Second NatureT H E F O U N TA I N z B O O K T WO

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ELLISON BLACKBURN

Second Nature by Ellison Blackburn

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or

actual events is purely coincidental.

This edition published May 2017previously published November 2015 as Progeny

Cover photography © Shutterstock

Printed in the United States of America10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

eISBN: 978-0-9988388-3-0ISBN: 978-0-9988388-4-7 (paperback)

1

Epigraph

One of a Number

I have a stop motion pictureEtched in my rods and conesWhere waters rippleAnd depths were shone.

I was tempted and unafraidSo, I wandered nearJoined by few othersIn community of good cheer.

Here we gatheredBathed in the lightness of lifeWe would not have knownIf day turned night.

My spirit buoyedIn the clear expanseThus, I submitted willinglyFor a moment entranced.

But muffled and patientEmerged a threat unclearWith grasping long fingersAs cold as a spear.

I was embraced and entwinedFrom fathoms belowBy a tangled webOf Nature’s own.

Met with a gustBacked by will and fightI struggled and thrashed

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With frightened might.

It left me lastlyWeaving a slippery farewellThen a tendril of stillnessOnce more befell.

This trace afterimageIngrained in timeIs only a hueWithout the gray cells behind.

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Chapter One

At times, I suffer from the strangest sense of detachment from myself and the world about me; I seem to watch it all from the outside, from somewhere inconceivably remote, out of

time, out of space, out of the stress and tragedy of it all.—H. G. Wells

・ ・ ・OBLIVIOUS OF THE gooseflesh-like skin of my arms prickling against the inner lining of my jacket sleeves or the ache in my shoulders from holding my body tense against the frigid air, I am here again. Lonesome in Serenity Park—an advertisement might read, for a person seeking companionship—if the fact that the green space thus named is a cemetery is left out.

Yet, standing before the life-sized monument of a woman reclined against the high back of an otherwise plainly adorned throne, I require no company but hers and find with her the peace to grieve a loss I wasn’t aware I harbored so deeply, above all, until recently. Considering the past is otherwise my professional forte, my visits here are entirely selfish. Perhaps fifty or so years too late, a little more of my accidentally found, personal history makes sense.

The foliage beyond trembles, every now and then swaying dramatically in the breeze, casting dappled shadows, animating the figure like an old stop motion picture. Watching closely where a sliver of sunlight illuminates her brow, as I muddle through another disjointed story of my life so far, I envision twitches of life emanating from the stone itself. My avid listener does not interrupt and illogically hopeful as I am, I stop mid-monologue to stare back, waiting and allowing for her chiseled lips to move. She remains paused—still speaking volumes by her visage alone.

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Majestic and at the same time ethereal, the sentinel wears a gauzy shroud, which elegiacally cascades over her form. The hem terminates past her feet, puddling onto faux steps. Although not glamorous neither is she understated, especially as she, her lofty seat and its tiered platform are furthermore perched atop a massive limestone pedestal. Tracing an invisible line from the very bottom of the tomb’s base to the crown of her head, I estimate the complete structure towers at nearly ten feet tall—an imposing tribute for the grave lying beneath.

Her flowing hair and drapery are as smooth as a time-worn river rock might be. However, having studied every line, I know a master craftsman, rather than the hands of time, softened those edges. (It would have taken more than the 68 years that she’s been here for nature to burnish the stone with such artistry. Besides, Mother Nature’s strokes would not have been as conveniently placed.) The fine details around her eyes and mouth are as clear and crisp as the morning.

Nature has clothed the maiden in a patina of streaks and patches, in various shades of green and gray, however. Some faint striations run down her face, giving the impression she’s been crying for eternity. And with the bodice of her dress plastered to her frame, she is transformed into a forlorn soul, having emerged from some watery abyss—a risen Ophelia. Her head tilts a smidgeon back and to the side, as her hooded eyes ponder the future or a long-lost past. On a rainy day, weeping a constant trickle down those etched tracks, her image can inspire a melancholic interpretation. I can bear testimony to that.

There are a few residual florets on her shoulders and face, where lichen must have been once—of a pastel mint color, outlined in white. One such adornment lies delicately on her cheek, as though a pale butterfly initially landed here for a short respite. Then, having lingered too long, the creature had become a part of her—embedded just under a thin film of nature’s skin.

Do not say there is something wrong with me for longing to be a butterfly, for today, now, she is superficially ingrained in me, as I have still to learn the whole story.

・ ・ ・Cemeteries are portentous places for some, perhaps even frighteningly so. I’d

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never thought about it, likely because up until three months ago I hadn’t visited one regularly and before that only during funerals with at least a few other people present. However, by experience, I can now relate to that definite jittery feeling a place such as this can inspire, particularly when alone. That deep, clawing emotion once realized can leave a lasting impression, one that is not easily forgotten or ignored if unintentionally recalled.

In the early hours of the morning, I find the cemetery comforting, despite now being fully aware of the concentrated presence of death, and the underlying creepy qualities of perpetual decay. If I am successful in pushing away even the shallow reach of my corporeal thoughts—into the vast depths of the unknown—amidst the obvious brightness of daytime, she remains the most beautiful stone creature I have ever beheld.

Perhaps then, I could also be accused of foolishness or of being a fool for a twisted kind of excitement. Because as with risky spiritual games of old, I’ve convinced myself of her capacity to speak as well as my ability to provoke her to do so. The sound of her voice is as inevitable to me as the call of a passing goldfinch—harmless and melodic to my ears. Irresistibly, I often find myself meditatively beseeching her to interact (although I would lose my wits if she actually did). I make eye contact and concentrate on the connection between our minds—well, that is to say, I try to reach the soul she is meant to embody.

There are times I’ve become so thoroughly bewitched by my efforts; it is I drowning in the depths of fantasy. To restore reality, I have to shake myself free, as though from a reverse spell. Cognitive of at least this necessity, I allow shudders to overtake my body when I detach. My methodology requires me to start by purposefully trembling my fingertips. It usually progresses on its own after that. The quake makes its way up my arms to my shoulders and down my spine. My head falls forward, and my entire frame then vibrates.

It might appear to an onlooker that I spasm by way of some spiritual influence. I should premise, I am rather receptive to vague inklings and such, but logic usually overrides the fantasy, since as I said, I am aware of the need to snap out of it. Nevertheless, even if were self-conscious of appearing like a lunatic to a passerby, I’m fairly certain no one is watching, at least not anyone material. Since

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also surely, he or she would come to my aid—were I seemingly possessed.Upon a moonlit evening, however, I would not take that risk, not again

anyway. Nowadays, under night’s blinding and shadowy screen, I would become so much less appreciative and instead more wary of the quivers that surround her. I know, because the last night I was bold enough to request a reply, there came a howling whoosh through the trees and an indecipherable spooky whisper to accompany it. I felt the wisp of a hand upon my shoulder and remember looking at the fuzzy apparition in confusion. In an instant, the realization occurred to me, but I was struck immobile, unable to utter a sound in through my fear. Then the distinct pressure of those ghostly phalanges made my standing there frozen equally impossible. Jolted into action, I ran two miles home without stopping and too afraid to look back.

I was not in a position to be rational then. I still cannot explain it, even to myself. And I wouldn’t dare repeat this story to anyone else. I’m also a firm believer in some things being better left unsaid. What if a chasm of darkness opened and I was swallowed up? It sounds ridiculous I know, but fear is a gnawing thing that can fester if allowed.

Once or twice after that incident, not even in the pitch dark, I’ve felt the menacing presence of something, and it had scared me away from the cemetery for a good long while, despite my usual (comforting) penchant for logic. The hoots of owls amongst the trees and rustling limbs only seemed to intensify the atmosphere about the experiences, making me feel edgy—not peaceful at all—and I like owls and trees very much. To this day, I regret having tarnished my view of Serenity Park by my ignorant actions.

Eventually, however, a long-hidden connection with this one grave nagged me into returning. I know better now and restrict my visits to less haunting hours. Besides, in the safe light of day, I can see a little more clearly.

・ ・ ・The ground is more than a little damp from a few days of continuous rain. Otherwise, I’d sit. The blazing sun overhead this morn had me duped, and I hadn’t come prepared with so much as a waxed square. I should have known the slightly

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valleyed terrain, and the constant shade from the surrounding trees would have stalled the cemetery grounds from drying out. At my slightest movement, my low-heeled boots make squishing noises in the soggy grass. For a little while longer, I scan the representation for unspoken answers.

Near her bare feet, beneath the folds of fabric begins the inscription:

CHARLOTTE RHYS AVERYSep. 9, 1971 - Nov. 19, 2151

Daughter, sister, mother, and my everyone

Closer to the bottom, in tiny script and practically hidden by remnants of brush and a fresh bouquet of white roses and baby’s breath is:

If you love someone, set them free.And thus, forevermore I will wait.

Except for a few weeks break, when I was building up the courage to come back, I’ve taken to visiting this resting place almost biweekly—ever since I discovered the truth. Charlotte Rhys Avery, a woman I had never met, was my biological mother and she died the day I was born. I take a small amount of comfort in knowing she did not abandon me for some other reason—this one is enough.

Charlotte was the daughter of Maxwell and Margaret Avery; sister to Lise, Sarah, and James; mother of Connor and me; and apparently, everyone to Michael Fenn, Parker Witte, or someone else unknown. Now her grave resides in a cluster with two others, Rebecca St. James’s and Michael Fenn’s.

Their gravestones are ornately decorated, as well, with deeply carved lettering. However, Michael’s is by far the plainest. His grave is a slab of stone, respectable and simply embellished with scrolls on the top-most edge. A chevron toward the bottom frames just his name and the dates of his bodily existence.

MICHAEL FENNJul. 14, 1969 – Sept. 16, 2088

Rebecca’s grave monument is taller and thinner—in the shape of an obelisk, aiming her spirit toward the sky. The slate gray spire is entwined nearly from top to bottom in realistic flowering vines of colored stone. A lone hummingbird, cleverly suspended in mid-air, sips an eternal draft from one of the red blooms. A large gap

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among the flourish of faux greenery encloses the epitaph:

REBECCA LYNN ST. JAMESFeb. 2, 1986 – Dec. 29, 2085

Mother, daughter, sister, and companion

Wildflowers, in a small bunch, lie in front of the base amidst emerging anemones.I’d never met Rebecca or Michael either, but I know whom they are—I’ve

read Charlotte’s memoirs. What I don’t know is how I feel about them as individuals—if I should feel anything at all—and why Charlotte’s tomb was placed next to a married couple’s graves (her long ago ex-husband’s and his next wife’s). Both of them also counted as her ex-best-friends at one point, and now in this after non-life, they are grouped as a family would be.

It is most peculiar. And from my perspective, translates into a convoluted mess for everyone involved—themselves, while living; the others, after one or more of their deaths; and the currently living, namely my father, Parker Witte; my brother, Connor; and myself.

It seems impossibly romantic too, especially since Charlotte’s epitaph is familiar. From these simple words, while she might have been everyone to my dad just as well who else, but Michael would have chosen such an inscription—If you love someone, set them free …  . forevermore I will wait.—? He’d been the one to say, “I hope you come back to me.” Granted, he’d also irreversibly closed the door on that possibility by betraying her. As I said, I didn’t know Michael, but I must care for him—if only for loving her so deeply, which by my supposition, he did. It’s still very confusing because Michael died before Charlotte, they were divorced, and both of them had moved on. Right?

Parker must be a remarkable man to have allowed such a declaration, especially one so permanent, from his rival, ex or not. I rationally consider this notion, trying to pull together the pieces of the puzzle. The answer simply could have been that the tombstones and plots were arranged before Michael’s death. Still, Parker permitted her body—if, in fact, she did reside in this grave—to be buried here. He lives on a different continent entirely, and for most of her life, she did, as well. I suppose it could have been just acceptance on his part if he were

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merely granting her wish: to be laid to rest amongst the roots of her life and the soil of her home. I presume my grandparents, aunts, and uncle would have had a certain say in the matter; assuming they were alive when she died.

I find my theory morbidly gratifying. There is no one coming forward to explain it to me.

・ ・ ・The warmth of the sunlight hovers in the air. Abstractly, I look up at the pale blue patches of sky in between the scattered cottony clouds that have rolled in. As a shiver travels along my arms, I suddenly become aware of the coolness within the borders of the park.

Although my jacket is buttoned all the way to my neck, I pull at the woolen sides and wrap my arms around my waist. My fingers tingle. Looking down at reddened tips of the fleshy side and a bluish tinge to my nails on the other, I know my nose and cheeks are bound to be rosy, as well. It’s a wonder I didn’t feel the bite until now. A brisk walk will put some distance between this place and me. I’ve shed a fair amount of baggage these past few months, but lately, there are new meditations to store in an invisible backpack—a burden I’ve been unknowingly carrying upon my shoulders for years.

An inkling of darkness, unrelated to the shade, seeps into my heart. As if by warning, I turn away without a second glance at the graves and head toward the blossoming dogwood trees that line the walkway. Their tiny gossamer petals practically cover the hardened but worn dirt path I travel back. I stride purposefully until another chill runs down my spine.

Feeling the glare of a watcher at the nape of my neck, I pivot around to confront my follower. Finding no one around further wariness stiffens my stance. But since seeing or not seeing is believing, I breathe in, trying to calm my quickening heartbeat—shakily sighing in relief at my specious solitariness. Noticing my steps have crushed the newly fallen moist petals into the dirt, I convince myself that even a ghost would leave some trace. After all, the fingers had appeared tangible. “Phew.” The resulting single set of translucent marks is plain evidence of the only visit the cemetery residents have so far had today. Mine.

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With the sweet, earthy scent of the early spring air mingled with cold humidity in my sinuses, I speedily resume my way down the next winding path, through tall pines. Darker still amongst the wood, I block out the uneasiness until the lane straightens somewhat. Finally, I emerge from the enclosure, with my rationality nearly restored.

Exhaling in another huff, I almost collide into Mr. Craig entering the wood. I feel the steadying comfort of his hand under my elbow. He looks at me quixotically, but he’s a quiet keeps-to-himself man, granting the same respect to others; he does not verbally inquire into the cause of my apparent agitation.

“Good morning, Mr. Craig. It’s pretty soggy in there. I hope you’ve …” I stop short in my greeting as he holds up a roll of oilcloth in his hand. He’s come better prepared.

Faintly smiling and nodding, with a brief, “Hello,” he resumes on his path. Despite the pleasantries and the directness of his gaze, around the corners of his eyes and mouth, there is still that ever-present sadness. Since this isn’t our first encounter, the answer to his general disposition is clear.

Everyone has a story to tell, and although we are a small community, I haven’t yet heard Mr. Craig’s tale. Still, in general, I try to be observant enough to fill in the gaps of my understanding—without having a verbalized backstory to guide me. It’s a consequence of my professional, but also an inability of mine to accept the face value of things. Other than him, and Jon Greer and Henry Beacon—who maintain the grounds—I rarely meet anyone on this path or in the cemetery proper. And in our world, there isn’t much to be sad about among the living.

Since he’s heading to where I’ve come from … hmm. I guess a visit to the cemetery doesn’t require much in the way of deduction skill.

Serenity Park hosts hundreds, if not thousands of graves. There is one in particular, which pays homage to a countless mass from a devastating time in our history; along with others, entire families are buried together. I wonder whose ghost or ghosts Mr. Craig visits.

By now, having recovered most of the natural coloring in my fingertips, along with my sanity, I no longer need or want to keep up the same brisk pace. Turning

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left at the first bend, I stroll along the cemetery’s outer border. There is a thin row of trees on the right, as well, partially blocking the view of the clearing just on the other side. Around this sparse fringe, it is only a quarter-mile to the edge of where the community begins. Mr. Craig is shoved into the background of my thoughts as I soak in the scene ahead.

Over the field to the West, my eyes are met with a feeling of adoration for my hometown. Rain or shine, its beauty blankets me every day with apparent rightness. All that is visible from here is the lushness of nature. However, hidden among the plots of green are domiciles. They are closely situated to one another for convenience sake, but far enough apart that each family living on a given lot has room to utilize the land around them—mainly for personal gardening, and by whatever means they fashion a bit of privacy from neighbors.

Incongruous to the view, our community is known un-poetically as Podular 17. In other words, it was the seventeenth one established and recognized on the global grid. It is placed exactly where Seattle, Washington had been, although we do not currently utilize the entire surface area of the once highly populated city. In fact, 17 only occupies 25 square miles.

There are roughly a thousand podula across the globe now, but mainly in Europe. Canada, the United States, and Central America, as they were called separately up until 2126, were along with Africa and Asia the hardest hit by the catastrophe that occurred two decades earlier. There are therefore fewer communities here, in the Americas than in Europe. Moreover, our towns are smaller in number. Of that thousand podula, there are only two hundred or so official settlements on America’s soil.

The largest concentrations of people today are in the United Kingdom, even though England was hard hit too—because of its policy agreements with the United States at the time of crisis. Actually, there are no longer united countries. It’s more of an unspoken planetary designation now, but we keep some of the names since it’s simpler to refer to a large area by a collective name. For example, it’s easier to say, “Europe”—especially as communities were not established sequentially—than it is to list each community like so, “Podular 10, 11, 125, 139 … 878, etc., less than a quarter-turn around the planet from here.”

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I’ve been to a region in Europe called Scotland a few times. The northern portion, the Highlands’ climate is similar to 17’s, but it was at one time thought the ideal place for the largest resettlement. There were so few other obstacles to get in the way of development, such as useless skyscrapers, roadways, and overpopulation.

With its pristine rolling hills and abundance of rain, in the early 2100s, northern Scotland was about as close to a blank slate as our revised civilization could get. To this day, surface area wise, it is large but not the most populous, if populated at all. The land turned out to be too rough and boggy for agriculture, which is the primary and, obviously, an essential criterion for resettlement and survival. Therefore, the communities that evolved in that region were cities that had previously existed, further south in the continent. Just as Seattle became 17, Glasgow and Edinburgh were dubbed 10 and 11, respectively. However, from what I understand, unlike 17, these two communities appear architecturally similar to how they’d been for over a millennium. And the people who live there are highly dependent on others for resources, but then so are we all, in one way or another.

I can’t say I’m extremely familiar with the logistical arrangement of each podular. I mean I couldn’t give an accurate description of another community or its land-use since I’ve only ever lived here. For 17, the lay of the land is such that there are three rows of houses with roughly 40 houses in each row going around in a crescent shape and on either side of a center field. As I mentioned, sustenance is of the utmost importance. So, this field is but one of our common agricultural areas and the main resource at that. It was thoughtfully planned, based on previous studies and trials—ones showing that plants grow well when sown close together.

The large but compact field is composed first of a periphery of fruiting trees. Then inside this border, of cherry, pear, plum, and apple trees, is the actual field. With paths on four sides, each leading to the large hydroponic garden in the middle, the field is effectively divided into four quadrants for produce farming. Of course, staple crops are planted, but even these are rotated. This ensures no one pie piece becomes too depleted of nutrients and is actually replenished by complementary plantings each season.

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What other variations of crops sown are decided by the community and all the endeavors of agriculture are shared by its people. It is the most convenient layout I can picture. There is nothing as rewarding as bountiful harvest, and I think 17 must be one of the prettiest settlements, primarily because the moderate year-round climate allows for a huge variety of agriculture.

On the very cusp of spring, all of the orchard blossoms are blooming, and the air is fragrant with a woody, earthy scent despite the chill. Soon, Mrs. Baker and her efficient committee will arrange the seasonal planting extravaganza—after the said same group organizes the harvesting of current crops and the ground preparation for new seedlings.

East of the farming fields there is a large greenhouse where certain crops are pre-started, and more agriculture takes place to support us through winter months. Within the enclosure, we also maintain a few trees that typically would do better in drier climates, like olives or citrus fruits.

Still further afield are pastures for our livestock. To make maintenance of these particular resources easier, for both man and beast, several residents live outside of the primary north and south residential crescents in a small Eastern crescent.

Although the animal farms are set distance away from the bulk of our population, every morning fresh eggs, milk, butter, and cheeses, are deposited into the bins that reside in front of each crescent. The same arrangement works for harvested produce. Community members deposit goods and each household stocks its pantry, as needed, from these daily-replenished stores.

Albeit lifestyles are much simplified and 17 is self-sufficient when it comes to food, no one community can make or provide all things at all times. For this, we have trading systems in place with other podula on the global grid. Certain establishments may provide building supplies, some contribute from their harvest, and still, others might aid with labor or expertise. Over the course of a century, we the keepers of the new Earth have found ways to balance our small world needs.

Suffice it to say, 17 mainly trades with food, but we also have experts in certain fields who have assisted other podula from time to time. I believe a few

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communities have bartered for our town organizational plans, down to the land pattern of houses within their different sized lots.

Although to say “house” or any other term to describe a residence is still correct, our dwellings are called apodes or pods, and essentially, they are built underground. The above ground or the "upstairs” as I call it is valuable land; best used for our sustenance (agriculture), crossing from one place to another, and letting nature be free once again.

In addition to the human devastation, the land had suffered a great deal—that was until a vast majority of the human population was erased from the equation. Now there are still buildings upstairs, in the business district and others closer to downtown, but mainly stone churches, libraries, and historical structures that hold significance. The new, as in post-apocalyptic architecture—among relatively young settings such as in the Americas, reconstructed settlements in previously major European cities, or podula not bound to a previous city at all—are subterranean.

My current place of residence is in the north-most row of the northern crescent and second from the end on the West, apode A-002 NW. Neighboring our house to the front, in B-002, live Mr. and Mrs. McCrae and their daughter Cassidy, Cass, my closest friend and work colleague. Cass grew up in Europe, but she’s been here a long time now. Mr. McCrae was born and raised in 213, I think, in the Scottish Highlands and Mrs. McCrae is American, from 17.

Julia’s and mine’s other neighbors are large families of four to five members each in bigger apodes and wider lots, the Bakers, the Dooleys, and the Symons. Mr. Craig, also nearby, lives alone at present in B-007.

I have an hour before I should be at the library, my place of work. Rather than cutting through the southern rows and center field beyond the community to the Northeast, where the library is, I’ve walked a slow and straight line to the furthest most rows of houses. I walk past the yew trees enclosing the Dooleys’ lot to stop in front of Julia’s apode. I take another breath of day-old, rain-refreshed air before leaning into the greenery adjacent the front entrance stairwell. The lilac trees are just beginning to bud. They are not obviously fragrant unless you take a whiff directly from the tiny lavender nodules. The scent is divinely inspired—new and

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fresh—signifying the blessing of life.I didn’t grow up here, in this house. I grew up in E-012 SE, the former

residence of James and Emily Gibson. Jon Greer and his family live there now. It’s strange how societies are, though. I know everyone in my crescent and the southern crescent, too, but that’s because I’ve lived in both. If I hadn’t lived in the southern crescent, I couldn’t have said who lived in each house. We are a small community as far as even current societies go—only eight hundred residents, at most, and less than two hundred domiciles altogether. Everyone might recognize everyone else when gathered for town events or maintenance, but those who we interact with daily or frequently are our true community, and that number of individuals is smaller still.

My current circle consists of Julia; some of my neighbors; and other close friends, namely, Regina or Gina as we call her, Michelle or Shelly, Karin, and Keith. Except for Cass, my friends’ apodes are scattered throughout the two crescents.

Even though many of us are not direct neighbors to one another, within our clique, we tend to pair off. For example, Gina and Shelly are best friends, as well. Their families live near the east end, separated by several other homes. They are in the northern rows, too. Keith and Karin, brother and sister, live on either side of their parents’ apode, F-021 SW, which would be in the third row and near the middle of the southern crescent. Together they run the only daycare service 17 has, so we see them more often with each other than with their spouses, Tia, and Jeremy, respectively.

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Chapter Two

I have withdrawn myself from the confusion of cities and multitudes, and spend my days surrounded by wise books,—bright windows in this life of ours, lit by the shining souls of

men.—H. G. Wells, The Island of Doctor Moreau

・ ・ ・THE FRONT DOOR descends, making a slurping sound as it seals shut behind me. Shedding my jacket, I hang it on a hook on the hall tree. After pulling off my boots and kicking them under the bench, I walk down the hall to the left and into my space—shutting this door too.

“EMRY!” Julia, my mom, always says my name that way when she’s in a disagreeable mood. It inevitably foreshadows the change in my attitude, one equally uptight. Disagreeable might seem an odd way for a child to describe a parent. However, it would probably be useful to know I’m not a child. Despite my appearance, I’m not even young. Strange as it may seem I’m older than Julia is, and she’s not truly my mother.

“Coming … give me a minute,” I project calmly through the door.My name is Emery Kidd. I’m 19, but also a regen. Technically, I’m 68 years

old. I’m not special in this way; there are others. Most of us living on this planet today, in fact, are regens. My real mom Charlotte Avery was one of the first and partly the reason 17 was established early on.

“Em ree!” Julia calls again, in a nasally high-pitched tone.I say nothing while I casually pull on a different pair of socks.Shortly after that, there is another impatient eruption. “Are you wearing

earplugs? Come here please!”

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My adoptive mom doesn’t know any of it. She’s 63 now and too old to regenerate for the first time. When she might have been eligible, she wasn’t notified, because long before even then, she’d been purposely excluded from the candidate roster.

“What is it now?” I say exasperated, straightening, and tugging the corner of my sweater with one hand while sealing shut the door of my space with the other, securing it by pressing my fingerprint on the identity pad until the beeep sounds. I guess I am like a teenager in this respect. My space is my domain, at least, what I’ve made of it—a foreign sanctuary, inside a domicile that is not my home.

After all that, almost as if surprised to see me, “What is it now,” she repeats absentmindedly. Then “What is it now?!” she squeals through a pinched nose, puckering her lips too.

Now is probably not the best time for me to describe her. I’m sure any first impression gleaned will be unfairly tainted by my ability to do her personality justice—given my mood. Anyway, Julia Kidd is a slight-framed, dowdy-looking woman with wavy blond and gray hair, usually pulled away from her face with pins but left lying scraggly in the back. She has narrow-set green eyes, a button nose, and thin lips, amidst a small oval face. Her complexion is sallow, and she looks tired all of the time. Although she works hard, her haggard appearance is inherent; she would look the same even if she led an easy life.

As for her and I being mother and daughter, I wonder if she ever wonders why we look nothing alike. I have auburn hair, large hazel eyes, rather a thin nose, and relatively full lips framing my almost too wide mouth. She’s also seven inches shorter than I am. Stooping when she stands or slouching when she sits makes her appear shorter than her already diminutive five foot one stature. She also shuffles her feet when she walks. I, whereas, don’t do any of those things. I have a good posture rather and suppose I’m pretty—thanks to my genetic inheritance. Parker is handsome, to say the least, and Charlotte, while still attractive by traditional definition, was more noticeable because of her dazzling charisma. Whether I transmit the same aura is questionable, but I look like her—except I’m taller than she was too.

Julia isn’t necessarily unpleasant to look at, she’s plain with dull coloring, frail

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in appearance, and tends to contort her face with strange expressions more often than not. She is otherwise a deeply caring individual with a distinctly pleasant character. Her beauty shines from within; just not right now.

“I don’t know what’s wrong, but you’ve been getting on my case over the smallest things. Yesterday I left a cup in the sink after you’d done the dishes. Whoopee,” I say unenthusiastically twirling a finger in the air and sliding a stool from under the kitchen counter with my foot.

Her glare becomes more pointed. As she looks up at me, the downward crease of her mouth deepens. She simmers, expectant perhaps of both a psychic ability I do not possess and my remorse, once that specially-powered epiphany has struck.

“So, now if the sink is empty I’m supposed to do every dish right after I use it? What are we trying to achieve—our independence from the sink? ’Cause you look about ready to wage war,” I say, smirking. She tilts her head to the side; annoyed I’m not taking her anger seriously. I might if I knew what this was about. Then again, if this was another frivolous tantrum, I might not. I stand with my arms crossed in front of me in an unrelenting posture.

I have never been one to take blame or give in meekly to an argument (or debate), especially when it wasn’t my fault or the issue itself is in question. It’s impossible for me not to feel defensive when faced with unreasonable criticism. These “Emry!” moments are getting tiresome; chiefly as I do most of the cooking. I’m not about to accept that it’s we, against the dishware anytime soon.

I’m here, so why doesn’t she speak? Standing there looking at me as though I’m a misbehaving child she doesn’t quite get it yet.

I continue; this had to stop, here and now. “And before that, so you know, I understand how anti-wrinkle works, but it was you who did the laundry and left the clothes sitting in the dryer. Imagine that, creases. Maybe you’re upset I didn’t iron the sheets.”

So impatient she was just a moment ago. How many finger pointings will it take, I wonder, before the realization of the pattern lately, hits her? “Or how about we talk about the wet foyer the other day? You, for some reason or another, turned off the supplemental moisture pump. Granted, I don’t know which one of

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us left the house without making sure the door was sealed properly, but it was an accident. Still, when the hall flooded, you decided to wait to point it out to me instead of turning the pump back on? … You didn’t even apologize afterward.”

Squinting at me, she hasn’t uttered a peep. I can’t gauge what’s going on in her head. Letting out an exasperated sigh, I say, “I’m sure I could dredge another example. Should I go on?”

Bingo. Her face relaxes, and the tiredness seems to seep away with the creases. Still overly pink, a flicker of a self-realizing grin nonetheless appears on her face. “Oh, Em. I was waiting for you to quit jabbering. I had no clue what you were getting at,” she says, letting out a chirpy chuckle. “I guess I was just going to freak out about something trivial again. About that,” she says vaguely, pointing at the refrigerator. “I’m sorry. I’m taking it out on you, aren’t I?”

I couldn’t care less about the fridge, so I don’t bother asking what she means, but now I know there’s a general reason for the nitpicking. “Taking what out on me?”

“Look up,” she instructs indefinitely again while looking abstractly at the refrigerator herself.

I look directly upward, searching the sky. I can’t resist; maybe it will become obvious. I identify a bunny among the puffy white clouds. Gloom was supposed to dampen spirits. Was it the reverse for Julia? I stare accusingly at the shiny culprit.

No, it can’t be. Based on previous occasions, her crankiness is independent of the weather. Still, I see nothing unusual. Even though I think I’ve made the situation clear to her, she hasn’t clarified it enough for me, and so now, it’s my blood spiraling toward irritability. Towering over her, I look down with my eyebrows raised askance.

Her nostrils and lips squish together smaller, and the wrinkles above her mouth become pronounced. “There— in the corner.” Now she points. “There.” She jabs. “See that? The glass is cracking, and it’s happening in all the pods. Can you believe it; Lucas wants me to come up with a way to pay for it? How do I just summon funds enough for over two hundred pod roofs? Two hundred! We don’t have that many carrots.”

I’m certain Lucas expects no such thing of her alone, but she is the

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community treasurer. Having some idea of how to pay for a community expense big or small, would be her job. I see it now a barely visible hairline crack starting at the far-right edge where the glass meets the rim—a problem decidedly more serious than her other minor grievances lately. “Whoa, how’d that happen?”

“Time and something probably completely geo-normal. The earth inhaling and exhaling that’s what the council said. They made it sound like the dirt breathes. And they also said, ’Wear and tear,’ which would be fine, one at a time.”

“I’m not a geologist, but it does breathe.”“Yes, but not like some two hundred simultaneously organized creatures,” she

yips. “And they could have kept it all simple and acceptable by just saying the earth continues to settle and erode. I would have understood them all the same.”

Slowly beginning to smile, she expounds, “I’ve always pictured us inside our little capsules safe and sound, nestled all around by mother Earth. But noo, according to them, we’ve been swallowed up … by a big glob of a beast and we’re being slowly digested morsel by tasty morsel … by grubby worms and critters in the giant’s belly!” She pantomimes the monstrous actions of the beast with the clawing of air and the gnashing of teeth. Its minions come to look increasingly like mice in my mind as she tones down her demonstration to include them. She nibbles the air with her small front teeth while also scampering in place.

“Wow, you got all that from ’the dirt breathes.’ Vivid imagination you have there. But eww, creepy.” I empathize mirthfully. “Wish you would have kept it simple for my sake. I’ll let you know; I might have a nightmare tonight.”

“Don’t be silly; you’re not five,” she says soberly.I still can’t tell, sometimes, if Julia is joking, but she often makes me laugh at

the contradictions that come out of her mouth. Occasionally, the provocation is so sudden I snort, like at this very moment.

I should probably explain a little more about our manner of living in apodes with their domed glass roofs. I hope that the idea of our in-earth dwellings will become less macabre in a minute. It’s quite logical, but since I have never lived in an unsustainable, square house, above ground, held up by beams, encased in clapboard, and one that required a foundation upon which to stand this is just my opinion.

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Apodes are giant canisters approximately thirty-five feet in diameter (some bigger than others), submerged almost entirely—roughly twenty feet—beneath the ground surface. The walls are composed of a non-corrosive alloy with a drywall type of overlay and a thin sheeting in between. This casing is then surrounded on the outside, yes outside, by a foam-like substance, which serves as insulation and a cushion for the earth around to “Breathe.”

Above ground, the circumferential edge of the cylinder has a six-inch metal lip. From this rim, two-foot square panels of glass project vertically, acting as a wall, so the domed roof that sits atop is essentially vaulted. Furthermore, these panels are two-layer in construction but one layer at a time is exposed, depending on settings selected via a control panel. There are the solid panels, some of which are permanently stationary to make sure the roof is always supported while others are retractable and can be interchanged with semipermeable panes for airflow adjustment. Imagine windows and screens. When the window is opened, the screen rises. This construction and functionality exist, so the air doesn’t become stagnant and keeps the inside temperate at all times. If there were no ventilation system of this kind, the effect would be as if living in a hothouse, even if it were cold outside, and the condensation would destroy the structure quicker.

While all the glass is tempered and has a special solar coating for UV protection, energy conversion, and softening of glare, it is also un-tinted, and there is no reflective coating to make the roof privacy-efficient. A reflective coating would interfere with energy absorption and could affect the integrity of the glass. For this reason, most people just plant around the periphery of their pod for privacy. Otherwise, with the roof being only two feet and a little more above the surface at its lowest point, at the outer edge, the entirety of the inside would be visible to a passerby.

I learned that in the twenty-first-century privacy was a controversial topic. Although there was much said and written about the rights to privacy, judicial powers also rationalized the need to develop technologies to see through walls, including those made of metal plate. There were flying robots even. How strange and scary it must have been to live at that time. It’s ironic that we have glass ceilings now; only a few bushes suffice for privacy.

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Julia has planted small flowering trees and shrubs around our pod. Since I’ve only lived here for just under two years, I wasn’t involved in this decision-making. I agree with her choices even though we don’t have full coverage. The small-leafed maples are subtlety ornamental and serve their purpose well enough. And I love the smell of the lilac trees that soon will begin to waft in passively through the screens. The boxwoods are a nice touch, as well, but since she has chosen all of this deciduous foliage, in the winter, we are rather exposed. It’s not too concerning, though; chronic voyeurism isn’t an issue we face in 2219. Our neighbors having selected more evergreen options also helps.

“Can’t 17 figure out a way to fix it? It’s probably happened or is happening in the other communities, and they’ve somehow figured it out.”

“Lucas spoke with a few other administrators, and they confirmed it was, but they expressed it wasn’t a concern because they have the resources, even enough to help us. But I’m sure that help won’t be inexpensive.”

With my eyes still on the crack, but my mind working through the issue I say, “Hm, larger may mean more resources, but it also means more pods. We should be able to manage on our own for our scale and shouldn’t have to outsource. I’m sure Liam could fashion some solution with help. Like if the roof isn’t going to shatter all of a sudden, he could do each apode one at a time … it looks to me as though select panels could be replaced without having to redo the whole roof.”

“You’ve obviously heard from somewhere what’s been going on or saw the crack before I showed you. Why are you acting like this is news to you then?”

“Huh? Haven’t heard a peep, actually; why would I pretend?” I ask looking down at her.

“Because we’ve come to realize that is our only option, but it took us three meetings to reach that conclusion. So, you arrived at that solution in the few minutes we’ve been standing here? Impossible, what do you know about apode construction? Back and forth we went, outsourcing or not, wondering how we could we ask one boy to take on a project as big as this. Besides, his father just died. It seemed like a lot to expect from the young man.”

Ignoring the fact that Julia’s tone could easily rile me again, I say, “Liam isn’t a boy or just a handyman sitting on his laurels in between seasons. Mr. Deering

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was the community engineer, and now his son steps into that role; Liam’s fully capable of handling it. You just have to come out and tell him what’s needed of him. Maybe he would welcome the work, as a way to buffer his grief. You don’t know.”

“Well, finally, we’re ahead of you, smarty-pants. Lucas talked to him, and Liam agreed and even reassured us he could manage it.”

It seemed somewhat obvious to me but then I knew that Liam was a regen. You can always spot one. We young looking regens—usually—think and behave much older than the visible attributes of lived years might suggest. I also knew that Mr. Deering had chosen to die and Liam had been somewhat prepared for this father’s death, insomuch as a person can be. Lucas knew all this surely. “Soo? I don’t understand why you’re still worried.”

“I said! I have to figure out a way to fund it. It’s not that simple. And Liam and whoever his team is—all of them—will be out of commission for anything else 17 needs for the next few years!” she says, her other facial features melding toward her nose again.

“Ah, I see.” Finally, I sit down at the counter and grab an apple. “Well, the way I see it we are a community; so long as we’re all fed, safe, and sheltered there isn’t anything we absolutely need. It’s not as though this is another project in some long queue. So, Julia, I say be upfront with Liam.”

“How many times must I tell you not to call me Julia? I don’t recall ever having given you permission,” she says chidingly. “I’m your mother and don’t ever let me hear you call Lucas anything other than Mr. Smythe. One of the best qualities a young lady can have is to show some respect for her elders.”

“Mmhm,” I murmur as I munch. Pacific Northwest apples are still the best in the world (even though there are only two communities that grow and trade them). There are a few things you must be loyal to in your home state, just out of principle (even when the state no longer exists) and while my opinion is untried when it comes to apples (or cherries), I stand by my claim. Besides Washington was known for its apples and cherries before, when a thousand other places could grow them too.

“Tell him that just doing the work isn’t the only issue.”

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“You think he’ll work every day into the wee hours for nothing in return?” she continues condescendingly.

“Mom, we all already work for each other. Some people just have a greater responsibility than others do or at different times, when needed. Mrs. Baker never complains; she has a lot on her plate and often volunteers for more,” I continue despite the fact that she persists in carrying on with that tone.

If I have to deal with her misplaced stress, then I am going to offer the advice she didn’t ask for. “Anyway, ask Liam how you can repay him for his efforts. Maybe he’ll take payment in brownies; I don’t know. While you’re at it, ask him if there is any way he can arrange two teams, one to work on pod roofs and other to carry on with day-to-day community needs. I’m sure he’d be glad to stop playing the town fix-it guy for a while. And there are enough people around doing little besides that he can recruit, like the Conti boys, all of the Symons, Chris Montgomery, Zach Freeman, Genna and Alec McCrae. Liam doesn’t need to be wasting his time changing fuses and checking energy outputs. I’m sure he’ll tell you; it’s easy enough to train others to do the small stuff.

“Then figure out a way to pay for the materials, so his work isn’t delayed, that much is necessary. Maybe everyone in 17 can pitch in if the community stores don’t cut it. You might be able to barter materials we need in exchange for agricultural plans. We’ve done that before. As for compensating Liam, make it so he and his team don’t have to worry about supporting themselves during this project.”

Julia’s been staring at me dumbfounded while I elaborate my ideas. I don’t know why she’s surprised every time I say anything intelligible. I have never tried to hide my maturity or knowledge of the way our lives and communities work. Even if I weren’t a regen, by the time any of us turns 16 we are expected to behave like adults; it is the nature of our civilization. There is too much to do to have a child’s mindset and freedoms for long. Besides, I’m a chronicler, a historian of sorts. How many 19-year-olds are bestowed such a role in their society? (One in around five hundred—that’s how many.)

Her brow is creased with worry lines, and the condescending tone has diminished, but it’s replaced by a look of dread. When she looks like that, I want

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to gather her up in my hands and pet her like a small bird, smoothing down the delicate feathers around her brow. Consolingly I ask, “Do you want me to talk to him?”

The wrinkles above her lips turn into parenthesis around her mouth, and her eyes transform into orbs of wonderment. “Would you? You wouldn’t need to worry about the whole arrangement; I can sort out the details.”

“Sure.”“Yes, yes, this will be perfect. You could make him aware of the forms of

payment for his hard work. I’m sure he would be more receptive to your charms anyway. He gets all hot and bothered around you. I think he finds you attractive. It might be the perfect time for you and him to come together,” she says, blinking rapidly. “But just make sure not to be too forward and express yourself sympathetically.”

Her phrasing and expression make me uncomfortable. I don’t think it’s cute or funny. Liam is just a friend and more like a brother to me. I find the insinuation unsettling. “He’s already agreed to do the work, so, uh, let’s not talk like you’re whoring me out or anything.”

“Emry! That was a distasteful comment to make,” she scolds. “Whatever makes you speak like that?”

“Then I suggest we keep Liam’s tastes and terms like ’forms of payment’ and my negotiating with my ’charms’ out of the conversation. Do you even know what ’hot and bothered’ means?” I ask rhetorically, dumping the apple core in the compost.

“Obviously, your mind is in the gutter, and it’s concerning that you even think that way. I did not raise a crass young lady,” she says her brow furrowed.

I have no desire to ease her worry at this point. “You’re right; you didn’t, and I’m not. I’ll talk to him on one condition. From now on, you may not call me Emry. My name is Em-uh-ree,” I annunciate, walking out of the kitchen and back into my space without waiting for her response. I refrain from closing my door loudly for effect; the fact that I cannot slam the door is beside the point.

Switching back and forth from teenager to responsible adult is challenging—probably would be for anyone. I may be a troubled soul, and sure, I get annoyed,

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but I’m not an angry person. I feel self-righteous, and then guilty of feeling so, at the same time; I take it too personally.

Regardless of some almost normal and even fun interaction in between, she sets me off sometimes. One minute she talks down to me, the next she willingly lets me shoulder her burden, and wow, then she reprimands me for her own highly misinterpretable use of language. It’s true, I offered. I want to help because, for one, it’s my duty. I don’t need gratitude. I only wish she could accept my contributions with a little less surprise and reciprocate with a touch of that respect she preaches. Is it too much to ask, for an older woman to see a younger one as a peer and not a child? My behavior should speak for my maturity, more than does my appearance.

Perhaps it’s something all daughters gloss over from the woman labeled as their mother. Yet, Julia’s and my actual biological connection doesn’t exist as a factor in this argument. This leads me to wonder if the validity of the label even matters. Along with other familial nuances, I will never know either. However, seems to me, it’s just the idea of the mother/daughter relationship that promotes certain mindsets. One woman always reigns superior regardless of biology, mental acuity, or even age.

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Chapter Three

Looking at these stars suddenly dwarfed my own troubles and all the gravities of terrestrial life. I thought of their unfathomable distance, and the slow inevitable drift of

their movements out of the unknown past into the unknown future.—H. G. Wells, The Time Machine

・ ・ ・HOLED UP IN my space I lean against the wall with a pillow and my notebook propped against my knees. The white pillowcase improves the visibility of my screen immensely, and because I’m too lazy to get up now to attach the hard case, which is sitting on my desk, it will have to do. Loosely gathering up my hair, I arrange it into a haphazard bun and tie it back with the spare band I have around my wrist. In a matter of minutes, several strands will escape the binding, but this would be less annoying than the sore scalp I get tying up my weighty coiffure more securely.

Charlotte Avery is getting ready to put on a Halo—a video headset with holographic and virtual reality capabilities. Taking me with her, she’ll be immersing herself into another world—the town of Tymony, her dissertation project—by means of this device. For the moment, she is addressing another external camera and speaking, as if directly to me. I know it’s not true, but it’s convenient for me to forget that minor fact.

This is just one of my mom’s later journal entries. Her earlier ones were text files, and I’ve read all of those. I’m rather excited about these video journals. I get to see her, moving, talking, and making faces. I’ve been told once or twice, my face is very expressive, and now I can see what others mean. Her voice isn’t especially emotional, but her face is so animated it speaks her mind as though aloud

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and often loudly. I might finally be able to catch a glimpse of my father without having to face him in person. I’m not prepared for the first encounter quite yet.

Life is different from how I imagined it would be. I’m adjusting to the modern world by both embracing it and separating myself from it …  . As you will see when you witness what we are creating here.

For our final project, we are making our very own virtual theme. It’s not like any movie you’ve ever seen. You don’t just watch … and it’s a completely fabricated environment. If you’re familiar with HaloYou and virtyou videos, not much explanation is necessary.

Just for the record, HaloYou is the virtual theme platform, which means that the town, people, events, everything you’re surrounded by are a creation—an animation made to look like reality. Virtyou videos are the snippets which make up the theme. And a Halo is this device, she says holding up a wiry contraption that doesn’t look like much. Aptly named, it allows anyone to become the star of her own movie in her own world; she explains puckering her lips in distaste. “Go ahead, shine your own Halo” is the marketing jingle. Catchy, hmm?

Parker leans in to kiss her cheek; You’re funny but right cute.For our project, we’ve could have used ourselves, but none of us were too thrilled

with that idea, so I invented characters to bring the theme to life while still in keeping with our goal: to make it as real as possible.

When she began to speak, she was stone-faced and unnaturally stiff, almost as if she was having a hard time swallowing. As she continues, enthusiasm brightens her eyes and changes the line of her mouth, if not in the undertone of her voice too. Especially in this part where one by one, she introduces the team.

You know who I am. I’m the director, producer, and screenwriter for this project. And this is Parker, she says, pulling a tall, gorgeous man into the frame of the camera.

His flowy, blond hair sweeps sideways perfectly, but not neatly, across his forehead—half gentleman, half rock-star. His rosy lips are faintly turned up at the corners, and his eyes smile without the toothiest of his mouth matching them.

Objectively speaking, my father is very handsome here. I will refrain from

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adding any other more prurient exclamations of his sex appeal, for obvious reasons. I pause at this frame to stare into his pale gray-green eyes. They are green; however, they could easily be mistaken for gray in some light. Without a doubt by definition, he’s better looking than my mom—who didn’t believe she was attractive at all. She wasn’t self-aware is all I can say. Beauty isn’t always apparent at a glance. My eyes are hazel although my mom’s were brown; still, I look much more like her. I have his height and from what I can see, not much else. Maybe my ears or feet look like his? I un-pause.

He’s designing the layout of the town here, everything from the overall landscape and foliage to the roads and structures. Our friend Loren is helping too, but she stays behind the scenes. This isn’t a project she’s getting course credit for.

Quite strangely, my dad nudges my mom and smiles into the camera like the Cheshire cat. I have to pause again to inspect his teeth and the way his features change. Despite his comic expression, he’s dashing indeed.

Pointing his finger at the camera like an old graphic poster of a character named Uncle Sam I’ve seen, he says, For posterity sake, stopping short there, without explaining what part of all of this is ’for future generations’ as the words might imply.

I cup the screen, almost expecting my hand to go through to the other side where I can feel the smoothness of his skin and the curve of his cheek. Instead, I end up caressing the pillow on my knees—soft and comforting, and the best I can expect. From a distance, I vow to forgive him if given a chance; I long to.

He’s enjoying the limelight as you can tell; Charley says playfully, nudging him out of the way. Back to the introductions, she says beckoning to a woman in her early twenties or so. Sublimely talented Lila is doing the special effects and graphics work, which will bring my story and Parker’s plans to life. She’s also creating and animating the characters based on my written descriptions of them.

Lila steps into the frame. She’s a tiny slip of a girl with pale lavender hair, wearing grayish-lavender lipstick in a shade nearly identical to her hair color, smoky eye makeup, and dressed from head to toe in black leather. She has three

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piercings on her face: her right eyebrow, lower lip, as well as a tiny silver stud embedded into the center of her chin. The grommets in her ears have stretched a hole into her earlobes the size of a small coin—she represents the Gothic urban tribal culture I would guess. People were so strange. I wonder at the need for such forms of self-expression, or was it attention seeking? If her hair were up, I might have made an ignorant comment to myself. Nevertheless, considering the skill and intellect required to create a whole theme, my joke about her being empty-headed would have been a bad one.

And that’s Misha, Mom says, pointing to an equally illustrative young man with a shock of dyed burgundy hair, splayed in mussed spikes in ten different directions.

He’s sitting in front of multiple monitors and a variety of other equipment. He wheels around to face the camera, and from what I can tell, he appears to be wearing a t-shirt imprinted with some kind of griffin, a kilt, and black and white, canvas, high-top gym shoes (with the tongues pulled out—retro-style).

He’s the wiz taking care of all the technical backend stuff. He has his own dialect—incomprehensible to us laymen—so you may never actually hear him speak. If you do, it will be foreign sounding. And by that, I don’t mean Gaelic or thick Scottish brogue even, besides he’s Russian.

I hear Parker guffaw in the background.

From behind mom’s image comes, Function regeneration equals variable sum of new concatenate past value plus undefined string and array of next events. Their collective rumbling of laughter envelops the scene.

As I said, she says with a chuckle, smiling widely into the camera. She obviously enjoys the company of these people. Anyone else want to add anything to this pseudo-documentary? She turns to her team to ask.

Yes, this not real function. You get my meaning, is gibberish, Misha chimes in, grinning confidently, but not to worry, real program is work perfect.

Oh, too bad, because I was going to patent it mate, my dad says laughingly.I not give permission you be needing for patent, my friend, Misha says genially.

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Maybe we should say something about what we are about to see or how far we’ve come, Lila interrupts in a surprisingly, proper-sounding British accent.

Right, well, we have the construct of the town pretty much done, and a few characters so far. The theme is loading well now; Misha sorted out the glitchy bit in the last rendition. Lila’s done a great job with Salome’s character, in particular. Wait ’til you see. And thanks to Parker, Tymony is a town I’d want to live in. Good job, team. Now let’s proceed. Misha, switch the camera to my Halo, please.

Gotcha, boss.Let’s also start recording the narration, so we don’t have to keep running the same

lines for every test, Parker suggests.Great idea, but record them as separate files. The theme has to remain stand-alone.

Misha, is that possible?Yes, is doable. One small minute.

Mom puts on the Halo; it looks like a delicate crown made of silver filigree. A tiny, bluish-white, light pulses at the corner of the headset above her right eye, near her temple, and a thin piece of transparent material descends over her eyes.

Just a sec now, …

The little light fades, and the camera blanks out before coming back online inside the theme. Mom clears her throat before starting to narrate over the scenery:

Tymony is a strange town, in a good way—depending on whom you ask. Most people don’t realize it exists. It is populated with distinct characters; those who feel quite at home in their close refuge away from the chaos and impersonal nature of the big city. There are walking paths and very few cars; horses and carriages; street lamps and fountains. Before you think we are in the past here, in a way it is true, but it is not because of the century. The actual era is irrelevant.

However, speaking of centuries, it was over one hundred years ago when a community of people, who valued a quality of life separate and above industrial progress, had formed a relatively independent and secluded concept for living—reminiscent of a bygone era. While the town is still small, approximately 22 square miles, it is actually a composite of two previously neighboring, cooperative towns, namely Tyme

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and Harmony.As each town had begun to grow, it only made sense they should become one, a

happy marriage if you will. Even though the towns were each half, the size Tymony is now, to combine them was quite an undertaking. The biggest challenge had been the relocation of existing structures—most being from Tyme since Harmony was better situated and had a quainter visage. Much of what was once Tyme is now farms and farming land, where the few cars mentioned earlier are especially useful. Otherwise, time is made to stand still in Tymony—at somewhere around the early 1900s. It had been the founders’ primary goal, and to this day, the town stands testament to the achievement of this goal.

The forward portion, Harmony land, is set around a large pond and grassy clearing which makes for nice gatherings. The town center, offset from this dell, is the hub of activity, but the residences are not too far off. The majority of Tymony’s inhabitants live within an easy walking distance of most amenities. Of course, it has a school, and police and fire departments, but there is also a butcher, baker, and candlestick maker. Yes, truly, Tymony has a shop for most anything the residents might require. In fact, in the early days of its establishment, numerous meetings were held to ensure there would be adequate contributions to the common good.

These logistics were paramount, but it was also important all contributors were happy in their endeavors. Establishment of the town was one thing and its longevity quite another. You see, a town is rather like a large corporation, whereby the residents are employees running all day-to-day operations. Therefore, it would not do for the residents to either quit because they felt unrewarded for their efforts or provide a service that was unnecessary. Those early days were uncertain, but eventually, a stride was taken up.

The Pharis family has owned and operated the grocery, Pharis Goods since the town’s establishment. The Buckmans operate the farm supply shop, Tymony Farm and Feed. The Stoddard’s supply the meat and fish at Fields of Grass Ranch. Salome Greene owns the bookshop and stand-in library, Tick Tomes. Mr. Rufus and Mrs. Marilyn Doltry manage the one bed and breakfast within the town proper. It is named the Well Come Inn. Father Michael Leif oversees the church and its services. Simon Rafferty is Tymony’s mayor with the political lines of his family going back to one of Tymony’s founders, his great-great-grandfather, Jonathan Rafferty. One by one, each prideful person fills a

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niche distinctly his or her own.The residents are good, hardworking folks, who take their leisure time seriously, as

well. For this reason, while the school is small in enrollment, it is large in capacity—so the residents can, and of course, do hold functions, gatherings, and activities there. Regular meetings of The Stitch and Bitch Society; The Fishing Lure Artist’s Guild and The Baked Good Masterminds are all held on school premises. There are balls as well as country-dances held in the gymnasium and town and committee meetings are held in the auditorium. If the weather allows, most events can interchangeably be held in the athletics field.

While Tymony is just a spec on the map, it does have a train stop. Every so often, the town has visitors or someone decides to venture off—some, never to return. There would always be those enamored by city lights and modern ways—usually the young when they developed the itch for adventure and independence. There is a general pride in the perfection of Tymony; however, not an expectation that its lifestyle is desirable to everyone, least of all, forever.

Other, temporary travelers, leave for short periods and bring their experiences back home to share with family and friends. Of Tymony’s residents, Salome Greene is the most citified—the one likely to come and go. What she decides to share with her town-mates upon returning from her adventures is, however, usually filtered. Unlike the rest of the towns’ people, her family had neither been long nor original residents of Tymony. In fact, only she has ever lived here, the rest of Salome’s family is spread across the globe.

Over ten years ago, she met a boy from Tymony. His name was Robert Stoddard. They had been fellow passengers, seated next to one another, on a very long train ride. Salome learned he was one of those inspired youths who left the safety of his small town to discover himself and experience life as it was for the rest of the world. Robert’s description of this disregarded place inspired Salome’s interest. While he did not intend to return to Tymony, his tone was too fond to dismiss.

Six months after this chance meeting, Salome found herself planning a visit to Tymony. She packed her life’s must-haves, visited this once, and stayed.

The screen blanks out again.

That’s as far as we’ve gotten, my dad says when the focus of the video is restored

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outside of the theme. Stay tuned for the next installment.Just a couple commentary notes to add, Mom interjects. From before, the

narration will not be in the final product. We’re just doing that so we can see if the story jives, as it’s being planned and played. Also, on camera, it still looks like an animated movie, but when it’s released, the audience will be immersed in the setting. If the audience has a virtyou holographic persona, they will also have the option to be a character observer or participate as a provided secondary character. They cannot interact in any other way. We want this to be like one of those old choose-your-own-adventure books, but not a video game.

Subconsciously, I nod my understanding at the camera. I know that later in her career my mom went on to become a professor of dramatic literature. I imagine her lectures were awesome, although I might be biased in my assessment since it’s primarily based on my fascination with her person.

・ ・ ・Afterward, I lay sprawled across my bed listening to an old band called, Pink Floyd. The song playing is Wish You Were Here; I mouth the cryptic words, and at first, I think of her. A random image of Aiden, a work colleague I’ve known for a year—strike that—I’ve known of for a year, enters my mind. It’s nothing really; I just wish he were here too. Again, he is as mysterious as the lyrics of the song.

The days are getting longer, and it’s still light out, but my reverie takes me to the faraway realm of indigo skies. At the beginning of Charlotte’s documented story, she had trouble falling asleep and spent the last few minutes of consciousness every night looking for a found star as means of distraction. I, on the other hand, lay in bed each evening searching the skies for the interstellar medium—the in-between patches devoid of stars.

I ponder the existence of extraterrestrial beings in these non-glowing spaces, or distant angels aloft on hidden cliffs peeking over the edges of clouds at us as if we were ants. The fact is, in the scheme of things, we are tiny bodies gathered into communities with appointed leaders, moving back and forth, gathering food, and building new structures. Although our communities do not have official queens and kings, we have our recognized ones.

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Anyway, among the angels, I fantasize my mother watches me as I navigate my trials and trails. (There must be someone I belong to—heavenly living or earthly dead.)

Often, I am carried away in my philosophizing. If it is as we’ve been led to believe, that hell is below us and heaven is above, then do the spirits of heaven feel sorry for us? Are they watching expectantly to save us from the reaches of purgatory or are they waiting for our final demise? If spirituality is thus tiered, are the beings of earth closer to perdition or the Celestial Empire?

Inspired, I construct my thoughts into stunted phrases that leave much to interpretation—a poem.

As I think on stars,Is it written there?

That I should be,A fragment, a curve, a jagged line?

When heaven looks on me,Does it remember?

That I am but,Hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen?

I am a pattern,Would I know?

When I can feel,This organized chaos within?

Enough of that, my friends are coming over. I should start on dinner. I believed Julia was hung up with Lucas, “Mr. Smythe,”—probably by her own choice—and she wouldn’t be back anytime soon. It would just be Cass, Karin, Keith, and me.

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About the Author

Ellison Blackburn is the author of now numerous speculative or mysterious sci-fi novels and short fiction. But for many years, she traveled a path unrelated to creative writing altogether. It was only in 2014 that she realized her equally left/right-brain education and decades of tech-industry work experience was good fodder for penning stories. Learn more at EllisonBlackburn.com, and follow her on BookBub, Goodreads, and Facebook.

Titles by Ellison Blackburn

The Windy City FilesFrom Time to Time [short story], An Untimely End, and No Time Like the Present

The Future of LoveTantamount [short story edition] and Virtue Us [novella edition]

The FountainFlash Back, Second Nature, and Being Human

The WatchersIf There Be Giants and Second Son