Memories

The second anniversary of the Thailand tsunami and the thoughts of the survivors.

            They place flowers on the graves. Some big some small some are more expensive or more extravagant. The flowers represent the people gathered at the graveyard. Each one comes from a different life a different place. Some people here are friends or acquaintances. Others are bosses or workers. Strangers mingle together with tears in their eyes as the ceremonies begin.

            Though every person here is different they don’t mind. They have all gathered for one purpose, one reason, to honor the dead, the lost, the missing. Orphans stand beside their parents graves, weeping as their new family’s stand above them. Widows and widowers gather near. All are silent except for the few that cry. Some scream from the pain or the memories that still haunt their nightmares. No one here is with out them, the nightmares that is. All of those gathered in the graveyard have experienced them. All of them remember the way the wave crashed into them. How it choked them made their bodies feel like fire. They all know what it feels like to be alone. Trapped, stranded. Rescued by strangers but never loved ones.

            The sky opens up and the rain falls around them as the very earth seems to morn the great loss. So many lives were ruined that December two years ago. So many lives were stolen. 169,752 pulse dead. 127,294 and more missing. 
            
             No matter what they do they will never be able to change those facts so tighter they gather and together they morn on a wet December afternoon.

Girl in the Field

He sees her sitting there in the field. Flowers and tall grass surround her, yet she looks sad so he stops and he stares. He knows her but doubts she knows him. She doesn’t notice him at the moment so he uses this time to inspect her face. She is sad and thoughtful. Her brows knit together as she sits and thinks. She holds her knees close to her chest and he notices the soft shaking of her shoulders in a silent cry.

He can’t help but wonder what is wrong. She was what you could call popular. Her features were perfect: long blond hair that she often wore in a hat, a slim figure, and a soft face. She was the captain of the cheer team and the mathletes. She played basketball and wrote for the school newspaper. She stared in the school play but hated talking in front of class. He knew that she had had many boyfriends and suitors.

Her friends were numerous but the ones that she held close could be counted on one hand. Her family was small, a younger sister, and her parents. Her father was a lawyer and her mom a chef. At least that is what his friend had told him. Unlike the majority of the friends he had, he wasn’t popular. But she was, so he couldn’t help wonder what was wrong.

He couldn’t ask her though because he was the shy one, the nerd, the boy no one noticed with a broken family and lost sibling. He turned to walk away from her and she turned, hearing him. Surprised she stared at him. When they made eye contact, her face softened and she smiled. Her puffy cheeks and red eyes were evidence of her crying but her smile was a real smile.

And in that moment he noticed her, the real her. He could tell from the look in her eyes that she knew that as well. He could also see something else, a soft glow, a joy and mixture of sadness that stated to him that she saw him, really saw him. Then suddenly he knew what was wrong and he miss understood her. He smiled back and turned away, understanding everything now. Even someone whose life seems perfect knows pain. The sound of his soft shoes crunching the autumn leaves faded into the distance. Her eyes never left his back.

x 

2E

I shiver as I stand out in the cold Colorado air, pulling my jacket closer to my body. Sighing, I feeling my breath form clouds in the air. It probably wasn’t the best idea to wear my jean shorts and short black V-neck t-shirt but at least I brought my jacket. South Carolina is warm anyway. I can hear my Dad and older brother behind me, checking in my bags and getting my flight arranged. My older sister is still in the car getting my purse ready for me while staying out of the cold. She hates it as much as I do.

“And don’t forget to ask for aspirin if you start getting a headache and...”

“Mother I know.” I say, a little exasperated. Sometimes my Mom still treats me like a kid she doesn’t seem to realize that I'm 19 now. For goodness sake, I'm a college freshman, at Harvard no less. 

“Sorry dear, you know how I get,” my Mom says, apologizing. I feel her hand on my cheek rubbing it softly. I sigh, smiling at her.

“I know Mom.” I say.

“I'm just worried. You haven’t flown alone in a while.” My Mom pulls a piece of my black hair behind my ear. I shiver again, not because of the touch. At that moment I can feel a snowflake hit my nose. I hate the snow with a burning passion. Ever since I got in the accident two years ago that rendered me blind, I have hated it. I hate it almost as much as I hate driving, which is the reason I am flying to South Carolina this year instead of driving. It’s a family tradition to drive down to Hilton Head, South Carolina, to see the family and spend time on the beach. It’s not like we couldn’t afford to fly. In fact, we could probably afford to take a private jet, but it’s a tradition and my family is big on traditions.

“So squirt you ready to go?” my Dad asks from behind me and I feel his hand ruffle my hair.

“Yep,” I reply, turning in his general direction and smiling. My Dad is six-three with arms like tree trunks. He has the same black hair as me and medium size nose. Once upon a time, when my eyes had color, they were the same blue as my fathers. Now they are an off gray or so I'm told.

“Watch out for those boys in South Carolina till I get there, ok?” says my 22 year old brother, Devin. Before I have time to dodge the attack, I feel his arm around my neck and his hand digs into the top of my head giving me a soft nooky. Devin is like my Dad, tall and strong. The thing about Devin is once I'm locked in his sleeper hold there is no way out.

“Stop that! I just did her hair.” says my sister, Christine, as she gets out from the car. I can picture Devin's devious smile as he looks up at her, not letting me go.

“Come on princess, you know Catharine doesn’t care about her looks like some people.” The teasing tone in his voice is obvious. I hear Christine give an annoyed sigh and walk toward me. Her stiletto heels click on the wet concrete of the sidewalk. Christine is 25. She has long brown hair that ends at her mid back. At five-eight, two inches taller than me, she doesn’t need heals but insists on wearing them anyway. Christine is always well groomed. Just last week she was ranked number three in the top ten most fashionable girls of her age or something like that. Christine is the only reason I know that every day I go out of the house looking at least somewhat presentable.

“Devin Michel Hernandez let her go now,” my sister says, her voice icy. My brother lets go immediately. Whenever my sister pulls out full names you know she means business. Christine might look small and weak but she is a black belt in karate and she could give even my brother a run for his money.

“And please stop calling me Catharine,” I say, trying to glare at him. I hear Devin laugh. He knows better than anyone that I don’t like that name it’s too… proper. I prefer to go by Cat or Cate.

“All right you two, settle down,” my Mom says and I feel her hand on my shoulder. I turn to look in her general direction.

“Now don’t forget that Aunt Marry will meet you at the gate. Here is your ticket and Dad will take you to meet your escort. We will be at the house in about two to three days’ time. Please try to stay out of trouble.” my Mom hands me my ticket and I feel along the side. Flight 805 to Nashville Gate 42 Concourse C.

“I’ll try Mom,” I say and I hear her sigh.

“Be safe,” she says pulling me into a hug. I hug her back then break away. Devin comes up and hugs me from behind.

“I was serious about the boys,” he says and I laugh at him. I feel a strap drape over my shoulder and two hands turn me around.

“Now be careful with it, it’s Prada,” Christine says and hugs me.

“Will do,” I reply. Another hand rests on my right shoulder and I turn to my Dad.

“Let’s go he says.” I nod and allow him to take my hand leading me inside the airport. The moment the sliding doors open, it takes all of my will power not to rip my hand from his grasp and put them to my ears. The noise is deafening. To any normal person I'm sure that it is just loud but to me it sounds like a jet engine. I wince in pain but continue to follow my Dad. 

We pass by a large group of people, teenagers from the sound of it, then stop. I hear a door open and follow my Dad. It closes behind me and immediately the noise stops. I sigh in contentment and continue down the hall. Our footsteps echo through the hall, telling me that it is narrow, probably big enough for three or so people. The floor is lined with tile and the walls are made of cement. I want to say that the common color is probably white, but obviously I really can’t tell. Another door opens and I hear a chair push back.

“Hello! My name is Agent Cortez, I will be escorting you to your flight.” I stick my hand out to him and try to smile hiding the annoyance I feel. Of course my Dad would hire an agent to escort me. My family is famous for more than one reason. First, there is the money factor, then there is the fact that my Mom is a world renounced chef, my Dad is one of the top lawyers in the nation, my sister is a famous super model and my brother is a football player for CU and in the running for the Heisman. Finally, there is the fact that I, their blind daughter, am one of the world’s best blind tennis players and a prodigy chemist major. Our whole family is in the news at least one practically every week.

“Hello agent Cortez, I'm Catharine but you can call me Cat,” I say, shaking his hand.

“Alright, Cat please allow me to check your bag and person then we will be on our way.” I nod and hand the agent my bag. As he goes through it, being careful not to moving any of the objects, I turn to my Dad.

“An agent Dad, really!” I say, annoyed at him.

“Don’t give me that look. I just want you to be safe,” he says, brushing his thumb along my cheek. I pinch my nose in exasperation and nod.

“I know.” my Dad pulls me into a hug then backs away.

“I’ll see you in Hilton head. Please listen to agent Cortez.”

“I will,” I say. I hear the door open and close and turn back to the agent.

“Alright Miss Cat, I'm going to run a metal detector along your body, don’t be alarmed.” I nod in response and put my arms out. The agent scans me quickly. “Your clean, no surprise. Now please fallow me.” I allow the agent to grab my hand and pass me a hat which I put on and tuck my hair into. He leads me out into the noisy airport again. We load on to a cart and the agent drives me to the gate. We arrive just as I hear the attendant announce.

“Flight 805 to Nashville, now boarding. All military and handicapped personnel board now.” The agent helps me off the cart.

“You must be Miss Catherine. Allow me to take you on to the plane.” says a way to preppy voice in front of me. I stick out my right hand and let the flight attendant take it. She grabs my hand gently as if I'm a china doll that she's afraid to break. I sigh in frustration and follow her. I hate when people treat me like this, I'm blind not broken or mentally slow. I hear people talking around me as I am lead to the gate and give the attendant there my ticket. He scans it and I'm lead down the ramp to the plane.

“Here is your seat, please make yourself comfortable and don’t be afraid to ask for anything,” she says as she helps me sit down on my chair. When I hear her leave I finally relax and take a deep breath. I sink into the soft cushioned chair of first class and cherish the few minutes of quiet I have before they begin to board the plane. The sound of rollers on the ramp hits my ear minutes later and I ignore it as the first class passengers begin to board.

“Excuse me,” says a light voice and I turn my head in the direction of it smiling.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Could you move your legs? I need to get to my seat,” she states. I nod and pull my legs up, allowing her room to get to her seat. She brushes past me and I hear her settle down on her chair. The rest of the passengers load the plain. About half way through something hard hits my shoulder. I turn to the source of the bump waiting for an apology but get none. I sigh in annoyance and choose to ignore it. I could tell by the material that hit me it was a brief case and I know from experience that business men are often into much of a rush to notice things around them. Finally, all the shuffling stops and I hear the airplane door close.

“Miss, here is a safety pamphlet for you,” says that cheery voice again right next to my ear and I jump slightly in surprise. I feel the cold hard plastic of the paper in my hand. I force a smile on my face.

“Thank you,” I say threw gritted teeth. The attendant leaves and I zone out for the next few minutes, not even reading the pamphlet in my hand. If there is ever going to be a problem I won’t be able to do anything about it and either will be left here or someone will come get me. The attendant comes back again to ask about drinks and food. I tell her what I want but don’t hear her leave

“Is that all you will need, Miss? Do you want a blanket or pillow? We can get you anything,” she says putting a hand on my shoulder. I try not to yell at the lady as I hiss through my teeth.

“I'm fine.” The attendant leaves with that and I sigh in exasperation.

“Man, those guys can get so annoying.” I turn to the girl next to me, nodding.

“They act like I'm a baby. I mean for goodness sake I'm 19.” I say rubbing the bridge of my nose in frustration.

“Yea seriously, I thought they pestered me, but it’s worse for you. My name’s Noel, by the way.”

“Catherine, but please call me Cat.” I reply with a smile.

“So, where are you headed?” asks Noel.

“South Carolina I have a two hour layover in Nashville.” I reply.

“I'm going to Orlando.”

“What for?”

“I’m going home to see my family for Christmas.” I could hear the contempt in her voice.

“Oh nice. I'm going to meet my family. We go to S.C. every year,” I reply, switching the subject, trying not to pry into any further.

“Sounds like a serious party.” Noel jokes.

 I laugh. “So is this your first time in first class?”

 “No,” Noel replies, trying to keep the guilt out of her voice but I hear it. I know she is probably worried that she sounds like a snob. “My family always flies first class, even though they know I prefer coach.”

“Cool.” I say as I reach into my bag and grab my iPod and Of Mice and Men book. Noel gets the hint and I hear her turn away from me. I pop in my headphones and turn on the music, opening my book to my next page. As I get lost in the book my mind wanders. I can’t help but reminisce like I always do when heading to S.C. it’s one of the few places 

I can still picture perfectly. It’s a place untouched by time and the changes I have gone through. I try not to let a tear slip from my eyes as I think about all the things that have changed in the last two years. Before I was handicapped, I had so many dreams. I was the captain of the basketball and tennis teams, one of the more “popular” people and I was an aspiring photographer. What hurt the most about losing my sight was the fact that I had to give up my dream of photography.

The sound of laughter fills the car as Jack finishes his joke.

“Come on Jack, he didn't say that,” Molly says, whipping the tears from her eyes.

“No, I'm serious, it was so creepy. I don’t know what is wrong with Mr. Main but not all his cogs are turning,” says Jack, smiling brightly.

“You should have heard what he said to me the other day.” I say from the back seat. Jack turns back to me, raising an eyebrow in question.

“What did he say?” says Mat, grabbing my hand in a protective manor. I turn to smile at him.

“It’s a secret.” I say, winking at him. Mat’s smile brightens and he shoves me lightly. I turn to the window and stop. “Hey look it’s snowing again,” I say, brightly watching the snow fall. I love snow so much.  I hear Mat laugh and I can see Jack rolling his eyes at me.

“You and your snow,” says Molly amusingly.

“Isn’t it the best?” I say, ignoring the teasing in her voice.

“Of course it is,” says Mat, grabbing my hands. I smile up at him. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jack reach for Molly’s hand and she turns to smile at him. Suddenly the car jerks, sending us flying to the side. The world is a blur of screaming and falling. I feel my arms snap as it makes contact with Mats hard chest. Things begin to fly around and the glass next to me shatters. I feel it hit my face and cry out at the sudden pain in my neck. I close my eyes, quickly praying for it be over. pain floods me as something hits hard in my right eye. Finally, the car stops and the air is deathly silent. Groaning, I push myself off of the floor and open my eyes, feeling around.  For some reason it’s really dark and I can’t see a thing. I feel the familiar carpet of the car below me and shove off the rest of my seat belt that wraps around my waist. The top has been completely shredded up. My body fights me as I try to move, feeling for Mat, Jack, or Molly.

“Oh my god, are you all right?” I hear someone, a girl I think, ask and I turn to the sound.

“Help us please.” I say, my voice coming out in a hoarse whisper.

“I'm calling the police.” says a boy’s voice. In a matter of minutes, sirens fill the air. I continue to crawl along the car to where I know Mat should be. Finally, I feel skin beneath my fingers and I fallow it, realizing its Mat’s arm.

“Hey Mat are you ok?” I ask pulling at it lightly. He doesn’t respond and I begin to panic. “Mat, Mat what's wrong? Wake up!” I yell at him, shaking him, as he continues to not respond.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” a male voice calls in.

“Help please! Help, Mat’s not moving!” I yell back.

“Alright, we are coming in. Please don’t move, we will be there in a minute,” replies the voice. I hear the screaming sound of metal being ripped back. I feel hands come around me and I turn, expecting to see a face but my world remains dark.

“I got you,” says a voice and I feel myself being lifted.

“Please sir, help him, you need to help him!” I say hysterically.

“Were on it! We will get your friends out soon,” he replies and I nod.

“Hey, is it night time already?” I ask him as I feel him walk along the ground. The sound of cars and sirens fills the air. I feel the man shift beneath me and I think he is looking at me.

“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice confused.

“Well, it’s so dark.” I reply. “I was wondering if the sun had already set.”

“No mama, it’s only five o’clock.” replies the man and I hear the worry in his voice. He sets me down on a chair. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asks.

“I can’t tell it’s too dark.” I say worried.

“No, it’s not. The sun is still out and it’s light. I can see you as easy as the nose on my face.” he says and I stop. No, it couldn’t be. I grab for the man, trying to find his shirt.

“Please.” I beg. “Tell me it’s not true.” I say tears streaming down my face. I hear the man sigh.

“I need you to remain calm as we check your vitals. You broke your arm and we think you have fractured a rib or two. The adrenaline is still in your blood so you don’t feel anything now but moving could hurt you more,” the man says and my world falls apart. I still numbly as the ETM’s cater to my needs. A helicopter comes to take Jack and Molly to the hospital. Mat is dead.

I rub away the tears in my eyes as the memory comes back to me. My life changed so much and I couldn't do anything to stop it. Apparently one of the glass shards cut off some nerve for my eyes. And if it hadn't, well I already lost my right eye. It took me months to get used to being sightless but eventually it happened and life went on. At first I was handicapped then I joined the blind athletes association and my life started to return to normal. My only regret has been my major. Now I'm a chemist but like I said I had always wanted to be a photographer.

“Ma'am the plane is about to land,” says that shrill voice in my ear and I turn to her, confused. I reach out my hand and feel the tray in front of me, still holding untouched food and a drink. Oh well, guess I'll save to food for later. The attendant helps me put my chair in the upright position and takes my food, putting it in a bag and giving it to me. The plane lands in a matter of minutes and the attendant is at my arm again. She helps me up and I turn to grab my bag from beneath the chair.

“Well see you around.” I say to Noel and leave following the attendant out. She leads me to another agent named Mark, who then leads me to another cart that will take me to another gate, where I will have to wait to finally get where I'm going. To the place where my memories are not scared by my past.

Black

He wears black. All the time. All black all the time. Now for most people this would be a symbol for sadness, and item that could label him emo or the like but for him it was simply a color.

“It goes with everything,” he would say and people agree. The thing about him you see was he was much too happy, too energetic, too involved in life to put under such a label or any for that matter. Yet for the older generation that saw him, he was a concern.

“He will blow up the church,” they would say. But everyone knew better. It was just him and that color is what made him, him.

The Replica

Am I a murderer? He watched a comatose Replica of himself through the thick industrial glass. No. If anything it’s suicide.

He was going to die soon. Ailed with a disease unsolved by science. The Replica was to be free of this burden. It was him in every other regard, ready to continue his research on his passing, to look after his daughter Lily.

Twenty-six times he had failed, each iteration moving closer towards perfection. Maybe this one will speak. What will I tell myself? He fiddled nervously with the control panel activating the machines that would wake the limp form on the other side of the pane.

It was an uncanny experience watching his own eyes open for the first time. The confusion swirling in them as they took in the sterile white room. The Replica went to raise its arm towards him only to be stopped short by the restraints. Confusion began to give way to fear. It looked directly into his eyes, uncertain.

He tapped the intercom. “Do you know who you are? Can you speak?” 

It opened its mouth making a gurgling sound, thick phlegm running down its chin onto the surgical gown. It finally managed to suck in a breath. On the exhale, in a meek, rasping voice it said two words. 

“kill me.” 

It sucked in another breath laboriously, fear now evident in its face. “let me die. please.” 

Blood began to seep from its left nostril flowing slow at first, but gaining speed as it traced a path down its chin mixing with the clear residue. It was a pitiful sight to behold. I had hoped that this would be the one. It can even speak. He was torn away from his thoughts by the Replicas growing volume. 

“kill me. Kill Me. KILL ME.” It screamed tearing its fragile vocal cords.

It was going manic straining against the harnesses, obviously experiencing pain. The stream of blood now a river mixed with an unsavory gray. Something had once again gone wrong.

He decided to grant its request, a look of deep regret flashing across his features as gas shrouded the dismal view.

Twenty-seven.

Twenty-seven suicides.

+++++++

He opened his eyes. 

“Do you know who you are? Can you speak?” The questions reverberated through the colorless room.

At last, success. He tilted his head to the side to cough up the nutrient fluid that coated his trachea. Better say something before I gas myself.

“We’ve done it,” he exclaimed, as loud as his tender throat would allow.

He was filled with relief, he would be able to watch Lily grow up and she wouldn’t have to know the pain of losing a loved one.

He knew months of testing would follow… his Precursor would demand it. He certainly didn’t mind though, he also wanted to make sure he was complete.

Throughout the analysis that followed it amazed him how normal he felt. Aside from slight muscular weakness and a bit of light sensitivity it seemed as if he had just woken up from a long nap suddenly cured of his disease. It quickly became apparent that he retained all of his old memories and had the exact same personality as his precursor. No matter the complexity of the question, him and his precursor gave identical answers using identical body language. 

As testing progressed it became clear that as his emotional disposition improved his precursors rapidly declined. This was to be expected though, the precursor was no longer necessary and tomorrow was the day he would take his place at home. I can’t wait to see Lil’s smiling face…

+++++++

He watched the screen, horrified and fascinated as the Replica entered his house. He half hoped that Lily would recognize it as an imposter. He would get to spend at least a bit more time with her then. If this test of integration was successful it would be the last nail for the coffin of his usefulness and worse than that he would never be able to see his daughter again. It was more painful than he could have possibly imagined to watch himself slowing being replaced by something he himself had chosen to breath life into.

The Replica was now in the kitchen fixing up Lily’s favorite, PB&J. It toasted the bread and spread on the peanut butter and jelly in a 2 to1 ratio before cutting off the crust and slicing the sandwich in half. It was like watching a tape, he had to keep reminding himself he was seeing a Replica and this wasn’t just him from the past.

There she was, his angel, skipping into the room. A tomboy if there every was one, her bobbed hair stuck out at all the wrong angles blown into disarray, knees and elbow were covered in mud and scrapes. She was the scrappiest little 9 year old he had ever known. It broke his heart watching her hug the Replica warmly as it tousled her hair handing her the sandwich. It felt as though he had betrayed her given her something fake in his stead. He knew it was irrational, the Replica was him in every sense, that was why he had created it, but he had never counted on the pain of being replaced.

Over the next few weeks he silently rooted against his creation, but it passed every test with flying colors and Lily was none the wiser to its presence in her life. It had even begun to continue his experiments where he had left off, trying to find cheaper and more efficient ways to produce replicas. Replicas making replicas… it seemed so wrong now. 

If no tests were failed in the next three months, it would spell the end for him, it would be a job well done, the culmination of a lifetime of work. He dreaded every second of its success.

+++++++

Looking at the remote in his hand he knew what had to be done. For the sake of his work, for the sake of his daughter.

It had always been part of the plan, they had warned him what success would entail. Now he sat alone in the room where so many of his creations had met their end. One quick flick of thumb and he would join them, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

No matter how many times they told him he was no longer necessary, no matter how many times he told himself, he couldn’t come to really believe it. He had done so much up to this point. He had carried the Replica project on his shoulders and death was the sour reward that he had given such little thought to.

He looked up and found the Replica gazing at him through the glass, a look of disappointment and pity written across its features. Maybe I can work this all out, maybe I can see Lil again. I’ll explain everything and we can send the Replica away. I have at least another year before the disease takes hold. I’ll just have to— He stared on in shock as the Replica pressed the button. The world rapidly faded to black.

The Gardener

A flower unfurled, spread wide for the sun

Freely giving the gift of its beauty to any and all

Plucked so suddenly from the field

How many will never see its gentle way

Be comforted by its sweet scent 

Feel the caress of its soft petals

I mourn the Gardener’s bouquet 

His many blossoms so carefully cultivated

The Writers

Clank stomp clank stomp

The continuous rhythm of the Under Pod beat in her ears as she lay in her bed. Staring at the ceiling like she did every night, she thought of home. Five years. Five years she had been here, away from it all. She had one more year till she was free. She would be home, with the sky above her and the earth below. Even though she longed for home she couldn't help but feel the trepidation. She had heard the stories of what happens after The Pod and she had seen some first hand. After all, like most people here, her family was first generation Podies. All the teens knew what happened when you turned 18. You finally became an adult and began your new life. You would leave The Pod and go fulfill your mission.

The Pod was training, they say. Training for what you will find above. When you leave The Pod you will be “equipped” for your life above. If you were a Reader, like she was, your eyes would be reconstructed. If you were a Runner, your legs would be implanted. If you were a Digger, your body would become new. Leaving The Pod meant changing yourself. A new step, a new you, the posters said.

One of the things she feared most about leaving was the implant. She had heard rumors of the pain she would feel but that wasn't what she was worried about. When she really thought about it, the pain was the least of her concerns. What she worried about was the other rumors, the ones that traveled in the deepest part of The Pod. The ones that no one would speak out loud in the light but were shared through whispers in dark times when people slept. These rumors were worse than any other. Failure they said, failure is not an option. There are those that go into the reconstruction and never come out.

Every person in The Pod was required to go through a series of tests before they could pass to the next world. No one knew what these tests were but they knew that failing them was not an option. She had heard once from her bunk neighbor #409, that they tested for writers. Writers, the very word was a forbidden one, and after hearing #409 say it, she immediately retreated to her bed and pretended to sleep. Writer was an old word, one that very few people knew the meaning of now. But she knew it. Her grandfather had been a writer and her father had as well before they had equipped him for reading. She could remember stories that her father used to tell her at night about writers. He said they weaved stories, stories about things new and old, things real and unreal. They were powerful.

Writers could change people’s views; they could make new worlds with the flick of their fingers and cause the downfall of nations with a bat of their eyes. Her father used to tell her stories, ones he had written of before they were banned. She didn't remember all of them but there were bits and pieces. Things about knights and wars and revolution. The government had deemed writers dangerous and gotten rid of them.

During the first Reconstruction and Equipment crusade, they had wiped them out. No one could train to be a writer, even if you paid. Many people often wondered what the Readers read if no one wrote for them. The answer was a lot, where it came from, no one bothered to ask. Official documents, historical papers, declarations and decrees, all these things the Readers read and all these things they understand. Readers hold an honored position and a difficult one. Readers can also be Speakers because they have to tell other people about what they read. No one else can read, so Readers have to dictate everything.

Secretly, she had always wanted to be a writer. She knew they were the ones that put the words on the pages she read. In private, she had tried to copy those words and shapes. Her writing never seemed to look as good as the ones she read and it was never quite right but she did it anyway. She wrote stories of her own, about her experiences and places she imagined. These works were the things she locked up deep inside. They were her secret and her deadly sin. That was why she was worried about the tests for her equipping. Her sin, if found, would be her downfall. A shrill noise broke through the rhythm in the background of her mind and woke her from her thoughts. It was time to work. She dragged herself from the bed and plopped down onto the floor.

“Watch it,” her bunkmate #556 said as she barely missed her head. “You’re not some freaking Killer you know.” Killers, now that was a job. They were even rarer and more revered than Readers. They trained day and night, harder than the Runners and Throwers and Players. Their job was a shady one and not many people knew what they did but there was one thing everyone knew. Killers were scary. They were as graceful as cats and as quiet as mice. They could take out a person in under a second.

She dragged herself along the room, grabbing her grey sweatpants and baggy worn t-shirt. She followed the crowd towards the showers. It was always the same day and night; nothing ever changed. As the group passed by sector 99, she lingered behind. Sector 99 was where the Killers trained. It was no secret that she had always wanted to be a Killer as well. This was a declaration she could and would often proclaim to the world. Next to a Writer, she saw it as one of the best jobs. She wasn't alone in this thought. Many people longed to be a Killer and they treated those who were with great respect. As she passed 99, she watched the trainees from afar, admiring their grace and strength. In reality, she never wanted to kill anyone but she did want to be a Killer. Killers had a different attitude than anyone in The Pod. There was something about the way they walked and talked that suggested that they knew more and had seen more than anyone else, even the Readers. She noticed she was lagging behind the group and with a sigh, turned to join the crowd again.

It was then she heard it. A giant crash emanated from 99. She turned and watched in awe as a door fell down, dust and debris flying in its wake. From behind the door and dust rushed a boy. From the look of him, he was no older than her. His body was well-built, like any other Killer, and his hair was a light blond, lighter than any blond she had ever seen. She didn't know what it was but there was something different about the boy. He seemed brighter than the others. His very presence seemed to bring light to The Pod. So much so that she didn't notice how dark it had been until she saw him.

            The boy looked around the clearing, his eyes blazing. They searched the crowd and seemed to stop when he spotted her. A commotion could be heard from within the building behind him and the boy turned to look back. The crowd had stopped now, their daily routine interrupted by the strange events. In one swift movement that almost seemed like a blur, the boy was running towards the crowd, towards her. The people around her screeched and darted around but she didn't move. The boy drew closer and in seconds he was on her. She felt something brush against her hand and caught three words whispered in her ear, sending shivers down her spine before he was forcefully dragged away by The Patrol.

"Keep this safe." The words rang in her ears as she stood in a daze watching him as he was taken away by The Patrol. It wasn't until they had dragged him back into the building unconscious and tied and The Patrol was ushering the crowd on their way that she registered the feeling of the paper in her hand. She had always been a rule follower. She knew she had never disobeyed other than her writing but for some reason when The Patrol passed by, she shoved the paper into her pants and continued following the crowd. She couldn't take a shower; she knew that. Once she stripped, the paper would be found and she would be punished. She had mere minutes to come up with an excuse. By the time she arrived at the wash house, she had her escape planned.

"Move along," ordered the gruff voice of a Patrol as he stood above them, taking the normal spot of the soft-spoken women that usually guarded the wash house. Relief flooded her when she saw him. Her old plan was gone and a new one formed. She stopped at the door and veered right instead of left. Right before she passed through the doors, a calloused hand caught her arm.

"Where do you think you are going?" The Patrol demanded, glaring down at her.

"Sir?" she asked him, playing coy.

"The wash house and showers are through that door," the man said. She faked an embarrassed expression looking down at her feet.

"I know sir, but I am not allowed in the wash-house at this time," she replied.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. Keeping up her act, she pointed to the sign above the door. The man looked up, seeing the sign for the first time, she could see the blush on his face. "Oh carry on," he said, letting her go. She smiled to herself as she passed through the door. This section of the wash-house was made especially for those who were experiencing their monthly cycle. The man was so flustered that she knew he wouldn't check to see if she was even supposed to be there. Since it was required that they time in, there was a chance she would get in trouble. luckily she was the only one in the room for now. She stripped quickly, hiding the paper in her clean clothes.

When she was done and dressed, she joined the crowd exiting the wash-house, heading off to work. The crowd thinned as she headed to sector 100 and soon it was just her and the ten other Readers. She knew some of them well and would even under torture, call them friends. One of these friends, # 770, waved to her as she passed and she nodded to him. Once inside building 100, she split off from the group, heading to her perspective room. The best thing about being a Reader was the privacy. The officers left them alone in their rooms to read. Their freedom came with trust, trust that the Readers would finish their work and not complain. Trust that no funny business or problems would arise from them. Not that they would ever slack off. Every Reader liked their job and wanted to keep it.

She shut the doors behind her and quickly rushed to her table. She was the fastest Reader in history and always had free time when she was done with her work. It was one of the reasons she had the biggest room and a personal library. So when she picked up her work and went through it in record time, she didn't even notice. The piece of paper in her pants burned a hole in her skin and she quickly pulled it out as she shoved her work aside. As she inspected the paper, she noticed it was not one but many pieces folded and stuck together. Slowly she unfolded them, careful not to rip them, treating them like treasured gold. Once they were unfolded, she separated the pieces and laid them out on the table around her.

She stopped to stare at the strange thing below her. She recognized the words but was puzzled by them. They were scrawled on the paper in an uneven form, some letters bigger than others, some more slanted or smudged. They were unlike other words she had read. Those words were clean, crisp, and straight. For some reason, the rough font in front of her was more interesting and exciting than her usual work. In a way, they reminded her of her own works but they were messier as if done by an unpracticed and unsteady hand. Slowly and carefully, she began to read.

Soon, she was caught up in the work. There were words in the story that she did not know. Words like war, hate, death, and sadness. She had heard of some of them before. They had been part of old stories told in the night, ones that people used to scare the young ones into bed. Words that her father had thrown about before the Reconstruction. But she had never known their meaning. Finally, her eyes fell on the last page and her face creased even more in confusion than before. As she read the last sentence, her heart stopped. A knock at the door made her jump.

"Hey there. It's me, #809. I was wondering if you want to go to dinner with me during free time," called a voice from the other side of the door.

She took a breath, her heart still beating fast. #809 was a good friend of hers who shared the room nearby. He was handsome or at least that's what everyone said and he had often came to her for advice and a good conversation. #300 had once told her that #809 and many of the Readers liked her.  She hadn't believed her until #809 had started to come to her, going out of his way to find her. #809 was a nice guy but she had never had true feelings for him. It was out of respect that she answered his advances with a yes. She was about to tell him to wait at the doors like he always did when she stopped. For some reason, the bright blond headed boy from this morning popped into her head and she couldn't bring herself to speak the words.

"You know, 809, I'm not feeling well today. I think I will turn in early. Thank you for asking," she replied trying to keep her voice even.

"Oh that's alright," he said and she caught the disappointment in his voice. "I'll see you tomorrow, 666." And with that, he left.

666. The number made her heart skip a beat as she looked back at her desk and the paper that laid there. The last section seemed to pop off the page, taunting her. She stared at it again, her mind trying to form the meaning behind it. It struck a nerve in her and she knew it was important but she couldn't figure out why. Finally, with a sigh, she grabbed the papers and shoved them in her desk drawer where she hid all the stories she had illegally written and locked the drawer behind her. As she left building 100 and headed home, the words continued to ring in her ears.

"666, with the numbers of the devil, the righteous shall be set free and the blind will see. By her words, she will lead them. The revolution shall begin."