Brave New World Project
Seminar Reflection:
I think the most interesting idea we discussed in seminar yesterday was the idea of needing suffering in our lives to highlight the contrast between happy and sad, so we know which is positive and which is negative v.s. the idea of being socialized to act, think, and feel as if you just overcame a tragedy in your life. The idea always kept popping up in every question we were asked and every topic we went over, it was relevant to every single thing in Brave New World and in our world that we talked about. It was like putting an answer to the question “why do bad things happen to good people” I think it was a very enlightening moment for many people in our class.
One quotation from the novel I wished I would have included in the discussion was “the savage stood looking on, oh brave new world, oh brave new world…In his mind the singing words seemed to change their tone” In this quote he seems to feel as if he really sticks out, and does not fit in at all. He is comparing his existence in this brave new society like an out- of-pitch singer in a powerful choir.
I was most happy about my performance yesterday was being the only one to reference to text. I referenced to page 240 chapture 17 in BNW. The quote states "I don't want comfort, I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness, I want sin!' 'In fact' said Mustapha Mound, 'your clamming the right to be unhappy." This quote shows the strong contrast between John and the rest of society views passion. It shows that John would rather have suffering and intense beauty and passion to lead his life rather then small but many pleasures.
Brave New World Writing
In This Canyon
By Heidi A. Williams
Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves. Knowing ourselves can impact more then we know.
~Henry David Thoreau
The sky is a gray wash of clouds, just done spitting drops of rain. I walk straight home as instructed bossily from Rose. I roll my eyes at her bossiness. Just then I feel a pair of strong hands wrench my arms behind my back. Just before I another pair of hands pull something over my head that turns the day back to night I see a flash of gray eyes and four big figures. I try to scream but my voice is muffled from a big hand pressed over my mouth. I feel a sharp pinch in my neck that makes my eyes well and causes my body to fall slack. I see black and yellow lights, muffled from the blackness of the blindfold. Something pressed me, pushed me on something tell it fell threw. Then, I slip into something I cannot explain besides as sleep.
It is in the green hearth of the canyon, where I awake. The great canyon walls seem to be more than a mile in height, thousands of feet of amber and rust towering over me in granite peeks and steep slopes, rising one above the other until reaching a summit. Small and large passages of red and gray flare above, jade water makes a booming sound, cradled in the floor of the great canyon. The walls cut in many places by years of weather and tragedy contributing towards some bigger picture. This was truly a great and terrible beauty. I wake with two gray eyes lingering in my memory, a headache, and a faint awareness of a mans voice saying my name. Reece. I untwist my fingers from my long hair behind my hair ribbon to search for the warmth found deeper under my quilt. But I only find grass, damp with a mornings dew, no quilt at all. When I open my eyes a swell of confusion rolls over me and sits there, pressing me with its deadweight. I sit up, damp with dew and cold sweat. The meadow is probably beautiful, I can't tell. Behind me is a steep uphill and three ample boulders. I stand up. Where am I? Something inside of me flexes and the ground turns from grass to water as my panic grows. I have never been comfortable outside of the City that I live in. I dig my nails into my palms.
"Where am I?"
My mind coils, waiting for something to come out and clear my confusion as it always does. Nothing comes. I let out a sob in frustration; at home I’m never confused. Before I realize, I'm running, looking for something, anything to pull me from my confusion, as it always does at home.
"Hello!?" I sob.
I imagine a hand reaching into a dark abyss, left empty and unused, but still teeming with hope. As I run, I take no notice of the pain in my legs or head, focusing only on moving forward with surprising skill and agility. My eyes look, look for something to tell me I'm okay. I have never had this much space to run in the walls on my City. I hop a log, and dodge a tree, I move over obstacles that stand in the way of me and my answer. I run pass a cave, overhanging the river filled with who- knows-what. As I run, something prances out of my way, some type of animal. Probably a deer. The question: why am I here? Was set ablaze in my mind. The burning desire to know why I am here holds on inside of me, pulls me still, this desire is filled with anticipation and longing. The anticipation runs dry after one simple heavy thought that has been there from the start but didn't want to uncover, and I’m left longing for the past. There is no one here to tell me why. The thought hits me from within my own existence, jolts me from my stomach, sending me backwards, tumbling to a stop. My knees go slack and I sit against a tree and let out a sob that cracks in my throat like broken wood. I sit there weeping for the present situation, never looking forward, only looking down.
Tears roll down my neck, dampening my collar, it makes me cold. Worry finds its way into me when I think of my family. I think back to the time of when I would watch the news with my mother, we would watch reports of peoples suicides. All with the same note about how they feel so bottled up, how they can't express themselves, and how they just couldn't take it anymore. My mother and I would share looks longing for change, but we would never say it aloud. I long for my mother, she would cure my headache and sooth me of my panic with her wise words. I long for my father, he would know our next move. And I long for my sister, because together we would enjoy the process. I wonder if they know where I am, I bet they don't. I wonder if my parents are longing for their blond freckled daughter like I am longing for them. Sobs feel empty when there is no one to acknowledge them, as someone always is at home. When the sobbing stops, everything falls silent. The skin beneath my eyes is puffy, my mouth is dry and slack. My eyes feel heavy, I wedge my body between two close trees and sleep. In my mind, I experience the thing that illustrates normal. The last thing I remember before I unexpectedly woke in
this canyon.
My sister and I walking past the market in the clothes I have on now. On our way to our lessons. I was always the timid child. The one who would always call my father on sleepovers to pick me up and woke with nightmares. The four men ran past us, all clutching paintings in their hands, it nearly made me scream. The sight of the paintings about made me turn away. One man nearly ramming me with all the commotion, in his hand was a painting of a woman, on her face was something I couldn't identify as a smile or a frown. She was beautiful, though I'd never say it aloud. The four men were running from Authority, who peeped their whistles and screamed, "Stop them!" Must be an art bust. One Authority walked past with a man, screaming, "Art will remain the most important movements of mankind made out of struggle in between layers of wisdom and madness, between shades of dream and reality in our mind!" His words were meant to be brushed off, but they weren't. I think he was meaning to tell the Authority behind him, though he was looking at everyone around with a flexed neck and wide eyes. His mouth pulled in a funny direction. "A home without expression is no home at all!" His words were muffled due to the Authorities hand over his mouth. "We must rise toge...." His words were cut short when the Authority took his club from his hip and beat the man. Things were set silent with many awkward looks and shaky hands after they left, so we walked on.
All that day, I dreamed of being a artist, to be able to paint the colors we are forbidden to dress in. Dreamed of a world with expression, self growth. Dreamed of a world full of art and beauty and a life where The Great Bill was never signed by The Control. Dreamed of a home where the people did not fear Authority or The Control. Dreamed of a world where Authority or The Control did not fear art because of the awakening of new thought; deeper thought. Deeper thought makes for the uncovering of flaws, uncovering of flaws makes for the longing of change, the longing for change makes for sparks of violence because people just don't listen to words, and violence makes for discomfort. Dreamed of the ability to aspire another role in life, not the role Program put me in. But I knew I would never get out of Program. No one does. Everyone had the future they knew they would have. Mine is becoming an accountant. "It's not that bad." My mother would say to try to reassure me when I wept after lessons. But she too knows I dream of bigger things than jumbles of numbers and a pen. "I wanna do somethin big!" I would say when I was young, before I knew I could not choose. My parents always seemed flustered when I told them I wished of something different. I used to wonder why, but now that I started lessons, the reason was shoved down my throat. "That way there is no stress, no wondering, no heat on us to change where we are at home." Teacher would say. I thought that we maybe needed a change. But then I banished it from my mind feeling filthy and defiled. After that day of dreaming my sister, Rose, stayed after in Program to be with her friends, and I was meant to go straight home and tell Mother where she was. I never made it home. Four men. Hard pinch. The shapes of buildings came down upon me, flashing black and yellow. Pushing me, pressing me against something hard until something gave way, grey eyes, falling, a familiar sent, dewy grass. I awake.
The sun is weak below the horizon when I wake. Dew has collected on my skin while I was sleeping again. When I see the great walls and river, the realness of being in this canyon with no explanation of why sinks in. I wished so desperately my presence here was just a nightmare. But, it wasn't. In disappointment I close my eyes and again, fall into a deep sleep.
Bright sun and discomfort wakes me. A horrible twinge runs up and down my limbs. My skin feels tight and uncomfortable, like its burned from the sun, ouch. My back and neck aches with stiffness. At home, I am never uncomfortable, my parents, The Control, the Authority, and Program all made it so discomfort was not possible by elemeting all things that could cause struggle. My stomach yells in hunger pains and my throat feels raw when I speak.
"How long did I sleep?" I whisper to myself.
No telling, due to the amount of burn and aches I'm enduring, could have been days. I think to myself, "It’s queer how the
faint chirping of the birds is the loudest thing you can hear when your starving. I wonder why that is."
I venture up hill finding myself on a smallish, dusty, mesa still nowhere near the top. There, I gather some things I remember learning about from a history book at Program about what some people used to eat before The Bill was signed, I believe it was called salad . The things had minimal color and smelled strong. I pack them in the pockets of my jeans to eat later. I hear a sound coming from an overturned rock, and a yelp from who knows what. I whip my head around. Behind me are six feral dogs. I have never seen an animal besides a bird without bars between us before. One could see plainly that they were starving but still strong. The light mangy fur mixed with the dogs aggression towards each other makes a panic rise in my belly. At home aggression does not exist. At home we are a society of harmony.I back up. The dogs haven't seen me yet. I walk backwards, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the crackling of the sticks and twigs under me. I try not to breathe, flexing every muscle, holding in every peep of panic that could escape me and be my last. One dog raises its head and I take off without hesitation. I run upstream until I find the meadow where I arrived. It feels like the closest thing to home. Maybe because it's the closest thing to normal. The thought makes me dig my nails into my palms. Why, as humans, do we feel most comfortable migrating towards the things that make us feel most normal? "Perhaps its because we feel most safe there." I think. The thought made another question become clear. "Why must we always be safe?" I think to myself. Maybe because safe is comfort, and so my home is always safe, discomfort is not possible thanks to The Control. I settle with that answer because my eyes begin to well up like they do sometimes, and before I can say no, I sit on a log and weep. I weep in terror of the dogs, I weep for myself. I weep because I miss my family. At home there is no wild dog pack. At home there is no pain or suffering; at home there is no wild at all. Where am I!? I want to go home! How can I get home?!
Just then I see a small round rabbit. So soft looking, so natural. My first reaction is that it is cute, with its big round eyes and shiny coat. I find myself thinking I must snatch the little thing and save it from the terrible awful dogs behind me. The rabbit does not look as I did. It isn't tense and afraid. It's simply sniffing around, hopping occasionally to get somewhere further then it was before. This small rabbit. So alive, thriving, almost courageous, it's surviving better then I am. A rabbit. Another thought becomes clear: This little thing holds what my society does not. It is courageous, thriving, surviving! I wish my society could be more like this small brave rabbit.
After a bit, I dry my eyes and the wet spots on my collar and sleeves starts to dry. I turn my pockets inside out and see my gatherings from the day. I have some type of root, leaves that get slimy when I chew them, and pine needles like the ones outside my house. With enough water, anything is edible. Another thought becomes prominent after seeing a thick curtain of clouds. Where am I going to sleep tonight? I need to make my move fast. I decide on a tree-well surrounded by some type of light green plant that smells strong and deep. I think its called sage.
My little well is cold and uneven, and because of its shape I am forced to face the trunk of my pine and curl around it like a snake. Snake, it sends a shiver down my back. It’s funny how we fear such small things as humans, that should change. My mind flashes to a time in my home, when, if I was scared, I could simply invasion a piece of art that I could hopeful one day create and that would reassure me. When I poke my head from the well I can see the steep uphill and the amble boulders. By sundown I am sleeping.
I wake in a panic. Blackness is thick around me, covered in wet. The sound of rain is overwhelming. Something cold and thick blocks my nose and mouth, choking me, making it hard to breath. I wipe the substance from my eyes. Something inside of my stomach clenches and grinds against something else and I inhale sharply, breathing in the thick substance that coats my body. I turn my head and heave bile and mud. I crawl out of my tree well and make it onto my feet. The ground keeps sliding under me, making it impossible to stand. Lightning flashes, the world around me is moving downhill. Mudslide. I make my way to the boulders on my left. I can just barely see that they are clear from the mess of wet earth if I climb high enough. I reach the first hold. The weight of the mud burdens my body, making it hard to climb. But I fight through it. I reach the second. Something inside of me burns. Wetness from rain coats the clean rock like spilled ink, loosening my grip. I take hold of the third. The last. It's slippery with mud and water. I heave myself up. I did it. Accomplishment, I know the word, I have never used it before; but it swarms my body as I lay on the roof of the boulder, it relaxes my muscles. Fatigue claims its prize and I fall asleep.
When morning comes, the storm is over. Harsh tastes invade my mouth. Flies buzz everywhere. I strip myself of the hard shell of cracked mud and bile that cakes my joints, making it hard to move. I’m naked in the desert sun, setting out to find unspoiled water and a new home. I remember the cave I saw earlier, when I was running. It should be close by, on my way I saw trees, bushes, all things ruined, from foot upon foot of mud. How come nature is filled with such suffering? After remembering my history book and learning about the terrible awful things people have done to each other in the past, came the thought: Why did humans put themselves in suffering? Because of nature? I feel bare and exposed though I know nobody is watching. It reminds me of home, and how sometimes humans care about things in the eyes of others though others don't care, that should change. Home. My eyes well but I banish the thought when I reach my destination.
The cave is propped high on large stable boulders, on the left side a cliff drops roughly 20 feet. Dangerous. On the right side, the cave overlooks the river. Good. The area around my new cave is littered with many tall, climbable boulders that little lizards use to sun bathe. Insurance. I go to the river to bathe. As I wade in, the river laps at my bare skin, its cool currents greeting me like something loved and familiar. I washed the shell of dry bile and muck from my hair and clothes. I allow water to swallow me, take me, absorb me in its currents. I let it quench my thirst. When I retreat back to land, I lay my clothes flat on a sandstone boulder to let the mid-day sunlight rid them of their wetness. Then I lay beside them. These moments I spend lounging nude under the canyon sun, like the lizards I saw before, are enjoyed, they are free of worry and longing of home. I am temporarily done desiring to know how and why I am here. I just lay here, absorbing the suns warm balmy rays as they briefly clean me of anguish.
When I’m dry, I dress myself in the newly warmed clothes.The floor of my cave is largish and allows me to lay comfortably with enough room to sprawl out and still be fully engulfed inside the cave. Better than I would expect to find in this canyon that always seems to be fighting me. I find myself being proud of the cave I have claimed, proud to say I lived through a mudslide, proud to say I feel safe in a place I found on my own, away from feral dogs and sliding mud. I cannot help but learn more about myself in this canyon as I take on the world into my own scarred hands. Why have I never felt this way before? The question angers me. Maybe because at home pride can cause jealousy for another, and jealousy is uncomfortable. I take my life tenderly, but still respect it like the strong capable thing it is. It is an old robust piece of clay, with millions of thumbprints on it.
Hunger strikes again, so I make my way to gather food. The sun beats down on my shoulders like tragedy as I stroll on. My question, Why am I here? still burns inside of me and drives me to look for food, as if I'm only surviving to know why I'm here, to know how I got here, and how I can get home. I use this inspiration to keep moving, keep gathering food, keep surviving. I nibble on my gatherings on the way back to the cave, swaying the make-shift basket made from my flannel and a few fancy knots, once and a while snatching up some pieces of fire wood to help cut down the cold nights. I end my day with pine needles, roots, and those same slimy leaves I choked down before. I sit on a stump outside of my cave and watch the sun turn molten across the horizon. I find myself enjoying this time I spend sitting in the mouth of the cave, enjoying the
silence and beauty of my new canyon home. My mood shifts when I linger on the word home.
"Home, family, friends." I say to myself in longing. I long for family dinners, and play-dates with friends.
The words make me sad. It’s funny. At home I took the things that I now long for for granted, a warm bed, welcoming arms, my mother, my sister, my father. He would love it here, nature does fascinate him. I remember a time when Rose and I had friends over. One boy , named Clay, snuck in a small radio. Everyone was fascinated yet terrified of the small music machine. "How does it work?" They asked, as if I knew. The radio was a gateway for expression through music. And that, is illegal. When my parents barged into the house they yelled, saying we could be arrested, a life sentence would be put under our names and we would be gone for life. I would give anything to have my mother and father here now to yell at me for my mistakes like sleeping in a tree well. I now refuse to accept the view that society is so tragically bound to over look the things and be ungrateful for the things we love to hold onto to be happy as humans. That should change. We should be grateful for having the ability to spend time with our families. Angling my thoughts away from the memory, I retire to my cave to sleep.
I am grateful to see the night turn to dawn the next morning. The sky is a crisp blue, waiting to watch what me and the my world will take on. It’s funny how the world becomes our own when we are alone.
I flinch when I spy a healthy looking fox in front of me. Its molten black eyes fall upon me in a stare that shows respect, then turns away to continue whatever it was doing before. It holds its downy tail straight out behind its body, its head close to the ground, eyes fixated upon something rustling in the sage brush. Then, as if on cue, the mammal leaps from its stealthy position, arching its back, angling its arrow like body towards the sage brush, then, after what seemed to be a half second, the fox poked its head out with a trophy in its jaws. A rodent. Its eyes fall upon me again on its way out, I feel like I should nod. I don't move, in fear of loosing its trust.
After it left, hunger pains racked my belly. I should go get some breakfast, but I find myself weary of the pine needles and roots I have been dining on. I think back to the fox, I think of the dead rodent hanging from its jaws. I should hunt.
I find small rodents hiding deep inside brush, small lizards on rocks, and birds that are too high to even attempt to make a meal out of them. I’ll go for the lizards, they seem the most slow. And, slow is easy. When I approach the boulders outside my cave I see my first chance. I creep from behind it, crackling leaves under my feet, and holding my hands out in a cup shape. I jerk forward, slapping my empty hands on the wall of the boulder, watching as the lizard scurries away. Failure, it happens three times over. Then, to my astonishment, after almost a full day with small water and needle gathering, I catch four of the small reptiles. The lizards are smallish with tan and milky scales. I kill the things by holding their bodies down flat then demolishing their thin neck bones with a largish stone, remembering the butcher in my city kill and gut the animals he prepares. I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt inside me. I have always loved animals, though my home does not allow them in fear of the people enjoying the company of an animal over a human, the dominant race of life on Earth. At home everyone is afraid to love animals, afraid to do anything, really, afraid of Authority and The Control. That should change. People should feel safe and secure because of Authority and The Control. On that thought, I attempt to make a fire to cook one of my lizards with two sticks and dry brush like the Olds do in my history book. Amazingly, after three small temper tantrums I succeed with a very small flicker and a thin stream of smoke. After I finish gorging on my lizard, with much water and needles, I wrap the other three in rags from my flannel, and dispose of the head and skin outside the mouth of the cave. Then, I retreat inside to sleep for the night.
The sound of scuffling paws on the cave floor wakes me. Though the darkness is thick around me, I can just make out six smallish figures moving on all fours. The feral dogs. Something inside of me constricts and I dig my nails into my palms. I lay still for a broken second, tense with fright. Then I act. I stand and bound through the small swarm of the dogs. I can feel one of the beasts' warm respirations perpetrating on the back of my leg as it snaps its powerful jaws at me. Their mangy hair pricks the skin on the back of my legs as I run. Then, making the worst of mistakes, I topple over the spiny backs of the dogs, tumbling to the ground on the seat of my pants. The beasts surround me, their heads angled close to the cave floor, drool dripping from their serrated teeth.The growls that rise from somewhere deep within the dogs' chests would cool the blood of even the bravest of men. One beast lunges toward me, eyes fixed on my throat. I scurry backwards into the territory of another dog, it bites me, distorting the flesh on my shoulder. I scream in agony. Another nips at my boot. I kick, sending the dog tumbling backwards with a yelp, leaving a gap in the circle of crazed creatures. I use that second to make my escape, I bound threw the opening. My boot catches an exposed root sending me tumbling to the ground and off the side of the cliff. A twinge of pain rises up my leg after slamming into a dry log leaving a twisted tree limb swallowed in my flesh. I scream in sobbing agony as I pull the stick from my leg, pain runs up my leg, escaping in tears and vomit. I clutch my wounded limb, sticking a finger into the hole in my left leg, I see it reaches to my second knuckle. I let out another sob and pass out from exhaustion and pain.
I wake when the sun is in the middle of the sky, burnsun, ( I think..) defiles my exposed skin. The dogs must have smelled the leftover head and skin of the lizards. Flies hover over my wounds, bobbing up and down occasionally touching down horrific bacteria spreading across my gashes. I wave them away with a blood caked hand. Aching radiates across my limbs, causing me to let out a small whimper, making me acknowledge my parched throat. Sitting up makes me dizzy, so I flop back down. I feel as if I'll never move again, I'm worried I’ll never move again. Something inside of me flashes back to my mother’s wise words. "Worry does not empty tomorrow of its suffering, it empties today of its strength." Her saying gives me courage and I stand up using a tree for support. I need to get to the river. My questions pop back into mind: Why am I
here? Where am I? How can I get home? It seems only when I'm suffering I want to be somewhere else. When I'm succeeding, I just stay in the moment and be grateful for what I have done. At home we have no success, we only have progression. That should change. When I reach the fastest and cleanest part of the river, I drink until my belly gurgles. I move and I look at my wounds for the first time. The gash in my left leg is as long as my hand, the thing is oozing oily puss, dampening my jeans and rewetting the dry crimson blood that is caking the edges of the hole. My skin is tight and dark due to the swelling, it swelled so big. Visions of my leg popping due to the plumpness swarm my mind. The horrific sight makes me gag. I turn my eyes away to check my shoulder. Smallish holes form a circle, plum and black surround the holes like flies on stink. Not as bad as my leg, but both wounds are going to take days of rest to recover. Though the holes in my shoulder were not as fatal as the gash in my leg, they still make tears burn in the back of my eyes when I raise my arm. Washing is the worst pain of it all. It's a searing, aching pain that makes me yelp like the dogs I encountered last night. I rip more of the seams of my flannel to create a dressing for my wounds. Knotting the cloth snugly around my limbs hurts a bit, but I know only good will come of it. After I finish cleansing my wounds and quenching my thirst, I limp back to the cave and sleep for the remainder of the day, occasionally waking from dreams of home and nightmares of me dying in this cave of blood loss, though my gashes are hardly bleeding anymore. I sleep until days later.
I rise to the faint pitter patter of canyon rain falling on the roof of my cave home. Outside everything is covered in wet, dripping from elaborate rock sculptures of men and monster. It's nice, looking over the rain and mud when you’re not suffering because of it. It's the same as home, I think, when you are observing relationships and lives crumble because of one thing or another, you don't take it to heart, you gossip with your friends about it. Treat it like entertainment, something to take you away from the dramas of your own life. But, when you are the one crumbling, it beats down on your shoulders, threatens to kill you. That should change.
By the law of The Bill, civilians cannot express this suffering in any way, shape, or form. You feel as if Authority hangs over your head by a single hair, threatening to snap and crush your neck, like I did the lizards, if you let out one single peep of expression. That should change.
I tally the number of the days I spend resting with a burnt stick on the cave walls. The tally marks say I have been resting for two days and three nights, I pass the time by sketching images of hands and eyes on the cave floor. At home I would be arrested for this. I snack on needles and roots when hungry, to quench my thirst, I stick my head out of the cave and drink from a small pool, continuously refilling with rain water. The nights are strikingly cold, causing me to pull my jacket snugly over my shoulders. And I redress my wounds five times over.
When the puss and blood recedes from my wounds. I decide it's time move again. I stand on weary baby feet, wobbling on my way out of the cave. The sun shines molten gold as it climbs the morning sky from behind the canyon walls. It kisses my cheeks and warms my hair. With my toe, I carve a outline of the canyons beauty in the river bank. When I open my eyes I see my friend, the fox. I watch it with curious eyes. I watch its healthy figure move stealthily through the glade, carrying its tail with grace and balance. A dead rodent hangs lifeless in its mouth.The fox turns, lays in front of a small cluster of rocks and brush, and rips its prey into equal piles. To my surprise, another fox emerges from the cluster, beaten and weak from illness. Using its nose, the healthy fox pushes the remans of the rodent toward the sickly fox. With much gratitude, the weak fox excepts the gift and together, they eat. The gesture makes my eyes well. What a beautiful thing to have mercy in such an unforgiving place, in this canyon, this world, though everything in this moment's hunger tells you that you should eat the meal, all of it. But, instead you give it to a another.
Aching hunger cramps interrupt my thought, I go and gather more needles. After I discover the wood in the canyon is too wet to make a fire to cook one of my three lizards, I venture downriver to explore the undiscovered territory of the canyon, maybe I will find someone. Someone to tell me why I am here, how I am here. Someone to send me to the warm embrace of my family and friends. Reality hits me the same time my leg pains me. It aches when I step, but the pain is nowhere near the searing ache I endured before down at the river. Downriver is different, the walls of the canyon not as high as the ones surrounding my cave. I spy a trail washed out from the days of rain and sliding mud. The wash leads up the edge of the canyon and onto the mesa. I’m sure one could hike the wash up to the top of the mesa and overlook the canyon and all its creatures, and maybe the ones that don't belong here. Like me.
When I reach the mesa, the sun is nearly setting west. Though here, there is no time or plans, just night and day, following the wash took longer then I thought it would. I am right about overlooking the canyon and all of its creatures, but not one I am over looking is human. I was almost expecting this let down of finding someone to send me home. My thoughts shift when I see the feral dogs below me, I dig my nails into my palms in fright. The canines are laying near their den, a collection a large boulders piled up into a jumble of caves and caverns. I imagine the dogs luring young children into the mists of the caves, never to be seen again. I banish the thought with a grimace. While observing the dogs I notice they are not yelping and snapping in their usual manner. Their muscles are relaxed and slack. I coil waiting for them to realize my presence and attack me. The biggest dogs eyes fall upon me. I tense, waiting for the great attack. It does not come. Instead, the dogs pant, lounging in the rubble and shade. "That’s funny," I think to myself. These dogs, the same dogs who put holes in my shoulder for a few scraps of skin are now basking in the sun, content with their savage life! Preposterous! These dogs, once in such distress, are now so happy, after such a small victory of winning a few scraps of scales! I think back to my time basking in the sun on the sandstone boulders, and how I once felt the same content-ness the dogs are feeling now, after clamming my cave. I blush in the realization. It's peculiar how alike I find myself to the great and terrible creatures that surround me. At home, we are meant to view animals as the lowest class fascination one could ever have, we see humans as the dominant
race. We won the battle of dominance with pure intelligence. We are meant to see the animal race as something like a forever loosing team. That should change. Now that I am here, living with them. I see humans are more animal then we think, we just wouldn't like to say so. That should change.
The sun burns fully west now, sending a curtain of rose and lilac across the sky. I hope someday I will be able to paint this sunset. Beautiful. Though I'd like to stay and take in its beauty, it will be dark soon, and I should get moving. Soon, blackness weaves its way around me, cutting me off from my sense of sight. The familiar feeling of panic builds inside me once again, and those desirable answers to the questions that come in the hand of panic rise as well. Why am I here?! How can I get home?! Where am I?! I dig my nails into my palms once again, and anticipate something discomforting and horrific occurring in this blackness, something like my death. As I walk, my mind waits, waits for this horrific thing to pop out from some harshly smelling bush and show me my death. Nothing pops, I am still alive, and I'm walking back to my cave home to sleep off the day. I decide nothing good comes from this anticipation of terrible awful things here, or at home. I conclude that nothing good will ever come from dwelling on the possibility of future suffering. I think back my desire for knowledge of things left unknown. Why am I here? How can I get home? Where am I? I let them kindle inside of me, drive me back to my new cave home. A new question blooms in my mind: Is it human nature to question the way things are? Is this normal thinking? Why is it when I am put in this beautiful terrible canyon I can uncover the things wrong with my home? My home, my society; I now see it numbs this animal. That should change. Little do they know, we can still dream.
When I arrive back at my cave, I flop down on the floor, using a collection of grass and weeds for a pillow. I think back to the pillows on my own bed and how the pile here does not compare to the comfort found in the silky pockets of feathers and cotton I used to use. My mind jolts back to a time when Rose and I used to share a mattress.
One night my sister and I were playing a game of cat and mouse after lights out, and mother and father were quite frustrated with trying to coax us under the blankets. After what seemed like centuries of persuading, we finally convinced our weary parents to stay up with us and join our lively game. Mother and I took roll of mouse, and father and Rose were the cats. Mother and I crawled around the island in the kitchen, scanning the floor for fathers socked feet. Then, with all clumsiness, father bounded behind us, toppling over our crouched figures and colliding with the tiled floor. Mother stretched over him, peering at his face to see if he was okay. Father sat up, swooped me into his thick arms, and tickled the daylights out of me and mother.
The memory makes my lips curl into a smile and a fit of giggles escapes into the night air. It's funny, when you cry alone in the dark, you feel nothing but emptiness, solitude, and loneliness. But, when you laugh alone in the dark, you laugh again, because the ridiculousness of it all is positively silly. Oh, how I favor giggles over tears. I remember when I first arrived here, the smallest thing would cause me burst into a spasm of tears and blue thoughts. A wave of pride rolls over me as I realize how far I’ve come, how much I have changed. Now, I can handle the canyons, the wild creatures, and the skies. Back then I would weep about them. Another realization hits me. I am the rabbit. The small round rabbit who was living better then I was at the time, when I saw it nibbling on grass. Now, I possess the thriving courage that the small rabbit did. I am not tense or afraid of the dogs or the terrible awful things that lurk outside my cave, no! I'm ready for them, ready to take them on if they come, but for now, while I am still out of harm, I live. I live in the moment, quenching my thirst and feeding my hunger, I thrive in the wellness of still having the ability to live, and for that, I am grateful.
The next day I wake with hunger. It takes me what seems like hours to spark a fire to roast the remainder of my three lizards before they spoil. The lizards taste of salt, smoke of the fire, and a form of sweetish chicken. After chowing on my breakfast of lizards and needles, I find myself almost bored with the tranquility of the canyon. Its walls stretch high above me, watching me with curiosity as I take life as it comes in this harsh environment. I take a morning swim, unflustered with my nudity. The water refreshes my healing wounds, leaving them tingling and cool.
I stack balancing towers of river stones just stronger then the wind and I trace images of my hand in the sand near the river bank. The towers are beautiful. I start to think of a world where art is legal, even smiled upon. I wish I could show someone my towers. Show them how I carefully stacked the river stones one on top of the other. Being bored is a good sign in an unforgiving place like this. It means you are not needing to drastically pull out of a near death situation. I think back to home and what I did when I was stricken with being bored and alone. I remember my pleasant walks down the street with mother, admiring the crab apple trees. I conclude I should take a walk, admire the canyon and its morning beauty. I pack some needles and roots in my pocket for the small journey and start on my way upriver. I walk past big cottonwoods and pines, I pull sage from the dry soil and rub it on my wrists and neck like I did with my mothers perfume. The sky is cloudless and pleasant. The air is still cool and crisp from the night breezes but warming more each time the sun rises higher in the sky. I pass over a rock formation that causes my boots to clap with each step. I enjoy the sound, I enjoy the noises here. "What a strange thought," I think to myself.
My train of thoughts change when I see movement from the corner of my eye. I whip my head around expecting something to attack. The animals are the color of sand their muscle bulged when they took a step backwards fearing me. It's just a grazing herd of deer. I exhale, I remember learning that deer used to roam freely in my city, and people used to hit them with their automobiles. They were removed when The Control signed The Bill because the deers death was too traumatizing to the youngsters. That should change. As I turn away from the herd a large commotion of hoofs on soil. The noise makes me turn. I see a flash of mangy fur and pointy ears. The dogs, they have found me. I grind my teeth together. I see a tree to my
right, and despite the ache in my leg, I bound and scamper up the tree. I sit ready to kick and fight for my life. They are almost here, I climb higher. I can hear the sound of their paws crunching the brush as they get closer, they are coming. The colors of their fur blur together as they run past me and my tree. Confused I peer out of an opening in the branches, the dogs are chasing the herd of deer. One dog, probably the fastest, runs to the front, causing the herd to separate; a distraction. The canines choose a small deer freshly separated from its mother; a choice. The soon-to-fade spots on the small deers back are apparent, indicating the deer is young. The dogs charge with surprising skill and agility. The deer bolted. As I watch I feel that same pang of anguish I did when I gutted the lizards. They nip at the deers back legs crippling its strides and tasting its blood; weaken. The deer makes a sound, probably calling for its mother. A bigger deer in the bigger herd turns and bounds toward the fight, knocking the dogs from the young deer. The small deer makes its escape toward the herd, the mother keeps running, creating a diversion for the herd to run. They take it and run west, the opposite direction, leaving the mother deer alone with the canines; what a sacrifice. The dogs snap and snarl at the mother deer. One dog, the same dog that ran in front on the herd before, does the same to this lone mammal and rounds in front of the full sized deer, causing it to turn and run into the trap of the five other dogs. The beasts snap her fragile joints leaving the animal frozen, immobilized. The hounds jaws latch onto their preys neck puncturing her breathing tubes and snapping the crippled deer's neck; victory. Then the dogs all take parts of the deers loose hide in mouth and drag it away, leaping and howling howls filled with pride and accomplishment. "They will be eating well tonight," I think to myself.
What a strategy they used to cure their hunger! When I arrive back at the cave and lie down I think of home, and how I was always fed well. Never left hungry, but when I was, I would just walk into the cabinet and retrieve a bag of crackers and be completely satisfied. Here, for me, and the feral dogs, it is a fight for our food, fight to be satisfied and survive. When we work to achieve what we need to survive, and to be happy, the feeling of accomplishment is beautifully rewarding, unlike the bag of crackers. Same game, different prize.
I wake hungry. After I decide that the dry needles are just not feeding my appetite anymore a realization hits me from somewhere deep inside my being. The dogs and I are quite alike, we are both surviving in this canyon, both animal, weather my home taught me otherwise or not. I remember the way the beasts crippled their meal before they drug it home. I remember the howls and barks of victory they expressed after they brought down their prey. I want that. I want to be so filled with accomplishment its spilling over my sides until I let it out in a scream of victory. I want a deer.
I spend my morning looking over my memory to refresh the details of the dogs killing strategy. Distract,
force a choice,
weaken,
immobilize, victory.
I decide I need to ingrate every step of the dogs strategy into my technique. To help myself, I sketch the plan into the packed soil under my feet. The distraction will be a rock thrown from my hand into the middle of the herd. I will choose my prey depending on one of two things. Most separated from the herd and most assessable. Or most weak. The way I see it, I have two ways to weaken my deer. Jump onto the back of the mammal to tire it, or use the club I made from a rock tied snuggly to a stick with my old hair ribbon to strike it's back legs. To immobilize, I will snap the joints of the deers leg using my makeshift club. I will reach my victory by breaking the deers neck bone as quickly as I can. I think back to a time when my father told me the snapping of the neck is one of the most painless, quickest ways to pass, I think that will have mercy on the pangs of guilt I seem to get when I hunt due to my love for animals. I set off on my way to the place that I last saw the herd, the same place where I adopted my plan. I pack my supplies for the hunt in the remains of my flannel, the equivalent of a cleaning rag.
I move in the direction the herd last moved, west. I follow a trail of deer droppings and a path of the same brush they were grazing on yesterday. When I spy the herd, I crouch behind a dry crackled log; much like the one that crippled my leg. The land the herd is grazing on is flat like the mesa, fortunately, there are a few boulders scattered on the flat rubble. I decide to make my way to one on the left side of the herd to throw my large rock. I scan the herd as I crawl on all fours, deciding which deer will feed me. I spy the limping young deer just before climbing the boulder. Perfect. Adrenaline prickles up my spine as I reach for the large rock at the same time, a small smile curls my lips, eyes glued to my target. I hurl the rock to the middle of the herd. The deer scatter, along with mine. A distraction. I jump from my hiding place behind the top of the boulder and run towards my prey. I made my choice. It has not seen me yet. The booming of my boots hitting the soil keeps in rhythm with my beating heart. The adrenaline spreads through my legs. I decide on leaping on the back of the deer to weaken my prey. My heart beats faster to keep in rhythm with my exiling legs, feeding on my adrenaline. I pounce, aiming my weight towards the smallish animal. Its hide pricks my skin like the dogs did. It squirms and kicks its way out from my grasp.
"No!" I yell.
Something inside of me sinks. I grind my teeth together. No! I can do this. I chase the weakened mammal. Even with its limping the deer is faster then me. Then, the worst thing happened. The feral dogs jump from deep in the brush to clam their prize they wounded yesterday. Something in my mind lurches me forward,willing me to keep running. This is my battle. The dogs are gaining. Soon they will weaken once more and the deer will be theirs. I run faster. I can feel my heart beating in my fingertips. I clench my fists and run on still. I'm almost there, I can hear the crushing of brush under the fight and the harsh exhales of the dogs as I pump my legs harder. They snap at the deer, catching it by its wounded leg. Some of the dogs back off when I reach the fight scene. The biggest doesn't. I charge at the dog ramming my shoulder into its side, causing it to release its grasp on the deers leg. It snarls at me. I kick, sending the dog backwards.
"This is my fight!" I yell at the dogs. They snarl still.
The small deer is covered in blood now. Its laying almost lifeless, breathing slow and soft, sending small dribbles of blood from its nostrils. I feel that all-to-familiar twinge of guilt sink into my stomach. I know I have to kill the deer. I take my club and raise it over my head. I get distracted from my kill when I feel a sharp stabbing in my side. I turn, one of the dogs is ripping at my flesh. I swing the club at my attacker instead. It collides with the beasts snout. Yelping, the beast turns around and runs. I turn back to my prey. I take the deers head into hand and twist with exhilarating force, letting the adrenaline escape through my fingers. SNAP. The deers breathing stopped and I felt something travel up my spine and into the sky. Something heavy lunges onto my back, it wriggles, finding a free place to bite. I find my club and swing. I'm not quite sure what it came in contact with, but it sent the beast running, tail between legs. I struggle to find my feet. When I do, I roll over and rise over the the feral dogs like the canyon rose over me, leaving the lifeless deer behind me. Their snouts soaked in drool and blood, their lips curl as they watch me rise. I lift my club further over my head. The dogs faces change and their eyes soften as the biggest dog takes a step back and stops snarling. They move closer together, tails between their legs. The beasts eyes peer up at me with respect. I have won. The deer is mine. A roar of accomplishment escapes my chest.
"YYYEESSS!" The sound makes the dogs turn round and scamper away.
I pump my fists into the air. Achievement buzzes inside of me. I fall to my knees in front of my prize. I am alive, thriving, beautiful. I haul the deer to my shoulders, its heavy flesh burdening down on my petite frame. I love it. I start on my way home, replaying the battle 100 times over in my mind. Its dark now, I never feel even the slightest bit of alarm. I know I can handle it if something comes my way. I pass over the huge rock formation that makes a great sound when my boots collide with its surface. I smile at the sound. Just then I hear a sound of something I have not herd since I was in my home. My name.
"Reece. Keep calm." The voice pulled something over my head, shielding my eyes. I feel the weight of my bloody prize slide from my shoulders the same time I feel a intense pinch in my neck. Then I slip into something I cannot explain, the closest word is sleep.
When I wake, something is over my eyes. The pain in my side is gone. I scream in frustration of loosing my hunt. My legs and arms are strapped into something, restricting movement. Someone pulls the darkness from over my head. Brightness stings my eyes. When I adjust to the florescent light, I see my kid-napper in front of me. A man with a black suit and white hair. The next thing I see steals my breath, mid-inhale. Gray eyes.
"Hello Reece, my name is Ronald J. Keyting." Says the man. "I work with The Control." I don't reply, though he waits, I look down, furious with loosing my deer.
"I bet you want to know why you were put in the canyon, don't you Reece?" He says patiently. I look up, remembering my questions. My desires turn to firewood and his words set them ablaze.
"Yes." I say after finding my voice.
He nods, then replies: "You were part of a sort of important movement, or experiment, if you will. To change things."
"You almost killed me, for your change?!" I say with wide eyes, fury building inside of me.
"Aww, but we didn't now, did we Reece? And, you will soon see you almost died for change for yourself, not only I. And your families, and everyone that The Control rules over. " He said with a point, and raised eyebrows.
"What?" I say.
"I see I have your attention now. Well we, The Control, took you from your city and ejected you with a sort of device, if you will, that will send us all your thoughts in the process you're thinking them. Oh, and sorry for that headache"
I blushed when I remembered thinking about my nudity still burning with the desire to know more.
"Why did you do this?!" I say.
"To track your thinking to create a new world, Reece, don't you see? We needed a person who has uncovered some of a flaw in our societies, someone to go out and survive in a harsh environment. And, let me tell you, Reece. You did a splendid job at it." He was leaning closer to my face now. I think of my questions, my hopes.
"How can I get home, and where is my deer!?"
"You can have your silly little deer and you can go home as soon as you clean up, we will take you there.We have more important matters at hand, Reece. We need a reevaluation. We need to stop the depressions that we, The Control, pressed upon people. We need a change. Your the key, Reece. Can you help us change everything? Everything you think should be changed?" He said in hope.
"What do you mean?" I say in wonder.
"You have uncovered the flaws of our society through struggle, pain and triumph. You have learned what we, as humans, should have the right to feel, the right to do, and the right to change. And that, young Reece, is why I nominate you to change the things that surround you, your family, and all human kind. The way you got up, sickly with blood loss and anguish. Thats the way our nation should be, courageous. Our nation should always be moving forward, like you did when you found that cave! We as a nation should push through, we should persevere like you did in the mudslide despite your fears! The way you created art just to pass the time, expressing what lied deep inside your young mind with things that surround you. Our nation should be capable of expression. When you fought brutal feral dogs, away from your hunt, it was fearless. The way our nation should be. The way you spent hours upon hours thinking, dreaming of change, and beauty for our society. Our nation should be that way, thoughtful. The way you respected that fox, so honest, so true! Our nation should have an international integrity the way you expressed your thoughts of security and freedom from harm while inside your cave is the way our nation should be, safe.Our nation should be forever growing, over coming our problems and fears. The way you did throughout your time in the canyon!
"Our nation should be tender with mercy and love, thriving, beautiful, strong, always actively moving forward, reaching into the future with one hand, and with the other, we would heal the problems of today. Our nation should be like you. It has done its time of struggle, it is now time for growth. All the things that I have said, young Reece, all the things that you have done, that you are now. Are the complete opposite of what our dystopian society is. Has done. And That is why we need change so desperately Reece! Help our nation grow. You are the key, would you like to become the first 15 year old Controller, Reece?"
The thought took my breath away. A Controller, me? No! Though the thought of having the ability to one day paint excited me, I was still furious. I almost lost my life. I almost died for this mans experiment! Selfish. I endured all types of pain that makes my stomach spoil and my eyes well up when thinking of it. I come back to his question, I was about to decline when I remembered my friend the healthy fox. I remember seeing it give half its meal to the sickly fox. I am the healthy fox, I have survived. I have learned. I have experienced, and wished for the stopping of suicides that I once watched on late-night news, and other changes for my home. Home, the weak fox. Sickly with brainwash, and depression. I think of my knowledge, my success, my growth. My knowledge is the meal. My half of the meal is having my desires extinguished, my questions that once burned inside of me answered, getting to go home. My home, my city, my worlds half is where I become a Controller. Spreading my thoughts of change and expression. I come back to the moment and see Ronald's gray eyes peering at me with anticipation.
"Yes," I say. "On one condition"
"And, what will that be?" asks Ronald.
"I wish to be a artist as well."
"Reece, the world needs you. Needs you, and your art."
By Heidi A. Williams
Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves. Knowing ourselves can impact more then we know.
~Henry David Thoreau
The sky is a gray wash of clouds, just done spitting drops of rain. I walk straight home as instructed bossily from Rose. I roll my eyes at her bossiness. Just then I feel a pair of strong hands wrench my arms behind my back. Just before I another pair of hands pull something over my head that turns the day back to night I see a flash of gray eyes and four big figures. I try to scream but my voice is muffled from a big hand pressed over my mouth. I feel a sharp pinch in my neck that makes my eyes well and causes my body to fall slack. I see black and yellow lights, muffled from the blackness of the blindfold. Something pressed me, pushed me on something tell it fell threw. Then, I slip into something I cannot explain besides as sleep.
It is in the green hearth of the canyon, where I awake. The great canyon walls seem to be more than a mile in height, thousands of feet of amber and rust towering over me in granite peeks and steep slopes, rising one above the other until reaching a summit. Small and large passages of red and gray flare above, jade water makes a booming sound, cradled in the floor of the great canyon. The walls cut in many places by years of weather and tragedy contributing towards some bigger picture. This was truly a great and terrible beauty. I wake with two gray eyes lingering in my memory, a headache, and a faint awareness of a mans voice saying my name. Reece. I untwist my fingers from my long hair behind my hair ribbon to search for the warmth found deeper under my quilt. But I only find grass, damp with a mornings dew, no quilt at all. When I open my eyes a swell of confusion rolls over me and sits there, pressing me with its deadweight. I sit up, damp with dew and cold sweat. The meadow is probably beautiful, I can't tell. Behind me is a steep uphill and three ample boulders. I stand up. Where am I? Something inside of me flexes and the ground turns from grass to water as my panic grows. I have never been comfortable outside of the City that I live in. I dig my nails into my palms.
"Where am I?"
My mind coils, waiting for something to come out and clear my confusion as it always does. Nothing comes. I let out a sob in frustration; at home I’m never confused. Before I realize, I'm running, looking for something, anything to pull me from my confusion, as it always does at home.
"Hello!?" I sob.
I imagine a hand reaching into a dark abyss, left empty and unused, but still teeming with hope. As I run, I take no notice of the pain in my legs or head, focusing only on moving forward with surprising skill and agility. My eyes look, look for something to tell me I'm okay. I have never had this much space to run in the walls on my City. I hop a log, and dodge a tree, I move over obstacles that stand in the way of me and my answer. I run pass a cave, overhanging the river filled with who- knows-what. As I run, something prances out of my way, some type of animal. Probably a deer. The question: why am I here? Was set ablaze in my mind. The burning desire to know why I am here holds on inside of me, pulls me still, this desire is filled with anticipation and longing. The anticipation runs dry after one simple heavy thought that has been there from the start but didn't want to uncover, and I’m left longing for the past. There is no one here to tell me why. The thought hits me from within my own existence, jolts me from my stomach, sending me backwards, tumbling to a stop. My knees go slack and I sit against a tree and let out a sob that cracks in my throat like broken wood. I sit there weeping for the present situation, never looking forward, only looking down.
Tears roll down my neck, dampening my collar, it makes me cold. Worry finds its way into me when I think of my family. I think back to the time of when I would watch the news with my mother, we would watch reports of peoples suicides. All with the same note about how they feel so bottled up, how they can't express themselves, and how they just couldn't take it anymore. My mother and I would share looks longing for change, but we would never say it aloud. I long for my mother, she would cure my headache and sooth me of my panic with her wise words. I long for my father, he would know our next move. And I long for my sister, because together we would enjoy the process. I wonder if they know where I am, I bet they don't. I wonder if my parents are longing for their blond freckled daughter like I am longing for them. Sobs feel empty when there is no one to acknowledge them, as someone always is at home. When the sobbing stops, everything falls silent. The skin beneath my eyes is puffy, my mouth is dry and slack. My eyes feel heavy, I wedge my body between two close trees and sleep. In my mind, I experience the thing that illustrates normal. The last thing I remember before I unexpectedly woke in
this canyon.
My sister and I walking past the market in the clothes I have on now. On our way to our lessons. I was always the timid child. The one who would always call my father on sleepovers to pick me up and woke with nightmares. The four men ran past us, all clutching paintings in their hands, it nearly made me scream. The sight of the paintings about made me turn away. One man nearly ramming me with all the commotion, in his hand was a painting of a woman, on her face was something I couldn't identify as a smile or a frown. She was beautiful, though I'd never say it aloud. The four men were running from Authority, who peeped their whistles and screamed, "Stop them!" Must be an art bust. One Authority walked past with a man, screaming, "Art will remain the most important movements of mankind made out of struggle in between layers of wisdom and madness, between shades of dream and reality in our mind!" His words were meant to be brushed off, but they weren't. I think he was meaning to tell the Authority behind him, though he was looking at everyone around with a flexed neck and wide eyes. His mouth pulled in a funny direction. "A home without expression is no home at all!" His words were muffled due to the Authorities hand over his mouth. "We must rise toge...." His words were cut short when the Authority took his club from his hip and beat the man. Things were set silent with many awkward looks and shaky hands after they left, so we walked on.
All that day, I dreamed of being a artist, to be able to paint the colors we are forbidden to dress in. Dreamed of a world with expression, self growth. Dreamed of a world full of art and beauty and a life where The Great Bill was never signed by The Control. Dreamed of a home where the people did not fear Authority or The Control. Dreamed of a world where Authority or The Control did not fear art because of the awakening of new thought; deeper thought. Deeper thought makes for the uncovering of flaws, uncovering of flaws makes for the longing of change, the longing for change makes for sparks of violence because people just don't listen to words, and violence makes for discomfort. Dreamed of the ability to aspire another role in life, not the role Program put me in. But I knew I would never get out of Program. No one does. Everyone had the future they knew they would have. Mine is becoming an accountant. "It's not that bad." My mother would say to try to reassure me when I wept after lessons. But she too knows I dream of bigger things than jumbles of numbers and a pen. "I wanna do somethin big!" I would say when I was young, before I knew I could not choose. My parents always seemed flustered when I told them I wished of something different. I used to wonder why, but now that I started lessons, the reason was shoved down my throat. "That way there is no stress, no wondering, no heat on us to change where we are at home." Teacher would say. I thought that we maybe needed a change. But then I banished it from my mind feeling filthy and defiled. After that day of dreaming my sister, Rose, stayed after in Program to be with her friends, and I was meant to go straight home and tell Mother where she was. I never made it home. Four men. Hard pinch. The shapes of buildings came down upon me, flashing black and yellow. Pushing me, pressing me against something hard until something gave way, grey eyes, falling, a familiar sent, dewy grass. I awake.
The sun is weak below the horizon when I wake. Dew has collected on my skin while I was sleeping again. When I see the great walls and river, the realness of being in this canyon with no explanation of why sinks in. I wished so desperately my presence here was just a nightmare. But, it wasn't. In disappointment I close my eyes and again, fall into a deep sleep.
Bright sun and discomfort wakes me. A horrible twinge runs up and down my limbs. My skin feels tight and uncomfortable, like its burned from the sun, ouch. My back and neck aches with stiffness. At home, I am never uncomfortable, my parents, The Control, the Authority, and Program all made it so discomfort was not possible by elemeting all things that could cause struggle. My stomach yells in hunger pains and my throat feels raw when I speak.
"How long did I sleep?" I whisper to myself.
No telling, due to the amount of burn and aches I'm enduring, could have been days. I think to myself, "It’s queer how the
faint chirping of the birds is the loudest thing you can hear when your starving. I wonder why that is."
I venture up hill finding myself on a smallish, dusty, mesa still nowhere near the top. There, I gather some things I remember learning about from a history book at Program about what some people used to eat before The Bill was signed, I believe it was called salad . The things had minimal color and smelled strong. I pack them in the pockets of my jeans to eat later. I hear a sound coming from an overturned rock, and a yelp from who knows what. I whip my head around. Behind me are six feral dogs. I have never seen an animal besides a bird without bars between us before. One could see plainly that they were starving but still strong. The light mangy fur mixed with the dogs aggression towards each other makes a panic rise in my belly. At home aggression does not exist. At home we are a society of harmony.I back up. The dogs haven't seen me yet. I walk backwards, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the crackling of the sticks and twigs under me. I try not to breathe, flexing every muscle, holding in every peep of panic that could escape me and be my last. One dog raises its head and I take off without hesitation. I run upstream until I find the meadow where I arrived. It feels like the closest thing to home. Maybe because it's the closest thing to normal. The thought makes me dig my nails into my palms. Why, as humans, do we feel most comfortable migrating towards the things that make us feel most normal? "Perhaps its because we feel most safe there." I think. The thought made another question become clear. "Why must we always be safe?" I think to myself. Maybe because safe is comfort, and so my home is always safe, discomfort is not possible thanks to The Control. I settle with that answer because my eyes begin to well up like they do sometimes, and before I can say no, I sit on a log and weep. I weep in terror of the dogs, I weep for myself. I weep because I miss my family. At home there is no wild dog pack. At home there is no pain or suffering; at home there is no wild at all. Where am I!? I want to go home! How can I get home?!
Just then I see a small round rabbit. So soft looking, so natural. My first reaction is that it is cute, with its big round eyes and shiny coat. I find myself thinking I must snatch the little thing and save it from the terrible awful dogs behind me. The rabbit does not look as I did. It isn't tense and afraid. It's simply sniffing around, hopping occasionally to get somewhere further then it was before. This small rabbit. So alive, thriving, almost courageous, it's surviving better then I am. A rabbit. Another thought becomes clear: This little thing holds what my society does not. It is courageous, thriving, surviving! I wish my society could be more like this small brave rabbit.
After a bit, I dry my eyes and the wet spots on my collar and sleeves starts to dry. I turn my pockets inside out and see my gatherings from the day. I have some type of root, leaves that get slimy when I chew them, and pine needles like the ones outside my house. With enough water, anything is edible. Another thought becomes prominent after seeing a thick curtain of clouds. Where am I going to sleep tonight? I need to make my move fast. I decide on a tree-well surrounded by some type of light green plant that smells strong and deep. I think its called sage.
My little well is cold and uneven, and because of its shape I am forced to face the trunk of my pine and curl around it like a snake. Snake, it sends a shiver down my back. It’s funny how we fear such small things as humans, that should change. My mind flashes to a time in my home, when, if I was scared, I could simply invasion a piece of art that I could hopeful one day create and that would reassure me. When I poke my head from the well I can see the steep uphill and the amble boulders. By sundown I am sleeping.
I wake in a panic. Blackness is thick around me, covered in wet. The sound of rain is overwhelming. Something cold and thick blocks my nose and mouth, choking me, making it hard to breath. I wipe the substance from my eyes. Something inside of my stomach clenches and grinds against something else and I inhale sharply, breathing in the thick substance that coats my body. I turn my head and heave bile and mud. I crawl out of my tree well and make it onto my feet. The ground keeps sliding under me, making it impossible to stand. Lightning flashes, the world around me is moving downhill. Mudslide. I make my way to the boulders on my left. I can just barely see that they are clear from the mess of wet earth if I climb high enough. I reach the first hold. The weight of the mud burdens my body, making it hard to climb. But I fight through it. I reach the second. Something inside of me burns. Wetness from rain coats the clean rock like spilled ink, loosening my grip. I take hold of the third. The last. It's slippery with mud and water. I heave myself up. I did it. Accomplishment, I know the word, I have never used it before; but it swarms my body as I lay on the roof of the boulder, it relaxes my muscles. Fatigue claims its prize and I fall asleep.
When morning comes, the storm is over. Harsh tastes invade my mouth. Flies buzz everywhere. I strip myself of the hard shell of cracked mud and bile that cakes my joints, making it hard to move. I’m naked in the desert sun, setting out to find unspoiled water and a new home. I remember the cave I saw earlier, when I was running. It should be close by, on my way I saw trees, bushes, all things ruined, from foot upon foot of mud. How come nature is filled with such suffering? After remembering my history book and learning about the terrible awful things people have done to each other in the past, came the thought: Why did humans put themselves in suffering? Because of nature? I feel bare and exposed though I know nobody is watching. It reminds me of home, and how sometimes humans care about things in the eyes of others though others don't care, that should change. Home. My eyes well but I banish the thought when I reach my destination.
The cave is propped high on large stable boulders, on the left side a cliff drops roughly 20 feet. Dangerous. On the right side, the cave overlooks the river. Good. The area around my new cave is littered with many tall, climbable boulders that little lizards use to sun bathe. Insurance. I go to the river to bathe. As I wade in, the river laps at my bare skin, its cool currents greeting me like something loved and familiar. I washed the shell of dry bile and muck from my hair and clothes. I allow water to swallow me, take me, absorb me in its currents. I let it quench my thirst. When I retreat back to land, I lay my clothes flat on a sandstone boulder to let the mid-day sunlight rid them of their wetness. Then I lay beside them. These moments I spend lounging nude under the canyon sun, like the lizards I saw before, are enjoyed, they are free of worry and longing of home. I am temporarily done desiring to know how and why I am here. I just lay here, absorbing the suns warm balmy rays as they briefly clean me of anguish.
When I’m dry, I dress myself in the newly warmed clothes.The floor of my cave is largish and allows me to lay comfortably with enough room to sprawl out and still be fully engulfed inside the cave. Better than I would expect to find in this canyon that always seems to be fighting me. I find myself being proud of the cave I have claimed, proud to say I lived through a mudslide, proud to say I feel safe in a place I found on my own, away from feral dogs and sliding mud. I cannot help but learn more about myself in this canyon as I take on the world into my own scarred hands. Why have I never felt this way before? The question angers me. Maybe because at home pride can cause jealousy for another, and jealousy is uncomfortable. I take my life tenderly, but still respect it like the strong capable thing it is. It is an old robust piece of clay, with millions of thumbprints on it.
Hunger strikes again, so I make my way to gather food. The sun beats down on my shoulders like tragedy as I stroll on. My question, Why am I here? still burns inside of me and drives me to look for food, as if I'm only surviving to know why I'm here, to know how I got here, and how I can get home. I use this inspiration to keep moving, keep gathering food, keep surviving. I nibble on my gatherings on the way back to the cave, swaying the make-shift basket made from my flannel and a few fancy knots, once and a while snatching up some pieces of fire wood to help cut down the cold nights. I end my day with pine needles, roots, and those same slimy leaves I choked down before. I sit on a stump outside of my cave and watch the sun turn molten across the horizon. I find myself enjoying this time I spend sitting in the mouth of the cave, enjoying the
silence and beauty of my new canyon home. My mood shifts when I linger on the word home.
"Home, family, friends." I say to myself in longing. I long for family dinners, and play-dates with friends.
The words make me sad. It’s funny. At home I took the things that I now long for for granted, a warm bed, welcoming arms, my mother, my sister, my father. He would love it here, nature does fascinate him. I remember a time when Rose and I had friends over. One boy , named Clay, snuck in a small radio. Everyone was fascinated yet terrified of the small music machine. "How does it work?" They asked, as if I knew. The radio was a gateway for expression through music. And that, is illegal. When my parents barged into the house they yelled, saying we could be arrested, a life sentence would be put under our names and we would be gone for life. I would give anything to have my mother and father here now to yell at me for my mistakes like sleeping in a tree well. I now refuse to accept the view that society is so tragically bound to over look the things and be ungrateful for the things we love to hold onto to be happy as humans. That should change. We should be grateful for having the ability to spend time with our families. Angling my thoughts away from the memory, I retire to my cave to sleep.
I am grateful to see the night turn to dawn the next morning. The sky is a crisp blue, waiting to watch what me and the my world will take on. It’s funny how the world becomes our own when we are alone.
I flinch when I spy a healthy looking fox in front of me. Its molten black eyes fall upon me in a stare that shows respect, then turns away to continue whatever it was doing before. It holds its downy tail straight out behind its body, its head close to the ground, eyes fixated upon something rustling in the sage brush. Then, as if on cue, the mammal leaps from its stealthy position, arching its back, angling its arrow like body towards the sage brush, then, after what seemed to be a half second, the fox poked its head out with a trophy in its jaws. A rodent. Its eyes fall upon me again on its way out, I feel like I should nod. I don't move, in fear of loosing its trust.
After it left, hunger pains racked my belly. I should go get some breakfast, but I find myself weary of the pine needles and roots I have been dining on. I think back to the fox, I think of the dead rodent hanging from its jaws. I should hunt.
I find small rodents hiding deep inside brush, small lizards on rocks, and birds that are too high to even attempt to make a meal out of them. I’ll go for the lizards, they seem the most slow. And, slow is easy. When I approach the boulders outside my cave I see my first chance. I creep from behind it, crackling leaves under my feet, and holding my hands out in a cup shape. I jerk forward, slapping my empty hands on the wall of the boulder, watching as the lizard scurries away. Failure, it happens three times over. Then, to my astonishment, after almost a full day with small water and needle gathering, I catch four of the small reptiles. The lizards are smallish with tan and milky scales. I kill the things by holding their bodies down flat then demolishing their thin neck bones with a largish stone, remembering the butcher in my city kill and gut the animals he prepares. I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt inside me. I have always loved animals, though my home does not allow them in fear of the people enjoying the company of an animal over a human, the dominant race of life on Earth. At home everyone is afraid to love animals, afraid to do anything, really, afraid of Authority and The Control. That should change. People should feel safe and secure because of Authority and The Control. On that thought, I attempt to make a fire to cook one of my lizards with two sticks and dry brush like the Olds do in my history book. Amazingly, after three small temper tantrums I succeed with a very small flicker and a thin stream of smoke. After I finish gorging on my lizard, with much water and needles, I wrap the other three in rags from my flannel, and dispose of the head and skin outside the mouth of the cave. Then, I retreat inside to sleep for the night.
The sound of scuffling paws on the cave floor wakes me. Though the darkness is thick around me, I can just make out six smallish figures moving on all fours. The feral dogs. Something inside of me constricts and I dig my nails into my palms. I lay still for a broken second, tense with fright. Then I act. I stand and bound through the small swarm of the dogs. I can feel one of the beasts' warm respirations perpetrating on the back of my leg as it snaps its powerful jaws at me. Their mangy hair pricks the skin on the back of my legs as I run. Then, making the worst of mistakes, I topple over the spiny backs of the dogs, tumbling to the ground on the seat of my pants. The beasts surround me, their heads angled close to the cave floor, drool dripping from their serrated teeth.The growls that rise from somewhere deep within the dogs' chests would cool the blood of even the bravest of men. One beast lunges toward me, eyes fixed on my throat. I scurry backwards into the territory of another dog, it bites me, distorting the flesh on my shoulder. I scream in agony. Another nips at my boot. I kick, sending the dog tumbling backwards with a yelp, leaving a gap in the circle of crazed creatures. I use that second to make my escape, I bound threw the opening. My boot catches an exposed root sending me tumbling to the ground and off the side of the cliff. A twinge of pain rises up my leg after slamming into a dry log leaving a twisted tree limb swallowed in my flesh. I scream in sobbing agony as I pull the stick from my leg, pain runs up my leg, escaping in tears and vomit. I clutch my wounded limb, sticking a finger into the hole in my left leg, I see it reaches to my second knuckle. I let out another sob and pass out from exhaustion and pain.
I wake when the sun is in the middle of the sky, burnsun, ( I think..) defiles my exposed skin. The dogs must have smelled the leftover head and skin of the lizards. Flies hover over my wounds, bobbing up and down occasionally touching down horrific bacteria spreading across my gashes. I wave them away with a blood caked hand. Aching radiates across my limbs, causing me to let out a small whimper, making me acknowledge my parched throat. Sitting up makes me dizzy, so I flop back down. I feel as if I'll never move again, I'm worried I’ll never move again. Something inside of me flashes back to my mother’s wise words. "Worry does not empty tomorrow of its suffering, it empties today of its strength." Her saying gives me courage and I stand up using a tree for support. I need to get to the river. My questions pop back into mind: Why am I
here? Where am I? How can I get home? It seems only when I'm suffering I want to be somewhere else. When I'm succeeding, I just stay in the moment and be grateful for what I have done. At home we have no success, we only have progression. That should change. When I reach the fastest and cleanest part of the river, I drink until my belly gurgles. I move and I look at my wounds for the first time. The gash in my left leg is as long as my hand, the thing is oozing oily puss, dampening my jeans and rewetting the dry crimson blood that is caking the edges of the hole. My skin is tight and dark due to the swelling, it swelled so big. Visions of my leg popping due to the plumpness swarm my mind. The horrific sight makes me gag. I turn my eyes away to check my shoulder. Smallish holes form a circle, plum and black surround the holes like flies on stink. Not as bad as my leg, but both wounds are going to take days of rest to recover. Though the holes in my shoulder were not as fatal as the gash in my leg, they still make tears burn in the back of my eyes when I raise my arm. Washing is the worst pain of it all. It's a searing, aching pain that makes me yelp like the dogs I encountered last night. I rip more of the seams of my flannel to create a dressing for my wounds. Knotting the cloth snugly around my limbs hurts a bit, but I know only good will come of it. After I finish cleansing my wounds and quenching my thirst, I limp back to the cave and sleep for the remainder of the day, occasionally waking from dreams of home and nightmares of me dying in this cave of blood loss, though my gashes are hardly bleeding anymore. I sleep until days later.
I rise to the faint pitter patter of canyon rain falling on the roof of my cave home. Outside everything is covered in wet, dripping from elaborate rock sculptures of men and monster. It's nice, looking over the rain and mud when you’re not suffering because of it. It's the same as home, I think, when you are observing relationships and lives crumble because of one thing or another, you don't take it to heart, you gossip with your friends about it. Treat it like entertainment, something to take you away from the dramas of your own life. But, when you are the one crumbling, it beats down on your shoulders, threatens to kill you. That should change.
By the law of The Bill, civilians cannot express this suffering in any way, shape, or form. You feel as if Authority hangs over your head by a single hair, threatening to snap and crush your neck, like I did the lizards, if you let out one single peep of expression. That should change.
I tally the number of the days I spend resting with a burnt stick on the cave walls. The tally marks say I have been resting for two days and three nights, I pass the time by sketching images of hands and eyes on the cave floor. At home I would be arrested for this. I snack on needles and roots when hungry, to quench my thirst, I stick my head out of the cave and drink from a small pool, continuously refilling with rain water. The nights are strikingly cold, causing me to pull my jacket snugly over my shoulders. And I redress my wounds five times over.
When the puss and blood recedes from my wounds. I decide it's time move again. I stand on weary baby feet, wobbling on my way out of the cave. The sun shines molten gold as it climbs the morning sky from behind the canyon walls. It kisses my cheeks and warms my hair. With my toe, I carve a outline of the canyons beauty in the river bank. When I open my eyes I see my friend, the fox. I watch it with curious eyes. I watch its healthy figure move stealthily through the glade, carrying its tail with grace and balance. A dead rodent hangs lifeless in its mouth.The fox turns, lays in front of a small cluster of rocks and brush, and rips its prey into equal piles. To my surprise, another fox emerges from the cluster, beaten and weak from illness. Using its nose, the healthy fox pushes the remans of the rodent toward the sickly fox. With much gratitude, the weak fox excepts the gift and together, they eat. The gesture makes my eyes well. What a beautiful thing to have mercy in such an unforgiving place, in this canyon, this world, though everything in this moment's hunger tells you that you should eat the meal, all of it. But, instead you give it to a another.
Aching hunger cramps interrupt my thought, I go and gather more needles. After I discover the wood in the canyon is too wet to make a fire to cook one of my three lizards, I venture downriver to explore the undiscovered territory of the canyon, maybe I will find someone. Someone to tell me why I am here, how I am here. Someone to send me to the warm embrace of my family and friends. Reality hits me the same time my leg pains me. It aches when I step, but the pain is nowhere near the searing ache I endured before down at the river. Downriver is different, the walls of the canyon not as high as the ones surrounding my cave. I spy a trail washed out from the days of rain and sliding mud. The wash leads up the edge of the canyon and onto the mesa. I’m sure one could hike the wash up to the top of the mesa and overlook the canyon and all its creatures, and maybe the ones that don't belong here. Like me.
When I reach the mesa, the sun is nearly setting west. Though here, there is no time or plans, just night and day, following the wash took longer then I thought it would. I am right about overlooking the canyon and all of its creatures, but not one I am over looking is human. I was almost expecting this let down of finding someone to send me home. My thoughts shift when I see the feral dogs below me, I dig my nails into my palms in fright. The canines are laying near their den, a collection a large boulders piled up into a jumble of caves and caverns. I imagine the dogs luring young children into the mists of the caves, never to be seen again. I banish the thought with a grimace. While observing the dogs I notice they are not yelping and snapping in their usual manner. Their muscles are relaxed and slack. I coil waiting for them to realize my presence and attack me. The biggest dogs eyes fall upon me. I tense, waiting for the great attack. It does not come. Instead, the dogs pant, lounging in the rubble and shade. "That’s funny," I think to myself. These dogs, the same dogs who put holes in my shoulder for a few scraps of skin are now basking in the sun, content with their savage life! Preposterous! These dogs, once in such distress, are now so happy, after such a small victory of winning a few scraps of scales! I think back to my time basking in the sun on the sandstone boulders, and how I once felt the same content-ness the dogs are feeling now, after clamming my cave. I blush in the realization. It's peculiar how alike I find myself to the great and terrible creatures that surround me. At home, we are meant to view animals as the lowest class fascination one could ever have, we see humans as the dominant
race. We won the battle of dominance with pure intelligence. We are meant to see the animal race as something like a forever loosing team. That should change. Now that I am here, living with them. I see humans are more animal then we think, we just wouldn't like to say so. That should change.
The sun burns fully west now, sending a curtain of rose and lilac across the sky. I hope someday I will be able to paint this sunset. Beautiful. Though I'd like to stay and take in its beauty, it will be dark soon, and I should get moving. Soon, blackness weaves its way around me, cutting me off from my sense of sight. The familiar feeling of panic builds inside me once again, and those desirable answers to the questions that come in the hand of panic rise as well. Why am I here?! How can I get home?! Where am I?! I dig my nails into my palms once again, and anticipate something discomforting and horrific occurring in this blackness, something like my death. As I walk, my mind waits, waits for this horrific thing to pop out from some harshly smelling bush and show me my death. Nothing pops, I am still alive, and I'm walking back to my cave home to sleep off the day. I decide nothing good comes from this anticipation of terrible awful things here, or at home. I conclude that nothing good will ever come from dwelling on the possibility of future suffering. I think back my desire for knowledge of things left unknown. Why am I here? How can I get home? Where am I? I let them kindle inside of me, drive me back to my new cave home. A new question blooms in my mind: Is it human nature to question the way things are? Is this normal thinking? Why is it when I am put in this beautiful terrible canyon I can uncover the things wrong with my home? My home, my society; I now see it numbs this animal. That should change. Little do they know, we can still dream.
When I arrive back at my cave, I flop down on the floor, using a collection of grass and weeds for a pillow. I think back to the pillows on my own bed and how the pile here does not compare to the comfort found in the silky pockets of feathers and cotton I used to use. My mind jolts back to a time when Rose and I used to share a mattress.
One night my sister and I were playing a game of cat and mouse after lights out, and mother and father were quite frustrated with trying to coax us under the blankets. After what seemed like centuries of persuading, we finally convinced our weary parents to stay up with us and join our lively game. Mother and I took roll of mouse, and father and Rose were the cats. Mother and I crawled around the island in the kitchen, scanning the floor for fathers socked feet. Then, with all clumsiness, father bounded behind us, toppling over our crouched figures and colliding with the tiled floor. Mother stretched over him, peering at his face to see if he was okay. Father sat up, swooped me into his thick arms, and tickled the daylights out of me and mother.
The memory makes my lips curl into a smile and a fit of giggles escapes into the night air. It's funny, when you cry alone in the dark, you feel nothing but emptiness, solitude, and loneliness. But, when you laugh alone in the dark, you laugh again, because the ridiculousness of it all is positively silly. Oh, how I favor giggles over tears. I remember when I first arrived here, the smallest thing would cause me burst into a spasm of tears and blue thoughts. A wave of pride rolls over me as I realize how far I’ve come, how much I have changed. Now, I can handle the canyons, the wild creatures, and the skies. Back then I would weep about them. Another realization hits me. I am the rabbit. The small round rabbit who was living better then I was at the time, when I saw it nibbling on grass. Now, I possess the thriving courage that the small rabbit did. I am not tense or afraid of the dogs or the terrible awful things that lurk outside my cave, no! I'm ready for them, ready to take them on if they come, but for now, while I am still out of harm, I live. I live in the moment, quenching my thirst and feeding my hunger, I thrive in the wellness of still having the ability to live, and for that, I am grateful.
The next day I wake with hunger. It takes me what seems like hours to spark a fire to roast the remainder of my three lizards before they spoil. The lizards taste of salt, smoke of the fire, and a form of sweetish chicken. After chowing on my breakfast of lizards and needles, I find myself almost bored with the tranquility of the canyon. Its walls stretch high above me, watching me with curiosity as I take life as it comes in this harsh environment. I take a morning swim, unflustered with my nudity. The water refreshes my healing wounds, leaving them tingling and cool.
I stack balancing towers of river stones just stronger then the wind and I trace images of my hand in the sand near the river bank. The towers are beautiful. I start to think of a world where art is legal, even smiled upon. I wish I could show someone my towers. Show them how I carefully stacked the river stones one on top of the other. Being bored is a good sign in an unforgiving place like this. It means you are not needing to drastically pull out of a near death situation. I think back to home and what I did when I was stricken with being bored and alone. I remember my pleasant walks down the street with mother, admiring the crab apple trees. I conclude I should take a walk, admire the canyon and its morning beauty. I pack some needles and roots in my pocket for the small journey and start on my way upriver. I walk past big cottonwoods and pines, I pull sage from the dry soil and rub it on my wrists and neck like I did with my mothers perfume. The sky is cloudless and pleasant. The air is still cool and crisp from the night breezes but warming more each time the sun rises higher in the sky. I pass over a rock formation that causes my boots to clap with each step. I enjoy the sound, I enjoy the noises here. "What a strange thought," I think to myself.
My train of thoughts change when I see movement from the corner of my eye. I whip my head around expecting something to attack. The animals are the color of sand their muscle bulged when they took a step backwards fearing me. It's just a grazing herd of deer. I exhale, I remember learning that deer used to roam freely in my city, and people used to hit them with their automobiles. They were removed when The Control signed The Bill because the deers death was too traumatizing to the youngsters. That should change. As I turn away from the herd a large commotion of hoofs on soil. The noise makes me turn. I see a flash of mangy fur and pointy ears. The dogs, they have found me. I grind my teeth together. I see a tree to my
right, and despite the ache in my leg, I bound and scamper up the tree. I sit ready to kick and fight for my life. They are almost here, I climb higher. I can hear the sound of their paws crunching the brush as they get closer, they are coming. The colors of their fur blur together as they run past me and my tree. Confused I peer out of an opening in the branches, the dogs are chasing the herd of deer. One dog, probably the fastest, runs to the front, causing the herd to separate; a distraction. The canines choose a small deer freshly separated from its mother; a choice. The soon-to-fade spots on the small deers back are apparent, indicating the deer is young. The dogs charge with surprising skill and agility. The deer bolted. As I watch I feel that same pang of anguish I did when I gutted the lizards. They nip at the deers back legs crippling its strides and tasting its blood; weaken. The deer makes a sound, probably calling for its mother. A bigger deer in the bigger herd turns and bounds toward the fight, knocking the dogs from the young deer. The small deer makes its escape toward the herd, the mother keeps running, creating a diversion for the herd to run. They take it and run west, the opposite direction, leaving the mother deer alone with the canines; what a sacrifice. The dogs snap and snarl at the mother deer. One dog, the same dog that ran in front on the herd before, does the same to this lone mammal and rounds in front of the full sized deer, causing it to turn and run into the trap of the five other dogs. The beasts snap her fragile joints leaving the animal frozen, immobilized. The hounds jaws latch onto their preys neck puncturing her breathing tubes and snapping the crippled deer's neck; victory. Then the dogs all take parts of the deers loose hide in mouth and drag it away, leaping and howling howls filled with pride and accomplishment. "They will be eating well tonight," I think to myself.
What a strategy they used to cure their hunger! When I arrive back at the cave and lie down I think of home, and how I was always fed well. Never left hungry, but when I was, I would just walk into the cabinet and retrieve a bag of crackers and be completely satisfied. Here, for me, and the feral dogs, it is a fight for our food, fight to be satisfied and survive. When we work to achieve what we need to survive, and to be happy, the feeling of accomplishment is beautifully rewarding, unlike the bag of crackers. Same game, different prize.
I wake hungry. After I decide that the dry needles are just not feeding my appetite anymore a realization hits me from somewhere deep inside my being. The dogs and I are quite alike, we are both surviving in this canyon, both animal, weather my home taught me otherwise or not. I remember the way the beasts crippled their meal before they drug it home. I remember the howls and barks of victory they expressed after they brought down their prey. I want that. I want to be so filled with accomplishment its spilling over my sides until I let it out in a scream of victory. I want a deer.
I spend my morning looking over my memory to refresh the details of the dogs killing strategy. Distract,
force a choice,
weaken,
immobilize, victory.
I decide I need to ingrate every step of the dogs strategy into my technique. To help myself, I sketch the plan into the packed soil under my feet. The distraction will be a rock thrown from my hand into the middle of the herd. I will choose my prey depending on one of two things. Most separated from the herd and most assessable. Or most weak. The way I see it, I have two ways to weaken my deer. Jump onto the back of the mammal to tire it, or use the club I made from a rock tied snuggly to a stick with my old hair ribbon to strike it's back legs. To immobilize, I will snap the joints of the deers leg using my makeshift club. I will reach my victory by breaking the deers neck bone as quickly as I can. I think back to a time when my father told me the snapping of the neck is one of the most painless, quickest ways to pass, I think that will have mercy on the pangs of guilt I seem to get when I hunt due to my love for animals. I set off on my way to the place that I last saw the herd, the same place where I adopted my plan. I pack my supplies for the hunt in the remains of my flannel, the equivalent of a cleaning rag.
I move in the direction the herd last moved, west. I follow a trail of deer droppings and a path of the same brush they were grazing on yesterday. When I spy the herd, I crouch behind a dry crackled log; much like the one that crippled my leg. The land the herd is grazing on is flat like the mesa, fortunately, there are a few boulders scattered on the flat rubble. I decide to make my way to one on the left side of the herd to throw my large rock. I scan the herd as I crawl on all fours, deciding which deer will feed me. I spy the limping young deer just before climbing the boulder. Perfect. Adrenaline prickles up my spine as I reach for the large rock at the same time, a small smile curls my lips, eyes glued to my target. I hurl the rock to the middle of the herd. The deer scatter, along with mine. A distraction. I jump from my hiding place behind the top of the boulder and run towards my prey. I made my choice. It has not seen me yet. The booming of my boots hitting the soil keeps in rhythm with my beating heart. The adrenaline spreads through my legs. I decide on leaping on the back of the deer to weaken my prey. My heart beats faster to keep in rhythm with my exiling legs, feeding on my adrenaline. I pounce, aiming my weight towards the smallish animal. Its hide pricks my skin like the dogs did. It squirms and kicks its way out from my grasp.
"No!" I yell.
Something inside of me sinks. I grind my teeth together. No! I can do this. I chase the weakened mammal. Even with its limping the deer is faster then me. Then, the worst thing happened. The feral dogs jump from deep in the brush to clam their prize they wounded yesterday. Something in my mind lurches me forward,willing me to keep running. This is my battle. The dogs are gaining. Soon they will weaken once more and the deer will be theirs. I run faster. I can feel my heart beating in my fingertips. I clench my fists and run on still. I'm almost there, I can hear the crushing of brush under the fight and the harsh exhales of the dogs as I pump my legs harder. They snap at the deer, catching it by its wounded leg. Some of the dogs back off when I reach the fight scene. The biggest doesn't. I charge at the dog ramming my shoulder into its side, causing it to release its grasp on the deers leg. It snarls at me. I kick, sending the dog backwards.
"This is my fight!" I yell at the dogs. They snarl still.
The small deer is covered in blood now. Its laying almost lifeless, breathing slow and soft, sending small dribbles of blood from its nostrils. I feel that all-to-familiar twinge of guilt sink into my stomach. I know I have to kill the deer. I take my club and raise it over my head. I get distracted from my kill when I feel a sharp stabbing in my side. I turn, one of the dogs is ripping at my flesh. I swing the club at my attacker instead. It collides with the beasts snout. Yelping, the beast turns around and runs. I turn back to my prey. I take the deers head into hand and twist with exhilarating force, letting the adrenaline escape through my fingers. SNAP. The deers breathing stopped and I felt something travel up my spine and into the sky. Something heavy lunges onto my back, it wriggles, finding a free place to bite. I find my club and swing. I'm not quite sure what it came in contact with, but it sent the beast running, tail between legs. I struggle to find my feet. When I do, I roll over and rise over the the feral dogs like the canyon rose over me, leaving the lifeless deer behind me. Their snouts soaked in drool and blood, their lips curl as they watch me rise. I lift my club further over my head. The dogs faces change and their eyes soften as the biggest dog takes a step back and stops snarling. They move closer together, tails between their legs. The beasts eyes peer up at me with respect. I have won. The deer is mine. A roar of accomplishment escapes my chest.
"YYYEESSS!" The sound makes the dogs turn round and scamper away.
I pump my fists into the air. Achievement buzzes inside of me. I fall to my knees in front of my prize. I am alive, thriving, beautiful. I haul the deer to my shoulders, its heavy flesh burdening down on my petite frame. I love it. I start on my way home, replaying the battle 100 times over in my mind. Its dark now, I never feel even the slightest bit of alarm. I know I can handle it if something comes my way. I pass over the huge rock formation that makes a great sound when my boots collide with its surface. I smile at the sound. Just then I hear a sound of something I have not herd since I was in my home. My name.
"Reece. Keep calm." The voice pulled something over my head, shielding my eyes. I feel the weight of my bloody prize slide from my shoulders the same time I feel a intense pinch in my neck. Then I slip into something I cannot explain, the closest word is sleep.
When I wake, something is over my eyes. The pain in my side is gone. I scream in frustration of loosing my hunt. My legs and arms are strapped into something, restricting movement. Someone pulls the darkness from over my head. Brightness stings my eyes. When I adjust to the florescent light, I see my kid-napper in front of me. A man with a black suit and white hair. The next thing I see steals my breath, mid-inhale. Gray eyes.
"Hello Reece, my name is Ronald J. Keyting." Says the man. "I work with The Control." I don't reply, though he waits, I look down, furious with loosing my deer.
"I bet you want to know why you were put in the canyon, don't you Reece?" He says patiently. I look up, remembering my questions. My desires turn to firewood and his words set them ablaze.
"Yes." I say after finding my voice.
He nods, then replies: "You were part of a sort of important movement, or experiment, if you will. To change things."
"You almost killed me, for your change?!" I say with wide eyes, fury building inside of me.
"Aww, but we didn't now, did we Reece? And, you will soon see you almost died for change for yourself, not only I. And your families, and everyone that The Control rules over. " He said with a point, and raised eyebrows.
"What?" I say.
"I see I have your attention now. Well we, The Control, took you from your city and ejected you with a sort of device, if you will, that will send us all your thoughts in the process you're thinking them. Oh, and sorry for that headache"
I blushed when I remembered thinking about my nudity still burning with the desire to know more.
"Why did you do this?!" I say.
"To track your thinking to create a new world, Reece, don't you see? We needed a person who has uncovered some of a flaw in our societies, someone to go out and survive in a harsh environment. And, let me tell you, Reece. You did a splendid job at it." He was leaning closer to my face now. I think of my questions, my hopes.
"How can I get home, and where is my deer!?"
"You can have your silly little deer and you can go home as soon as you clean up, we will take you there.We have more important matters at hand, Reece. We need a reevaluation. We need to stop the depressions that we, The Control, pressed upon people. We need a change. Your the key, Reece. Can you help us change everything? Everything you think should be changed?" He said in hope.
"What do you mean?" I say in wonder.
"You have uncovered the flaws of our society through struggle, pain and triumph. You have learned what we, as humans, should have the right to feel, the right to do, and the right to change. And that, young Reece, is why I nominate you to change the things that surround you, your family, and all human kind. The way you got up, sickly with blood loss and anguish. Thats the way our nation should be, courageous. Our nation should always be moving forward, like you did when you found that cave! We as a nation should push through, we should persevere like you did in the mudslide despite your fears! The way you created art just to pass the time, expressing what lied deep inside your young mind with things that surround you. Our nation should be capable of expression. When you fought brutal feral dogs, away from your hunt, it was fearless. The way our nation should be. The way you spent hours upon hours thinking, dreaming of change, and beauty for our society. Our nation should be that way, thoughtful. The way you respected that fox, so honest, so true! Our nation should have an international integrity the way you expressed your thoughts of security and freedom from harm while inside your cave is the way our nation should be, safe.Our nation should be forever growing, over coming our problems and fears. The way you did throughout your time in the canyon!
"Our nation should be tender with mercy and love, thriving, beautiful, strong, always actively moving forward, reaching into the future with one hand, and with the other, we would heal the problems of today. Our nation should be like you. It has done its time of struggle, it is now time for growth. All the things that I have said, young Reece, all the things that you have done, that you are now. Are the complete opposite of what our dystopian society is. Has done. And That is why we need change so desperately Reece! Help our nation grow. You are the key, would you like to become the first 15 year old Controller, Reece?"
The thought took my breath away. A Controller, me? No! Though the thought of having the ability to one day paint excited me, I was still furious. I almost lost my life. I almost died for this mans experiment! Selfish. I endured all types of pain that makes my stomach spoil and my eyes well up when thinking of it. I come back to his question, I was about to decline when I remembered my friend the healthy fox. I remember seeing it give half its meal to the sickly fox. I am the healthy fox, I have survived. I have learned. I have experienced, and wished for the stopping of suicides that I once watched on late-night news, and other changes for my home. Home, the weak fox. Sickly with brainwash, and depression. I think of my knowledge, my success, my growth. My knowledge is the meal. My half of the meal is having my desires extinguished, my questions that once burned inside of me answered, getting to go home. My home, my city, my worlds half is where I become a Controller. Spreading my thoughts of change and expression. I come back to the moment and see Ronald's gray eyes peering at me with anticipation.
"Yes," I say. "On one condition"
"And, what will that be?" asks Ronald.
"I wish to be a artist as well."
"Reece, the world needs you. Needs you, and your art."