidious concoctions. It was actually a relief to be burned by a different kind of poison. The push took a lot from him as well, I could see. His heart is weak, and he stumbled. But he knows, as damn well as I, and as anyone else, this was not my fault. I did my part and made the baby, what else am I supposed to do? I didn’t create the situation we’re in now and I can’t fix it either. I can’t suck the sulfur out of the air or the acid out of the water or the tornadoes out of the sky. And I can’t bring back a baby that was never meant to be born in the first place.

Jeanie

“Honey, just try again! You’re still young. It took three tries til my first angel came down from Heaven,” smiled Jeanie, “ya just gotta have faith and keep going!” I try and look at Jeanie’s inviting face.? The girl has barely 16 years in her and she's already the mother of 3 children, a four-year-old, a two-year-old, and a freshly popped newborn. I don’t know how she managed to keep any of them alive cause she can hardly take care of herself. Her mama died giving birth to Jeanie’s little brother and her dad ran off shortly after the birth of Ashton, about three years ago. “If my momma sacrificed herself for me, then I will sacrifice for mine,” she said as she looked down at the slow-breathing baby in her arms, who if you just glanced at, you would think is dead.

Jeanie’s the closest friend I have here and though we’re only a year apart, she feels so much older, so much more put together than I am. She’s been doing her part in trying to build back any semblance of a thriving community, with her children. They live with her, who lives with her grandma, who takes as best care of them all as she can. But best is never good enough around here anymore, when everyone and everything is dying almost every day. All three of Jeanie’s children have asthma and chronic bronchitis, which will more than likely worsen over time. River once told me that his dad said the newborn won't make it to one It’s sad, but I agree. Some days, the air becomes so thick, people in the town have asphyxiated and died, children especially. The older people keep telling us to have babies, that bringing new lives in will be the solution, yet nothing changes The old people die, the babies die, if they even make it through the pregnancy, the people giving birth die, and those in between struggle to stay alive another day. ❖ She continued, “And lil Ray is doing good too, Candice woulda been so proud to know he made it to five!” Candice, who died at 15 giving birth to Ray, had been immortalized, like all the other people who died during birth as saints–women who paid the ultimate price to keep our people up. “I hope I’m remembered like her when it's my time too,” Jeanie whispered.

7/29 Mama

Mama is old-fashioned and hauntingly beautiful. She’s old-fashioned in the ways that matter I guess, finding solace in her role as a woman and seeking to stay within the bounds as best she can. So, understandably, she wants me to try again. “I’ll talk to River,” she recites exhaustedly. “He will take you back! We just need to keep trying, we can’t give up now Zoe.” I stare at the ground, which has all but withered away, as there are no plants to keep it down. No nothing to keep it alive. It's an ugly ground. Jeanie’s nana told me the soil used to be rich and deep decades ago, but it seems nothing is fruitful

these days. I look back at mama, with nothing to say and an empty face. My brain feels empty sometimes and I don’t know how to feel about things. “Yes ma’am,” I recite back to her, not knowing what to say. She used to hide her disappointment well, but after all these years it seems I have let her down more and more. And this, this will be the biggest moment I will let her down if I do not choose to try again. For her sake, and that of the decaying community.

Mama’s family is either dead or lives on the other side of the country, so I’m all she has at the house And while she’s only in her forties, she has had two heart attacks so far, almost out of nowhere Because of that, my baby was supposed to be another addition insurance of her legacy and being in this community Unsurprisingly, I failed her, which hurts me the most. I don’t even feel bad about the baby really, mostly that I couldn’t present it to her and give her hope for some kind of future. I hate feeling this way because I didn’t want to be a mother in the first place and I never liked that she, along with everyone else, pushed it on me, but I also hate to let her down. I just wanted to be a good daughter, whatever it took.

Nana

Jeanie’s nana is one of the oldest people I know living in our town, somehow still alive after many of the older people have begun to pass away from a variety of things, mainly respiratory illnesses, apparently kinds not seen since about thirty years ago, to poisoning from bad food and water. One would think at their age, they’d know how to avoid poisoning, but unfortunately, these are “unseen times” as nana Kay says, and we all suffer from unseen tragedies. I like nana because she is the only one who doesn’t care who I am or how I spend my time or what I do with my life, which is freedom beyond compare. I am someone to everyone else, yet to her, I am just some child a playmate to Jeanie. I spend time on her

porch, and she gabs about random moments in her life, moments from before everything went awry and landed us here.

I think she likes me enough since she tells me all these things, or maybe she’s just gonna die soon and wants to get this information out somehow. Either way, I appreciate it sincerely because the recollection of her past helps me feel less bad Less confused maybe. It’s all so fuzzy these days, and my mind fails to operate normally or with ease. Listening to nana distracts me, probably too much, but I can’t help it. One time, she told me a story about this small cove, down by the coast where she and her friends would play near the rocks and water. It was beautiful, almost a portal to another world, another time that would open just for them The cove, though difficult to find, had been a special place for her that continued to visit until the Evacuation began and she had to move inward in the state. And after a while, she just couldn’t make the journey anymore in her physical state. She tells me all the time that she feels it in her heart, the water crashing and receding, a process that mesmerizes her. “Make you a little wish and it’ll come true, and it’ll come true at the cove child,” she’d used to say to me. I hoped to visit one day, just to see the water she vividly spoke about, and hoped to tell her that nothing has changed, and it was exactly the way she remembered it So that the cove would console her and wrap her up so that she was safe and secure, and that she would be comforted to know that her special place has preserved itself among all the destruction and death, even in her last days. 8/26

River

It had been about six or seven weeks now since my baby died and I think people began to question mama about me having a baby again. She let it go for a little while, but she started asking me again about trying for another one. I thought it wouldn’t happen again, but I guess they can’t let a childbearing person off the hook for too long. At the rate that babies are dying or not being born, those who

can must keep bearing, as many as they can, for as long as they can. Mama is getting heat I guess from community members as there is a young girl in her house that is not either pregnant or raising a baby and just living. Using their resources and not giving anything back. She asks me daily at this point, but I still have nothing to say. I know that I must keep going, but I do not wanna. I want to be free from this. I’m shackled to this wasteland and don’t know where I should go, or what should I do. Mama brings River to the house, and he sits silently across from me. Neither of us looks at the other. I embarrassed him, just like I embarrassed everyone else when I couldn’t give birth to a baby without it dying hours later. Useless. ❖ I never really liked River, but then again, I never liked anyone in the way they said I was supposed to. He was nice and pretty, I guess, but I don’t want to be with him. I don’t want to be with anybody, and I wish they’d all leave me alone. River used to be caring and he used to be understanding, but now he only cares to fulfill whatever duty his parents laid on him. I guess we’re alike in that way—in many ways perhaps but he’s never gonna change. He will be the perfect citizen, like Jeanie, putting their civil duties to maintain our way of life before their feelings, and before their bodies. I think I would have learned to love River Probably not, but I woulda tried He just happened to live near me, and we just happened to become friends when I was six Seven years later, when Jeanie asked who I was gonna have my first baby with, I just assumed it would be River, as he’d always been there. Just simple and to the point I should have picked better.

❖

Mama and River stare at me like I am an alien, unable to comprehend what is at stake and why I have no desire to help our community. I just do not. We don’t deserve the children we force out and they are bred to die, which no one sees. I can’t do it again; I refuse to partake any longer. I have to find a way

out.

Me

So, I leave the house that night. And I walk. I don’t even say goodbye, not to my mama, not to Jeanie, not to nana. I don’t say anything. Maybe they’ll understand I don’t know. I walk because I do not know what else to do other than have a baby. I have no skills, no big dreams, and I have nothing to call my own. I am lost beyond finding and I have to find my own freedom, my own being I leave because this is my only option left to survive for me and not for anyone else. I would have learned to live their life; I am a good imitator. But this would have happened sooner later better sooner, than later I have no reason to stay in that town anymore because I cannot do the one thing they asked of me, and I refuse to try again either. I don’t mean to be hard-headed or anything like that, but I can’t live like this for the rest of my life assaulted and broken, raising a lifeless future. So, I walk.

❖

I don’t think I had left my community but more than two times before, and I forget how ugly the world is outside. Ugly, but free, I guess. I didn’t bring anything but a coat, and I continued with no stopping. I only look up at the moon, and forward on road, nothing else is important. I have to make it out to the water. Maybe I’d find nana’s cove. I don’t think I would, but I have a little hope left.

❖

As streaks of pink and purple rise in the sky, I begin to see something. Water Dark and marshy, nothing pristine. Nothing like the cove I should have let go of that hope I had saved. Like me, it seemed to have once served a purpose, but has now been poisoned beyond repair. I used to be so little and so useless at some point before I needed to serve a purpose This marsh is far from the gleaming waters nana once told me about nana told me about it, but it’ll do. I sit and talk to the water, and I make a wish:

I am tired. I am weak.

Please forgive me, but I must live for me.

I am sorry to the baby I let grow inside of me.

Have mercy on me. I must do this for me.

Zoe finishes scribbling her story on the papers and works to carve her last wish desperately in the mud surrounding the marsh, desperate that someone would see them and understand why she had to do this Once she finished her words, she looked at her reflection, which even in the dark water, was clear and distinct Free-floating, untethered, and undisturbed It was a Zoe she had never seen before but badly wanted to be Slowly, she grabs some nearby stones and rocks and fills all her pockets in the large, red coat she wore on this unnaturally warm day. As she keeps filling her pockets, she continuously walks into the water. At some point, she becomes heavy and struggles to keep her chin above the water Zoe takes one last look into the sky; the sun is rising slowly off the coast, silent and strong That’s where she wants to head for. She thanks the sun for being a friend at this moment: “Thank you for being here with me.” She surrenders to the deep, muddy water, which embraces her wholly and deeply. Please wish her a peaceful journey.

INT. AMERICAN ACADEMY - AFTERNOON

WIDE on students hustling down the hallways. The paint on the walls is chipped and instead of a ceiling, pipes and wires protrude from all angles.

CLOSE in on MARIA, struggling to make her way through the crowds. She passes an American flag hung on the walls. ZOOM in on the stars, where there are now 55.

EXT. SAN JUAN, PUERTO RICO - CONTINUOUS

Maria pushes the front doors of the school open to the dark sky. She looks up - as if to search for stars - but there is only fog. She grabs her bike chained to a pole by the steps.

MONTAGE of her riding past City Hall, an FBI Building, a Military Base. American flags are hung everywhere. ZOOM on a Puerto Rican flag in a pile of mud.

Maria brakes in front of an abandoned store. A large, orange townhouse in the middle of El Viejo San Juan. She drops her bike on the sidewalk.

WIDE SHOT of her entering the building. Screen cuts to black.

INT. INTELLEGENCIA STUDIOS - A WEEK LATER

ANN is shuffling through her notes, mumbling to herself.

JENNIFER

And we’re live in 5, 4, 3, 2...

Ann pushes her paper to the side of her desk and straightens her posture. She looks directly into the camera.

ANN

Good evening and welcome to Ann’s America, brought to you by Intellegencia News. Tonight we have a breaking story from San Juan, Porto Rico. This week marks the 5th anniversary of Porto Rican statehood, but this exciting achievement has been overshadowed by tragedy.

A headline pops up below Ann’s face. “BREAKING NEWS: 18-yearold girl missing from San Juan.”

ANN (CONT’D)

18-year-old Maria Vasquez went missing 5 days ago after a supposedly normal school day at American Academy. 5 hours later, she was reported missing by her mother, Luisa Vasquez. The police searched for the girl, only finding her bike outside of an abandoned townhouse. They dismissed the case, claiming that “certain circumstances regarding her upbringing” likely caused her to run away. Luisa Vasquez happens to disagree: take a look.

A video starts to play. LUISA VASQUEZ stands on a fountain outside City Hall. Hundreds of people watch her. Some carry signs, some wave flags. She has no microphone, or megaphone, yet they all hear her.

LUISA

“Certain circumstances regarding her upbringing.”

Pause.

LUISA (CONT’D)

When she was just a child, we would go into El Viejo San Juan every Sunday. The market strung several city blocks. The streets were alive with people and food and beauty. A sight that you’ll never find now. She waved to everybody she passed. And they waved back. Every time. The people in the market would let her come behind the register and help them check out customers. All because her laughter and her smile could warm even the coldest, most brittle heart. She was a loving child. And she was a child who was loved. Widely. Deeply. So what “certain circumstances regarding her upbringing” have led authorities to believe she just ran away? Ran away from her home? Her mother?

Tears leak from her eyes and she takes a deep breath before looking to the sky.

LUISA (cont’d)

Why did you take her? What do you want from her?

The video pauses before the screen returns to Ann.

ANN

Following the publishing of this video, the police have re-opened their investigation into Maria’s disappearance.

ANN (CONT’D)

Social media has spent hours dissecting this video, looking for hints as to what might’ve happened. Our national correspondent, Bill, is on the ground in Washington, DC right now to get some first hand accounts. Bill?

The frame changes to BILL, who is standing on a corner of the city. He just looks like he was in a frat. The White House can be seen in the periphery of the frame.

BILL

Thanks, Ann. I’m here with Fred McConnell, viral private investigator who believes he has some insight on this case. Welcome, Fred.

FRED

Thank you so much for having me, Bill and Ann.

BILL

Let’s jump right into it. Where is Maria Vasquez?

FRED

Well, Bill. Last month the White House and NASA released a joint statement about a radio signal they received from deep space. While extraterrestrial life has not been visually confirmed, it is clear that someone or something is trying to contact us. What better way to get our attention than to take one of our own as a hostage? Humans have been doing it in wars for centuries.

(MORE)

FRED (CONT’D)

It’s how you get leverage, an advantage.

If you guys rewatch the final moments of that clip, you will see Mrs. Vasquez talking to the sky. She clearly knows something we don’t. What is she hiding?

BILL

Thank you, Fred. You just said what so many of us were thinking. It’s our job as journalists to uncover these layers to a story. The truth. With the amount of attention on this case, it’s safe to assume the truth about Maria Vasquez will come out very soon. Back to you, Ann.

Ann returns to the screen. Pause. She shoots a confused look to Jennifer behind the camera.

ANN

Um, it’s the start of the hour, which means it’s time for Cooper Brown to take over the news desk. Thank you for watching, and I’ll see you tomorrow.

The camera in front of Ann turns off and Ann’s broadcast smile collapses.

JENNIFER

Good work, Ann. Your flight leaves at 3 a.m. Don’t be late, we go live at 7.

Ann nods before gathering her notes and quickly exiting the set.

Close up on her face as she steps into the elevator and the doors slowly close in front of her.

INT. UNKNOWN - LATER

MARIA lays on a cold stone floor, unconscious. Slowly, her eyes start to open.

MARIA

What-

Frame stays on Maria as a door opens, the hinges squeaking. Footsteps enter the room.

MARIA

Oh my god.

INT. PRIVATE JET - EARLY MORNING

Producers and writers scramble across the jet, brainstorming ideas, angles, dialogue. Ann sits alone in a corner seat, her laptop sitting in her lap. She fingers the keys but never actually presses them.

Her screen is a blank word document.

ANN (sighing) Fuck.

INT. VASQUEZ HOUSE - DAY

LUISA VASQUEZ sits at the dining room table alone. It’s an old run-down wooden table, yet it still stands. She holds a neglected cup of coffee in her hand. The other holds a photograph. ZOOM on the photograph to see a picture of a young Maria curled up on her mother’s laugh. Both of them were in the midst of laughing in the photo.

KNOCK at the door.

Luisa places her cup of coffee on the wood before heading to open the front door. CUT to an overwhelming shot of Ann in the middle of a dozen crew members, all with boom mics or cameras or microphones.

ANN Ms. Vasquez?

LUISA Mrs. Vasquez.

ANN Mrs. Vasquez...My name is Ann Page from Intellegencia-

LUISA

I know who you are.

ANN (stuttering) Um, perfect. I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes so I can ask you some questions?

Luisa’s hesitant gaze snaps to a glare in seconds.

LUISA

Ms. Page, I’m going to give you ten seconds to get off my property before I call the neighborhood patrol. The only person I have any interest in talking to is my daughter.

Luisa goes to slam the door, but Ann jams her foot in the door, pushing it open.

ANN

We all saw that video of your speech, Ms. Vasquez, so you are obviously open to talking about it.

LUSIA

Who do you think you are, Miss Page? I made that speech for US. For my community. My words weren’t for the world and they especially weren’t for you.

Best.

ANN

But your words are out there now. Forever. And if you don’t get in front of this story, the executives will just run with whatever sells. But you, you can set the record straight.

LUISA

Set the record straight...Do you think you’re some vehicle of justice? Do you not think that if I wanted to speak I WOULD? I have said all I can, now I’m DOING all I can, searching for my daughter. What are you doing? Sitting behind a desk acting like you care?

ANN

I DO care. And I’m trying to make our coverage somewhat bearable-

LUISA

Bearable?! You think this is bearable?! My daughter is missing! And I will not allow you to make her the country’s newest entertainment!

ANN

That’s not what I meant-

LUISA

But it’s what you said. Now get out of my house.

She slams the door.

CLOSE on Ann’s face. She tries to appear stoic, but you could see the turmoil in her eyes. The idea that someone thought she was a bad person made her insides curl.

INT. UNKNOWN

Maria sits in the corner of the dark room, her arms wrapped around her knees. It’s as if she’s trying to take up as little space as possible.

Her eyes narrow as if she’s contemplating something. Her scowl fades to a glare as she looks off screen.

Suddenly, she stands.

INT. VASQUEZ HOUSE - NIGHT

Luisa and OCSCAR VASQUEZ sit on the couch together. They sit feet apart but their hands lie intertwined in the middle.

OSCAR

You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.

LUISA

I’m the reason she’s gone. OSCAR We both are.

LUISA (shaking her head)

It’s not the same. You’re- you’re gone. Me? I’m here. I’m here with her everyday. She’s MY responsibility.

Oscar huffs and rolls his eyes. He always thought she was too dramatic.

OSCAR

She’s still my responsibility too. Even if we’re...

Beat.

OSCAR (CONT’D)

Do you think the news has some truth to it?

LUISA

What kind of question is that?

OSCAR

Oh come on, you can’t get mad at me for thinking about it. It’s everywhere. TV, social media...I’d never thought I’d see the day where my mija’s face was on every billboard in town and I especially didn’t think that it would make my stomach drop. This is happening, Luisa. It’s real. So, what if-what if it’s all true?

LUISA

You watch too many movies. AliensOSCAR Exist. You heard the Department of Defense-

LUISA

I heard them say they received a scrambled signal. Not that they saw some fucking Kaiju.

OSCAR

You need to watch MORE movies... Beat.

OSCAR (CONT’D)

Do you really not believe in something bigger than us?

LUISA

I believe in Him. God. He’s a beautiful soul. He gave us love. He gave us our little girl-

OSCAR

Neither of which have lasted, Luisa.

Luisa looks as if he slapped her.

LUISA She. Is. Alive. (MORE)

LUISA (CONT’D)

Whether you choose to feed into Western conspiracies or not.

OSCAR

What do you mean Western conspiracies? We live in America!

LUISA

Don’t act like it’s by choice. Everything that has happened to us in our lives has not been by choice. Do you think I wanted to fall out of love with you? Do you think I wanted Maria to grow up without a father? Do you think I wanted to not be able to pay my bills? Do you think I wanted my daughter to disappear?! We don’t get choices, Oscar. We get circumstances. I thought you were at least smart enough to tell the difference.

KNOCK on the door.

LUISA (CONT’D) Ave Maria Purisima, if it’s that reporter again.

Oscar lets go of Luisa’s hand and makes his way over to the door. When he opens it, all the muscles in his face drop. Police swarm outside the house. The light from the sirens shine against his bronze skin. He’s seen this movie before.

OFFICER

Mr. VasquezOSCAR Where is it?

OFFICER Pérdon?

OSCAR looks to the sky, as if he’s searching for Maria. He forces the tears back into his sockets.

OSCAR (whispering) The body. Where is it?

OFFICER

Sir, I’m afraid you misunderstand-

A blur shoots out from behind THE OFFICER and crashes into Oscar. He tries to free himself of its grasp until his hands touch a string of dark, curly hair.

Behind him Luisa screams.

INT. INTELLEGENCIA STUDIOS - A WEEK LATER

Ann sits at her desk, her expression stone cold. She doesn’t shuffle through her notes or shake her foot anxiously. She stares into nothingness as make up artists fuss with her face and hair.

JENNIFER

Alright Ann, in 5, 4, 3, 2...

The make up artists scramble out of sight of the shot.

Ann straightens her posture and deadpans into the camera. Her charismatic broadcast personality has been burnt out.

ANN

Welcome back to Ann’s America. I’m Ann Page and tonight we follow up with the story that captured the world, and perhaps the universe.

A headline appears under her face reading: MISSING TEENAGE GIRL FOUND.

ANN (CONT’D) 18-year-old Maria Vasquez shocked all of us when she showed up to San Juan’s 13th police district last Thursday. The truth about Vasquez’s disappearance has been debated and investigated on the internet and our show for the past three weeks. But tonight, that all ends. Maria Vasquez herself is in the studio with us. And after the commercial break, she will give her first tell-all interview, right here on Intellegencia. We’ll be right back.

Ann glances at the vanity in the corner of the studio. Maria and her mother sit, their appearances drastically different than we’ve seen them before. They look ALIVE. Dressed to the 9s with sharp makeup. Ann shrinks under their gaze.

JENNIFER (walking over to Maria) Alright Ms. Vasquez, you’re up. (MORE)

JENNIFER (walking over to Maria) (CONT’D)

You’ll be seated right next to Ann on stage. We’ll let you know when we go live.

MARIA

Thank you.

She looks at her mom, who nods and shoos her toward the stage. Maria walks with her spine tall and her head high. Her heels intimidatingly click against the tiles. The 18-year-old radiated the maturity of a grown woman.

ANN

It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Vasquez.

MARIA

I wouldn’t exactly call it a pleasure given the circumstances.

ANN (stuttering)

Of course, of course. I only meant that...I’m glad you’re safe.

Maria didn’t answer as she sat in her chair, turning to face the camera.

JENNIFER

Alright ladies, we could win a Pulitzer for this, so let’s bring it home in 5, 4, 3, 2...

BEEP as the camera turns back on.

ANN Welcome back to Ann’s America. I am here with Maria Vasquez who was in all of our hearts these past few weeks. Thank you for being here with us. Now, Maria - can I call you Maria? Tell me -

Ann freezes as she reads the teleprompter: DID YOU ENCOUNTER EXTRATERRESTRIAL LIFE?

ANN (sighing)

Did you encounter extraterrestrial life?

MARIA (slowly) Yes.

Ann perks up, shock riddling her features. The studio is so silent, you could hear a pen drop.

ANN

Oh my, folks, you heard it here on Intellegencia first. We have our first recorded sighting of alien life.

Maria breaks out into boisterous laughter. Across the room, Luisa buries her face in her hands, trying to mask her snickers.

There’s clearly a joke that Ann is not in on. And she hates it.

ANN

Is everything alright, Ms. Vasquez?

MARIA

You guys will actually believe anything some random person tells you, it’s incredible.

ANN (shaking her head) Ms. Vasquez, back to your alien abduction-

MARIA

My god, there were no aliens! I wish there were! It probably would have been a lot more fun for me.

Beat.

ANN

I’m afraid I don’t understand.

MARIA

Look you want the real truth? Even if it’s not your beloved story?

Ann nods.

Beat.

Maria takes a deep breath, as if the fresh oxygen in her lungs would protect her from the trauma she was about to recount.

MARIA (CONT’D)

I had taken on an extra...job. Times are tough right now, although everyone here on the mainland seems to be fine enough. My family needed money and I knew that, to many men, my body was their preferred currency.

(MORE)

Beat.

MARIA (CONT’D)

I met this guy. Older guy, sweet guy. He listened to me and for the first time in my life I thought, I found someone who cares. When I would tell him about the unpaid bills, he suggested it. He told me that not only would I make a ton of money, but that it would grant me some sort of autonomy, control over my life. That it would make me POWERFUL. And I listened. I’d never had power over men before and the thought was so desirable. I didn’t realize until after things went wrong that I was never the one with the power.

ANN He SOLD you to other men?

MARIA (inhaling) Yes.

ANN

And you didn’t stop it?

MARIA

I didn’t have a choice.

ANN You could’ve walked away.

MARIA

Yea, and I would’ve starved to death. Or been evicted from our home. And worst of all I would have to look my mother in the eye and tell her what I’d done.

ANN

Where is that man now?

MARIA

In jail. I had chained him to a poll in this little room he’d kept me in between jobs.

ANN

So there were no aliens, just...

MARIA Humans.

MARIA (CONT’D)

I was taken because of humans and escaped because of humans. Or A human. Me. It’s kind of ironic isn’t? The thing that got me into this situation is what got me out? Someone outsmarted me, so I outsmarted them. This whole situation, it’s incredibly human.

ANN (softly)

It is, isn’t it.

MARIA

Look, I’m not here to shame anyone. But I will not have my story wrapped in some fantastical narrative. You all did this to me.

I did this to me. WE did this to me.

ANN

“In reality, the very thing that gave the giant his size was also the source of his greatest weakness.”

MARIA David and Goliath?

ANN

I guess we’re both.

MARIA

I guess so. THE END.

by MJ Gudiño

From Lou’s Sister

That day, I found my sister in a lump on the floor. She reminded me, at the time, of a pile of freshly-done laundry or maybe a bowl of lime-green Jell-O. At first, I thought she was sleeping, her eyes softly closed and her face mostly obscured by curtains of dark brown. But what an odd way to sleep with her limbs tangled in unnatural positions, eerily indicating something abnormal. What an odd place to rest. Although shorter periods of sleep during waking hours weren’t uncommon, I wondered why she was out on the porch of our home lying there like a crumpled tissue. The worry didn’t set in until exactly twenty-seven seconds later, the anxiety didn’t envelop me until about ten seconds after that. I was sure that to turn her over would reveal the worst of fates and to leave her there would be a betrayal. Stuck in this moment for what felt like hours, I began to tap my foot. Click click click, my plated sole slapping the firm hardwood, stained a deep red by years of metal shoes treading its surface.

It was then that she began to move and I released the tension building in my body. I rushed towards her as her eyes flickered open. She was my sister still, small spots freckled her cheeks, her eyes shone a deep honey brown as if she had taken, then hidden the brightest of golden lamps behind them. She seemed well enough, too. She sneezed. I laughed. All that worry for nothing. That was until, as I tried to remove the blanket she had atop her, I found that it would not come off. It seemed glued to her. No. Wrong. It seemed as though it was coming out of her— the skin on her back transitioning smoothly from tan to a deep green. The material was delicate but firm, with lines running through it as though it had been struck by lightning.

The texture of the blanket felt new under my fingertips. The sensation as I ran my hand along its length was one completely foreign to me. Disgust. Alien. Emotions sped through my mind as I struggled to comprehend reality. Had I been drugged? Maybe. On the list of things that seemed most improbable in this moment, that wasn’t very high.

Lou looked up at me again, her eyes now a dark green, almost black. I cannot remember another time when such fear arose in me, fear for the unknown, but a comfort in knowing my sister existed underneath and was still present. I resisted the urge to push her away and held her closer instead.

It was a while until she began to form words. “Sister, take this from me, will you,” she spoke soft and thin like a thread being pushed through the eye of a needle, almost a whisper.

She then handed me a small brown circle, appearing to be made of some kind of brittle paper. Afraid of crushing it, I set it down beside me, noticing only later the similarities it held in form and texture to the quilt atop her back.

“What has happened to you, Lou?”

Then, she tells me.

02.10.2051

I slept again last night, almost the whole way through. Mama says I’m being anxious for no reason, that I am making myself see these things I see when I close my eyes. I tell Mama that I promise I’m not. They hurt too much and I don’t hate myself enough.

03.06.2052

It is still cold in March. I remember a year when it was warm.

05.30.2052

The fisherman Fred told me that I should start writing things down and that this way, I can begin to process them. He says I am traumatized by what I’ve seen. I think he’s being very dramatic. I am fine.

Today, I went by his quarters to barter for a half pound. I’m so jealous of his lifestyle. He gets to fish and even go upwards sometimes. He told me a story about what he once saw there: a pond teeming with life, bright green frogs, fish the color of rust and shiny copper. It was like a fairytale, he said. But he shouldn’t have looked. He wasn’t even really supposed to be there, but had wandered off during a tour of a fishing facility. They let us go up there only to see where we can go if we work hard, they want to show us the possibilities, not the impossibilities. They don’t want us to know about all that they have that they will never even allow us to consider, to imagine. Anyways, they got him for that one. Fred looks more like a pirate now, which suits him and his fisherman ways. They did a very clean job of it, too. No scar and no infection.

Lou’s Sister

“I am trying to recall the roots,” Lou says to me as she flips through her journal, reading to me select passages that she deems acceptable. The first entry was written nearly seventeen years ago.

I do not understand the term she uses: roots. She means origins or beginnings, she explains, “nothing else shows interconnection like roots do, the way that every branch is so meticulously formed to exist in and around the others, independent and yet completely in sync.”

And I think to myself that maybe it is my sister who has been drugged because when she opens her mouth, although the tune of her voice remains the same, I find I do not recognize the words that come out.

I remember Fred’s story well and how disappointing it was to hear as a child. Yet, it was no more than a confirmation of what I had already known: that the world above hated us for existing and would exercise their power over us to the fullest extent.

I had known, as well, about the violent nightmares she had had as a child that left her in fear of sleep. Sometimes they were beautiful, she would tell me, depicting the most gorgeous of scenes. But often, they struck a chord of terror and confusion. I often wondered why the same never occurred to me. I found instead that I almost never had a single dream at all.

As she continues to flip through the worn and creased pages of her moleskin notebook, I observe her more closely.

Her complexion is tinted a light green, almost imperceptible, if you weren’t used to seeing her everyday. Everywhere where her hair should be, she has sprouted little ringlets of green. It is a brighter shade than I am used to seeing underground, where the green we see is mostly browned and muddy. Sometimes our food is green, but it is never good. Other than that, she seems the same. Perhaps, only more serious than before, which makes sense considering the situation.

We remain for now seated on our porch. Mom and Dad won’t be home until evening so we have time to figure things out, for her to help me understand.

02.02.2053

I swear they get worse during the winter. Mama went to Uncle to ask about me and what he thinks I should do. Apparently, it is not uncommon for people from our family to have such vivid dreams, so vivid they seem as though they are happening right then and there. Felt, seen, touched, heard, tasted. Uncle said they will go away in time as long as I try to ignore them. Think about them too much, he said, and they will consume me, they will become me, and I will no longer know dream from reality. I think he was trying to scare me and it was pretty scary, but also just dumb. I cannot see this being true. If you want to scare someone then you have to have some more realistic threats. This is basic and Uncle should know this.

Esme told me today that she started receiving letters from her penpal who lives upwards. They started this penpal program to satiate us, says my older sister. Apparently the ones writing from up there used to live down here and they’re going to give us advice on how to succeed, how to make it, how to reach the top. Esme’s penpal sent her a children’s picture book that looks like it was written for 5-year olds and we’re twelve!! There were still pretty pictures in there, though. It is a fantasy-type book with princesses and dragons and wizards and trees. I’ve only ever seen crude drawings of these things, but this book was so high quality they looked like pictures. That’s how I knew they were drawings because trees don’t even exist anymore.

I am of the belief that these letters must be heavily monitored and an enforced requirement of moving to the place above because if I were up there and not down here, I would not be writing letters and if I were, I would not be giving advice on how to move up. I would say: escape, escape, escape!

08.22.2055

My dreams have started to come to me in my waking hours. I’ll drift off for just one moment and they will be there waiting for me. Having expected my arrival in their domain, they ambush me, overtake me, and envelop me. I was warned about writing what I saw. Uncle said it would solidify the visions in my mind, make them real. My Mama used to tell me that dreams are like clouds, vapor and gasses. That’s why they look so fuzzy when you try to remember them. Because dreams float away just before you can get your hands on them, your fingers slipping through their silky folds. Mine come closer to being volcanic plasma, burning holes in my memories, threatening to harden in my mind.

This is what I see: flashes of people I do not know, in places I do not recognize, doing things I could not ever fathom. We are not allowed history books down here. Natural history we can read, but anything about people and society is locked away from us, never to be seen by our eyes. My sister says they don’t want us to know who we are or where we’ve been. The ones up there want to keep us in the dark, and not just in a literal sense because we do live in a hole in the ground. They want to keep knowledge from us, she says, so that we’re too clueless to think for ourselves. I’ve also had this thought on many occasions. There are so many things we do not know about the way the system we live under works. We just go about our days, go through the motions, live out our pathetic lives having never even seen the sun! But I’ve seen the sun and I don’t tell anyone because I don’t want them to think I’m crazy. It isn’t just that I’ve imagined the sun– everyone has imagined the sun– but I’ve seen it in my dreams.

We live in a cavern, an underground city. Things are not always great, we cannot always breathe, but it is life as we know it and it could be a lot worse.

Esme’s been writing to her penpal for a few years now and decided to sign me up for the program without asking me. She says it’s been very beneficial for her “maturation” and “intellectual growth.” Since we’ve finished school, I haven’t been writing as much so I guess it could be good to keep in mental shape. I don’t tell anyone this because it’s a dangerous thing to say, but I’ve always wanted to meet one. I have so many questions.

Lou’s Sister

Yes, the penpal. I always hated that program and saw no use in it. I chose never to participate despite recommendations from school instructors. What could they possibly teach us that we didn’t already know? They couldn’t allow us to gain anything that hadn’t already been given. It was against their agenda to do anything just for the sake of kindness and generosity.

“I’ve always wanted to see the sun, you know,” Lou interjects my thoughts, “like not just in my head, but in person. I want to feel it on my skin, it’s warmth until it burns. I want to look the sun in the eye until I cry.”

To want something is to want it as much at its extremes as anywhere else.

“For me, it was the moon and its stars.”

“The sun is a star,” Lou laughs a bit at my perceived insolence.

To me the sun is another entity entirely. As our star it holds a power over us that the others do not possess. “The sun’s not a star,” I continue, “it is the star, and the moon is entirely more interesting.”

I have only read and heard descriptions of the night sky. Where we live, underneath the soil and rock of the outermost layer of the world, we do not see the sky. We have only ever been allowed to dream of it. There are days I sit by the house on the ledge of the porch that I look to the rest of our small city, small but bright lights illuminating every quarter, every home, and every shop. I imagine they are stars and the reflection of the lights on the stone of the cavern walls above me are the moon, taking in what it can from the sun and tossing everything else back in return.

“It used to be a part of us, you know, the moon. It used to be a part of the Earth. Or at least that’s what some people say.”

“I do know, and that is why I dream of it.”

09.01.2055

I received the first letter from my penpal today. Their handwriting is long and curvy with the choice of blue ink over black. The paper is thick and creamy and smells freshly pressed, but the ink is too bright and hurts my eyes when I read. They haven't told me very much about themselves but have asked me a lot of things about myself. Not even big things like my name or age, but little details about my life. I tell them and ask them the same questions in return. I tell them to use black ink next time.

10.01.2055

Another letter today. They tell me all about the world up there, how different it is, but also that I shouldn’t tell a soul. They tell me trees are real and I don’t believe them. I turned the page and found taped to the back a small brown circle labeled “leaf.”

12.01.2055

The more I tell about down here, the more I get in return. I have grown hungry for each letter, the pieces that it holds. I have learned that trees are real, they did not go extinct. They are hidden from us down here because the ones who live upward are greedy for the air they bring, the life they breathe into the world.

Everything feels to me now like molding clay. What I knew before was sculpted and molded from play-doh, but I ripped out a chunk, took a bite, tore at its salty flesh. And now there is nothing left. The places I grew up were built for me to ignore and now I realize they were made of nothing.

Lou’s Sister

I understand my sister's composure now, a thirst has consumed her like no other, a starvation.

I remember writing to her penpal on one occasion, a little blurb at the end of one of her letters promising a signature sweet from one of our underground candy makers if he promised to do well by her, teach her more about the world, further her education, and so on. I received a treat back in his next letter: saltwater taffy manufactured in a town by the ocean. The ocean, I was reminded, was another thing I would never see until I took my last breath. Only then could I, perhaps, look down on the world from above and experience it all from a distance. Only then could I, perhaps, breathe life into another and see it through their eyes. The moon and the sea so intertwined, I have heard, that one pulls on the other and allows for the tide— the waves that bring stagnant water to life.

What shocks me most, however, is the trees.

“Trees?” I inquired into the matter further, “you must be joking, aren’t you?”

A steady shake of her head confirms the matter. She believes in trees like I do dinosaurs because you can’t convince me that on the whole entire planet, not a single one survived.

06.17.2056

I have received ten letters at this point, one every month for the first three months and then twice a month since. The man who writes to me, who I know now as S, is a scientist who lived underground for the seven years after his birth while his parents were down here collecting soil samples for research on the Earth’s state. He tells me about this research, how they wanted to compare the levels of soil toxicity from down here and up there, but were forced to discard their research when the levels underground were so toxic, living here would’ve been deemed inhumane if discovered by the masses. A revolt. A revolution. That’s what they have always been afraid of. I can give them that with ease, but I won’t.

He’s sent me history books, too. I’ve learned so much about the way things once were, what life was like before there was an underground in the way it exists today. I’ve learned about cars and planes, that you could travel around the world if you wished. I’ve learned that the world was huge. Really quite big. The books helped me put the pieces together because so much of what I read seemed so familiar.

He sent me a letter last week that he said would be his last. He sends me his notes from the research he has been doing and the plans he has been devising. He tells me that he should not have been sending me what he has, that they have caught onto his plan and they will be coming for him soon.

We’ve been writing in a sort of code, you see. Over time, I came to understand more complex ideas that he meant with simpler words and not every letter he sent to me contained such revolutionary matters. At times, he was simply a friend. He would place one piece of an idea in one letter and months later, fill it out with a second. The frequency had also slowed over the years as was common. It was only when our letters were looked at together that they became suspect. Such was his status and wealth, however, that that wasn’t the case until now and such were his connections with our world that he could sometimes afford to send me things through other means if need be.

I know that the administration aboveground is ruthless, that they love to make people pay for their mistakes. I hope he survives his punishment and will be forever thankful for all that he has given me.

I went to Uncle last week and he told me all that I needed to know. I asked about our family and its history, who we were and who we have been. He told me in great detail a story about a hunter and a scholar, my ancestors. As he was telling it, I began to remember the story although it had been my first time hearing it. I found myself correcting his mistakes, adding unknown details, filling in the gaps of the story in my mind. My Uncle was not happy and told me that I had been thinking too much. He ridicules me for thinking, tells me it is dangerous in this world to know too much. A life in ignorance is a content one. I just know now what I once did not: that what I see are not dreams, they are reality. They must be, I have realized. I tell this to my Uncle and he confirms what I already know: they are the past as seen through the eyes of those who I share and have shared my soul with. I can see all that they have and I intend to continue.

Lou’s Sister

Proverbs from the Scholar:

The hunt for knowledge is As great as any other. You spear a deer, I study your technique And gain your power. Through study, anything is achievable.

To hunt purely for its spoils is eradication. Knowledge is creation. To go beyond need is exploitation. To know enough to determine When the threshold has been reached, Is a knowledge worthy, I find, Of contemplation.

06.30.2066

I have learned to interrogate my dreams and glean from them what I wish. It is not just fuzzy events or unclear memories anymore. I can learn from them real and useful skills. I can take them on as if they were always mine.

I was once named Amida. I was a chemist in Brussels which was somewhere far away and very green with many trees. I loved trees and nature so much as a child, I studied it as an adult. I studied everything I could about plant life and learned oh so much. I died of old age in 2025 when I was 82.

I visit Amida often because she is like me. Her memories are filled with green, maybe even tinted green. It’s not the sludgy green that I see at mealtimes when we get some kind of soup labeled as “healthy,” but it is bright and luminous, full of life. I put into practice what I learn from Amida and what I have learned from S.

11.22.2067

Amida has helped me understand S’s notes. I haven’t heard from him since his last letter but have sent many myself inquiring into his state. Many months ago, they began to send them back to me.

His notes are unsettling for me to read alone so Amida keeps me company. His plans are all over the place, unorganized and deteriorate in quality as the book goes on. Even so, he keeps one thought in mind: human and nature should be one.

I didn’t know much about DNA splicing before this venture. Even Amida wasn’t of much help since it wasn’t her area of expertise. I called in some other pieces of souls past who maybe knew more: another chemist, a DNA analyst, an archeologist, a biologist. Sasha, Irtel, West, and Margaret knew little about the topic, but I swear they mentioned Jurassic Park in every other sentence.

Lou’s Sister

She reads to me pages from one year and then another from ten years later. I wonder what she has written in between that I cannot be allowed to see. Does her madness show, I wonder. Is it something worse than the horrors that unfold before me?

“I just didn’t write too much,” she tells me, “and what I did write was mostly about work and friends, like normal people stuff.”

I never saw visions like the ones Lou describes, but instinct has always guided me, strong as the women who pump the well for water, reaching deep into the untainted layers of soil and taking the liquid from it against gravity’s will. This instinct is like her dreams I think— too powerful to be ignored, too present.

Thinking back to the time when Lou was existing like this, with a secret world all to herself of hope and wonder, a desire to course correct history, to undo what has been done to us, I concern myself with the question: where was I?

12.03.2068

I’ve figured it out. After so many months, I’ve done it. The hardest part wasn’t even decoding the notes or designing the tech, but getting the parts. Those kinds of things are so sparse down here. I’ve decided to go through with my plan of putting his notes into action. I am certain this was not his intention, but have decided for myself that this is the only way to move forward.

Amida comforts me and reassures me in my decision. Technology has come so far since her time, she says. It’s true, I’ve seen her memories, and even in the primitive state we live in down here, the technology is far superior.

Human and nature should be one. I have never believed this more than I do today. I only came to know nature a few years ago. Before that, it had been dead to me. S showed me that nature lives on in infinite ways. Amida showed me what that looked like. What will it look like now? For us?

I am going to inject myself tomorrow with what we have created. We: myself in all its iterations and S. I wonder how the result will manifest itself. Will I grow tree limbs, strong and thick? Will I sprout leaves from my back and vines from my head? Become a flower like in fisherman Fred’s old stories, the ones he once told many years ago? Will I breathe oxygen, utilize carbon dioxide, and metabolize food of my own creation?

All I know for now is that, tomorrow, I will become one with nature.

From Lou’s Sister (Final)

Lou is no scientist. She has never been formally trained, but her intelligence has always impressed me, her sharpness often cutting through my words with their exact and pointed meaning.

I return to her now, the sprouts framing her face, the tendrils flowing from her, the large sheets protruding from her back like wings ready to take flight.

I recognize soon after that she is growing leaves from her skin and horror consumes me. I breathe and yet no air enters my lungs. I suck in as hard as I can and nothing. I feel nothing and I am numb.

I have never seen a tree before and here is Lou, a living, breathing one.

(DO)INGQUEERINTHEENDOFTHEWORLD

Wanderingissomethingthatisalways-alreadyhappeninginthemindsofoverthinkers.

Wanderingthrough ideas thoughts mixedsignals bodies meaning information deceit theworld.

Iwanderthroughthethoughtsofothers.Iwonderwhatit’sliketoexperiencelove.Iwonder whatitfeelstofeelthesensationofthesunwithoutthegazeofotherspeeringonmybody.I wonderwhatemotionswouldexudefrommybodywhenIfeelcomfortableknowingthatmy bodyisnottheonlybodysubjectedtothegaze.

Comfortable.Synonymsofcomfortableinclude: Safe, Secure, Sheltered, Cozy, Calmed, Connected.

Iwanderwith,by,in,andthroughtheinternet.Thesecomplexassemblagesofinformation,both rightandwrong.Scrollingthroughtheendlessheadlinesaboutthestateofourworld.Ourworld?

Myworld?Thisworldisnotmyworld.Butmyworldisnottheirworld.ItisaworldIinhabit, occupy,andtakespacein.Yet,thisworldisnotmyworld.

HeadlinesglareatmeasIglareatthemwithwonder,

“MoreProofThatThisReallyIstheEndofHistory”

“It’stheendoftheworld,don’tyouknowthatyet”

Thisworldshoutsandgloatsaboutprosperity.IttakesontheDreambutmakestheDreamonly thewhiteDream.Dreamingisonlyforthosewhohavethecapacitytothink,toimagine,tolive anotherday.Dreamingandimaginingissomethingthathasbecomenearlyimpossibleforme. Themundanerealitiesofmyworldhaveconsumedeveryounceofmyabilitytoimagineaworld beyondthemoment.

I’mlivingonpurevibes.MydailylifeisstructuredonwhatIneedtodonext:

8:50AM:Wakeup.

9:30AM:Shower.

10:00AM:Contemplateaboutgoingtoclass.

10:05AM:ThinkingabouthowI’mnotdoingenough.

10:10AM:Maketea.

10:20AM:Leaveforclass.

10:35AM:Getonthehighway.

10:40AM:Wantingtoturnaroundandgobackhome.

10:55AM:I’mgoingtobelateforclass.

11:00AM:Parkforclass.

11:07AM:Madeittoclasslate.

12:20PM:Finishclass.

12:25PM:Walktothehouse.

12:30PM:Takesoffjacketandsitsinchair

2:30PM:Staresatcomputerscreen,consumingendlessinformation.

8:00PM:Stomachisspeaking.Foodisonmymind.

11:30PM:RealizeI’mtheonlyoneleftinthehouse.Thepipesaresinging.Thescreendooris slamminginthewind.

11:59PM:SubmitassignmentIalmostforgot. Wheredidthedaygo?

Getlostforhours.ContemplatewhatI’mdoingandifit'sworthit.RealizeIhavenofriends. RealizeIhavetogotoworkthisweekend.Realizemybankaccountisnegative.

4:59AM:Eyesresistingsleep.

5:00AM:Fallasleep.

11:00AM:Wakeup,missclass,andgiveup. Dreamingisn’tinmyworld.Itisn’tinthecurrentworld.ThecapacitytoDreamwasstolenwhen thebombdropped.10,000poundsofsheermetaldropped.Thenot-so-innocentescapetheblast byrunningofftosecurebunkers.Bunkersfullofsustenance,weapons,security,andwarmth. Theinnocentarelivingtherealitiesofthedystopiannightmare.NottheDream,butthe nightmare.

Itrytorememberthepast.ThatisallIhave.Idon’thavewealth.Justarhizomaticconstellation ofdifferentmomentsthatgivemeaningtowhatIamandknowtoday.Thetimeinthirdgrade whenIthoughtgoingaroundaparkedcarintheteacher’sparkinglotandgettingholleredatbya teacherwastheendoftheworld,wasn’ttheendoftheworld.IthoughtIwasbeingfunny.I thoughtIfoundashortcuttogetbackintoclass.Inevergoagainsttherules,butIthoughtitwas practicaltodisobeyjustthisonce.Itwascoldoutside.Iwantedtogetinside.Theteachercaught

me.Ithoughtmylifewasover.IthoughtshewasgoingtocallmymotherandtellherhowI’ma terriblepersonfornotfollowingtheirdirections.Thatwasmyendoftheworld.

Itreallywasn’t. Whatfeltliketheendoftheworldwas: --losingallsourceofincomefortwoyears(workingtwojobsandgoingtoschooltosustain threeadultsisaride) --standinginlineatthreedifferentfoodpantries’(theoneonWesternonMondayhas somegreatthingsfromWholeFoods)

--losingallyourfriendsbecauseyouphysicallyhadnotimeorenergytodo anythingoutsidetheconfinesofthedepartmentstoreortheschool --notknowingwhoIam.Ilostmyidentity,andIlostmysenses. Thenightmareisgleamingbrighterthanthesunwhereitoncewas.Ithinkitwasthere!Right thereinthesky!Alittlebittotheleft,Ithink?Itusedtobethere,butnowitisalldark.The streetlightsflicker.Tryingwithalltheirmighttodotheirintendedjob.Flasharadiusoflight ontothefloortoilluminatethecrackedpavementbelowme.Thesunisgone.Thenightgrows brighter.Thedifferencebetweenwhatwasoncedarkness,andthisdarknessseemstobealltoo familiar.

Outofthedepthsofthefourquadrantsthatsecuredmeforlessthansixhours,Icreepedoutof thesheets.Thesheetsentangledandtossedthereandhere.Theskyisstilldark.Irollmyblinds andtrytopeekoutthewindow,tryingnottobeseen.Nothing.Puredarkness.Theshadowofthe moonissomewhereinthedistance.It'sslowlyfadingawaybutthesunisnowheretobefound. TheskyisexactlyhowIleftitbeforegoingtosleep.Dark.Nostars.Justclouds.Isitsmog?Isit smoke?Isitboth?Theairstillsmellsfresh.Itdoesn’tsmellliketheashfromacrosstheEarth. Theysayitwon’treachusforafewdays.

Thedarknessaroundmyeyesalmostblendsperfectlywiththedarknessaroundme.Iforce myselftogetdressedbecausethat’swhatIwastrainedtodo.Igetupandopenmyfrontdoor Themotionsensorlightssensemypresence.Thesecensorsaretheonlythingthatfeelsme.I walksevenfeettothebathroomandtakeapiss.Isitinsilence.Ifeelliketheentireworldis listeningasiftheentirehallwaysjustplacedtheirearsonthebathroomdoortohearme,tohear life.Igetup,washmyhands,andbrushmyteeth.Ifinishandleave.Ifindnooneinthe hallways,justmyself.Igobacktomyroom.Slippingonmytightshirt,Ifindstainsonit.Ican’t reallymakeoutwhattheyare,butIdon’thaveanythingtochangeinto.Itiswhatitis,andIhave togoonwithmyday.Isliponmybootsandlacethemtight.Idon’tknowwhenI’llbeback,soI havetomakesureI’mfullysecure.Imightnotcomeback.ImightstayoutthereuntilIfeel satisfiedwithmyself,whichisprobablyneveroruntilmyeyesbecometooheavytocry. Ileavethefourisolatingquadrantsandmakemywaytothefrontofthebuilding.Stillquiet.I don’thearmuchofanything.IopenthelargesteeldoorswithanticipationthatIwillrunintolife orlight.Ido.Peoplewiththeirheadphonesintheirears.Somewalkingatasteadypace,some dodgingandweavingtomakeittowherethey’reheadedoffto.Somewalkwithurgency.Some walkasiftheydon’thaveanywheretobe.CarsrunningpastmeasifIdon’texist.Thedrivers certainlynoticemewhenIcrossthestreetbutnotwhenI’mwalkingonthepavement.

Everythingeverywhereallaroundmeismovingwaytoofuckingfast.Whyiseveryonemoving sofast?Howdotheyknowwherethey’regoing?It’sstilldarkout.Theyseemliketheyalready havetheirdestiniespredetermined.They’rejustgoing,andI’mfallingbehind.Stuckinthe rear-viewmirror,nocapacitytomakemywayforward. Inudgemywayforwardtowardsthefamiliarhouse.Inthishouse,Ispendcountlesshoursinthe confinesoftheproperty.Forgettingtoleaveforsleep.Forgettingtoleaveforfood.Forgettingto leaveforthesocial.Thesocialhasbeenwipedout.Thesocialexistsonlyifyoumakeitexist. Thesocialexistsonlyifitwantsyoutoexistwithit.Itdoesnotwantme.Iconditionedmyselfto believethatIdonotneedit.Ihadnochoicebuttomakemyworldwithintheconfinesofthe house.

Thehouse.42.0497076latitude.-87.6775257longitude.

ThisiswhereI’mfound.

ThisiswhereIgetlost.

ThisiswhereIlosemysenseoftimeand ThisiswhereIlosemyabilitytospeak.

ThisiswhereIlosemyabilitytoformthoughtsofmyown.

ThisisalsowhereI’mstrippedofthecapacitytobreathe topursuetheimaginationsandworldsIwishtolive.

IfeelfrustratedeverytimeIenter.Thespectersthathauntthisspacefeelantagonistictowards mypresence.Idon’tbelonghere,butatthesametimeIamhere.Theghostlypresenceofthe pastoccupiesthisspaceandcontinuesinthebodiesofotherswhoalsocurrentlyoccupythis house.ThepresencecontinuesthroughthetrophiesthatpeerintomeasI’mstrugglingtogetmy own.Thosethatareheredon’tacknowledgemyexistence.Theymerelylook.

No,theydon’tlook. They stare. Theystareintomysoul.TheyknowthatI’mawalkingcontradictiontotheirvalues,theirethics, theirlives.

Myqueerness.AformofdeviancefromtheNormal.Anunstableareaofexistenceand inhabitancetonavigateeverydaylife.Myqueernessisalwaysandalreadycriminalized.From thepointofentrance,Idisturbthenaturalprocessesofthisplace.

Idotheresearchthatstingstheirbrainswhentheyencounterit.Idoresearchthatisn’treally researchforme.ThisresearchiswhoIam,buttheycannotgrapplewithwhoIam.

Searchterms:

“personhood” “fungibility” “utopias”

“queerness” “futurism” “exploitation” “resistance”

“anti-Blackness” “artificial” “pedagogy”

Idotheworkofacriticalscholar Tryingtosubvertthetraditionalnormsofwhatisacceptable withintheboundsofthehouse.Nooneistheretohelp.Everyoneisdoingtheirownworkforthe betterofsociety Thefugitiveandsubversive.Botharequeer.Queerintheirpotentialitytobend thestraightsideways.

Queertemporalityexistsonasdifferentplayingfield.Itisaspaceoffreedom,butalsoasiteof dangerandviolence.Queerlifeisalwaysandalreadyatriskofviolencefromheterosexual modelsoftime.Queertimeisonadifferentaxis.

Myfirstkissdidn’thappenuntillongafterthestraight’sfirstkiss. Myfirst-timeholdinghandswithaboydidn’thappenuntillongafterthestraight’sheldhands first.

WhenIwanttoresearchmyqueernessandmylife,I’mlookeddownuponbythespecters(both aliveanddead)inthehouse.Thehousewantstoprotectitsluxuriousintuitionalhistoryof straightness.DespitethesiteofwhereIlive,theparametersIoccupy,theywillalwaysseekto eliminatemyexistence.Resistingthiseliminationistheworkofthequeer Tobeconstantly antagonistictowardstheworldbutlivingwithandthroughtheantagonism.Livebydoingqueer. Doqueerwork. Doqueerimagining. Doqueeroccupying.

Doqueerreaching. Doqueerthinking. Doqueersex.

Doqueerwalking. Doqueeracting. Doqueer. I’marisk.

I’mawalkingriskthatthreatensthehealthoftheirlivesandthecommunitytheyworkedsohard tobuild.

I’maliabilityevenintheendoftheworld.

Thequeerworldexists. Itexistsintheendoftheworldwhichisnotmuchtheendoftheworld.Theendoftheworldis now.Theirworldformehasended.

Thequeermustdoqueertomakeaqueerworld.

Rain with Me

By: Catherine Zhong (钟青） CW: sexual assault, incest

This is an audio transcript, meant to be paired with the audio recording if accessible or desirable to you.

“[heavy breathing] Fuck that place. I’m leaving.”

“I WANT THIS RECORDED!”

“I am recording this… on an old tape recorder. I stole it from my 父父. He died last week.”

“[tree, bird sounds] um… I guess I’ll record… hopefully this isn’t a waste of tape.”

“[fumbling noises] I just wanted to say that I’m leaving. I’m running away from all of that”

“I just wanted to make sure y’all knew... whoever’s fucking listening to this… this is going to Mars! Please send this to Mars. Fuck what if they don’t ever find it”

“my 父父 taught me how to use this old shit. [smacks side of recorder] he was the last in our village to know how to handwrite. Not English. some version of Chinese I don’t- I don’t know”

“I had a dream last night. I just wanted to … say it out loud maybe? Maybe that will stop it from happening. I was lying in my wooden bed, made by my 父父’s hands – he was a carpenter sort – and … hands. Hands in my

Hands. Touching my. Me. My uncle? ….me.”

“today I saw some wildflowers. There were so many colors. Red… white… pink… orange… yellow! And they all grew next to each other, in the same field.”

“…socks. Shoes. Socks. Shoes.”

“I remember… I remember my 父父 leaning over his paper. Perfectly white birch-made paper. Illegal. …”

“illegal. Anyway. Um. He would …um write? Some… words. I guess he called it ‘poetry’ I’m.. I’m making air quotes. He called it poetry, and it was beautiful. He would stroke the page with his … tool? I don’t know what it’s called anymore. Uh.. a paintbrush~!!

And black octopus like ink. I think he made most of the tools he used… he liked doing that. could do that. called it something like self-reliance.

…I – I wish I had bothered to learn.”

“[coughing, wheezing?] masks.”

“[whispering] I found some people. They’re fucking weird. Oh shit --- [stops abruptly, fumbling noises]”

“they don’t seem to mind about my tape recorder. I did have some explaining to do though.”

“all the same, they let me stay. I had the best soup of my life! Fucking rabbit or some shit – who cares! Better than all these mushrooms I’ve been foraging.”

“these people, these country folk? Maybe that’s what my 父父 would’ve called them anyway, they don’t seem to trade with the city folk. instead they seem to be self-sufficient, growing all their own food, and trading amongst their own little village. Seems to work”

“I think they have a lot of sex. Openly? It’s hard to describe. Not obscene. Just a lot of it.”

“I met this person today. Their name is 王之里. He’s nice. He was selling some grains he grew. They looked a little like beans.”

“I THINK I LIKE 王之里…. Oops.”

“I was walking through the village today with xiaoli and saw my mountain. The one I left. It was different, seeing it from this perspective. Bigger. Reminded me of my 父父…”

“my 父父 always told me our mountain was the biggest in the area. that it’d be the safest. That he chose it for that very reason. That it’d be safe! Ha. What a joke.” “safe from what… these weirdos? They don’t even care about the fires. It seems they built some big machine to protect them. Protect the air they breathe. Some fancy technologies they have /s”

“you know, I’d rather go to fucking Mars. Why don’t they build something to go there?”

“silly old man… 老不死”

“王之里 showed me something today. I don’t even know how to describe it. A child.“

“a child.”

“he said it was the cost we all paid to live the life we do. To eat the rabbit stew, and grow the grains, and be protected from the smoke. He told me to be grateful. To enjoy it.”

“王之里 said that I can’t save the child. I can’t take the child out. I can’t feed the child, I can’t say a kind word to the child, nothing.”

“maybe I’m pushing him too much.”

“take me to Mars already.”

“I had another dream. It was different this time – one of those… well. It’s hard to explain.”

“[takes deep breath] let me try again. Okay.” “my 父父… had the biggest hands. Cracks in the knuckles, like canyons calling me home. Home – what an odd thing.”

“my 父父… would take me down to the pond. Where these teeny little fish lived. Of course they looked teeny in his hands, as he caught a few – not to hurt them but to show me.”

“my 父父… moved in his big body such that these fish would not swim away.”

“my 父父… picked berries from trees, saving the best ones for me in his big cracked, sun-dried hands. We would walk along the river together. My hand, smooth, and small inside his.”

“this was my 父父. … I wish I listened.”

“王之里 and I are walking away from this hellhole. We’ve decided. There’s gotta be something more out there. It can’t just be a kid in a cupboard and everyone else fucking partying all the time.”

“钟睛: okay 小里, tell them about where you used to live 王之里: i…. um. 睛 [muffled]! Okay [giggles/laughs]

I used to live in a village called salem. It was beautiful. Everyone was provided for, everyone was happy,

there wasn’t any guilt. There was food on everyone’s table. People would share resources if the weather struck.

钟睛: Yeah! You’re forgetting about the child! 小里The broken child in the cupboard or something.

As soon as I saw that shit I wanted to leave.

王之里: … … yeah. But… where are we going again? [silence… tape stops]”

“I just want to be here. Right here. With you. You’re sleeping. I had one of my nightmares again. I guess I used to call them dreams. Before I found you. And your… people with their weird machines.”

“goodnight 王之里”

“I told 王之里 I was peeing so that I could record this. He doesn’t think the smoke is real. He thinks it’s some government hoax or something. He thinks that it can’t really hurt you. Why do none of these people listen to me? Listen to my god damn fucking broken lungs? What does he think the big machines in his fancy little village do to the air then? The women explained everything to me”

“王之里 has grown distant lately. Been teaching me more things. About like how to survive. Talking less. Does he mean to leave me the way he left his community? The way my 父父 left me?”

“王之里 went back.”

"they, those people in Salem, believe in each other. I believe in me… and Mars”

“at least he left his food for me. He won’t need it where he’s going anyway”

“I’m alone………..again.”

“I had a dream. I just need to record it. Get it out of my system. Maybe I’ll be able to fall asleep then”

“My 父父 was telling me… in the dream… he was telling me he once lived in a village. A village with perfection. And beauty. And happiness. And without guilt.”

“he was telling me that he lived in a cupboard. And that people said terrible things to him everyday.”

“I can’t remember, I’m losing it now.”

“he lived in a cupboard. I know that for sure.”

“he said… he said. [sobs] he said he’s leaving. That I’m going nowhere. Nowhere!”

“maybe……….maybe hes right.”

“some days the smoke is really bad and some days its not. [sniffs] today is one of the days when its bad.”

“[coughing]”

“when the smoke used to get really bad, my great-grandfather would sit inside with me and tell me stories”

“stories about picking berries and nuts foraging”

“last night I had a dream… I had a dream that 王之里 was… here. But then they… turned into my uncle. Or. Maybe it was 王之里? Or maybe it was… anyway. I wish I had better dreams”

“I just want this somewhere. To go somewhere. To be somewhere. …. Go somewhere”

“they want to pretend. They all want to pretend. Like nothing is happening. [coughs] don’t they smell the smoke?”

“MARS” ”我的名字是钟睛.”

Asta Ceesay

The E-Comm on her screen flashed in bold red letters: POSITIVE. The scrolling letters looped endlessly as she stared blankly at the screen. The bloodwork and tests that she had nearly forgotten about were done almost a month prior, and since then, she had begun a worldwide speaking tour, landed an endorsement deal with Dextrium, the most luxurious ECommunication software, and had even made a down payment on a brand new home–all cash. But none of that mattered now because she had just been diagnosed with IDT3. The Jenevieve Pollard has IDT3. She hadn’t moved since the notification crossed her screen. The

Stars Without a Sky

numbness which consumed her body hadn’t let her. Suddenly, she raced toward the flat glass surface implanted in the wall while grabbing the nearest object off the center table–her 2051 National Tiffrentian Award. The tall golden accolade made contact with the screen, leaving a scramble of golden and glass shards strewn across the hard marble floors. Jenevieve shrieked, partially due to the sharp fragments scattering around her, and partially due to the fragments of her life she imagined falling to pieces.

Am I going to feel a lot of pain? Next month is Ivan and I's second anniversary. I just started Keto again. I'm supposed to be this year's World Fair Keynote speaker. I'm sooooo close to 500 million E-Comm subscribers. How will my PR team take the news? I have to keep this a secret from my fans. Finally, the most agonizing thought of them all: How the hell am I going to pay for this?

Suddenly, the sound of her cell phone rang through the silent room, temporarily quieting her cluttered mind. She jumped to answer the call.

“Hey, I tried to ping you on E-Comm but it didn’t go through,” she heard Ivan’s voice on the other end of the phone.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t have my vis-port on and my Homescreen….needs to be fixed.” Jenevieve glanced at the mess of shattered glass, making a mental note to request a replacement as soon as she finished with Ivan.

“Well, grab your vis-port, I just sent you a sim of the resort I booked for next month. I know you hate fireplace suites but this one’s super cool. It’s holographic but they're using some kind of technology that makes the flame visuals give off heat so I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

She did mind.

Jenevieve grabbed her Visual-Portable lenses marked on the side with ‘PRADA’ and began walking through the resort simulation. Everything was wrong. The hideous fireplace was in the center of the room, making it the center of attention. On top of that, the view of the beach was mediocre at best. And didn’t she say she wanted to go to the mountains this time around?

She felt hot with anger, ready to start arguing with Ivan until she realized she didn’t even know what her life would look like in a month.

"I have IDT3," she blurted out to her surprise. Her eyes stung and her throat started to feel like it was closing. Saying it aloud made it real.

“What?”

“I got tested a few weeks ago but didn’t say anything but I thought it wouldn’t be a big deal. I never thought the tests would come back positive. But they did. I have IDT3 and I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Jenevieve was sobbing into the phone, spiraling more and more with each word that followed.

“What the fuck Jenevieve! Is that some kind of STD? Who have you been fucking J? Do I need to get tested now?” Ivan’s words stung like venom. She waited for some sign of concern. Of care. Of love. She found none. But still, she stayed on the line.

“No, Ivan. IDT3 is Immunodeficient Disorder, Type 3. You know, the one that actress Kendra Trent had.”

“Shit. Didn’t she die,” he stated rather than asking.

“Yeah.”

“Well…” Ivan huffed. “Damn.”

Jenevieve sniffled into the phone and wiped her tears away from her cheeks. Jenevieve knew exactly what he was thinking about because she was thinking about the same thing: money.

“What does treatment for IDT look like?” he asked. Translation: How much does it cost?

“I’m not sure.”

“And when did you get tested, again?” Translation: How’d you pay for the tests?

"Back in August. It was expensive but I paid out of pocket because I thought it would just be a one-time thing. Just a slight increase on my yearly doctor's bill." Jenevieve's vision blurred once again as her eyes welled up with tears. "I don't know how I'm going to pay for all this," she admitted.

“I understand, J. I really do. And I’m sorry.”

Jenevieve was almost convinced. But Ivan didn’t and couldn’t understand. He was four years younger than her and still eligible for his parents’ health insurance package which is provided by their employer. People are usually shocked to find out that his parents still work.

Millions of users have his E-Comm pinned to their feeds so they never miss a ping or a post. He makes $35,000 minimum for every endorsement deal he does–which he does quite frequently. He is the epitome of ‘fame and fortune,’ but his parents work because they have to. Most people have to work for all of their lives thanks to the Workman's Packaging Act of 2043 which formally legalized 'packaging.' This essentially allowed companies to group employee benefits like insurance, housing, utilities, and even food and water. More and more of what used to be considered necessities are now considered extras that workers should be thankful to their employers for. Megacompanies like BOLDR, Spear, and Iris build communities reminiscent of old-timey settlements. These communities are equipt with markets, housing, recreational centers, and more, all within the same compound area. Workers never need to leave

the compounds in which they work, and most of them can't afford to. Visiting loved ones elsewhere is a luxury most folks can't justify, so families typically aim to work for the same companies–not that there are many to choose from to begin with.

The Packaging Act left workers barely taken care of while also leaving unemployed folks and those who work outside of the "traditional" job market to fend for themselves. They called these folks 'unpackaged,' or UP for short. The already ultra-wealthy megacompanies gained even more power and poverty was transformed into a blameless evil. Officials will only blame those living in poverty for creating their circumstances.

Don't have insurance? Get a job. Don't have housing? Get a job. Don't have enough food allowance points? Get a job and marry someone with a job at your compound so you both receive double the points each month. To them, it's simple math.

So, that’s what Ivan’s parents did. They met at BOLDR, the largest tech conglomerate in the nation. His mom worked in the warehouse distribution unit and his dad worked in the cybersecurity unit, which of course meant better housing, better food, and a better quality of life for their whole family. Ivan did not grow up with luxury, but unlike many, he never knew hunger. Whenever he was sick, he was able to go to the doctor. He always had a roof over his head. Most of all, his parents would–and did–do anything for him to succeed

And, he did. Even when his follower count began rising and his face started appearing on millions of E-Comm feeds, his parents continued doing everything in their power to make sure he knew ease and comfort rather than hardship and struggle. When he and Jenevieve tested positive for mono a month into their relationship, Ivan scanned his insurance chip and walked out of the hospital while Jenevieve walked up to the receptionist's stand and pulled out her debit chip to cover the hefty bill. She'd almost wanted to marry him right then and there since spouses

can use their insurance on their UP partners up to two times per year. He had easy access to Univiral, the newly FDA-approved universal antiviral drug that had him back on his feet in days compared to her weeks of sickness, bed rest, and managing symptoms. Not to mention, he had parents to transfer him food allocation points to cover any gaps from missing work, while she had no one to rely on. No mom or dad, no siblings. Just Jenevieve, as it had always been.

“I’m here for you Jen,” Ivan said breaking the long silence. “Whatever it takes, I’ll be right by your side.”

'Where is Jenevieve Pollard? The icon hasn't updated her E-Comm feed in more than eight days!' This was just one of the latest tabloid E-Comm to make a statement on Jenevieve's unusual absence. She'd never gone more than a few hours without updating, especially in the last couple of years. Since the diagnosis, she had barely looked through her own E-Comm feed, let alone thought of posting. Some of the tabloids guessed that she was getting work done in South America and would emerge once her breast implants and newly flattened stomach had fully healed. ‘Been there, done that,’ she thought Other fans suggested that she was attending her annual Sufi meditation retreat a bit early this year. ‘Ugh, I wish.’ Instead, she was dodging pings and calls from her agents, manager, friends, and even Ivan's mother, who claims to just "want to know everything's alright." Her concern, whether genuine or a feeble attempt at collecting information to sell to tabloids, only emphasized Ivan's indifference.

“I’m just a video sim away,” was his response once he found out her first appointment coincided with his best friend Garret’s ‘Collab Super Day.’ “It’s just too big of a day for content for me to miss out. But you’ll still be able to see me at any time!”

Except, on the day of the appointment, Jenevieve requested to video-sim him three times before walking into the hospital. As she stepped into the cold, sterile hallway Ivan's name flashed across her vision and her vis-ports displayed a new message.

‘Hey babe, things at G’s are a lot busier than I thought. Can’t video sim but I’m still just a message away! xo’

Jenevieve let out a sigh, tearing the vis-ports off her face and stuffing them into the royal blue Hermès bag on her arm. The pale hallway was wide and empty, yet she felt claustrophobic and stuffy. She finally reached the elevator, repeatedly pressing the button before reaching for her scabbed cuticles. When the doors opened, she saw a kind-eyed nurse scrolling through a chart. As she stepped onto the elevator, the two made eye contact making Jenevieve's eyes instinctively dart in the opposite direction.

“What floor?”

"Seventh please," Jenevieve replied without raising her head. The nurse glanced over at her, eyes lingering on her expensive clothing, brightly colored bag, and designer shoes, then finally landed on her now bleeding cuticles.

“Excuse me,” the nurse now clutched the file against her body. “Are you Jenevieve Pollard?”

Jenevieve specifically chose a hospital an hour out from the city so this wouldn't happen. But then again, what did she expect when she pops up on E-Comm feeds from London to Los Angeles, to Lagos, and beyond?

“No, I’m not,” she lied, adding a nervous laugh at the end to hide the shakiness in her voice.

"Oh," the nurse sounded shocked but resigned. "You sure look a lot like her." She smile to assure her there was no malice behind her question.

“I get that a lot.”

Jenevieve reached for her vis-ports and made sure that the nurse could tell she was scrolling through her E-Comm feed. She needed this conversation to be over, now.

She raced out of the elevator as soon as it reached the seventh floor. Her right digits made their way to her left hand's cuticles again, but once she felt the dull pain from the raw skin around her nail bed, she dropped both hands to her side. Instead, Jenevieve opted for twirling her coily strands between her restless fingers. Somehow, she made it to the waiting area, sat in front of the large, glass panel, and waited for her name to flash across the Homescreen. Eventually, she put her pride aside and with a sigh, decided to ping Ivan.

‘Hey, just made it to the waiting room. A little nervous, so let me know when you can call!’

Ten minutes went by with no response. Another five went by before the large screen read, ‘Next Patient: J. POLLARD.’ Jenevieve nervously looked around the nearly empty waiting room and hurried to the testing area, praying that no one had noticed her presence. The next two hours consisted of testing, waiting, picking, prodding, scanning, sampling, grabbing, and examining. Despite living under the white-hot spotlight of fame, Jenevieve was sure she had never been scrutinized this intensely. Whenever she had a moment to herself, she couldn't help but check to see if there was any response from Ivan. She even pulled out her cell phone, convinced the pings simply weren't coming through. Still, nothing.

Don’t check his feed. Don’t check his feed. Don’t check his feed. Don’t. Check. His. Feed.

Jenevieve’s body once again betrayed her and she placed her frames on her face and began scrolling through his recent posts, his many, many recent posts. She immediately noticed the obnoxious holographic fireplace at the center of one of his videos. Their friends–Jenevieve’s friends circled the fireplace, commenting on ‘how real’ the heat felt and ‘how cool’ the technology was.

Looking at the date, it dawned on her. It was their second anniversary. Tears threatened to fall down her cheeks but she used her knuckles to blot her eyes dry. Jenevieve took out her phone and typed slowly and calmly on the keyboard. Finally, her screen read, 'Are you sure you want to block all future E-Comms from this user?' She tapped the screen one more time before placing the phone face down on her lap.

✴✴✴✴

“Sources report that megastar Jenevieve Pollard has been spotted not once, not twice, but numerous times leaving a medical facility just outside of LA." The news reporter served as background noise while watching her doctor swipe through her growing medical record. "Since her sudden disappearance from E-Comm feeds about six weeks ago, she’s lost nearly all of her endorsement deals and her subscriber count has dropped over 85 million and counting.”

“Do you want me to cut off the news sim?” asked a concerned Dr. Brenly. Jenevieve shook her head no. She wanted to hear what stories they would concoct now.

“Her fans have expressed that while they hope all is well, they deserve some kind of explanation. Ivan Hubb, her boyfriend of two years has confirmed their split but denied any further comment. Most recently, her team released this statement:

‘We’ve loved working with Miss Pollard and building a community of subscribers that all loved her content. While we are sad to be parting ways, we’re rooting for her in all of her future endeavors.’”

Jenevieve chuckled and tuned the newscaster out. She had broken the news to her team a few days ago and within the same hour, they released that bullshit statement. They aren't 'rooting for her,' they just wanted to make sure they got their cut of whatever she had left before there was nothing left to scavenge. During her accountant's last few billable hours, he sorted out which items were to be repossessed, and what could be sold, identified wherever she could save money and helped her sell her house back to the bank. Thousands of dollars worth of bags, shoes, and jewelry were lugged out of her dream home–except she kept having to remind herself that it wasn't her home anymore.

Meanwhile, the hospital visits, tests, and medications were draining her more and more each day, mentally, physically, and financially. Not to mention, she was starting to feel sick.

Although the diagnosis had been hovering over her for weeks, she understood her sickness in a very abstract way. The way a child thinks about a word they've read, but don't know the meaning of. More recently, her IDT3 began to manifest itself concretely. No longer was it just a thought or just an acronym she'd become too accustomed to hearing. Now it was tangible. Fatigue, cough, fever, nausea, nothing she hadn't dealt with before. But she could already tell it was getting worse.

"The symptoms usually start very mildly." Dr. Brenly explained. "It's typically what people used to experience with a common cold or flu. But from there, it gets more extreme. See, what's happening is, when your body sends out white blood cells to attack whatever's making you sick, it just simply doesn't make anymore so those cells become depleted. We aren't sure

why yet but eventually, there are just no more white blood cells and the mildest sickness could be fatal."

Dr. Brenly was compassionate but still straight and to the point. Jenevieve had come to appreciate her for it. She'd spent more time with Dr. Brenly than anyone else in the past few weeks and under different circumstances, she thought they may have been great friends. But then again, there would be no other circumstance for the two to meet. It was clear that the doctor had Jenevieve's best interest in mind. It was Dr. Brenly's idea that she liquidate any assets she had now to get ahead of the costs. Dr. Brenly also suggested that she move into in-patient care. “You’ll be more…comfortable,” she said placing a gentle hand on her knee.

Jenvevieve couldn't help but think: Yeah, comfortable enough to die

But Dr. Brenly assured her that being under their care 24/7 was the best chance she had. Jenevieve had forced her worries about the in-patient costs out of her mind and reluctantly agreed. Better to already be at the hospital when things inevitably get worse.

After Dr. Brenly finished making notes in her chart, Jenevieve moved towards the door. She began the familiar trek back to her room, marching through seemingly identical cold hospital hallways and making countless turns, She stopped in front of a door that read 11H and turned the metal doorknob only to reveal a stranger unpacking clothing out of a pink and blue duffle bag. “Excuse me?” Jenevieve asked, eyebrows furrowed. "Oh, hey roomie!" They came towards her, hand extended. "I'm Emery, it's great to meet you!"

Roomie?

11H was Jenevieve’s newfound sanctuary. It’s where she ate. Where she slept. Hell, it may be where she dies.

“You must have the wrong room,” she walked past them leaving their hand untouched.

“Nope, says right here that I’m in 11H with a ‘Jenevieve P.’ Since I have a roommate at my work compound, I think my insurance has to be the same here too,” they explained with a gentle inflection.

They continued to unpack and Jenevieve huffed towards what was now her side of the room. She knew she couldn’t afford single living quarters, but she didn’t expect them to put someone in her room. How could she be 'comfortable' now?

She glanced at Emery, noticing how frail they were. Their skin had a leathery, almost translucent quality to it. The black strands of hair that fell to their shoulders were dry, brittle, and peppered with a few strands of pure white. Jenevieve may have felt sick, but Emery looked sick. She almost felt bad for them. Almost.

At the end of the night, Jenevieve and Emery got ready for bed in silence. She completed her nightly routine, as usual, ending her ritual by closing all the curtains in the room.

"Do you mind leaving the curtains open?" Emery asked quickly adding, "At least on one of the windows? It helps me feel motivated to get up in the morning."

Jenevieve grudgingly obliged. In bed, she found herself staring out that same window, hyperaware of the star-studded sky, the sliver of light shining from the crescent moon, and the quiet but ragged breathing coming from the other side of the room.

"So, Jenevieve. What are you in for?" Emery asked in the lightest of manners.

“IDT3”

“Sorry to hear that. My dad had that when I was young..”

“What about you?” Jenevieve asked dryly.

“Liver cancer.”

Jenevieve felt a pang in her chest as soon as the words left their mouth. She couldn’t help but think about her mom, who was just as frail, just as weak, and just as sick as Emery all those years ago.

“Sorry to hear that. My mom had that when I was young too.”

✴✴✴✴

Emery was uniquely charismatic. The nurses practically fought over who got to check in on 11H just to talk to them for a few minutes. Even Jenevieve wasn’t immune to their charm. Honestly, they’d probably have more E-Comm followers than she had, if they ever used it. She was astonished to find out that they didn’t follow anyone they did not know personally so, they’d never heard of her. It’s not that she thought they should, she just couldn’t remember the last time that had happened to her. Deep down, she felt grateful that Emery didn’t know the E-Comm Jenevieve. As they got to know her, she, for the first time, began to know herself as well.

In their first month of living together, Jenevieve discovered that she hated her long hair. After having their head shaved before the start of chemotherapy, Emery plainly stated, "You know, you'd look great bald. You have the head for it."

"No, I'd look crazy," she thought back to the time she cut her hair just a couple of inches. Almost every comment under her E-Comm status that day was telling her what a big mistake she'd made. To top it off, Ivan told explained how she looked more feminine with long hair. Jenevieve loved that haircut but wore her hair in braids and wigs until her it grew back.

The memory pushed her into Emery's former seat, and the next thing she knew, they were standing over her while the clippers buzzed softly in her ears.

“Are you sure?” They asked, skeptical.

“Hell yes.”

Afterward, she looked at herself in the mirror unsure of what to expect. She ran her hands over her smooth head and smiled. Her smile turned into a giggle and soon enough, Emery and Jenevieve were laughing and wiping tears from their eyes.

In their second month of living together, Jenevieve learned what sickness felt like. The fatigue, body aches, and general malaise she had grown accustomed rapidly turned into chills, chest pain, and vomiting. An extra visit to Dr. Brenly would reduce the length of her stay by a month at the very least, so she pushed through it.

During that same time, Emery got even sicker, which Jenevieve didn’t think was possible. The chemotherapy lessened their already weak appetite and what they did manage to swallow would usually come right back up. They slept through most of the days and tossed and turned throughout the night.

Jenevieve and Emery found comfort in one another's pain, along with 11H's assortment of smells, medleys of medications, and various groans which accompanied them.

"I think you should go see Dr. Brenly." Emery pleaded.

"I already have an appointment set for a couple of weeks from now." Her labored and shallow breathing broke up her sentence into short, choppy phrases. "I can't afford it."

That night, Jenevieve dreamed she was at her favorite beach off the coast of Barbados. She jumped into the crystal blue waters and tried swimming up. She felt her limbs flail, trying to reach the surface for oxygen, but she couldn't stop herself from drowning.

Emery awoke to the sounds of struggles and gasps for air. They moved to call for help but faltered for a moment. Emery had spent some time thinking about the person Jenevieve was before she got sick. The ways she must've treated people. The things she took for granted. For a split second, they thought, 'Well, maybe this is cosmic punishment.' Just as soon as the thought

appeared, it was gone. In its place, Emery's body swelled with guilt and they ran for someone to come help. They stood by her bed while nurses rushed into the room followed by two doctors sprinting in.

Soon, she was being wheeled toward the ICU.

"You have to stay here and rest, Emery. I'll come back and check in on you whenever we have updates," one of the nurses said, urging them back toward their bed. The nurse didn't come back until the next morning, and Emery had not moved since.

"It looks like Jenevieve has pneumonia. Her body isn't strong enough to fight it off on its own and her lungs filled with fluid because "

“Is she okay?”

"It's a good thing you called for help when you did. We were able to drain the fluids, get her breathing again, and stabilize her." They let out the breath they'd been holding for what seemed like an eternity. Emery couldn't have lived with themself if they had stood by and let her die.

In the third month, Jenevieve returned from her extended stay in the ICU. “Okay, what did I miss?” she joked as she opened the door of 11H. Immediately, Emery ran into her arms. They held each other for a few silent but comfortable minutes. It was clear they both had a lot on their minds.

Looking at them, Jenevieve noticed that Emery looked stronger. They’d gained a bit more weight and there was a subtle glow to their skin. Yet, behind their eyes, there was a certain pain. A certain worry.

Emery glanced down at Jenevieve's fingers instinctively. They knew that when she was anxious her cuticles would tell on her before her lips would. They were red and raw. As soon as

she noticed their eyes on her hands, she stuffed them into her pockets. She walked to each window in 11H, pulled back the curtains, and opened the latches, letting in a cool breeze. The full moon shone brightly into the room making the stars practically disappear.

That night, Jenevieve learned she preferred the clarity of a deserted night sky to one cluttered with stars. She could enjoy the moonlight without all the noise. She'd decided that the stars were always in competition with one another. Which would burn the longest, the brightest, or the biggest? She much preferred to enjoy the peace and beauty in the nothingness.

"I have enough to keep me in this place for 34 more days." The plain statement filled the air with no value judgments attached. The expenses from her trip to the ICU shifted her original expectation, but she'd already come to terms with it. The money was bound to run out eventually. "Of course, that's assuming there are no more surprise visits to the ICU waiting for me around the corner," she chuckled, not taking herself too seriously.

Emery lay flat on their crumpled bedsheets, the back of their shaved head resting in the palms of locked hands. It’s their turn to divulge.

"I'm off of chemo. It's not like it was working anyway," Emery shrugged. "So, now it's all about being as comfortable and content as possible. At my last appointment though, Dr. Olu did tell me about a new treatment option–Gridexl. They could implant a chip that would deliver doses of radiation periodically. Supposedly, it's got a really great success rate."

“What’s the catch?”

"It's still in the trial phase. My job won't pay unless it's FDA-approved."

Silence overtook the room.

“So what’s next?” Jenevieve asked as much for herself as for Emery.

"I say we bust out of this joint and Thelma and Louis it." Emery smiled, propping themself up on their help to finally face Jenevieve's bed. She didn't budge.

"Shit, maybe we just Romeo and Juliet it." The edges of her mouth finally curled up as she looked toward Emery's dark, yet lively pupils. Then, she added, "Surprisingly enough, Ivan made me read that play. He made me promise that we could have a reading from it at our wedding and would name our daughter Juliet."

Jenevieve let out a soft laugh, thankful to still have good memories from that period, though it seemed like a lifetime ago. Thinking about marriage and kids seemed so foreign now. So impractical. A future was the most luxurious thing she’d ever had, yet it was just as temporary as the rest.

The light of the moon seemed to pulsate, the light dimming ever so slightly.

“We should get married.”

“Married?”

They both knew what they were dancing around. The key to giving Jenevieve a second chance at life. The opportunity for Emery to be her knight in shining armor. All these months, they've both had thoughts about the privilege packaged spouses can grant. But Emery never offered, and Jenevieve wouldn't ask. Jenevieve wanted to ask. But she couldn't. As much as Emery cared for her, they wouldn't. They couldn't shake the feeling they'd felt that night. It just wouldn't be fair. Emery gone, and the girl who always gets her way gets saved again. They loved her too much to let her go back to that vis-port glued to face, E-Comm addicted lifestyle.

So, instead, they circled the plain and the obvious.

“Imagine us in all white walking down the aisle.”

“It would definitely be a destination wedding.”

“Oh, of course. With tons of flowers.”

“And red velvet cake.”

“ With a huge disco ball over the dance floor.”

They lay there. Eye-to-eye. Faces illuminated by the brightening, white moon.

“We could.”

“We really could.”

“We should.”

The last lesson Jenevieve learned in 11H was that she wasn't one for ifs and maybes or coulds and shoulds. Those belonged to the future. Those belonged to the stars.

She looked up at the ceiling and shut her eyes.

“We’d have to have a live band.”

"And one of those chocolate fountains," Emery said through a wide tooth smile as their eyes closed, gently.

StoryfromanUtopianColombia

ThechirpofcricketsfilledthesilenceasSalomerockedbackandforthinthechairofthe solarium.Shewasknittinganewtableclothforthediningtableafteroneofhercousinshad accidentallyrippedthelastonewithoneoftheirtoys.Streamsofsunlightwarmedherhandsin anotherwisechillymorning.Thetaskathandtransportedherbacktoherchildhood;toknitting lessonswithhermomanduncles;tocompetitionswithhercousinstryingtoseewhocouldfinish apiecethefastest.Sinceshe’dleftherhome,shehadn’thadmuchofachancetopracticeher family’strade.She’dforgottenhowgooditfelttohaveaneedleandyarninherhands.

Salomehadleftforthecityoncesheturned18,calledbyallthehistoryembeddedinthestories ofthepeopleshewouldmeetthere.Notthatthereweren’tanystoriesathome.Growingup,she wouldtrytomilkallofthehouse’sadultsfortheirstories,livedorsecond-hand.Shedidn’tcare. Astoryisastory,andeventheonesthatseemedthemostfantasticalcarriedwiththeman undeniabletruth.ThatwassomethingSalomehadknownfromthebeginning,thoughnot consciously:Evenifthefactswerefalse,thefeelingwastrue.

Shesmiledatthememoryoftheinterviewsshesprungonherfamilyasshegrewup.Herfamily wouldhaveprobablycalleditsomethingmoreakintointerrogationwithalltherelentless questioning.Theystillmadesuretoanswerherasbesttheycould.

Aparticularinterviewcametohermind,oneshehadhadfifteenyearsagowithherrecently departeduncleCarlos.Shemust’vebeenaroundfourteen,atthatagewhenfewthingswould’ve sparkedinterestasidefromlearningherfamily’shistory.

Theyearwas2140.Salomehadreturnedfromschoolanddoneherhousechores.Inthelull betweendinnerandbedtimewheneveryonewatchedthelatestwirelessentertainmentortook sometimetopracticetheirownhobbies,she'dcomeuptoheruncle,wholaidonthelivingroom sofareadingabook."Whatareyoureadinguncle?"

"Oh,justanoldbookIreadforschoolbackintheday."

Salomeleanedover,tryingtoreadthecover.“A Hundred Years of Solitude.”Shestraightened backup.“I’veheardaboutit!IthinkIeventriedreadingitonce,butitwastoodenseforme.All thosenames…”

HeruncleCarlosreleasedaheartylaugh.“Itisapieceofwork.”

“DoyoumindifIinterruptyourreadingforawhile,uncle?”

Heclosedthebookandstraighteneduponthesofa,pattingthespotnexttohimforSalometo sit.“Notall.Whatdoyouneed,mija?”

“Iwantyoutotellmeastory.”

“Anystory,mija?”

“Yes,anything.Canbetrue,canbefalse,madeup,itjusthastomattertoyou.”

“Aishh,melaestasponiendodificilmija.Contantasopcionesquehay…”

“Justpickone!MaybeoneIhaven’theardbeforeoroneyouhaven’ttoldinawhile.”

“Hmmm,”UncleCarlosrubbedhischininthought.Salomepushedhimwithhershoulder.

“Stopit.Iknowyoualreadyknowwhatstoryyouwanttotellme.”

UncleCarlosrestedahandonSalome’sshoulder.“Aysobrina,contigosinosepuede.”

Salomerolledhereyes.

“DidItellyouhowIgottothishouse?”

Salomeshookherhead.Thetruthwas,shehadheardabouthowhisunclegottoliveinthe house,butneverfromhimdirectly.Overtheyears,Salomehadheardfragmentsofthestory beforehearrivedfromloosecommentsandconversationsofthevariousresidentsofthehouse. Neverthecompletepiece.

“Well,itmust’vebeentwentyyearsago,whenyouweren’tevenathoughtinyourparents’ minds.MyownparentshadreturnedtoourhometowninthePacificcoast,aftertheocean

barrierswerebuiltandwhoeverhappenedtolivenearbywassafefrombeingswallowedbythe sea.Iremembermyparents’distrustofthebarrier. It won’t last. It will be another half-fulfilled promise.Irememberthinkingtheywerefunnyforsayingthat.InthefewyearsI’dbeenalive,I hadn’tseenanythingthatcamefromthegovernmentcrumbleintodust.Youprobablyhaven’t experiencediteither.Intruth,Idon’tthinkevenmyparentseverexperienceditfirsthand,but theirparentshad,andtheymadesuretoinstillinmyparentsasenseofdistrustofanythingthat camefromthegovernment.Nothingfreeevercamewithoutconsequences.Bridgescollapsing becausethecontractorshadstolenthemoney.Rottenfoodinpublicschools.Thegovernment wasnotlookingoutforyou.”

“Doyouthinkitisnow?”

“Toanextent.Towhatthey’reableto.Itiscertainlynothinglikebackthen,that’sforsure.When Istayedwithmygrandparents,theyalwaystoldmetobegratefulforwhatwehadnow,toenjoy givingmytrusttostrangers,tobeabletostrayfromhomeandknowIwouldnotfindmyselfina warzone.”

“Sothebarrier?Didithold?”

“Ohyeah,itheld.Myparents’perceptionswerestillrootedabitfarbackinhistory Theysettled intoourhometownonceagain,atleastwhatwasleftofit,itsspirit,itspeople.Theywentbackto fishing,thetradetheywereforcedtomoveonfromwhileinthecity.Iwasnotusedtothe slow-movingwaysofthecoast,oftheuncertaintythatcamewithgoingouttoseaforfishand notevenknowingifyouwouldcomebackwithyourlife.Igrewupinabigcity.Everyday someonenewappeared.Anotherclimaterefugee,anotheradventurer,anothertradesperson lookingforexcitinggoodstoexchange.Thelifeinmyhometownseemedstaticincomparison, soIleft.Itookthetrainandsawwhereitwouldtakeme.Thetimingforallpublictransportfares tobecomefreecouldn’thavebeenbetter.Imetotherslikemewhileonthetrain.Fromthe LlanostotheAmazontotheCordilleras,aimlesssoulslookingforaplacethatwouldbe appropriatefortheirroots.”

“Whydidn’tyougobacktothecity?”

UncleCarlosstoppedtolookatSalome.“Idon’tknow.Ithinktheopportunitytoseeother places,whatelsewasoutthere, who elsewasouttherekeptmefromgoingbacktosomewhereI knew.”

“Andwhodidyoufind?”

Heruncleturnedtolookatthebookinhislap,hisstarefaraway.Herubbedthestubblegrowing againsthischeeks.“Youknow,Salo,Iknewfrommygrandparentsthatviolenceusedtobe somethingalwaysbubblingaroundwhereveryouwentinthecountry.Youneverknewwhenit wouldcometoaboilandasphyxiateyouwithtoxicvapor.Inthecountryside,inthecities,you keptagasmaskaroundoryoulearnedforsignstorunatthefirstchancebeforeitcametoaboil. Thatseemedridiculoustome.Orwell,notridiculousbutunimaginable,untilIfoundmyselfin thewrongplaceatthewrongtime.”

Salomeremembershereyeswanderingupanddownheruncle’sface,noticingeverywrinkle, smileandfrownline,wanderingdowntohisneckandforthefirsttimenoticingfaintwhitelines criss-crossingoverit.Sheremembersgulpingatthethoughtsthatinvadedhermindabouthow he’dgottenthosescars.

“Imetsomeoneononeofthetrainrides.Thismust’vebeenclosetoBogotá,inatownonestop awayfromit.They’dinvitedmetoapartyinanearbyfarmandI’dsayyesbecause,why wouldn’tI?Inallthetrainridetogether,theyhadn’tgivenmeareasontosayno.Theywere charismaticandtrustworthyenough.Theyfailedtomentionwhosepartyitwas.”

“Whose?”

“Asmall-timenarcolookingtomakeitbigtime.”

“Narco?”

“Drugtrafficker.Notverycommonthen,notverycommonnow,sohowIlandedononeoftheir partiesit’sanyone’sguess.”UncleCarlostappedhisfingersagainstthebook.“Thepartywas unlikeanythingI’dbeento.Itwaslikeatriptotheguttersofthepast.Womenintightclothing andmentreatingthemlikeobjects.Gunsandflashyjewelryoneveryonearoundme.Iwanted out,butbeforeIcouldleave,someoneattackedthehouse.Idon’tknowifthegovernmenthad anythingtodowithit,orifitwassomeoneelsetryingtodoapowergrab.WhatIdoknowis thatIwasthenewcomerandtheythoughtI’dsnitchedontheirlocation.”Helookeddownatthe floor.“Theytorturedme,andwhentheyrealizedIwasanobody,theytriedtokillme,butoneof theirguysgotcareless,onpurposeornot,I’llneverknow,butIwasabletogetaway.Istumbled throughvariousfarmsuntilIarrivedatthisone,andyourparentsandotherresidentsnursedme backtohealth.”

UncleCarlosturnedtowardsSalome,afaintsmiletuggingathislipsdespitethepainbehindhis eyes.“Sohow’sthatforastory,mija?”

Salomehadignoredhisquestionandhuggedhimtightly.Now,inthemorningsun,shewished shecouldhavearrivedintimetohughimonelasttime,maybeeventellhimastoryortwoof herowntravels.

Blink Harshwhiteoodsmyeyes ouch Eyesclosed Myarmhairsprickleinthebreezeof anunseencoolingunit.Itrytorubmybarearmsagainstthechillonlytondthatmywristsare securedtothesidesofabed Crispsheetsholdmybodyagainstarmcushion Iinhalethesharpscent ofalcoholdisinfectantandmyearstuneintodistantvoices,hummingmachines.Myblinksextend untilmyeyesremainshut

No,I’mnotfeeling“alright”.Theoorandtheceilingareswappingaroundlikethey’retrying tomakemepuke,andIcan;tscratchanitchonmynosebecauseofthesehandrestraints.

I’lltalk,butjusttostayawake Idon’tgetwhathelpI’llbewithwhateveryou’restudying. God,it’sdisorientingtokeepbeingputtosleep HowlonghaveIbeenhere?IsitstillNovember? Youwantmetotellyouaboutmyexperienceswiththeproject?I’mnotsureI’mthepersonto askifyou’retryingtoboostitsratings.Butokay.Mylifewasboringuntilitwasn’t.Iwasapoorbut happykidwhogrewuptodiscoverhowtrulymesseduptheworldisandnowsuersasaconsequence. Iguessit’sfullcircleandwe’rebacktoboring.

I’mreadytotalk. Aphantom5-inchstilettohauntedmyleftfoot IfIconcentrate,IimaginethatIcanstillfeel thewoman’sheeldiggingthroughtheleathertopofmyslip-ons.Youwouldthinkthatwith–what? 60%ofCEOsbeingfemale?65%,thankyou–womenwouldhaverestyledthesensibleshoesofthe man ’sworld,butno,theyhavetoprovethattheycandoanythingamancandowhileontheirtiptoes. Howprogressive Anyways,Ibouncedmyfootasthoughtoshakeotheache Itwasanotherdayof watchingtheseasonspassfrommycushionedswivelchair.Irememberthetreeshadjustlosttheir leavessoonlyafewtoughiesheldon Thebrancheslookedliketheywantedtoreachthroughthe windowsandpokemyeyesout.Iwasgreetingclientswhodonnedaccessoriesthatcostmorethanmy quarter’ssalary.Mosthadalreadyrolledoutthefallsweaters.Myunwittinglittlelifenowseems straightoutofautopia. Theairsmelledcleanthedaytheclinicrstopened.Ourrsteverclientswereanoldcouple whohoveredinthesterileentryway Susanausedtomakesurethedoorhingeswereoiledweekly It’s whatIcalledtype-A,andwhatshecalled“theonlywaytoavoidsqueaky-doorcomplaints.”Alwaysthe

perfectionist,shewas.Thecouplesteppedintothereceptionarea.Thetallerwomanwasweavingthe fringeofhermid-thighjacketaroundherngerssotightlythatIworriedthetasselswouldpopo Theshorterwomanapproachedmytidyyellowdesk.Hergazesettledonthewordsonthewallbehind me:“Takingthewomboutofparenthoodtocreateanequitableworld”Theirnervousenergy remindedmeofthatfeelingthatticklesthepitofyourstomachbeforearollercoastertakesadive.

Thiscouple,likemostofourothers,lockedeyesbeforerespondingtoeverythingIsaidasif reassuringoneanotheraboutwhattheyweregoingtodo.

“Pleasefeelfreetohelpyourselftocoeeandteafromthecart.Thebathroomisdownthe hall” Theywouldglanceatoneanother,cometoasilentconsensus.

“Thankyou,”thetallerwomanwouldreply

Thewomenbecamechattyoncetheygotcomfortable.Theyenjoyedreectingonhowthey couldnothaveevenmarriedjustunderacenturyago,forgetcreatingababyfrombothoftheirDNA attheagesof72and74.Theirsoftvoiceswouldgainenthusiasm:

“RememberObergefellv Hodges ”

“...AndtheWhiteHouselituplikearainbow!”

“Butpridewasasortofprotest,too.Like,I’malsoahuman.Ialsodeservetobejoyful.”

Thentheirshoulderswouldloweraninchortwo.Amomentofsilenceforhistoricqueers.But beforelong,theirenergywouldbubbleupagainastheybanteredaboutbabynames.Ihaveafeeling thesegiddyargumentswereafrequentxtureintheirhome Thebeautyoftheirexcitementwasthat theirhopewasn’tmarredbythenowcommonfearthattheirbabywouldn'tsurvivepastamonth.The

researchbehindtheclinicswassothoroughthatclientsneedn’tsharetheconcernsthatplaguedthose whocouldn’taordourservice thatUVrayswouldpassfromthemothertotheirfetusanddamage thedevelopingembryo.Thisdidn’thappenwhenbabiesdevelopedinstableconditionsoutsidethe motherbecauseourscientistscouldmonitortheirgenestopreventthemfrommutating Wehadnoideawhatwasreallygoingon.

TodayI'mfouroutoften.MybodyfeelsfullofsandandIcan’tliftmyhead.

Thinkingaboutitnow,Iwasclosetosomethingamazing.Notgreat,butamazing.Iremember whenmygrandmotheropenedthemessageinformingherthatSusanachoseherforaresearchassistant foracutting-edgemedicalstudy:TheEctolifeProject.ShewassoexcitedshetookmetoBaltimorefor icecream Iorderedatriple-scoopsundae Strawberry,coee,andmint-chocolate-chip Illedthe to-gocupwithhotfudge(sincetheto-gocupisbiggerthanthedine-in)andploppedadollopof whippedcreamontothechocolateyheap Itslidrightontomyhand Weweresonaive–Susanaknew this.Whyelsewouldshehavechosenasinglemotherwithababy-interruptedcollegedegreeandlittle professionalexperiencetoassistherwiththemostimportantresearchofthecentury?Notonlythat, butanolderwomanwhofaintedthersttimeshesawabeatingheartinabiobag.

ButSusanadidn’tmakemistakes.Sheknewmygrandmother'sresearchwouldbemeticulous.

MaybebecauseGrandmacouldn'taordtolosethejob,butalsobecausethat’sjustwhoshewas. Whenwewouldcolortogethersheselectedcomplimentaryshadestomakedaintyowerpetalspop fromthescenery,whilemypagewouldbecomeachaoticassortmentofwhicheverpencilcaughtmy eye.Sheusedlight,evenstrokes,andmyglossypaperindentedwhereverImovedmyconquest.

Grandmawasthersttosuggestusinguterinetissuefromjust-deceasedwomenintheplaceof articialwombs ThisreducedtheoverallstudytimebyhalfandearnedTheEctolifeProjectglobal recognitionforitsroleinequalizingthegenderrolesinparenthood.Soonafter,theclinicsgrippedthe country Earlysuccessbroughtmorebusiness,andclinicsbeganaddingwarehouse-sizedunitstostore developingembryosuntiltheyreachedfetalviabilityandcouldbeweanedfromtheirarticialwombs. With⅓ofwombbabiesacquiringsomesortofbraindamagefromsecond-handUV-rays,who wouldn’tturntotheclinics?TheonlyoppositionIknowwasfromreligiousgroupsthatcitethe world’smisfortunesas“God’swill”.Forustohavegottenhere,Godmust’vewilledsomeprettygnarly stu GrandmaandIhadgirls'nightsnearlyeveryThursdayuntilshedied.Oneofthesenights,we paintedourtoenailsorangeandshetoldmeaboutLucie GrandmasaidSusanareferredtothetest babiesbynumbersratherthannames,buttoGrandma,therstonewasLucie.Withincreasinglate nightsinthelab,GrandmabegantospendmoretimewithLuciethanwithme Shesaidshewasproof thatababydoesn’thavetodevelopinsideamotherforthetwotoconnect.Luciewasn’tevenhers,and Grandmawassmitten ShewouldtellLucieaboutcamel-shapedcloudssheglimpsedonherwayinto workandaboutherdistressoverhatsbeingbackinstyle(“justimaginetryingtondahattorestrain thispoof!”)andhersuspicionthatthegovernmentwouldn’thaverejectedtheproject’sinitialgrantif shehadpitcheditwhilewearingglasses.AccordingtoGrandma,Luciewasastellarlistener.She watchedLuciedevelopfromapetridishtoanalmostviableinfant,butonedayLucie’sborrowed wombfailed AndGrandma’salmost-babydied

Grandmalayinbedfordays.Shehardlyansweredmyquestions:Whathappened?Areyouill?

Wouldyoulikewater?Isn’titabitwarmwithallthoseblankets?Shekepttheroomdarkforthefirstday untilIliftedthecurtain,anditstayedlitinagrayhazeuntilshere-emerged.Shewhispered“thankyou” forthebakerysconesSusanaorderedtothehouse,buttheyremaineduntouched Itooktoproddingherleg tomakesureshewasstillalive.

Idon’tknowhowpeoplesurvivedlosingababythathadbeendevelopingintheirwombfor9 months.Eachkickandpushagainstabladderwasreassurancethatababywouldonedaypopoutand growhairandapersonalityanditwoulddecidewhichpopsicleflavoritlikedthebestandthatithated shoesthatdidn’tletitscaleplaygroundslideslikeageckoonawall.Ican’timaginebearingthephysical painforsolongjustforthebabytodie.Butsomanywomendon’thavetoimaginethis.Theyliveit.

Totakeawaysomeone’sopportunitytoproducelife,evenifitmayamounttodeath,isnopower oneshouldhaveoveranyoneelse.

MygrandmotherstoppedparticipatinginresearchforTheEctolifeProject.Grandmawasback tothebustleforafewmonthsafterherfewdaysofollowingLucie’sdeathuntilsheandSusanagot intoadisagreement.Sheneversaidthereason,butheavysighsreplacedherusualeasysmile,andshe tooktolecturingmeaboutnew-agescienceandhowyoungergenerationswere“morallylost”.One night,shesaidthatjustbecauseIwasyoungandprivilegeddidn’tmeanIhadpoweroverotherpeople. Idon’tthinkthesewordsweremeantforme,atleastnotthe“privileged”part.Theystillstung.

Grandmadiedthedayaftersayingthattome Idon’trememberhowIrespondedtoher,or evenifIdidatall.IthinkIjustleft.

ItookthesecretaryjobunderSusanawhenIgraduatedcollege ItfeltlikeIwascollaborating withasortofenemysincesheandGrandmahadafallingout,butIreasonedthatmyGlobalHealth majorreasonablypointedtoclinicsthatusedmodernscienceandtechnologytopromotegender equality.SusanasaidIremindedherofmygrandmotherandthateventhoughtheydidn’tsee eye-to-eyeoneverything,shewouldrehireGrandmainaheartbeat,ifshecould.Susanaboughtme expensivescarvesandworksweatersformybirthdays,andshealwaystookafewminutesoutofher busydaystocatchupwithme.

Inreturnforherkindness,Iwasthebestsecretaryimaginable IcheckedSusana’sschedulelike itwouldrunawayifIdidn’t,andIwaspreparedtosmileandgreetallofthelast-minuteclientsshe tossedin Whetherwegotacouplethatlookedliketheyatemyrentforbreakfastorasinglewoman wearingarumpledwaitressingoutt,everyonegotthesamesmile.

SusanaensuredbusinesswasseamlesssincetheincidentthatMay no,June backwhenthe clinicstillsmelledlikeBiscotti-yellowpaint.Iknowthatpaint;itsstenchlodgeditselfintothebersof myclothes;itpracticallyemanatedfrommyskin IrememberIwasqueuingupambient vibe-enhancingmusicwhenaverymuchnotvibe-enhancingscreamricocheteddownthehall.Fora moment,itwasassilentaswhenIrstopentheblindsinthemorningbeforethephonestartsringing andthestreetsbustling.Thesilencewaseeting.Awomanburstoutofroomsix.Onefootwasina tatteredboot,theother,shoeless,givingheraninterruptedgaitdramatizedbythewayshehunched forwardlikeshehadbeenpunchedinthegut Hereyeszigzaggedaroundthereceptionarea,notseeing TheclosestthingIcancompareherwithwasazombie,howtheystumblearoundjusttostayontwo

feet.Shewasprobablyinherlatetwentiesandlinesinherskinrevealedhowhersmileformedwhenshe laughed Butshewasn’tlaughing

Crying,“What’swrongwithme?”shestumbledfromtheroomandintothewallonthe oppositesideofthehallway ForasecondIthoughtshewasgoingtothrowupwiththewayshe clutchedherlowerabdomen.Sheheavedasthoughtheairhadtoolittleoxygen.

Fromtheheavens(surround-sound),pianokeyscrescendoeddown;theambientmusicnally connected.Thewomangropedherwayalongthewall,usingittoholdherselfupasitseemedherlegs couldn’tdoitalone,thenshemadeherwaythroughthedoortothebusystreet.Allthatwasleftofher werefull-handsmudgesontheglass

ThemeasuredclopsofSusana’spatentleatherloafersturnedmyattentionbacktowardsroom

six Susanawasaging,butshecarriedherselfuprightsoherauburnhairfellinasleekcurtaindownher back,swayingwitheachstep.

Susanasaidsomethinginthatwayofhersthatmadeeverythingokay Somethinglike,“Oh, honey,I’msosorryyouhadtowitnessthat.”Herlightgrayeyessquintedinconcern.“Someclinical trialsubjectsdon’treactwelltotheanesthesiaweuse Formostithasasoothingafter-eect,butsome arenaturallyangry,anditampliestheirunrest.”Shesmoothedherlabcoat(asifawrinklecouldever getpasther)andshutherselfinroomsixfortherestoftheday.

Ineversawthewomanagain.Thepianomusicmadeiteasiertotellmyselfthewholemoment wasjustasceneinalm.

Sixoutoftentoday.Atleastfoodisregularnow.WhenGrandmalivedwithmeshemadesure wealwayshadsomethingtoeat,buteversinceshediedit’sbeenprettysporadicthatIhaveorganized meals.Forabit,Iputsomeeortintofood.IusedtogetcreativewiththefewingredientsIhad,andI wouldsetthetableandplaysoftjazz IpretendedIwasina5-starrestaurant Butthatdieddownwhen IhadtopickupmoreshiftstomakeupforthelossofGrandma'ssupplementaryincome,andnowI makedowithwhateverIcannd.It’snotreallyworthpretendingit’s5-starquality.

Sorry,I’llstopmeandering.

Icouldn’tshakethewomanwiththepianomusicfrommymind.Maybethat’swhythisnext interactionseemedmorethanacoincidence Ithadbeenanormal,pleasantdaytostart notasbusyas some,butthenIfoundthewomaninthebathroom.Theclinicbathroomswerecleanenoughtotakea napontheoor That’swhatIthoughtthatwomanwasdoingatrst:testingtheoor’scleanliness andgigglingbecauseitpassed.Imust’vebeeninafunnymood.Butonsecondlookshewasn’tgiggling. Shealsowasn’tjustcrying;hersilentsobswereshakingherbody,causingthedisconnectedtreadofher sneakertotapagainstthesole.WhenIrealizedshewasupset,Icroucheddownbesideher.

ThewomansaidshewasparticipatinginSusana’sclinicaltrial Iknewaboutthetrial;Susana wouldn’tstoptalkingabouthowwellitwasgoing.Inthetrial,Susanawaspayingbiologicalfemalesof ages18-28generoussumstotestdierentanesthetics.Theanestheticsweren’trequiredforeggand spermextraction,buttheymadetheprocessmorecomfortable.Susanaboastedtheconstant improvementsshemadetotheclinic.Thetrialsubjectscameinfortheirdoseonceamonthfor6 months Susanawouldfollowupwiththeminholographicvideomeetings,andtheyreceiveda generouspaymentattheendofthe6months.Thewomaninthebathroomwasatypicalsubject.She

ttheageandsexrequirements,buttherewasmorethatrelatedhertotheothersubjectsthanthese broaddistinctions Herclothesdidn’ttquiteright,shehaddeepcreasesinherforeheadandthe cornersofhermouth,andthecallusedchappedrednessofherhandsrevealedalifefamiliarwith physicallabor Ithoughtshemightbeexperiencingthetypeofperiodcrampsthatstealyourairandforce yourbodyintoanunmovingsickleshape.Shedidn’treactwhenIputmyhandonherarmandasked whatwasgoingon.Iwasn’tsurewhattodofromthere.SoIstartedtalkingaboutsomethingIthought mightmakehersmile.ItoldheraboutaconversationIoverheardonthebusthatmorningbetweenmy youngneighbors,AvivaandLou Theywerediscussingtheir“WhenIGrowUp”schoolproject Aviva wantedtobethePresidentoftheUnitedStates,butLousagelyadvisedhertoforgetaboutthatplan sinceshehadnoshotatbeingthePresident,historicallyspeaking AccordingtoLou,Avivawasfartoo typeA,andthepublicclearlypreferredtypeBpresidentswhodidn’tcomeacrossliketheold-school politicianswhovaluedpersonalimageovercongressionalproductivity Avivashotbackthatshecould disguiseherselfastypeBthengettooceandgetstudone,butLousaidthatwasthemosttypeA approachthey’deverheard,andthatAvivawouldhavetheirvote,butlikelynoothers

Thewoman’sshouldersrelaxedandthecornersofhermouthcurvedup.Shesaidshe’dalways wantedakid,andwhensheimaginedhowherchildwouldbe,shepicturedalittletypeAtoughielike Aviva.Thewomansaidshewasgoingtoriskthecomplicationsofhavingawomb-babyonceshegot herclinicaltrialmoney lab-babieswereoutsideherprice-range.Shejusthadtomakeitthroughtwo moreroundsofthetrial

Whateveranestheticsshewastesting,Ithought,shouldbebannedimmediately,andsheshould getherpaymentbeforecompletingtherounds Shecomplainedofdelirium,drowsiness,nausea,and numbnessinherlowerbodyinthedaysimmediatelyfollowingtheinjection,buttheworstcamewhen theseinitialeectsworeo Then,shesaidhervaginaburnedanditched,andthatshewouldnd bloodydischargeinherunderwearfortheweeksfollowingtheinjection.Theseeectsbegantofadeby thetimethenextroundofinjectionscamearound,thentheywouldstartover.Isuggestedwetalkto Susanaaboutstoppingthetrialofthisspecicanesthetic,butthewomansaidshe’dmentionedthe sameandSusanawassetoncompletingthe6rounds,afterwhichthewomanwouldbepaid.Shesaid sometimesshewantedtowalkawayfromthepainandthemoney,butthenshewouldberemindedof herfuturechild,andshepushedontothenextround.

Themoneywasmoreimportantnowthanitwasbeforethewomanbeganthetrialbecauseshe hadtoswitchfromherjobinstallingsolarpanelstothereducedincomeofbeingapay-by-the-ride driver Herbossof12yearshadtolethergofromSolarUnitedwhenherproductivitydeclinedafter beginningthetrial.Thewomansaidshesuddenlycouldn'tliftthepanelslikesheusedto,andshewas alwaysshortofbreath Ididn’tgettoaskwhatshemeantby:“Idon’tknowwhat’sgoingoninthis clinic,butwhenIwakeupaftergettingadoseoftheanesthetic,mybodyfeelslikemorehasgoneon thanIcaretoknow.”Theceilingspeakerscuthero,callingherbacktoroomsix.Sheheavedherself toherfeetfromheradjustedpositionwithherarmswrappedaroundherthinlegs,leaningagainstthe bathroomwall.Thewomanstaredintoherreectioninthemirror.“IfeellikeI’velostapartof myself,”shesaid Thensheleft Ineveraskedhername

Iwasconfused.Whatthewomanfromthebathroomdescribeddidn’tmakesenseforthetrial.

Clearlytheanestheticshewasgivenwasn’teective,sowhydidshehavetokeeptakingitwhenitlost herastablejobandincomeandmadeherfeellikeahalfhuman?Ibroughtupmyquestionswith Susana Surely,shewouldmakesenseofeverything ButmyconversationwithSusanaraisedmore questions.Sheexplainedhowitwasimperativethesubjectscompleteallsixroundsbecausewithoutall six,datafromtheroundstheydidcompletewouldhavetobethrownaway.Shesaidthesubjectswere helpingsocietyasawhole,thattheirsacriceswouldbenetwomeneverywhere.Withoutthese subjects,womenwouldstillbeforcedthroughpregnancyiftheywantedababythathadtheirDNA, andnon-heterosexualcouplescouldforgetabouthavingkidsifitweren’tforthesubjects Thisdidn’t makesensejustforanesthetics,andIwishedSusanawouldstopreferringtothewomenshewas tinkeringwithas“subjects”

Shemadeitclearshedidn’thavetimetokeepansweringmyquestions,soIdecidedtolook furtherintothetrialsonmyown Duringmylunchbreak,IloggedintoSusana’sproleonmy touchscreen.Herpasswordhadn’tchangedfromwhenIhadtologintoxabuglastspring (Bri11iantWomblessParenthood2096),soitdidn’tfeellikeIwasdoinganythingwrong UnsurewhatI waslookingfor,Istartedwiththeformswhereshedetailedherconsultationssosheknewwhatto discusswithclientswhentheynextcamein.IthoughtthatifIfoundanentryaboutatrialsubject,I couldunderstandwhyshecontinuedtestingfaultyanesthetics.Iscannedherlogs,seeingnothingI didn’talreadyknow.TheChungswerevacationinginQatarnextmonth,sotheirappointmentwould beviahologram;theBunkerswantedared-headedbaby,soSusanahadtoremovethebrunettegeneso itdidn’tovertakethegingergene;theGuerrerasdidn’twanttoknowthebiologicalsexoftheirbaby,so

Susanashouldrefertoitas“they.”Thiswasallfamiliartome.ButalthoughSusanasawatleastone clinicaltrialpatientperday,noneoftheirappointmentsappearedinthelog Isearchedsomemore I wasnearingtheendofmybreakwhenIfoundafoldertitled“TheEctolifeProject ClinicalTrial Subjects”linkedinadocumentcontainingadraftofadigitalmessageforthescientistsrunningthe otherbabyclinics.Idon’trememberthemessageexactly,itwasprettydenseandIwasinatimecrunch sinceclientsweredueinafewminutes.Itdescribedthelevelingofthewagegapandanincreasein non-malesoccupyingseniorworkpositionssincetheclinicsbegan.Itdescribedhowcouplesthatused theclinicsfeltjustasconnectedwiththeirbabyaswomb-babycouples,buttheyfeltmoreconnected withoneanothersincetheyhadthesameexperiencesintheembryo-developmentprocess,whichledto themhavingequalrolesinraisingthechild.Butthenitgotweird.Susana’smessagesaidscientistslike herselffelttheburdenofthetrialactivities,andthattheyshouldprioritizetheirmentalhealthbecause itisn’teasytomakethenecessarysacricestocontinuethebabylabs.Itsaidthecurrentmethodsused forTheEctolifeProjectweretemporary,butuntiltheclinicscouldgureouthowtoproduceviable uteriinwhichbabiescoulddevelop,takinguterifrom“clinicaltrial”subjectstofabricateviableuteri wasthebestoption Continuing,thetextsaiditdidthisinthemost“compassionate”optionby removinguterionesectionatatimetoallowsubjectstocontinuewiththeirlivesthenreceivea “ generous ”paymentattheend.Thiswaswhyitwasimperativethatsubjectscompletetheir6 installments;allpartsoftheuterusmustbefromasinglehostforthemtocometogetherinthe re-creationofuteriforthebabies.Iwasgettingtothemessage’sconclusionthatthescientistswere noblypavingthewayfora“brilliantandhappy”futurewhenthenextclientwalkedin Shewasasingle woman,24yearsold,wearingatoo-bigwinterjacketpatchedattheelbows.

Ididn’tstopher Ijustsatthereandletherenterroomsix ThenIletherexitontothebustling streetafewhourslater,thistimenoticingthewayherheadwobbledaroundonherneck,andhowher legslostthegracetheyhadcarryingherin Atalossforwords,Ipressedacoeeintoherhandsbefore sheleft.Staysafe. Ithinkyouknowwhathappenedfromthere.

Idon’tneedtotellherabouttheposter.Isawthegarishclinicaltrialposterthatnightandtoreit downoutofaneedtodosomething.Tothink,Iusedskillsfrommycollegemarketingpsychologyclassto chooseasimple,invitingfonttoenticewomenliketheonefromthebathroomtogiveuptheirhealthto monsterslikeSusana TothinkIstuckthesepostersinmyDistrict,somehowknowingthatmyneighbors whostruggledtofeedthemselvesyetgaveanythingextratheyhadtothosewhohadevenlesswereitstarget audience AllIdidtohelpmycommunityledtomekeepingtheneighborsIusedtoplayflashlighttag withfromthejoyfulandhealthylivestowhichourrevisedConstitutionsaystheyareentitled.Fuck. Thatnight,Itookmytouchscreenhometodigsomemore.Ineededtoknowexactlywhat Susanawasdoingtothewomenwhoenteredroomsix.Backintheclinicaltrialfolder,adiagramofthe uterustoldmehoweachofthesix“roundsofanesthesia”went:startbyremovingthefallopiantubes oneatatime,thentheovaries,thenthecervix,andnallytheuterus.Oneper“roundofanesthesia.” Theprocedureswerespreadouttolessenthepain,reducetherecoverytime,andmitigatethesenseof losstypicalfororgandonors.Comingacrossindividuallesforthesubjects,IscrolleduntilIsawthe

coverpictureofthewomanImetinthebathroom.NyaWade,28–deceased.Deceased.Withher hopesforchildren,forafuture!Accordingtotherecord,shediedthedayafterwetalkedinthe bathroom:asphyxiationfromtheoverdoseofopioidsSusanagaveher.

Nyawasn’ttheonlysubjecttodie Fromthestartofthetrials–coincidentallyjustafter GrandmaleftSusana’sside–57womendied.Buttherecordsdonotindicateanyattemptstoresolve whatcausedtheirdeaths.Instead,Susanaplowedon,gatheringmoresubjectsasherclientbase expanded. Ithrewup.Ididn’tknowwhattodo.Ihadtotellpeople Ihadtotelleveryone.IcriedandI threwupagain ThenIdialed911 InameasuredtoneIexplainedwhatthescientistswhoranbaby clinicsweredoing:howtheyexploiteddesperatewomen,stealingtheiruteriandcausing57humansto die Therewasapauseattheotherendoftheline Itriedagaintoexplainthesituation IsaidIwas staringattherecordsofthesevictimsaswespoke,thatIwasn’taconspiracytheorist.Andnally,after anotherpause,theoperatorsaid:“Pleasestaywhereyouare,wewillcometohelp”Mystomachdida ip.Ididn’tneedhelp.Susana’svictimsandthevictimsofalloftheotherscientistsweretheoneswho neededhelp Whywouldthehelpbecomingtome?Foratop-tieremergencymedicalsystem,the operatorseemedtobeaskingthewrongquestions.ThenIrealized thegovernmentandthepolice knew.Nowonderwhynobodylookedintothemysteriousopioid-relateddeathsof57youngwomen intheBaltimoreareainthepast15years.Butthepoliceknewmylocationandwereenroutetomy house,andIhadtospreadtheword.

IselectedasmanydocumentsasIcouldandtransferredthemtomymobiletouchscreen, leavingmytraceabletechathome.Ifthepoliceweresetonndingme,theywould,butIguredthis

wouldbuymesometime.Iranoutsidetothecul-de-sacwhereIusedtoplayashlighttagandwaitfor myelderlyneighbor’sgingerloaf Then,scoopingAviva’srustedanddiscoloredbikefromthe pavement,Ipedaled.I’veneverbeensofastorsocoordinated.It’sawonderIdidn’ttoppleothat littleclownbike,weavingacrosstheroadasIgathereddocumentsonmyholographictouchscreen suspendedintheairinfrontofme.Itypedthetransfercodetosendthedocumentstoallofthenews networksIknew.Thebitingwindworkedtomyfavorfortheonlytimeinmylife,propellingmystolen bikeforwardandsweepingmybrownhairtocreateafunnelaroundmyface.Ihit“send”. WhenIgottothechurchparkinglotIungAviva’sbiketothesidewalk.I’llgetheranewone afterthiswholemessissortedout ThefewtimesGrandmadraggedmetochurchwhenIwasyounger, Irememberwewouldbothgrabthethickdoorhandlesandpull“onthree”todragthemopen.But thatnight,Ididn’tneedacountofthreeorextrahelp,IungthosedoorsopenlikeIdiditforaliving Myraggedbreathsbouncedaroundthecavernousroom,givingtheimpressionthatJesus breathedfromthecross Itwasn’thardtondapriest,shestoodinfrontofthealtar,herheadtipped uptowardsamuralofarosy-cheeked,smilingwomanwhosupportedherroundbellywithboth hands.Shehadn’tmovedsinceIburstin.Churcheshadbeentherstandmostvocalinstitutionto opposebaby-labssincetheirbeginning.Theirdenouncementsof“unnatural”embryodevelopment hadn’tfaltered,andchurchesactuallygainedsupportfromotherswhoopposedgrowingbabies outsidethewomb.IknewIcouldndrefugethereuntilthepressbroughtdownthebaby labs-government/policeconspiracyandIcouldlivefreely.Icheckedthestatusonmydocument transfer:72%

“Hello,”Icalleddownthecenteraisle.Ididn’twanttostartlethepriestifshewasindeep prayerorsomething,butmypredicamentcouldn’twait Sheturned Hersmileremindedmeof Grandma.Ibegantogiveherarun-downofmysituation,butshepausedmewithahand.Ofcourse,I musthaveseemedmanictosomeonewhodidn’tknowthefullbackstory

SheinvitedmetothechurchbasementtochatoverStyrofoamcupsofmilkytea.Itappedmy footasshelledthewaterboilersohighIthoughtitwouldn’tboiluntiltomorrowwhilemusing abouthowshecouldnevermakeitthroughacartonofmilkwithoutitgoingbad.Itooktopacing.She nallymadeittotheshallowarmchairsheindicatedwasminewithoutspillingourto-the-brimcupsof teawithherwaveringhands IhadjustbeguntoexplainthesituationinasmeasuredatoneasIcould musterwhenmyholographictouchscreenwentblack.ThelasttimeIchecked,thetransferwas94% complete Ihadcodedmytouchscreentomakeitnearlyimpossibletohack,butIwaslockedout This hadneverhappenedbefore.Onlythegovernmentcouldhavegottenthroughmybarriersinaslittle timeasthehackerdid Thepriestleanedbackinherseatandsippedhertea ShesaidIwassafe,and thatpeoplewouldcometohelp.Theywerecomingtohelp.Suddenly,thepriest’sshakyhandswere level.Churchesprotedooftheiroppositiontothebabylabs.Theirpreviouslydyingmembership revivedandfundsbegantorollin.Sheknew.

Droppingmytea,Iranforthedoor.Butitwastoolate.ItopenedbeforeIcouldreachthe handleandIwasmetwithasuited-upsquadoftheNationalGuard.Thewomaninfrontshot somethingintomythighandtheworldwentblack.

Iawoketobrightlightsandbeeping.Tryingtorubtheblearinessfrommyeyes,Ifoundthatmy

wristswerelatchedontoahospitalbed,myanklesaswell Weightedwithinvisiblesand,myheadlolledto theleft,mufflingmyearagainstthetoo-squishypillowandwhitingoutmylefteye.IwonderifI’llever havetheluxuryofcomplainingaboutastilettosteppingonmyfoot Overadullthrobinmylower abdomen,IthoughtIheardadistantT.V.“Breakingnews.Babyclinicsexposedforstealinguterifrom youngfemales,causingdeathsnationwide.”

“Subject427,you’reawake.”

HannahCallentine ProfessorBaliey Afro-Futurism

2Dec2022

TheProphet

Intheending,Goddestroyedtheheavensandearth.Onthefirstday,thesinnerswerenot humbledbyHisdivinepunishment.Thesinner’sheartsremainedsickanddark.Soonthe secondday,Godsaid,“stripthedivisionawayfromthelightanddarkness,allowtheworldto reflectthesinner’shearts,”andthedarknessshallowedeveryspeckoflight.Onthethirdday, deathlysicknessrosefromitsgrave.Thesicknesspromisedunholypain,rippingthroughevery veinuntilone'sbloodwasblackened. Lifelessbodieswithbloodyblackeyespiledthestreets withdeafeningshrieksofsinnersrepentingfromtheirsins.Flashesoflightshotthroughthe darkness,pairedwiththeechoingsoundofgunshots.Godgracefullygavethesinner’saSavior: death.AndGodsawthatitwasgood.Therestillremainedthosefreeofsin,andtherefore,freeof sickness,butGodwantedtotesttheirfaith.So,onthefourthday,theanimalsweredeceasedthus contaminatingthefood.TheSinlesssufferedhorrendoushungerpainsyetremainedresilient.On thefifthday,Godtouchedtheearthleavingtrailsoffireinthehotclimates,andicestorms dominatedthecoldclimates.TheSinlessbeggedGodtoendtheirtrials,butangerovercameThe Lord.“Aretrialsnotatestofendurance?Sothen,goonandendure.”Onthesixthday,God poisonedthesoilofthefieldssothatthetreesmightnotbarefruit.AllbuttwoofTheSinless whoremainedlivingnolongertrustedGod’splan.Theychosethesaviorofdeath,andGod lookeddownuponthem.Ontheseventhday,Godsaid,“Lettherebedarkness.”Thusending God’swrath.Hesawwhathehaddonewasgood,soHerested. GodsawthetwolastofTheSinlessamongTheSinnersandshinedfavoruponthem.He sawthattheywereobedientandclaimedthemasHischildren.HerenamedthemanAdam,and theWomaneve.Theylivedinperfectharmonywitheachother,committedtocreatingasafe

haventhatcouldsustainhumanlife.Theyprayedovereachbladeofgrass,laboredendlesshours onsupportingthelifeofplants,andgrewfarmsofinsectsthatcouldeasilybeharvestedfor protein.Godblessedtheirlaborwiththegiftofason.

ThesonhadaperfectconnectiontoGod.AboycreatedintheidenticalimageofGod. HiseyesareagiftthatallowedhimtoseeGod’splan,hismouthagiftthatallowedhimtospeak God’swill,andhisearsagiftthatallowedhimtohearGod’swords.Theboy’sboneyfingers entangledthemselvesinprayer,andhislengthyneckpierceduptotheheavens.Hewasfree fromsin,soGodblessedhimfreefromsickness.Astheboygrewolderhegrewstronginhis convictions,remainingsinless.Theheavensfavoredtheman,andhewasappointedbydivine powertobeTheProphet.

OurdivineProphetwascalledtosaveTheSinnersthroughhisholyteachings. He preachedhope,thatthesaviorofdeathcouldbepracticedintwoways.Deathoflife,ordeathof thelifeyouwereliving.Throughgrace,TheSinnersrepentedandcommittedtoputtingtheirold livestodeathandfollowingTheProphet.TheForgivengavetheirmoney,time,bodies,andsouls toTheProphet.Forthosewhodidnotcommittofullrepentance,TheProphetandTheForgiven blessedthembygivingthemthesaviorofdeath.Slittingthewristsofthehard-hearted,and allowingthemtobatheinthethickwarmthoftheirownblood.TheForgivenrejoicewhileThe Sinnersscream,rejoiceatthepainintheirvoices,rejoiceastheybecomerenewed.TheProphet commandsyoutobringsalvationtoyourneighborsfortheyareyourbrothersandsisters.Are yousoselfishthatyouwouldallowthepeopleyoulovemosttoremaindamnedtotheirown hard-heartedness?

ToremainforgivenyoumustfollowthecommandsofTheProphet.Youmustlovethe LordyourGod.Youmustloveyourneighbor YoumustloveTheProphet.Youmustgive

yourselftoGod.YoumustgiveyourselftoTheProphet.YoumusthavefaithinTheProphet. YoumustneverquestionTheProphet’steachings,toquestionTheProphetistoquestionGod himself.Youmustacceptdiscipline,fordisciplineisagiftfromtheLordjustasaFathermight disciplinehischild,sowillTheProphetdisciplineyou. Thesearecommandswhisperedbytheall-knowingGod,preachedthroughthe all-hearingProphet.TobreakGod’scommandsistorejectGodhimself,wasnotTheDevilthe firsttorejectGod?ThereforeareyounobetterthanTheDevilhimself?Godhimselfwouldhave youdamnedtohell,screaminginagonyasSatan’sdogsslowlyripyourskinoff.Thetopsofthe demon’sclawsslowlypiercedintoyourcorneas.Damnedtosufferwithoutsalvationineternal despair TheProphetoffersgrace.TheProphetallowsthoseonceforgiventobeforgivenagain. Socomebeforgiven,comecryingontoTheProphetwithallthesinyoucarry.Menlay downthefruitofyourlaborandgiveallyouhavetoTheProphetsothathemayseetheworksof yourheart.SothathemayseeyourcommitmenttoGod.Youaloneareworthless,withthe forgivenessofTheProphetyouaremadenew.Womenlaydownthefruitofyourloinsandgive allyouhavetoTheProphetsothathemayseetheintimacyofyourheart.Sothathemaysee yourcommitmenttoGod.Youaloneareworthless,withtheforgivenessofTheProphetyouare madenew

OnceTheProphetfindspleasureinyouroffering,forgivenesswillbepouredontoyou, TheSinnerhasbecomeTheForgiven.Amen.GivethankstoTheProphet.Givethanksfor forgiveness.Iwassickandsinful,yetTheProphet stillforgaveme.Inmytimeofneed,The Prophetgavemesalvation.Iliftmyeyesuptothedarkness,wheredoIfindmyhelp?Myhelp comesfromTheProphet,thegiverofsalvation.Hewhoisholy,hewhoiscleanfromsickness, fromsin.HewhoIgivemysoul,mylabor,mybody.Liftyourvoiceupandsingpraises.

TheForgiven,heedthiswarning.Theearthcontinuestodecomposeaspunishmentfor thesinitendures.GodisstillangryasthecommandsofTheProphetarenotfollowedby everyone.Ourancestorssufferedbecauseofthehard-hearted,andnowwefollow Wemustnot losehopeintheworld.IcallonTheForgiven,togooutandspreadtheword.Gooutandmake churches,andcreatecommunitiesofthosefirminthefaith.Keepyourcommunitiesstraight,ifA Forgivenbecomesdistantinthefaith,renewhimslowlywithhisownblood.Allowthesintobe criedout,oncethecriesstop,havefaiththatthesinhaslefthisbody.Havefaiththatwhilehe mightappearlifeless,hissoulhasneverbeenmorelively.Rejoice.

Aftersalvationhasblessedyourpeople,throughfaithorthroughdeath,gooutandspread salvation.Thosewhooriginallywereblindedtothetruth,seekthemwithlove.Showthemthe ultimatetruth.SaveTheSinnersfortheyareunclean.TheProphet’sheartburdensforthe childrenofthesinful.Ensurethatsalvationisgrantedtothechildren.Slowlypushjaggedblades intotheirtinywrists.Slidethebladeuptotheirnecks,butdonotcuttheirthroats.Allowtheir screamstobeechoedsothatGodmightrejoiceattheexorcismofsin. Renewyourcommunities,andsavetheworldofsin.BlessTheSinnerswithsalvation. TheProphetwillseethatyourlaborisfruitful,andyouwillbefavoredbyGod.Goinpeacewith thepromisethatyouwillenterthebrightgatesofheaven.YouwillseeGodonthethronewith TheProphetinhisrighthand.Findpeaceinknowingthatifyoubelievethesepromises,and practicethesecommandsGodwilllookdownuponyouwithprideandsay,“Welldonegoodand faithfulservant.”

“Inthebeginning,isaninterruption,”Emilyusedtoalwaysquote.Shewouldsayitasa reminder,ameaning-makingreminder,attimeswhenmeaning-makingseemedneededtoher Idon’t knowifit’sforus,orreallymoreforher.ShetookaDisCritclassincollege,oneofhernalhumanities classesshedidforherCompScidegree.Youcantell.Onlysomeonewhotookauniversityclasswould thinkofthatquotewhenthinkingaboutwoundedness.Ibetpeoplestilluseit,stillthinkofit,like scholarsprobably Shereallyrevealsheragelikethat,whenshesaysit,aswellasherprivilege

Iwasthinkingaboutthisquotetoday,maybebecauseRiverandIareheadedtouniversityona train.Yeah university.Idon’tknow.It’sfuckingweird. It’sbeenalmostexactlytwomonthssince Emily’sgone,andmaybeit’sbecauseit’snallykickinginhowmuchImissher,ormaybeI’mfeeling herabsencemostrightnowbecauseIneedherthemost University sheknewweweregoinghere,we wouldtakeupontheoer,butIwishthatshecouldfuckingbehere.Ibetshewishesthattoo.When we ’reheadedtowardherterritory.

It’sfunnyIknow BecauseIusedtojokethatifsheeverleftforever,decidedtovagabond herselfinanattempttoleaveeverythingbehind,startanewlikeaheadlesswhitewanderer,Iwouldn’t missher.I’dtellherthatIwouldjustlivewithSaloni,andRiverwouldjoinus,becausehalfofthetime hewasalreadyatSaloni’sanyways.Soabsorbedhewaswithwriting.Itwouldactuallymakeiteasierfor him;hewouldn’thavetoshakeoneofusawakeatnightwhenheproducedsomemagnusopusorhad someliterarybreakthroughyouwouldn’tunderstandunlessyouwereawriter,andaskifhecouldgo overtoSaloni’s,whohewasconvincedwasalsoawake(tohiscredit,toourexacerbation,hewasalmost alwaysright),andpresentthemhisidea/story/whatever.

(Inthebeginning it’sallcomingbacktomenow Emily,usuallyoneofthebiggestenablers, staunchlyforbadehim.Shelikedhiswords,hisexcitement,buthecouldn’tdoitattheexpenseof otherpeople’sboundaries.Hecouldn’tdoanything,shemadeultraclear,attheexpenseofanyone ’ s boundariesever.Riverunderstoodquickly.Whichmeantthathestartedsneakingoutatnight, withoutwakingeitherofus FortunatelyforhimandunfortunatelyforEmily,Saloniwasabigger enablerthanshewas.IftheyhappenedtobeupwhenRiverapproachedtheirhouse,thenextmorning wewouldndhisbedempty,andatextfromSaloniineitherthefamilyphoneormyAIheadspace thattheyhadsenthimtoclass.IfRiverapproachedherhouseandshehappenedtobeasleep,thenext morningwewouldndhimdeadasleepinbed,asifnothinghadhappened;andweneverknewifhe triedgoingoutthatnightornot,unlessEmilynoticedasmalldierenceintheplacementofa house-key,hisshoesbesidehisbedratherthanthedoorbecauseheforgottotakethemothere,orhis sweatshirthewaswearingthathehadn’tbeenwhenhewenttobed.)

River’snightlyjourneys andSaloni’senablement madeEmilylivid Yearslater,Iwould cometounderstand,sheneverwantedtoimposeanypunitivemeasuresorreasonlessly-restrictive measuresonusbecauseshewascommittedtonotpassdownanygenerationaltrauma,carceral

practices.Butthis,thisasshewouldtelluslater,orreallyonlyme,becausesinceIturned15shestarted tellingmeeverythoughtshehasoroncehad(atleastwhatseemslikeit),waswhysheneverwanted, neversignedup,tobeamother

Shecouldn’tunderstandwhyRivercouldn’tsimplywaituntilmorningtotalktoSaloni.It didn’ttakeuntilEmilywashavingafullonmentalbreakdown,withRiverintheroom “Ididn’t spendfoursleeplessnightsrewiringyourfuckingbrainmachines andyouguysalmostdiedinthe process almostdied!becauseIdidn’tknowhowdecodetheAcademyfuckingbullshittheymadeyou brainchipsoutof Ididn’tbustmyfuckingassdoingthat.Andthenspenteverythinginmypocket. Andthen let’sjustsaybegthetrainconductor totakeyouguyshere,whereyoucanlive.Where youcanbesafe.Justforyoutostealmyhousekeys,andwanderoatnight…!JesusfuckingChrist…, River,God,please ” forthemtonallyunderstand

Theystoppedhavingnightlyexcursionsafterthat.Ithink,simultaneously,theyalsolearned thatnoteveryideahadtobeshown,toanaudience,toaperson.Theystartedkeepingthingsto themselves,perhapsduetohavingnooneavailabletoreadwhattheywroteatnight Orperhapsitwas adierentreasonthatalsostemmedfromwitnessingEmily’sbreakdownthatday

Butgod,thewayweusedtojoke.ThatIwouldn’tmissher,thatRiverwouldn’teither.Itwas alwaysajoke.Shenevertookoense.Ican’trememberatimewhereshewasn’t,everyhalfyearorso, remindingusthatsheneverwantedchildren,notevenadoptedones Thatshetookusinbecauseshe signeduptobearesponsivecommunitymember.Butneveramother.Imisshernow.Thismustbe howmissingamotherfeelslike.IwishIcouldtellherthis.

Destinywantedkids,Iknow;Idon’tknowhowIknowthis.PerhapsIlearneditinsome subtext,perhapsEmilyoncetoldmeexplicitlybutI’veforgotten;perhapsIlearneditinthejoyshe brought,hercompassiontowardus,heralwaysstandingonoursideduringarguments.

(Destiny she’sbeengoneforthreeyearsnow.It’slikeI’veforgottenshewaseverhere.Thisis thelongestbreakEmilyandDestinyhavebeenon.AndnowthatEmily’sgone,thersttimeshe’sleft villageforthislongsinceprobablyadecade whenwewereseven;thelasttimetheytookabreak;I rememberthosetwomonthswherewewerewithDestinybeforeEmilycameback(ironicallyalsofrom visitingherparents),beforeDestinythenleft thosetwomonthsweresomeofthebesttimesinmy memory,Ithink,becauseIrememberthatentireepisodeasjustajourney,aquestonbothmeand River’spart,totrytogetasclosetoDestinyaspossiblebeforeEmilycameback an“interruption”;to ourdailyroutine; whereinafterward,Destinywouldleave,inawaythatmusthaveseemeditwould beindenite,wemusthaveknownbackthen.Nothinghappened,inthosetwomonths;stilljust classes,housechores,babysittingerrandsforDestiny,whohadbeentakingshiftstoparent CommunityKidsduringherstay,asherfeltduty Itwasjustnicetohaveasecond,another,perhapsan imitationofareal,caregiver.)

OrmaybeDestinyneverwantedkids,justlikeEmily;shewasjustseamlessathidingit.

Inthebeginning,therewasaninterruption.Whenwefoundoutthatwewouldbetakinga train Iwasthinkingofthisquote.Inthebeginning,agirlandherbrothersetoutonajourney,anda wealthywomanpaystheirwayoutofit Inthebeginning,therewasmoney

It’sfunnytothink.BecauseIknowthis,technically,wasmybeginning.Butitfeelsforeign becauseIdon’trememberanyofit.

Thatremindsme.OfoneofmyearliestmemoriesIdoremember.Inthebeginning,Isaw River We’reactuallyabouttoarrivethere,rightnow

Riverisasleep.They’vebeenknockedouteversincetheysteppedfootonthetrain.I’vebeen debatingifIshouldwakethemup.Idon’tthinkIwill,theyseemsocozy.

2

It’snotevenarealmemory,butacraftedone;withthehelpofEmily’sstorytelling.Butone imageinhereistrue,andit’soneoftheearliestimagesIcanremember

Accordingtoher,Rivercriedwhenwefoundthem Itwasnearariver,justalittlebitsouth fromtheAcademy.Wedidn’tknowtheirname.Emilywastryingtoaskthem.Iftheyknewit,ifthey hadany.

Whenwereachedtheriver,theystoppedcrying Emilynoticed Thiswasbeforeweknewthey couldn’thear.Orperhaps perhapsthiswasthelastmomenttheydid.Unrealistic,butperhapsasmall momentofmiraclecarriedinour(Emily’s?)memory.Theywerepointingattheriver,mouthing soundsthathadnoshapeoflanguage.Forsomereason,Emilyunderstood,orperhapsshedidn’t.She puttheminthewater

“River,”shesaid namingit/them.

Riverbrokeintoagrin.Theyutteredanothersound,asoundthat,Emilyswears,ifyou stretchedit,italmostsoundedlike“river”withundevelopedspeechmuscles;thoughifyoudidn’t,it justagainsoundedaltogetherlanguageless

ThisisthepartIremember:River,half-waysubmergedintheriver,heldbyEmily’shandson theirback.MyrstdocumentationofRiver,thathasstayed.IbelievetheonlyreasonImyselfam certainthisimageisrealandnotspasmicAI-spawnisbecauseEmilytoldusthisstory.

Inmymentalarchives,theriveriswheretheywereborn Andso,inmymind,theriverisasite ofbirthanddeath.Abeginningandaforgetting.

3

Iamheadingintothepast.That’swhatitfeelslike.Thepastismydestination.TheAcademyis thepast.

Forthersttimeinawhile,eversinceI’vegottenonthistrain,there’sbeenpeaceandquiet.I supposeI’menjoyingit(?) It’sgivenmetimetothink Tosleep ToobserveRiver It’salsoeerie Iam leftwithnothingbutmyownreections.Asiteofhistoricaldistortions.

4.

Ikeepgettingthesevisions Ofauniversity,burnt-down Repeatedly Persistently Idon’tknow why.

WhatsignalistheAIconnectingto?Idon’tunderstandhowthisishappening.

IthinkmaybesomethingIdidn’taccountforwasthatmaybesomeoneonthistrainhastheir ownportable,wi-ecosystem.I’mnotgoingtostandupandwalkaroundandask.Butwhatthefuck aretheylookingat?Whyaretheyinterestedinburntdownuniversities?

Oftheeighthourtrainride (notcountingfordelays) theimagesstartedoccurring hour-ve.

Adisruption.Aconstantdisruption.It’shardtondwords.

It’spasthoursixnow.(Documentingthehoursnowtokeeptrack).I’vetriedtotakeashort napbutthenwokeup,withoutactuallygettinganysleep.

I’vetriedtologicmywayout/aroundtheimagesbuttheykeepcomingbackfeelinglike visions Likesomethingbeyondjustneural-networkstimulation,likesomethingrealandmadeof humanintuition,whichhashappenedalotbeforewithotherimagesbuttheynevermeananything. ButIcan’trefrainfromxatingontheseimages.SoI’mgoingtowriteaboutthem.

Apartofmehasagaping,sinkingfeelingoffear;fear;fear.I’vejusttakenmedicationtotryto preventmefromhavingapanicattack Whatifattheendofthiseighthourtrainride,allwendare theashesofauniversitywaitingforus?Apartofmybrainishot;Ican’ttellifit’smyAIoverheatingor justmybrain;

It’spasthoureight I’mwritingthistorecordeverything

SomethingelseEmilyusedtosaywas,“I’mtryingtogetusoutofcircuitsthatarekillingus.”It wasfromascholarnamedMimiKhúc.Youcanobviouslytell;becauseshedidn’tevenrealizethe secondmeaning literallythenon-metaphoricalmeaning untilIpointeditout:thereareliteral circuitsinsideourbrain Andshestoppedthemfromkillingus

It’sfunnybecausewhatEmilymeansbythequotewasthinkingabout‘circuits’metaphorically asincircuitsofmovement.Thescripts,orpatterns,shesaid,thatsomeonemovesin.Oracollective movesin

It’sfunnybecauserightfuckingnowwe’reheadingawayfromeverythingwe’veeverknown. Maybethat’swhyI’mthinkingofthisnow.MaybeI’mthinkingabouteverythingEmilyhaseversaid today,becauseintimeslikethese I’msureEmilywouldcallthissomesortof“interruption”;anew sortofbeginning,an“interruption”oftheoldwaysofbeing/whateverthefuck I’mjustlongingfor some,like,designated,overarching,all-encompassingcaregiverforall-encompassingneeds.

OrmaybeI’mthinkingofthisquotenow,becausemycircuitryjusttriedtokillmetoday. Righthereonthetrain.I’mmedicatednow;brain(ormaybebody)numbedinahappylulltoprevent mefromhavinganotherAI orperhapsbodyaswell meltdown

Irememberitfeelinglikere.Aforestre,insideofmybrain.Mybodyandmindfelt completelysplit.Itwasdisorienting.Itfeltcosmicallyunhuman.Iwasstuckinloops.IfeltlikeI couldn’tgetoutofthefuture Ofthatspecicfutureoftheimage Istartedsobbing,screaming Itfelt likemybodywasfailingme Myhumanbody,oforgansandeshandfunction,wouldgetsheared rightoofme.AndallIwouldbeleftwithissomecentralmachine.ThatdeepinsideallIam,orallI have,atmycoreisjustsomesortoftechno-blackbox.Thatwouldbeallthatwouldbeme.A disintegration,that’swhatitfeltlike Iwasdisintegratingonthetrainoor ButthenIcouldn’ttell,if itwasmymindorreallymybodyonre.Becauseitfeltlikemygutburning.Ormygutseizing.Maybe mybrain-AIwasactuallyinnocent;allitdidwaspresentonecleanimage;andthentheentireepisode thatjusthappenedwasentirelymybody’sdoing.

ThenIwasgasping,upwards,forair Forairthatwasn’tcoming LikeIwasdrowning,River saidlater.LikeIwastryingtostifleoutfire,Iwouldfuckingsay.

River,though,theysavedmylife.ThoseyearsofEmilytrainingusinthedrill,thatchanged yearbyyearwithsystemupgrades.Alltomakethedrillmoreuser-accessible.I’msittinghere,now, thinking aboutthosehoursinherbasementlab Hersnappingatus Usthrowingts Thefucking ghts,the‘strikes’meandRiverperformedtoavoidtheprocedure.Theonetimewehidinthefucking closet,forhours,inventingourTelepathy-textingGames™inthesilence Riverinventingnewemojis andsomesortofcodedlanguagewithMind-Drawformetodecode,meexperimentingwith text-to-speechfeaturestoseeiftheycouldpointoutdiscrepanciestheAImadebetweenthewordsthey wereseeinginMindandthewordsIwasactuallysaying,throughsheertaskofreadingmylips(in retrospectthiswasstupidofme;forsomereasonIwasconvincedRiverwouldbecomeasomesortof crazymasteratlip-readingandthiswouldbecomesomesortofsuperpoweroftheirs)

Emilybeingupset,Emilycryingattimes,Emilywhokeptstressinghowimportantsystem upgradesanddrill-teachingwas.Howshewassorryithadtotakesolong,howwehadtowithstand hoursofuncomfortableness,andtheextremeexhaustion,mental-and-spiritual-depressionafterwards.

Iamherenowthinkingofhowshetrainedustobeunalienable-partners.Aninextricablepackagetheothercouldnotlose,whengoinganywhereever.Shemadeuseachthemasterofthe other’smachinery;eachthemasterofhalfoftheother’sbody/mind Howthatwasherway,articially, ofmakingusphysiologicallyconnected.Makingussiblings.

SometimesitseemslikeapartofRiverisolderthanfteen.Hedidn’teveninchwhenIwas startedconvulsingonthetrainoor,likeadeer-bodyslicedopen.OrmaybeIimaginedthat.Maybehe didpanicIjustdidn’tsee/don’tremember MaybeIwasalreadyshuttingdown ButIremember in amomenthisngerswerearoundmyneck.‘STAYCALM’ashedthroughmyheadspace.Ibarelyfelt hisngers;thelastthingIsaw ‘thereyougo,bella’.BeforeIblackedout.

Riverputthedrugpatchonmyarmperprocedure.Itmusthavebeenanhourortwosince. BecauseIcanfeeltheeectswearingin Mybodyholdsnotraceofthepanicfromtwohoursago A numb,ahappylossoffeeling.

Circuitsthatarekillingus

Whatthefuckdoesthatmakeme,andRiver,andmy/ourdecision,ifthesecondwestepfoot outofhome,Ihaveameltdowninaplacethatdoesn’tevenhaveanyfuckingsignal?Whatdoesthat makeuswhenwe’reheadedtowardaplacemybrainisconvincedisacharredplotoffuckinglandwith nothingexceptrubbleandash?

Emilyalwayssaidthequoteastoremindusorprobablyjustherselfthatinre-writingthe scripts/patterns/circuitsorwhateverthefuck orrewiring,Emilywouldprobablyenjoythisterm more re-writing/rewiringthecircuits,tocarveoutnewpaths/scriptsthatsystematicallygenerate morehappinessandlife Ratherthanviolenceanddeath That’swhatshestoodby Sonow Idon’t know.Now whatthefuck?

Therewasadelay.It’snearlyhour-ninenow.Stillnodestinationinsight.Ialsohaven’tseenthe riveryet.ButIdon’tknowthegeography,soIdon’tknow.(MaybeImisseditduringmy meltdown/blacked-outaftermath.)

Maybeit’sbecauseofthedrugs ButIdon’tthinkso;theyworeohalfanhourago ButI’m seeingthisimageinnewwaysnow.Completelydierent,completelyseparated,fromthemeltdownI justhad.Here,letmestartover.Asifthisistherstentryabouttheimage.

WhenIseetheimage,Ifeelatypeofcalmness.Ithink,because,itisanimageoftheaftermath. Nottheuniversityburning Nosignofongoingdestruction:onlytheashesoftheonce-buildings

Somethingaboutthestillness thebarrenness,butagoodbarrenness likeadevoidmentof destruction,violence.Fire.Somethingaboutitsentrenched,unchangingexistence,asiteofwhat once-wasnowdeconstructedintoastablestate,givesmeasenseofdeeppeace Idon’tknowifthisiswrong.I’mjustcataloginghowIfeel theemotiontiedinherentlytothe image.Iftheimagewasofthebuildingsonre,itwouldbethecompleteopposite.That’satrigger. Buttheseblackened,stumpsofunusable,unfunctionalbrickandwoodandcement thesightof themfeelsthesameasadream Notthesleepingkind;thedreamingkindofdream:theconjured futureyourentirebodywants.