Course Syllabus: Young Adult Speculative Fiction

September 6, 2016September 6, 20162 Comments

Hello readers! As promised, here is the syllabus for a seminar that I’m currently teaching at Bowdoin College. The seminar is entitled (Im)Possible Lives: Young Adult Speculative Fiction, and it is currently offered under Bowdoin’s English Department and the Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies program. The course description is as follows:

How do wizards, monsters, cyborgs, and dystopias shed light on precarious issues such as sexism, homophobia, racism, poverty, and illness? This seminar examines representations of identity and difference in young adult speculative fiction—texts created for younger audiences that include elements from genres such as fantasy, horror, science fiction, and magical realism. Students not only analyze the approaches that writers implement to construct hypothetical settings and characters, but also examine how speculative young adult novels depict different possibilities for existing and mattering in the world.

There are many goals that I have for this course. For the most part, I want students to realize the ways in which the content and structure of contemporary YA speculative fiction is symptomatic of many of the political, environmental, and sociopolitical crises that we face today in American society. In literature, film, and media, many have been exploring the issue of who matters, or who doesn’t matter. Particularly in social media discourse, we have seen a rise in attitudes such as homophobia, xenophobia, transphobia, sexism, elitism, and so on and so on. We are also developing greater awareness of the violence experienced by people of color, LGBTQ+ communities, and immigrants. It’s becoming increasingly difficult for us to ignore violence (and violent discourse), and recent events have been pushing many of us to question the value and future of human life. Through these acts of hate and violence, however, many of us are recognizing the need for community, highlighting the importance of self-care, and developing a desire for safer, more collective ways of being and knowing.

I think that YA speculative fiction offers readers a unique opportunity to think through the aforementioned precarious issues, and I believe works in this genre will push my students and I to ask difficult questions and explore complex issues. Teaching this seminar is not going to be easy. It will involve difficult and tedious emotional and intellectual labor. But I think that my students and I will grow both as people and thinkers by the time the semester is through.

Part of what I find valuable about works categorized as YA speculative fiction is that they are often crafted with a Utopian bent, and they often envision alternatives to the suffocating and violent conditions of the present. Books in this genre are often exercises in positive affect, and they push readers to imagine, desire, and work for better ways of living in the world. Students and I will explore both the perks and the pitfalls of the ethical frameworks discussed in a selection of YA speculative novels that overtly include themes of gender, sexuality, race, and class. It is my hope that through this seminar, my students will not only learn more about themselves and their place in society, but they will also recognize the value and importance of narratives that deviate from normative paradigms. Furthermore, I hope that students will be able to recognize and discuss current and emerging trends in the genre of YA speculative fiction, especially the genre’s increasing penchant for non-traditional narrative forms and genre-blending.

Just in case you missed the link above, you can access my course syllabus by clicking here. I hope you enjoy it!

We Are the Stories We Tell: Patrick Ness’ [More Than This]

January 2, 2015January 2, 2015Leave a comment

(Major spoilers ahead. You’ve been warned!)

Front cover of Patrick Ness’ More Than This (2013)

“People see stories everywhere,” Regine says. “That’s what my father used to say. We take random events and we put them together in a pattern so we can comfort ourselves with a story, no matter how much it obviously isn’t true.” She glances back at Seth. “We have to lie to ourselves to live. Otherwise, we’d go crazy.” (Ness 217)

The notions of storytelling and narrative are central to Patrick Ness’ 2013 young adult novel entitled More Than This. As can be seen in the quote above, Regine, an important character in the novel, demonstrates awareness of the cognitive function of narrative: it is a method of organizing the world to make sense of it and to interpret it. In other words, it is an ordering or sequencing of events that conveys a particular set of ideas, beliefs, or functions. Through the implementation of metafictional elements and characters who are aware of the nature of storytelling and narration, Ness’ novel brilliantly subverts many of the grand narratives present in young adult literature, and fiction in general.

More Than This is a young adult novel that is difficult to describe. On one hand, it is a philosophical exploration of narrative, the afterlife, the nature of storytelling, and reality. On the other hand, it is a young adult dystopian novel that explores topics such as death, sexuality, family, and friendship. More than a novel, Ness’ work is an exhilarating narrative experiment: through the exploration of adolescence in a post-apocalyptic context, Ness pushes us to question the value of stories in our lives, regardless of whether said stories are real or fabricated.

In the novel’s introduction, Ness challenges the expectations that we have of narratives by beginning the story in an unexpected fashion. Although death is traditionally viewed as the endpoint of a narrative, it marks the beginning of the story being told in More Than This. The novel opens with Seth, the protagonist, committing suicide by drowning himself at sea. He immerses himself into violent and cold waters found in the Pacific Northwest area of the United States, and he is thrashed against some unforgiving rocks by the relentless waves:

The impact is just behind his left ear. It fractures his skull, splintering it into his brain, the force of it also crushing his third and fourth vertebrae, severing both his cerebral artery and his spinal cord, an injury from which there is no return, no recovery. No chance.

He dies. (Ness 3)

The introduction of the novel is thus a reversal of the usual teleology that we have come to expect in traditional narratives (particularly young adult narratives) which focus on the linear development or the transition of a protagonist from point A to point Z. Like most young adult novels, More Than This does focus on transition–but said transition is triggered through death rather than adolescence.

After killing himself, Seth awakens in a perverse version of his childhood home in England. Although Seth recognizes this home, he notices dramatic differences between the place that he knew and its current condition: thick ashen dust has covered nearly every surface, and everything seems abandoned and mistreated–as if nobody has lived in the house for decades. Seth soon realizes that he is alone in this strange place, and he comes to the conclusion that he is living in “A hell built exactly for him” (20).

What is fascinating about More Than This is its ambiguity. At first we are led to believe Seth’s interpretation of his surroundings as a personal hell, but as the novel develops, we receive conflicting events and pieces of information that make it difficult to fully understand and know the setting of the novel. Various theories develop as the narrative progresses. Although Seth believes that he is in hell, paying consequences for actions he committed in life, the narrative takes a dystopic, post-apocalyptic turn. It is revealed that Seth is now living in the “real” world, and that the world that he used to live in was merely a virtual (online) space that society created to escape the pressures of living in a decaying and fractured world (this is actually a very complicated part of the story that’s difficult to summarize, so bear with me).

The novel, however, complicates the reader’s ability to fully believe this dystopian narrative. Seth understands that the presence of a digital alternate reality does explain many things about the “real” world, but he also admits that this explanation is full of gaps. Further complicating Seth’s ability to trust in the “real” post-apocalyptic world are the inexplicable coincidences that he encounters regularly: loose ends tie a little too nicely, Seth is always rescued from danger at the last possible moment, and things sometimes materialize when he thinks about them. His distrust in his current reality begins to peak when he encounters two other people, Regine and Tomasz, who rescue him right before he is attacked by an ominous, Death-like presence known as the Driver, who travels around in a black van: “Something’s still not right about this. These two just happened to be there when he was running toward the hill, just happened to stop him before he made contact with the black van, just happened to find the perfect place to hide from the Driver?” (183, emphasis in original).

Because of the factors mentioned above, Seth begins to believe that what he is experiencing is simply a “story that he’s telling himself” (250)–and this is where the novel becomes increasingly interesting from a (meta)fictional perspective. The novel’s metafictional aspects are highlighted earlier in the novel, when Seth encounters a book that he read as a child. While re-reading this novel, he reflects on the nature of books, and how these objects are able to contain a reality within their pages: “A book, he thinks at one point, rubbing his eyes, tired from so much focused reading. It’s a world all on its own, too. He looks at the cover again. […] A world made of words, Seth thinks, where you live for a while“ (135, emphasis in original). Although Ness uses italics to mark thoughts that are substantiated in Seth’s mind, one cannot help but notice how these italics inevitably highlight key phrases and ideas. These italicized words bring many thoughts to mind:

Seth is a protagonist who literally lives in a world made of words.
Through reading More Than This, we as readers end up living in a world made of words for a while.
It is possible that Seth’s current reality is nothing more than a world made of words.

The possibility of Seth’s reality being a story that he is telling himself becomes even more of a possibility towards the end of the novel, where he makes predictions based on past narratives that he’s encountered before. The most jarring of these predictions occurs after Seth, Regine, and Tomasz first destroy the Driver:

The Driver seems clearly dead, but Seth notices how slowly they’re all moving, as if at any second they expect it to surge back to life and attack them.

That’s what would happen if this were a story, Seth thinks. The villain who wouldn’t stay dead. The one who has to be stopped over and over again. That’s what would happen if this were all just my mind trying to tell me something. (407, emphasis in original)

As can be expected, the villain does not stay dead. Towards the novel’s conclusion, the Driver appears out of nowhere to stop the characters from re-entering the virtual world with their current knowledge of the “real” world. After defeating the Driver, once again, Seth, Regine, and Tomasz question whether the reality they are currently experiencing is no different from the virtual world that they managed to escape–whether they are all, in due course, a figment of Seth’s imagination. This is especially true after they witness Seth’s ability to predict the outcome of events that they face. The novel, however, refuses to provide readers with any answers to this question, and instead embraces ambiguity as an alternative to knowing:

He’s uncertain what’s going to happen next.

But he is certain that that’s actually the point.

If this is all a story, then that’s what the story means.

If it isn’t a story, then the exact same is true. (471, emphasis in original)

More Than This is thus a testament to the power of fiction and storytelling. Seth is the story that is told… we all are the stories that we tell. Regardless of whether said stories are true or fictional, they still have the power to produce meaning, to produce knowledge, and to produce selves. The narrative refuses to provide readers with direct answers, but this refusal, in due course, gives us the power to make what we want out of the story. We do not know if Seth is experiencing the “real,” whether he is living a narrative that his mind created to cope with his suicide, or whether he is simply a character lost within a sequence of random events. But this novel is precisely about not being able to know–and how by not knowing, we are able to stitch together an infinite amount of patterns and events to comfort ourselves, to orient ourselves, and find ourselves.

This post does not do justice to the philosophical richness, complexity, and brilliance of Ness’ work. More Than This also contains illuminating discussions on notions such as queerness, sexuality, loss, and relationships. Seth is also one of the most complex gay characters that I’ve encountered in young adult fiction (yes, the protagonist is gay, and his sexuality is a major component of the narrative). I wholeheartedly concur with John Green’s assessment of this novel: “Just read it.”

You can purchase a copy of More Than This by clicking here.

Work Cited

Ness, Patrick. More Than This. Berryville: Candlewick Press, 2013. Print (paperback edition)

Cover/featured image by Diane Yuri. Original version cropped and flipped.

Chapters 1-3 of My Young Adult Novel, “Deviant”

July 1, 2013July 9, 2013Leave a comment

This summer, I’ve been spending a lot of time editing and finishing a draft for my YA novel titled Deviant, a project that I’ve been working on for over two years. Although I thought I was finished with the basic draft this winter, I decided to reconfigure some key aspects of the plot, especially when it came to fleshing out some technical aspects of the universe I developed. This new draft, when compared to the older draft I posted last semester, should give you a clearer indication of the themes present within the novel, which include dystopia, education, predestination, and love.

I would greatly appreciate any and all feedback for these chapters. If reception for these chapters is positive, I might consider publishing a few more chapters on my blog.

Chapter I

Amethyst

I rest behind the garbage bin as I try to catch catch my breath. I think they finally lost track of me. I don’t know what’s more unbearable at this moment: the deathly grip of the temperature, or running desperately in the middle of the night with nothing but a hospital gown on. I mean, after all, it’s not too difficult to spot a red-headed teenager running frantically through the city in a pink gown. So much for keeping a low profile.

A sharp pain invades my right foot. Splatters of cracked wine-colored scabs meandered through the shades of periwinkle that cover my fingers. Bruises peppered my legs like confetti. I can’t remember the last time I had sensation in my toes. I huddle my legs against my chest in an effort to retain the little body heat I have left. With all the time I’ve spent immersed in ice during the past few months, I thought I’d be used to the cold by now. But the thought of ice did nothing but crystalize my fear.

I know one thing is certain. Either I’ll die out here in the snow, or they’ll catch me. Either way, I don’t think I’m going to last much longer. I wonder whether it would be more painful to freeze here next to a garbage bin or whether it would be worse to endure the toxins that they’re bound to inject within my body. Neither option seems too appealing at the moment. I take a deep breath, look up, and exhale. A large cloud of steam escapes my mouth. The cloudy wisps tango into the air until they dissipate into atmosphere, leaving no trace behind. If only I were like the steam. If only I can disappear into thin air on sheer will. If only I were free of my body. I guess death will provide that sense of evanescence I crave. Ironic, isn’t it?

I gently turn around and bend on my knees. I wonder if they managed to keep up with me. I grab the corners of the garbage bin with my fingers and I slowly tilt my head to the side. The three figures stand ominously across the street. Damn. I was too desperate to cover my footprints in the snow. I led them right to me.

I blow some steam into my hands, hoping to give them even a few seconds of heat and consolation. It’s useless. My fingers are a nauseating shade of mauve. Although they are numb, they are still shaking violently in a last ditch effort to produce warmth. This effort is in vain. My fingers will freeze. I will die. I’ve always been afraid to die, but the idea seems comforting at this point and time. Perhaps it’s because I’m cold and unable to think straight. But, perhaps I know deep down that whatever awaits me after death, even if it’s nothingness that awaits, is better than the misery I’m suffering in life. I’m beginning to sound like those angst-ridden teenagers in those texts that I always complain about, but I think I’ve earned the right to complain at this point.

I see a darkened alley nearby. Maybe if I make a run for it, they won’t catch me. I grab a crushed food can near the bin. This is it. I launch the can towards the opposite direction of the alley. I hear the metallic clink a few meters away.

I run. Well, I stumble. I’m losing my ability to balance myself. My feet are warning me that they can’t handle much more pressure. I feel a beam of light hit the side of my face as I head towards the alley. So much for my distraction.

I head towards the alley and reach a fence. Seriously, a fence? I thought fences in dark alleys were only used to make escape sequences dramatic in action films. The movie’s hero is chased by the villains and he or she dramatically climbs the fence and jumps over it avoiding the gang of thugs/zombies/cult members running after them. That’s not happening here. Between my frozen feet and my frostbitten fingers, it would be a miracle if I could climb half a meter. I frantically look around. The windows of the adjacent buildings are also too high for me to climb.

I’m trapped. I sit on the ground, knees against my legs. I lean my back against the cold brick of the one of the buildings. Flurries continue to descend from the sky, covering everything in an opaque whiteness. Everything looks exactly the same covered in snow. I chuckle as I think of snow, the element that is slowly draining my life away, as a leveling agent: everything and everyone gets covered in the same fashion by its flakes. Doesn’t matter what shape or size. The snow is careless. It lacks judgment. It’s impartial, unlike the people slowly approaching me.

Bursts of bright light invade my pupils. I cover my eyes, shielding them from the gleam of the three flashlights. My back presses firmly against the grimy wall. The rough texture of the brick perforates my skin. Sweat pours down my soiled hair. My chest heaves back and forth. A continuous flow of steam escapes my mouth. My carnation pink hospital gown offers little protection from the wind and the snow. I always knew that they would find me, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon.

“I d-don’t care w-what you d-do or say. I’m n-never going b-b-back there.”

I’m not afraid. I’m freezing. Too bad my stuttering makes me seem like a coward. I have to show them that I’m not afraid. I stand up. My fragile body shivers and quakes as I try to straighten up my body. I shake my head side to side, dusting off the snowflakes that have accumulated over the crown of my head. I take another deep breath. This time, I pronounce the worlds loudly and clearly without stuttering.

“Did you hear me? I…am never…going back.” I grab a heap of snow with my stiff fingers and fling it towards the flashlights. A wall of white sprinkles in front of my face as the three beams of light head towards me. Two of the beams of light die off; the other points directly at my face. Two men in black suits and cerulean ties grab me by each arm. The remaining light is soon consumed by the darkness. Even without the flashlights on, I can see their faces quite clearly. It seems that even the moon has a luminous interest in this recent development of events. The moon shining. The snow falling. What a lovely night this would’ve been under different circumstances.

There she is, dissecting my every thought and move with her incandescent eyes—one glows with a yellowish hue, like the eyes of the panther. I can’t distinguish the color of the other eye, but it is much darker than the one on the left. Strange. Nobody’s guardians deliberately select two different eye colors for their progeny. As a matter of fact, I think the Regime explicitly prohibits garish physical traits such as these. They would interpret it as a deviance from the natural order of things. The different eye colors must have been a mutation… an unfortunate accident. Leave it up to a marked person to police marked individuals.

She loosens up her ponytail. Her strawberry blond hair flows freely. Her flawless alabaster skin reflects the moonlight, and her bright pink dress-suit, on the verge of a neon tone, could be spotted miles away in pure darkness. She reminds me of those brightly colored frogs that live in the Amazons, distinguished by their dazzling colors that serve as a warning to other creatures. Even animals know not to mess with beasts that don extravagant, bright-colored coats. Who knew that someone so beautiful could be so… menacing. Yet this beauty is nothing but a mask. All that resides is ugliness inside of that captivating shell. Yes. Nothing but a ragged mummy within a jewel-encrusted sarcophagus.

“Well, Amethyst, it seems like you thought you could escape the Hub yet again. But as you very well know, nobody escapes. Deviants such as yourself can never leave, at least not until reparations are finalized. I must say, however, that your attempt to escape was quite a… noble effort. Ineffective, but very noble indeed.”

“There’s s-s-still p-plenty of time for me to es-ca-ca-cape.” No. I started stuttering again. The woman chuckles. Seems like she’s amused.

“Did you hear that, boys? Amethyst still thinks she has a shot at freedom. Little girls and their big dreams. Dreams are for weaklings, darling.”

“At least I’m c-capable of dreaming. M-monsters like you never dream.” Even with the two guards grasping my arms, it’s still getting harder to stand by the minute. I can’t collapse on the floor. I can’t let them see any more signs of weakness.

She steps towards me. Her eyes scan me top to bottom, basking in the pathetic visage in front of her. My bloody face. My bruised knees. My shivering body. She must be enjoying this spectacle. She leans toward my face. Her mouth is about two inches away from my own. She softly closes her eyes and whispers, “True. But that’s because monsters inhabit the realm of nightmares. And guess what, my dear Amethyst? Nightmares are still dreams. Cooperate, or I’ll make sure that you’re living a nightmare for the rest of your meager, pathetic existence.” She says this with a demeanor that is both calm and serene. Now I’m beginning to feel afraid. I try to respond, but no words come out of my mouth. Only steam does.

“Denise knows better than to try and escape. She knows that we can repair her” says the woman, still inches away from my face.

Denise. For a moment, I nearly forgot about her. I tried to let her know of my plan to escape. I wanted her to come with me. The Hub, however, is very cautious with its administration. It would be a shame to allow a relapse to occur within its premises.

My mind wanders off to my time in the Hub. I recall the cramped white room with nothing but a bunk bed, a sink, and a toilet. The nauseating smell of disinfectant and toilet-cleaner constantly invaded my nostrils. My cellmate was a seventeen year-old guy named Trevor. He was clearly ashamed about his recruitment to the Hub. It could be worse. Enrollment in the Hub was usually one of the lighter punishments for Deviants like us.

He would toss and turn while sleeping at night, whimpering the name of a person that I didn’t know. A person that he refused to talk to me about. When I first mentioned this name, he cupped one hand over my mouth and just stared straight into my eyes. With his other hand, he gently made a zipping motion across his lips. I perfectly understood who this person was.

Trevor and I had known each other since our first year in the Culture and Communication Center. I was seven when I first met him. Our assigned Center is the least popular of all the training centers, and we knew that. Understandably, we weren’t excited to be there, but it’s not like we have much of a choice in terms of what Center we are assigned to at that age. Although we briefly talked during the first couple of years, we soon grew apart. Who knew that we would one day be cell mates at the Hub?

The transgression that led to my imprisonment happened about four months ago. All it took was one moment. One moment to obliterate years of work and effort. One moment to destroy a lifetime of possibility. When it happened, Denise and I knew we were doomed. Hopeless. Lost. The Regime doesn’t take these matters lightly if you are caught—and although it’s been decades since all the cells in the Hub have been full, you occasionally see one or two new faces in the dining hall every month or so. Denise and I were the unlucky ones this time. You can never be too careful here… the Regime is always watching. Always listening.

The alpha of this demonic pack stands in front of me, breathing heavily on my face, with a hand placed firmly into her pocket. I know what comes next. We all do. We’ve been warned about the penalties for multiple transgressions. We all knew the protocol that Hub-Masters usually followed when pursuing an escapee. Knowing what comes next, I looked at her adamantly with a sense of valor.

“Leave…Denise… out of this.” I’m losing my breath.

“Oh Amethyst, just drop the act of courage and valor. You already look pathetic. Do you want to actually be pathetic as well? I don’t have to explain what happens next. Accept your fate, and rest assured knowing that our country will become a cleaner place with your departure.”

I can’t take it anymore. With all my might, I yank my arms away from the guards and I lunge at her, trying my best to knock her into the snow. With any luck, her head will bash into the pavement. I lock my arms around her, but she barely budges. I must be way weaker than I thought I was. Adrenaline failed to be my hero at this point. The Hub-Master grabs me by my hair and tosses me on the ground. I look up and see those eyes. They truly do look monstrous in the moonlight.

I black out momentarily. I open my eyes and notice one of the guard’s boots embedded within my abdomen. The other guard swings his foot. I black out once again. Yes, that’s blood dripping out of my mouth.

I spit out the life-bearing fluid and watch the crimson masterpiece that I created on the silver snow. I lay the side of my head on the red-tinged surface. I will raise my white flag. “I can’t be repaired. I refuse to be repaired” I whisper, loud enough for them to hear me.

The woman gives me a half smile and pulls out the roll of parchment that I was expecting to see. Parchment. How old-fashioned. How traditional. One of my history instructors back at the Center mentioned that all agencies belonging to the Regime use parchment for most of their official documents. It makes them feel as if they were in touch with history. The days when Deviants were nowhere to be found. The days when the entire population upheld the virtues of purity and dignity. Strangely, with my act of defiance, I feel like I have fully embraced both of those virtues.

She unrolls the parchment and reads the proclamation in a stern and cold voice. Even the snow seems termperate in comparison to that voice. I know the proclamation by heart—I saw it all the time in movies and television shows repeatedly, all telling the story of people who dare defy the fourth natural law. To add insult to injury, they even made the proclamation rhyme—a lullaby uttered right before our final sleep. It sounds just like I expect it to sound, but with my name and Borough mentioned in the first verse. Rhymes used to always calm me down as a kid. This rhyme manages to finish the snow’s job of freezing the blood running through my veins.

“Amethyst Jacobson of the South-western Borough,

The Regime has been clear, its stipulations were thorough.

Your defiance of nature, and a will that won’t bend,

Leaves us no choice but to uphold and defend

The revered mandate of the fourth natural law:

your sacrifice will bring order and peace to us all.”

As she finished the proclamation, she kneels down on the floor and pulls out a syringe from her pocket. She pulls out a vial with a rose-colored liquid. I don’t even feel the needle piercing my flesh. I never thought I would die this way. I always thought I’d be old, surrounded by my loved ones, dying in the warmth of my bedroom. Or fighting bravely against my sworn enemies and foes. But here I am, weak and defenseless: a bloody rag doll laying helplessly as the snow carelessly embraces me.

I feel the heat draining away from my body. My chest tightens. No more steam escapes from my mouth. My eyes are open, but now, all I see is blackness. My spirit finally breaks as I realize that for me, there is no white light at the end tunnel.

Chapter II

WALTZ OF THE FLOWERS

“Another lovely semester at the magnificent Culture and Communications Center. I wonder what academic joys await us this year” I say, staring at the colossal gates in front of me.

“Oh please, you know a day here beats any day doing nothing at the apartment. At least here we can keep busy with our training rather than watching another pointless television show. If I see another stupid display of teenagers with unbelievable vocabulary ranges and raging libidos, I’m going to gouge my eyes out.” Alice is clearly upset that we spent so much of our summer lounging on the sofa. I, on the other hand, really appreciated that break from the bleakness and mundaneness of training at the Center. I’ve been here for way too long, and I still have about six more years to go. Yes, I’ve learned a lot, but I think I’ve reached a plateau in terms of my development. I mean, you can only hear and see the same thing so many times before it ceases to amuse you.

I guess to some extent, Alice is right to be bothered about the lack of excitement that characterized our break from the Center. To say that out summer was monotonous would be an understatement. I went out a couple of times, slept for countless hours, drank more alcohol than I should’ve, and basically did nothing else but glue myself to the sofa in order to watch reruns of my favorite shows. Now here I am standing in front of the same old extravagant ivory gate, with my roommate at my side, staring at the emerald-hued concrete building behind the bars. One man’s education is another man’s prison.

The building seems to be surrounded by even more glowing screens, maps, and advertisements than I last recalled. It’s only been three months since I last walked out of that gate. The same soft instrumental music emanates from the speakers that surround the gates. The music used to get on my nerves. It made the school feel artificial and staged, no different from those amusement parks that are found in some of the southern Boroughs. Now, I barely ever notice it.

“The place looks a little different this time around” I say, looking at the screens near the main entrance of the Center.

“Well, the place always looks different but it’s always the same. More display screens. More advertisements. If I see another jade statue of the number eight somewhere in the Center, I think I’m going to hurl.” Alice motions her index finger towards her throat as if she were pretending to puke. Sure enough, we approach one of the many statues portraying a V shape accompanied by three vertical lines, which prominently displays the history of our Center on the lavish holographic platform.

“You know you love these statues deep down, Alice. How they represent the greatness of our Center, and how they illustrate how amazing our futures will be. I was thinking of getting you a small replica for your birthday. I think it will look marvelous on your night stand” I say with a smirk.

“You get me a replica and I’ll shove the V down your throat and the I’s where the sun doesn’t shine. Don’t forget, your room is only about four meters away from mine. Don’t make me violent.” Alice doesn’t look at me once during the threat.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. I’ll just make sure to sleep with one eye open and a heavy blunt object under my pillow. If worse comes to worse, I’ll either pull your hair or I’ll retaliate by lunging at you with my own little replica sitting on my desk.” I flash a charming smile, dazzling her with my immaculate teeth. She can’t help but laugh. Works every time.

“Come on Levi, I know you wouldn’t lay a finger on me. You adore me too much.” She tilts her head and flashes a smile right back. I immediately give her a light shove with both hands. She sticks her tongue out at me.

The music playing from the speakers changes. A familiar arrangement of a harp and violins begins to increase in volume. Yes, they are playing Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers– yet again. You hear the song at least once every week. I look at Alice with the corner of my eye. Alice calls our music instrumental music. Where she comes from, instruments are usually accompanied with the voice of a human being, uttering words and phrases to the tune of the melody. The combination of music and the human voice is deemed unnatural in our country, so many of us have no idea of what that amalgamation sounds like. Well, I have an idea because of that one time Alice gave me a demonstration. The image of her moving her lips in unison with music was both unexpected and haunting, but I try my best to prevent myself from thinking about it too much. The last thing I need is to be caught breaking a natural law.

“Do you hear what they’re playing again?”

Alice puts on a fake Northern accent, similar to the one we’ve seen on documentaries, and answers “Yes, my dear Levi. Why, it’s our song! Care to join me for a quick venture around the dance floor?”

Without missing a beat, I stretch out my hand and bow down. Alice does a simple curtsy and stretches out her hand towards mine. I bend down even further and touch my lips gently on the top of her fingers. “My lady, I would never miss an opportunity to dance with you.” I then grasp her hand firmly with one hand, wrap my other arm around her waist, and as I lift her off the ground, we begin twirling. We twirl until I feel dizzy. I place her on the floor, and we resume our habitual routine: prancing around each other, flapping our hands around like the wild geese that flock by the Center during the winter. I run towards Alice to lift her up for the grand finale.

“Will you two cut it out already? You know it’s against regulations to cause a stir around the premises of the Center. Don’t make me report you to the Chancellor!”

It was one of the guards, dressed in the usual (and hideous) khaki green coats with way too many buttons and pockets. He towers over us by at least half a meter. His cheeks blush in a deep scarlet and he is sweating profusely. His lips are twisted in a snarl, and he holds his rifle firmly with both hands. So much for our grand finale.

“We’re sorry, sir. We just got bitten by the music bug. We’ll be heading towards the Center now.”

“Not so fast. Identification, please” says the guard as he pulled out the familiar black box from one of his pockets. We each took turns waving the back of our left hands in front of the scanner and watched as the small light glowed green twice.

“You both may proceed, and no fooling around this time. Adults have no business moving around like that in Center grounds.”

“Yes sir!” we say, giving the guard a salute with our right hand.

We both walk stiffly through the ivory gate, trying our best to hold back the laughter that is struggling to explode out of our chests. Waltz of the Flowers continues to play ever so lightly as we walk into the Center.

Almost everything looks exactly as it did last semester. A few new decorative plants surround the premises. The same tall emerald encrusted fountain still crowns the middle of the courtyard. The fountain is called the weeping willow, and it is made of a series of distorted male and female bodies entangled in a shape that resembles a tree trunk. Water shoots out of the top center part of the trunk in a mushroom shape, giving it the effect of willow leaves draping around the mainframe. The bodies in the middle are actually quite difficult to discern, because you have to look between the gaps in the flowing water in order to catch a glimpse.

The front courtyard of the Center is enormous, but it was only a small part of the massive Center system. Many think of Centers as small cities. Even though our Center is the lowest ranking one in the Republic, it is undoubtedly one of the largest. It houses over 1.2 million trainees, thousands of instructors, and it currently has over 152 buildings—and the number of buildings increases by four or five every year. Alice and I tried walking from one side of the Center to another. It took us nearly three hours to complete the journey, and that’s taking into account that we’re pretty brisk walkers. People usually take the underground platform system to travel from one building to another. This system is composed of fifty hover-platforms that float through a series of magnetic rails and tunnels underground. They travel so fast that you can reach the furthest building from the Center’s entrance in less than fifteen minutes.

It would actually be a lovely sight if it weren’t for all of the guards parading all over the Center, dressed in their unsightly green attire and their enigmatic mirrored helmets that cover half of their faces. Alice and I usually refer to the Center as Oz, an allusion to the Emerald City in L Frank Baum’s text TheWonderful Wizard of Oz, one of the few surviving texts of the twentieth century. I should add that this is an illegal text that people aren’t supposed to possess in any way or form. The designers of the Center mentioned something about the color green being calming or soothing, which is ironic because I rarely feel calm within these walls. Perhaps it has something to do with all of the guards and their rifles. The Oz reference is quite appropriate: even our daily uniforms are a pale mint color. The only difference between uniforms are the expected gender markers: males wear dark blue khakis while females wear long pink colored skirts that must cover their knees. Girls are typically referred to as watermelons due to the stark and jarring contrast of colors that they wear.

Despite the overwhelming presence of green, and the guards with rifles, Oz is not the most uncomfortable Center in the Republic. It surely beats TEC—the Technology and Engineering Center located in the Southern Borough of the Republic—in terms of style and comfort. Although Oz is certainly the least prestigious center of the eight located in the Republic, people here are known for being exceptionally nice and welcoming.

Although many consider it a burden to be assigned to Oz, they rarely focus on how easygoing things can be here. Although we still had to follow rigorous schedules, demanding instructors, and although we barely had free time during a semester, at least we didn’t live in the cold, mechanical world of the Southern Borough. In that division, everything from hobbies to leisurely activities are regulated by the Regime.

“Levi. Levi! Helloooo! Is anyone home?” I snap out of my trance. How long was I just standing there, staring at the entrance to Oz? There is something about the first semester of the year that awakens a clash of emotions within me. Although I’m excited to meet my friends again and do something other than sit in front of my computer monitor, the repetitive nature of our training really gets to me at times. But I guess repetition is necessary if you are to become perfect. And if you can’t achieve perfection, you at least want to be good enough at something to get a job. Just a few more years in Oz, and I’m out of here.

“Sorry Alice, just daydreaming again. It must be my nerves striking me.”

“Because of the reception?”

“Yeah. As much as I enjoy being surrounded by countless strangers, watching them dance like idiots and informing them about the glory and wonders that Oz has to offer, I’d much rather stay in my apartment reading a text or watching a film.”

“Too bad the reception is mandatory. Who knows? You might make a new friend.” Alice gives me a gentle nudge and a mischievous smile. “You can certainly use a new friend in your life. Don’t get me wrong, I love you to pieces, but I’m not going to be around forever, you know?”

“Sure. I’ve been at Oz for nearly seven years, and I can count all of my friends with the fingers on my left hand. I doubt this year’s transfers and recruits will be chock full of interesting subjects. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet some beautiful woman who will join me in my quest for cultural and intellectual pursuits.”

“Oh yes, your brooding personality and sarcasm is perfect bait for all the young and cultured women out there. Watch out girls! Levi is back in town!”

Alice was right. I wasn’t very successful in courting women at all. I’m nineteen years old, and I’ve only had two girlfriends. Well, girlfriend is an overstatement, seeing as those relationships lasted about three months. They always complained. They always ranted about me not wanting enough. They also weren’t able to understand my so-called “constant fading away from reality.” But I couldn’t help it. Inside, I always feel like something is not right with me. For some reason, I tend to sabotage most of my relationships. Sometimes I think that I was just not built to be a boyfriend, if you get my drift. The more I think about it, the more I believe that some people are just not meant to embrace certain roles. Some people are not meant to be friends, or guardians, or instructors. However, we somehow fool ourselves into believing in the power of becoming… that we can learn to embrace and love things we are incapable of liking. Wow, I am a can full of sunshine, am I not?

The only person that I’ve always liked, well, loved, was Alice. With her, I could be myself. I could let go of my seriousness, embrace my inner goof, and dance faux ballet in front of the gates of Oz. When I say love, I don’t mean the marriage type of love, but rather a deeper kind of attachment. We truly respect and just get each other. We’re like family. Plus, she’s already in a relationship with Samuel. They’ve been together for seven years. I actually met the guy through video chat last May. He was very nice, and very funny. I can see why Alice would stick it out for someone like him. And in all honesty, I am happy for her. She’s my best friend, after all. Well, she’s virtually my only true friend. I am not feeling sorry for myself, I am merely stating the reality of my situation. There’s no need for anyone to feel sorry for me.

Alice transferred from the Northern Union to the Republic about three years ago. This, of course, is very rare. The Republic hardly ever accepts incomers from the Northern Union—so she must’ve been exceptionally brilliant—and she is. So she was issued a ten year Visa to live and train in the Republic, along with a full scholarship. Her guardians, or parents as they call them up North, were not enforced to pay the obligatory 30% of their yearly salaries to send their child to a training center. I still don’t fully get why she crossed the border to come here. The North is known for being liberal, to the point where virtually nothing is outlawed. It’s the antithesis to the Republic, a place known for regulating every possible choice and decision that you can make in your life.

I once asked her why she left the Northern Union to pursue studies here. She told me that entrance to a training institution, or universities as her country calls them, is not permitted until a person is at least eighteen-years old. Until then, they receive a general education that covers every imaginable area of study, from art, to culture, to math, to science, to language, to literature, and even physical education. Now, to me, that seems like a dream. You get to try a little of this and a little of that until you are absolutely certain of the path that you want to take in life. I guess freedom of choice is just as difficult as having no choice at all. At least if you’re life is a mess within the Republic, you can always blame everything on the Regime’s inflexibility and tendency to govern every aspect of your life. But when you’re in charge of every decision that must be made in your life, there is nobody else but yourself to blame when things go awry.

However, since Alice was young, she always was fond of history and cultural study, so she filled out a transfer application. After a lot of paper work, red tape, and bureaucratic nonsense, here she is: a place where all of her education is geared towards a single subject. I, on the other hand, would’ve given anything to leave the Republic for the Northern Union, but emigration is strictly forbidden for citizens of the Republic. We aren’t even allowed to vacation in other places other than the Boroughs. Alice has the choice to return back North at any time, where she is allowed to venture off to any place within the globe. However, I don’t know much about her life up North, mostly because she is restricted from sharing most details about her other life. Every time she shares a tidbit about her previous life, or even when she tells me what she did during her breaks in the Northern Union, she risks deportation, along with the obliteration of every single training credit she has received during the past three years. Did I mention that she also risks the possibility of public execution?

I’m not completely ignorant of the rest of the world, even though I will never get to see it with my own eyes. I’ve heard of Europe, the Caribbean islands, and even the lush jungles of South America, but my experience of these places is limited to video clips, photographs, and the occasional gossip that is heard about other countries. We are told that this prohibition had to do something with upholding the moral fiber of our country and preventing it from being stained by outside influences. Even the few people who immigrate to the Republic, such as Alice, have to take a series of behavioral tests in order to prove that their sense of morality fits within the social and cultural context of the Republic. Or, that they could at least pretend to uphold the same values.

Alice stands there with her arms folded and a bored look on her face. The sunlight greatly highlighted the sapphire hue of her eyes. Her snowy skin provided such a beautiful canvas for those blue eyes. And her hair, caught somewhere between dark-brown and black, delicately curled down from the crown of her head to her shoulders. But best of all was her simplicity. She never wore makeup, and unlike other girls in the Center, she didn’t get up two hours earlier to make herself beautiful. She always says that people should love her for who she is. And it works. Everybody adores Alice.

Too bad nobody looks good in their Center uniform. The stark contrast between the colors of her blouse and her skirt give her a garish look. “Well, I guess we better head off to the Nucleus and see what training assignments we will be given this semester. Let’s see what bores I have to sit through this time around.”

Alice nods her head. “We better hurry. The Distribution ceremony will take place in about twenty minutes” replies Alice unenthusiastically.

We walk to the closest glass dome near us. I arrive near the entrance of the dome and I wave my left head in front of the scanner perched on a platform. “Welcome to the CCC Underground Platform System. Your Network account will be charged two R-Credits for entryway into the terminal. Please state your destination” says the speaker located underneath the scanner. I bend slightly towards the speaker and loudly say “Nucleus.” I wait for about two seconds, and a small green light next to the speaker turns on. “Thank you, Mr. Solis. Your designated platform code will be sent to your Network armlet immediately. Enjoy your trip!” Such a polite machine. My Network armlet immediately lights up. I’m assigned platform N4.

Platforms depart every 10 minutes, so I wait for Alice to pay her entry into the dome. She’ll mostly likely be assigned the same platform anyway.

“Did you get N4?” she asks as she walks in.

“Yeah, it’s over there on the right” I say, pointing towards the direction of our platform.

Inside the Dome, we are surrounded by a series of eighty enormous round platforms. Each platform is marked with a letter and a number, and each one stops at three different destinations. They all can easily fit about two-hundred people. Every building of the Center is connected through a large underground web, and Domes are considered focal nexuses of this web because it is possible to reach any destination in the Center through a Dome. If taking a platform through a building, you’ll usually have to make a connection somewhere.

Alice and I walk to platform N4. The platform is nearly packed. We climb the chrome-colored stairs and wait above the transparent surface. Advertisements for new films and texts shine brightly across the floor. I look around and see new and familiar faces heading off to the Distribution ceremony. They make the ceremony sound extravagant and fancy, but the only exciting thing that happens is that we’re given the code that will allow us to access the training sessions that we were assigned for this semester. Every semester, the Center offers a very particular number of sessions for an exact number of students. We have no choice in terms of the training sessions that we take here at Oz. The administration makes those choices for us. We do fill out some forms with classes that we’re interested in, but rarely do they take those forms into account. I’ve been pretty lucky since my time here. I’ve enjoyed almost all of my training sessions, and even those worst one of them wasn’t that bad. Just boring and repetitive.

“Please make sure your feet are located within the premises of the platform. We will depart in thirty seconds. Make sure to rest your back firmly against the panels once they rise” announces a speaker located in the center of the platform. A series of panels rises from the edges of the platform, allowing nobody to enter or nobody to leave. I walk towards one of the panels and press my back firmly against it, just as we were instructed to do. I hear the familiar buzzing noise and I watch as ropes of light girdle around our waists. This is to make sure that we stay balanced during the short trip, and to make sure that nobody is launched out of the platform during our journey. A few seconds later, I feel the platform dropping into the ground.

The thing I most look forward to in Distribution ceremonies is the ride on the platforms. Don’t get me wrong. I use the platform every day I spend in the Center, so I’m already used to it. However, there are many first years and transfer students who have never used an underground platform system before. Many first-timers are absolutely amused and amazed by the experience. The hilarious cases are those who are scared out of their mind—screaming at the top of their lungs during the entire trip. Alice once showed me a Network site dedicated to displaying pictures of people during their first trip in an underground platform. I find this amusing because I was with Alice during her first ride on a Center platform. I was minding my own business on the platform three years ago, but I was distracted by the fervent high-pitched screams that were unleashed ext to me. I turned my head to see a stranger (who turned out to be Alice), screaming aloud with her eyes shut. The noise coming out of her mouth was unnatural. It sounded like a cyborg howler monkey, if you get my drift. I laughed beyond belief, and once we arrived at the Nucleus, I helped a very dizzy Alice step out of the platform. Instant friendship.

Every underground tunnel has its own décor and flavor. Tunnels to the Nucleus are adorned with holographic projections of space and the Milky Way, accompanied by loud music and varying temperatures. It’s like venturing in a high speed rocket through the galaxy. We zoom past the sun and feel a rush of hot air against our faces. We ride alongside Hayley’s comet and watch as the entire tunnel becomes illuminated in a flash of white. The platform is traveling so fast that you can see women’s hair dancing in a chaotic frenzy. It’s hard to believe that we’re really in a large magnetic tube that connects from the Dome near Oz’s entrance to the Nucleus, and two other destinations afterwards.

Here comes my favorite part: the drop. I always know when it’s about to come because of the projection of the Orion constellation over our heads. As soon as we’re under Orion’s belt, the platform plummets into the darkness. I hear most of the first years screaming their hearts out, and I hear Alice laughing maniacally at their reactions. I was told that during the inauguration of the underground traveling system a couple of years ago, many elderly people died of heart attacks. It’s easy to see why that happened. I always thought that the intensity of this transportation was amazing yet impractical for so many reasons. On the other hand, I love the fact that I ride through a roller-coaster virtually every day of class. Besides, those who are too afraid to ride the platform can always use the much-slower trolleys around the Center.

This is, without a doubt, my favorite underground tunnel. We soon see a projection of planet Earth, which means we are close to our first destination. The platform stops moving. It begins to slowly ascend as we see the circle of light above us, leading to the Nucleus.

The red light under the speaker in the center of the platform illuminates. “Arriving at destination one – The Nucleus. Please remain inside the platform until your glow belts are deactivated” says the voice coming from the speaker. The platform rises all the way to the top. The halo of light encircling our waists fades away as the panels surrounding the platform lower beneath the surface. I see a larger dome around me made out of green-tinted glass. A first year next to me collapses on his knees as beads of sweat drop from his forehead. The platform is not designed for the faint of heart. Alice and I step out of the platform and head off to the Great Hall of the Nucleus.

Chapter III

Seat 212

“I just love that each tunnel has a different theme. I’ve been using these platforms for three years and every single time I get excited. I can’t believe that our Center is lucky enough to get one” says Alice.

“I can’t tell whether I love the one to the Nucleus or the underwater themed tunnel that leads to the Rolf’s Aquatic Center” I reply.

“I just love the faces of all those first wretched little first years. Poor things have never experienced anything quite like underground travel” says Alice as we reach the Dome’s exit.

“It wasn’t just the first years. Did you see the transfer students wailing as well? The thing travels so quickly. Didn’t you freak out a little your first time?” I say with a knowing smile. The image of a screaming Alice haunts my mind again.

“Of course not! The underground tunnels were one of the neatest things I have seen in my life! It’s a shame that most of the other Centers don’t have them.” There she goes with her “tough-girl” act, but she’s fooling nobody.

“Well, that’s because most of the other Centers are either smaller or have technologies that we haven’t even heard of. I’m sure TEC has a transportation system that exceeds our wildest expectations. I heard that they actually teleport from one building to another.”

“Ugh, those annoying TEC people. They think they are high and mighty just because they go to the highest ranking Center. At least we learn about things that are important.”

“Mmm, yeah, important, but you have to admit that what we do here isn’t exactly useful” I reply skeptically.

“What? Of course what we do is useful! How dare you imply otherwise?” replies Alice adamantly.

“Come on, Alice. You have to admit it. Other Centers create mind-blowing technology and save lives. They come up with new medications, new cost-effective ways to produce foods. They even managed to salvage the parts of the Republic that were drowning in water after the ice caps melted. And what do we do? We learn about the past and learn to judge and evaluate the beauty of things. Even then, we’re not really allowed to be creative, right? We just take notes and learn how to apply tired and old stories and theories. Any time we try a new approach, we are criticized and we fail our training courses.”

“At least we’re doing something that we love to do.” Alice seems hurt by my words.

“Hey, most people don’t even make the choice to come to this Center. You and I are the rare exceptions. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that what we do has no importance. And when it comes down to it I love what I do. But, when it comes to pragmatics, we’re not really moving mountains or saving drowning cities.” I think about what I’m saying, and it sounds like I totally hate Oz and everything that it stands for. I don’t. I absolutely love what I do. I study the history of words, the beauty of language, and the role of culture in the formation of thought. But ever since I began my training here, I’ve been plagued with doubts and questions about the usefulness of my education. I believe what I do has meaning, but this meaning is so difficult to convey to people from other Boroughs. To be honest, I can’t really discern this meaning in the first place, so how could I possibly convey it to other people?

“We are saving lives” states Leona, firmly. If it weren’t for people like us, people would lose what little humanity they have left. Some people are just too closed-minded to realize this. And come on, even the Republic realizes the importance of a cultural education. This Center wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.” Alice is right. I never really thought about this before. But why would the Republic have an Center devoted to such a liberal type of education (well, at least more liberal when compared to other Centers)?

The Nucleus is packed full of old and new faces. Every trainee dons the traditional Center uniform. I feel like we’re swimming in a sea of absinthe. The Nucleus is decorated the same way it always is during the Distribution ceremony. The baroque style columns and moldings that surround the building are glowing with white lights that twinkle like stars. Grape vines wrap around the walls and the tables in the reception area. White candles illuminate the entire entrance. The tables were stocked high with bread, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, and wine.

I see a younger trainee trying to grab a small bottle of wine, but his hand is blocked by an invisible force. Poor thing. He doesn’t know that the alcohol is surrounded by a protective perimeter. The perimeter scans every subject’s biochip, so only those who are over the age of sixteen can stick their left hands in the perimeter to grab a drink. Rumor has it that the perimeter even limits the total amount of drinks that you can take. I wouldn’t know. I know better than to have too much to drink at Center events, especially with all the instructors and administrators lurking around.

Alice and I walk past the reception area to the tower of the Nucleus, there the Distribution ceremony will take place. The ceremony is always the same process every semester for students in Cultural and Communications training. We all gather around the Great Hall located on the second floor of the tower. All official and administrative business takes place in this sixteen story tower, and all of the center’s technology and officers are managed in the upper offices of this building. The Center’s Chancellor even has the entire upper floor all to himself—the penthouse, he calls it. Since the Chancellor lives there, we can only begin to imagine the luxury present within this floor. According to the Center’s official Network site, the chancellor’s floor has over 15 rooms, a ballroom, 12 bathrooms, and 5 offices. It’s massive, to say the least. Only the best and worst of students ever step foot within the penthouse, so I guess on the bright side, it’s a good thing that neither Alice nor I have had a reason to visit that floor.

We walk up the stairs to the second floor and we see the great hall. Lavish green tapestries with the Center’s insignia embroidered in golden thread—a series of dashes arranged in a circle with the Roman number VIII inscribed in the center—draped the smooth marble walls. Clouds and fog with a green hue swirled around the ceiling. Of course, these weren’t real clouds. They are projected using the same technology found in the underground platform system. Hundreds of thousands of chairs encircle a podium in the middle of the hall. Large monitor screens hover around the green swirls in the ceiling in order to give students sitting far away a closer look at the podium.

Waves of trainees are scattered around the room, trying to locate their assigned seats. Three guards stand near the entrance of the hall, two holding rifles and one sitting next to a box of folders, located near a list displayed on a rather large tablet computer. When I first arrived at Oz, I used to be terrified of the guards and their rifles. But after years of attending training here, it’s inevitable to get used to it. I’d be more surprised to see a guard without a gun, regardless of what building or Borough I’m in. I guess the Regime really underestimates our Center’s ability to cause a scene or to create a disruption given the serious lack of guards present in the area, especially when compared to other Centers within the Republic.

We stand in line to register for the Distribution ceremony. Alice stands in front of me, constantly looking back while rolling her eyes. Unlike me, Alice is totally impatient, and lines are most certainly not something she looks forward to. I on the other hand have the patience of an ox. Many people underestimate the beauty of lines. The organization. The opportunity to closely scrutinize those around you. Sometimes I stare at other people while waiting in lines, wondering what thoughts, worries, or concerns are drifting in their mind. Some people would rather be at another place. Some people have other things to do during the day. The usual impatient suspects in a long line are those with their arms crossed, an unmistakable frown on their facade, and a foot tapping desperately—as if that were going to make the line go any faster. I wonder what ants think as they line up behind each other with food in their mouths. What makes us any different from ants? The line steadily moves forward, and soon, it’s Alice’s turn. She walks towards the guard sitting next to the box of folders and pronounces her name and personal information clearly.

“Alice Elizabeth Blake. Vocation: Cultural History. Origin: Blue District – Northern Union.”

As soon as she mentions the fact that she’s from the Northern Union, she gets the same dubious look that she always gets from residents of the Republic. People point and whisper. It’s not every day that you encounter a Northern native—they are an rarity in these parts. Sometimes people walk away from her when they discover that she comes from a more liberal and devious nation. Other people react in disgust. Once in a blue moon, you might even have the occasional person who is curious about the Northern Union, and they begin to assault Alice with a barrage of questions. But she always keeps her lips tight, being extra careful of not sharing any information of her home with any citizens of the Republic. Despite a few seconds of what seemed like hesitation and resentment, one of the guards standing near the entrance pulls out a dark green box from one of his pockets. He motions Alice to lift up her left hand, and he promptly scans it with the box. The tablet next to the sitting guard soon displays Alice’s picture and loudly enunciates all of her personal information, including her age, her Network code, her DNA structuring sequence, and even her blood type. The screen then displays the number 3274 on the screen in big red letters.

“Alright Miss Blake, you’re assigned seat number 377,327. Please grab your customized information packet and proceed to your designated area” replies the guard in a disinterested fashion. It never ceases to amaze me how a human being can seem so void of life. I don’t even want to begin to imagine what training guards must go through before becoming active units. I never see them smile, laugh, and I’ve certainly never seen them express fear. Most of the time they don a stoic persona, and I think that anger and seriousness are the only emotions they are capable of showing. I used to think that most of them were robots or androids, but I once witnessed a guard getting shot about two years ago, while venturing through one of the poverty-stricken areas of our district.

Since Alice’s arrival to Oz, we’ve never once sat together during the Distribution ceremony. The chances that I’d be assigned anywhere near her seat were quite slim, so I was preparing myself to sit next to people that either annoyed me greatly, or that were significantly older or younger than me. Students are typically enrolled in a Center at the age of seven, after taking several aptitude tests administered by the Regime. The only exception to this were the very few students arriving from the Northern Union, or students who transfer from another Center in the Republic—a rare occurrence at Oz, seeing as it was typically viewed as the most useless and impractical Center of the eight. Trainees are required to remain in Oz until the age of twenty-five, when they are deemed absolute experts in their assigned area. Although you are required to stay in Oz dorms during your first couple of years at the center, all students are welcome to move to the adjunct apartments located one block away from the center after the age of sixteen. After commencement at the age of twenty-five, students are assigned a job at any one of the eight boroughs, according to their performance at the training Center and of course, to the good graces of the job assignment committee. Those who were brilliant and lucky were typically assigned a position as a Center instructor or administrator. Those who weren’t as brilliant or just plain unlucky were typically given the most undesirable jobs in the country—which implies years of training gone to waste.

I was next in line.

“Levi Thomas Solis. Vocation: Cultural Studies. Origin: North-Eastern Borough – The Republic.”

After the guard scanned my left hand, my information was also announced by the screen, along the depiction of the number 211. Great. I knew that I wasn’t going to sit anywhere near Alice, but now I have a seat that is extremely close to the main podium. Now I can get an even closer look of Chancellor Crawford, who always looks as if he were about to collapse and wither away. I jokingly told Alice once that he must be over one-hundred and twenty years old, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that my statement may not be much of a joke, but rather, a factual statement. I reluctantly grab my information packet and head towards the front rows. I have no idea why I ended up so close to the podium. The first couple of groups are usually assigned to new and transfer students. I prepare myself mentally to sit next to a bunch of anxious seven year olds. Luckily, most of them are nervous out of their mind, so I don’t expect them to cause much commotion. I don’t even expect most of them to talk to me, which is a good thing.

I approach seat 211, and of course, there is a small blond-haired girl with intense cobalt eyes sitting on seat 210. Her legs are shifting erratically, and she has been peeling away on the skin found on the edges of her thumbs. All that left is purple-tinged blood stains and small stumps where her nails used to be. I instantly recalled that feeling of being unsafe. Of looking around me and feeling as if I were being judged by every subject around me. When I transferred to this Center, I was no different from the girl sitting next to me. Contrary to my usual behavior, I decided to help this stranger to calm down. At least it will help the time pass by swiftly.

“Don’t be nervous,” I say. “They do the same thing every year. Chancellor Crawford stands in front of the audience, discusses the history of the Republic and the mission of the Center, and then you are free to access the training assignments that were distributed to you.”

She glances at me with those intense blue eyes and gently smiles. “Oh, I am not nervous about my assignments. I’m just not used to being away from home, away from my guardians and away from my home. I guess I’m not really thrilled to be here, that’s all. Plus, I’m bored out of my mind. I’ve been sitting here for over an hour. I always arrive to meetings and ceremonies early. I can’t even fathom the thought of arriving late to a scheduled event. Could you imagine that? My guardians would be so disappointed if I were ever tardy. Well, at least they would be upset if nothing bad prevented me from arriving on time. I sure in that case they would understand! This place looks amazing, does it not? I arrived to the Center yesterday, so I’m still trying to soak everything in.”

Her voice was as gentle as her smile, enthused with the animated spirit of a young child. But she talked way too much, especially for someone her age. Even her vocabulary seemed a little too developed for a newbie. Something tells me that I am going to completely regret reaching out to her. She stretches out her hand towards me. “The name’s Wendy. Wendy Conrad.” I visibly flinch when I hear the name. Wendy is a very rare name. As a matter of fact, I’ve only encountered the name once before, and that was in one of the illegal texts that I downloaded titled Peter and Wendy, written by J.M Barrie. It’s been a while since I’ve read it, but it’s mostly about a boy with the gift of flight who never grows old. He lives in the distant island known as Neverland, and every once in a while, he flies to London to secretly listen to the bedtime stories of Wendy Darling—a young Londoner who lives with her brothers. One night, while listening to a story, Wendy spots Peter, and he somehow loses his shadow. I’m not making this up. After sewing the shadow back on Peter, he invites her to fly away with him to Neverland to be the mother of his gang of friends known as the Lost Boys. Adventure and mischief ensue! I know, this is probably the worst plot summary ever, and to be honest, the story sounds insane. But the tale is absolutely delightful. Too bad it’s on the Regime’s list of banned texts. After all, the idea of people flying away to unknown lands, and the thought of people never aging, seems too fanciful for a society based on reality.

“Hey are you Okay?! I said my name’s Wendy Conrad. Do you have a name or are you just going to stay there, shaking my hand? Are you okay? Are you feeling ill? You look a little too old to be a first year. Surely you must’ve been here for a few years already. Unless you are a transfer student. Do they even allow people your age to transfer to another Center? And why would you choose this Center?”

The pace of Wendy’s questions was inducing a sense of nausea that I’ve never felt before. After processing the drill of questions during a few seconds of silence, I finally open my mouth. “Yeah, I’m a transfer student, but I transferred to this Center years ago. Sorry I spaced out, I just don’t think I’ve ever heard your name before. I’m Levi Solis.”

“Pardon me?” replied Wendy with a confused face.

“Levi. Well, I guess my name is as rare as yours is.”

“What does that name even mean?” replied Wendy, honestly baffled.

“My guardians told me that it means ‘joined in harmony,’ or something like that. I guess they had a lot of expectations of me when they chose me as their neonate. They told me that it comes from an ancient religion known as Hebrew, which no longer exists in this part of the world. My guardians tried to explain it to me once, telling me that I was meant to be the glue that keeps people together, but I was too young to fully get what they were saying. I guess nowadays I feel like anything but a person who brings people together.” I felt surprisingly talkative to this stranger I just met. She might have seemed annoying, but there was something about her youth that seemed generous and trustworthy. Here I am blabbing away just as much as she was. Since when did I become such a social butterfly?

“Well, I like your name. I actually like it a lot. I’m actually glad my parents named me Wendy. I don’t think I’ve ever met another person with my name. Did you know that my parents made up the name? They wanted to assure that I was unique. I guess both of our parents had similar visions in mind! Your name is nice. It has a nice rhythm to it. Levi. Lee-Vie. LE-VI.” Wendy began to pronounce my name carefully over and over again. This was going to be a long morning. I couldn’t help but think that Wendy’s parents were lying to her when they said they came up with her name on their very own. They must’ve read Peter and Wendy before and were unwilling to admit it. Either that, or they truly did make up the name on their own, which comes to show that originality truly is dead this day and age.

After a few seconds of repeating my name, she looks at me. “So what Borough are you from?” she asks.

“I’m from the North-Eastern Borough, near the coastal section. My guardians’ house was only about ten minutes away from the beach. How about you?” I ask.

“I’m from the great Southern Borough!” Wendy was beaming with pride as she uttered her Borough of origin. People from this area were known for being very proud of their roots and origins, which is unsurprising seeing as their ancestors were known for initiating the the Second Civil War back in the day. I should’ve known that she was from the Borough based on her accent. My accent is somewhat similar to hers, but without a doubt, hers is heavily inflected and her vowels seem to stretch out a bit more.

“Oh, how is it over there in the South?” I ask.

“Things are amazing. Everything is so neat, pristine, and pure. I was rather upset when I was told I was being sent to this Center. After all, everyone knows that this is the most liberal Center in the Republic. My guardians once told me that they thought the Republic would be a better place if this Center were shut down. I used to agree with them, but just look at where I’m sitting right now. I always dreamed of making them proud. Now I’m going to be spending more than a decade here.”

“Oh please, it’s not that liberal. There are plenty of rules, restrictions, and regulations here. You’ll definitely notice that once you’re here for a while.”

“Yeah, but here you can get away with way more. We follow a very strict code of conduct in the South. We like order. We thrive on the values of leadership and dignity. We pride ourselves on being the most advanced society by looking forward, not by gluing ourselves to the past. The past is nothing but a dirty scourge that is better left untouched. It makes me ill to think that we will be forced to relive it constantly in this Center.” She was beginning to sound like one of the guards that haunt the premises. I think we have a future Regime administrator in the midst.

“Don’t sound so disappointed. Things aren’t that bad here. I think you’ll grow to love this Center. Sure, some training sessions are boring and repetitive, but you’ll come to see that learning about the past is key to understanding the present. I feel like I’m part of a secret society who knows and understands why the world works the way it does. We get to know things that other people can’t even begin to fathom.” Wow, I’m beginning to sound like an Oz fan boy. I guess I have a greater attachment to this place than I’m willing to admit.

Wendy shrugs her shoulders. “I can’t believe I performed so miserably at the aptitude tests. My guardians enrolled me in a special pre-training course at the age of three to try and get me into one of the best Centers. I guess my nerves got the best of me. I only excelled in the color-matching exercises for some reason and the administrators assumed that I had a knack for art. Now here I am, enrolled in Artistic Studies. I’m sure I’ll make a grand living learning how to mold ceramic figurines and using finger paints. Master pottery today, rule the world tomorrow.” The resentment in her voice was shocking, especially when coming from the mouth and mind of a seven year old. I imagine that her guardians were beyond disappointment with her placement. Isn’t that the problem with most parents, though? How they are constantly trying to mold us into miniature versions of themselves? Maybe Wendy really does have a knack for art, but they’ve completely destroyed her ability to come to this realization.

“You don’t really have to take a practical route when doing Artistic Studies. Plus, you’re free to change to any other vocation within this Center if you want. Don’t start limiting yourself during your first year. Even though you feel like you’re restricted by coming here, you still have options. The ability to make choices can be quite liberating if you think about it.” I do my best to encourage her.

She shrugs again. “Who cares, it’s not like we choose our profession at the end of our training anyway. I’ll probably end up fat and alone, working in some crummy administrative office. It’s not fair. We are raised to think that the world is our oyster, only to realize that the oyster is clamped shut, unable to open or budge. What’s the point of possessing a pearl if you’re unable to show it to the world?” Wendy crosses her arms and looks away. I wonder who put those ideas in her head? That wording does not sound like it was produced by someone her age. I don’t think I’ve ever met somebody so pessimistic—and what’s creepy is that she masks the pessimism with an air of cheeriness.

I want to come up with another encouraging reply, but I say nothing. I just sit there, awkwardly, imagining her overweight and alone, living with two cats and hating everything that Oz stands for. I know what it’s like to be unhappy with your assigned Center. At least I had the opportunity to change my life. Wendy, on the other hand, was assigned to the lowest ranking Center, so she has no chances of changing her career path. She is doomed to be stuck here. She is doomed to disappoint her parents and herself. That’s way more than any seven year old should have to deal with. What will these seeds of resent and disappointment do to Wendy once they are fully bloomed? Is it possible that she will learn to love this place, or will this disappointment prevent any change from happening?

About two minutes were left for the distribution ceremony to begin. I noticed that the seat next to me left, labeled 212, was still empty. Great! More room for me, and less chances of another annoying first year sitting on my side. All I need as another Wendy to sit on my left, incessantly complaining about the woes, trials, and tribulations of being assigned to train at Oz. I stretch my legs, place my information packet on the empty space. I zone out into nothingness, getting ready for Chancellor Crawford to give his usual speech. I cross my arms behind my neck, take a deep breath, and shut me eyes for a few seconds.

“Excuse me, but I think your packet is on my seat.”

I open my eyes and look up. A guy, a few centimeters taller than me, stands above me, flashing a timid smile. I can immediately tell that he is not a first year. His short chestnut hair, with flecks of red and blonde, rests lightly on his head, styled in a carefully planned yet modest fashion. His rosy cheeks and chin are covered in light stubble. He seemed very familiar at first, and that’s when I noticed his eyes. You would think we were family based on our eye color, a color which seems to be as rare as my name. At first glance, they seem to be hazel colored—a light, honey color verging on yellow. But the closer you watch, the more you begin to notice flecks of gold, black, tan, and green embedded within the iris. When your head shifts, the color of the eyes begins to shift from gold, to coffee, to emerald, giving the illusion that his chameleonic eyes are indecisive when it comes to choosing a stable font. My eye color is exactly the same, but this is difficult to notice most of the time due to the almond shape my eyes have. But his eyes are wide, expressive, and intense to the point that they make me feel slightly uncomfortable.

Due to the prominence of genetic manipulation a few decades ago, life givers, the people in charge of cultivating human embryos in the Republic, decided to create children with green, blue, or even purple eyes. Nearly everyone at Oz has intense blue or purple eyes, and these colors are quite uniform. Darker shades of eye color—blacks, browns, grays—became a rarity, mostly because of their association with lower classes, and especially due to the fact that genetic manipulation is prohibited in the Northern Union, making dark eye colors way more common than they are here. In some cases, some children are intended to have light-colored eyes when created, but unexpected mutations take place and the child ends up having dark-colored eyes. Eyes with multiple colors, or eyes with multiple shades of coloring, are virtually unheard of.

My guardians chose me specifically because of my eye color. They said it made me “one-of-a-kind.” The more I think about it, the more I notice that my guardians were obsessed with the concept of uniqueness. My name, my eye color. I guess they were always expecting me to do something different in life, which is weird given the Republic’s crave for uniformity. I actually liked my eye color a lot. It made me feel special. Exceptional. Yet, I guess I was not as exceptional as I thought I was. Here is another person, with eyes identical to mine, staring right back at me. Besides our eye color, we are different in almost every other aspect. I’m a couple of centimeters shorter than he is, my skin is about a shade darker than his light skin, my hair is dark and wavy, and I’ve barely even begun to grow a beard.

First the girl with the uncommon name, and now the guy with the exceptional eye color. Today seems to be a day of infrequencies, something that is more than welcome in the wonderful land of Oz. I lift my packet off the seat. “Sorry about that. Thought that you weren’t going to show up.” He nods and quietly sits down.

Wendy immediately notices the new guy’s arrival. You can tell by the way she arches her eyebrows up that she is definitely interested in the arrival of this stranger. Wait, isn’t she only seven? Isn’t she a little young to be interested in men this way, especially a guy who can easily be almost three times her age? “Hi there, handsome! What’s your name? I’m Wendy Conrad! You look lost. Are you new around here? I’m a first-year student. Not too excited about being assigned here, but I guess I have no other choice. Why are you so quiet? By the way, why haven’t you told me your name yet?” She doesn’t even give the poor guy a chance to breathe.

He turns around, but keeps his eyes locked on me for a second. He opens his mouth to answer, but Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture began to blast through the speakers as the lights grew dim. You can tell that our chancellor has a penchant for Tchaikovsky, and his use of the 1812 Overture for his entrance into public affairs has been played out to the point of cliché. Oz has the only chancellor that demands an entrance with music, which makes sense because Oz is, after all, a training center devoted to culture and communication. His entrances do nothing to help our reputation, though.

Rising towards the podium is Chancellor Crawford. His body looks even frailer then when I last saw him. He wears his usual dark, double breasted navy suit with a powder blue rose lapelled delicately on the right side of his chest. Of course, he wears the avocado colored cape he always wears to Distribution ceremonies. We never expected the ruler of Oz to make a public appearance without something green on his body. For a man who dresses so extravagantly and who demands music for his entrance, he is quite serious and stern. He stares at us quietly with his eyes, whose color matches that of the rose on his chest. His skin looks leathery and tight. He’s gotten so many surgical procedures done that he barely looks human anymore. Alice once made a remark that he looks like ape genitals. I’ve never seen ape genitals before, but that didn’t stop me from unleashing a roaring laughter. The thought of that joke made me chuckle. The stranger on seat 212 immediately began staring at me as the chuckles became harder to contain. I cover my mouth and force myself to concentrate on the stage. Chancellor Crawford pulls out a small role of parchment from the inner part of his suit, and he begins to unravel it.

I get goosebumps. Not from the old and tired spectacle playing in front of me. But rather, because of that distinctive sensation you get one someone is staring at you. I slowly shift my eyes to the right. Wendy has her sight glued to Chancellor Crawford as he struggles to unravel the parchment in front of him. Why he hasn’t transitioned to the use of a tablet computer is beyond me. I turn my head to the left and I catch 212 quickly turning his glance from me to the chancellor. Why was he still staring at me, even when I was no longer chuckling? I guess it is strange to see an unfamiliar face laughing for no apparent reason. A better question at this point is why he was pretending not to stare at me. I look forward to the stage and I notice that Crawford has finally managed to unravel the parchment. He says the same tired speech that he says every semester, with a couple of modifications of course. His booming and raspy voice permeates the great hall.

“Welcome trainees, old and new, to the winter semester of the 212^nd year of liberation. Yes, it has been 212 years since the foundation of the Republic and the establishment of the Regime. 212 years since we established ourselves as a self-sufficient country founded upon the virtues of purity and dignity. A country based upon the natural laws that were bestowed upon us as human beings. Since our segregation from the former United States of America, now simply known as the Northern Union, we have prospered as a moral nation, a nation free of corruption, a nation free of decay, a nation free from disorder. We are here today because our ancestors, who envisioned our current state as a future possibility, bravely fought the oppressors in the Second Civil War. We are here today to become the people that they wanted us to be; no, the people that we need to be, in order to continue prospering. We are here…”

My Network armlet lightly vibrates and glows. It’s a message from Alice.

ALICE ELIZABETH BLAKE (6000259881): Gag. No wonder they hate me. My country deviates from the virtues of purity and dignity. Woe is me.

I chuckle lightly and respond, cautious not to draw too much attention.

LEVI THOMAS SOLIS (3768792110): I always knew you were a scoundrel. Get out of my country, now! The Republic will becomes pure once again!

ALICE ELIZABETH BLAKE (6000259881): Oh, please. You know they love having me here. There’s nothing more pleasing to the Republic than a convert from the Northern Union.

LEVI THOMAS SOLIS (3768792110): You are a prime example of the ideal convert. May we one day develop the intellect and the moral fiber to follow your example, princess Blake.

ALICE ELIZABETH BLAKE (6000259881): Quit bantering, you unworthy peasant, and pay attention to the ceremony. Your highness has not had her morning coffee and it’s taking every ounce of will to stay awake.

LEVI THOMAS SOLIS (3768792110): Looks like someone had a whopping bowl of bitchy-o’s in place of her coffee this morning. Never overestimate the power of substitutions!

As I click send, I look quickly to my left and I notice that 212 was snooping at my message because he was laughing at my exchange with Alice. I shoot a dirty look at him, but he is no longer paying attention to me or my Network armlet. I once again look at Chancellor Crawford, noticing that he is speaking of Oz rather than the foundation of our glorious nation.

“…which is why the Regime established eight training centers across the Republic, in order to ensure that all citizens in the workforce, despite differences of profession, continue to uphold these values. Most of you were chosen to train here, and a couple of you graciously decided to transfer here. The Culture and Communications Center, affectionately referred to as Triple C by the members of our community, houses the most creative, intuitive, and imaginative thinkers within the Republic. Pupils at this Center hone their critical thinking skills, their historical awareness, their ability to create and replicate, and their familiarity with great works of the human mind in order to better understand the world that we live in. You’ll not only learn about yourself in Triple C, but you will also learn about everything that makes a human mind great and inimitable.”

Chancellor Crawford coughs casually. He pauses to take a sip of water. After wiping his chin with a velvet handkerchief, he continues his spiel. “As most of you should know by now, Triple C is divided into three schools: History, which focuses on the analysis of past events in order to comprehend our current condition; Communications and Arts, which focuses on how diverse mediums facilitate the exchange of ideas; and Cultural Studies, which focuses on the historical study of creative objects crafted by the human mind, and what makes them outstanding or beautiful.”

The aims of Oz are so different from those of the other Centers. I should know, because at the age of twelve, I transferred from the SSC to Oz. The SSC is the Science and Society center located in my home Borough, the North-East. Transfers from one center to another are no easy feat, but I think my stubbornness played a major role in the administration’s decision. Actually, all of the Centers are ranked by the Regime according to usefulness and intellectual demand. The Technology and Engineering Center, unsurprisingly, has been ranked number one for the past three decades. Science and Society is currently ranked number two. The third most prestigious center is the Medicine and Pharmaceuticals Center. Admission into any one of these is one of the greatest honors that a citizen from the Republic can receive. When citizens of the Republic are six years old, we take an aptitude test with a theoretical and a practical component. Some exercises are the typical math problems you encounter in most aptitude texts. Other tests require you to arrange colored blocks in a particular order, or to identify fruits according to smell. There is even a small obstacle course that all of us have to complete.

Many subjects don’t really exceed at these tests, which is unsurprising because there is only so much intellectual and physical development that you can expect from a six-year old. When a subject excels in a particular area, they are sent to the center that best cultivates that ability. Subjects with aptitude in most areas are sent to high-ranking centers, while subjects that don’t excel in any areas are sent either to Oz or the Military Training Center. Many were shocked and displeased with my choice to transfer to Oz. You can transfer to a Center that is below the ranking of your assigned one at any given time. But nobody, under any circumstance, can ever transfer to a center with a higher ranking. Therefore, after transferring to Oz, there was no turning back. My guardians were so upset with my transfer that they stopped speaking to me. It’s been over six years since I’ve last spoken to them.

“…I bid you all farewell, and may you continue to uphold the values and virtues of our great and powerful Republic. Thank you.” The Chancellor rolls up the piece of parchment and places it in his breast pocket.

I stand up and join the rest of the crowd in applause. Many people begin to leave in order to avoid the stampede of trainees leaving the building. Wendy is standing on her chair, jumping up and down, squealing with excitement. So much for the nerves caused by being away from home for the first time and her displeasure with the Center. I have to admit, Chancellor Crawford is quite the master when it comes to rhetoric, so it’s no surprise that his words somehow managed to touch Wendy deeply, as seen by her enthusiastic applause. I look to my left and noticed that 212 was no longer there. His information packet was left behind on his seat. Did he forget his packet, or did he leave it there deliberately? I pick up the packet and look for the name on top spelled in bold letters: Nathaniel Patrick Husher – Cultural Studies. Apparently, Nathaniel and I not only have the same eye color, but we’re also in the exact same school and concentration. Why did he leave his packet behind? Isn’t he interested in knowing what training courses he was assigned this semester?

I tuck his packet into my bag, and I open my own packet to see what courses I was assigned. Inside, a small piece of light blue parchment was rolled, inscribed with the confirmation code I need to access my schedule through the Network. After accessing the CCC application in my Network armlet, I punch in the twelve digit code and a list of 3 courses is projected from my armlet:

ENGL00602 – Fictions of Growth and Development II – Monday, Tuesday (8:00-10:00) – Inst. Grey
CULT46601 – Gender and the Republic – Wednesday, Thursday (9:00-11:00) – Inst. Anderson
CULT45665 – Cultural Practicum: Culinary Arts – Friday (13:00-17:00) – Inst. Ryan

I groan when I see that I was assigned Fictions of Development II with Grey for my English language requirement. I took the first part about four semesters ago. He wasn’t really a terrible professor, but it was truly one of the most boring training sessions that I’ve ever taken in my life. We mostly read various nineteenth century texts that managed to survive the Scourge of Alexandria, which dealt mostly with how young men and women engaged in excruciatingly long journeys in order to identify their true moral and spiritual selves. Instructor Grey told us that nineteenth century texts are really valued by the Republic, mostly because they were deemed to be handbooks for modest and appropriate behavior, and also, because characters who deviate from societal expectations are usually punished towards the text’s conclusion. Most of the texts that we read were too long and bizarre. There was this one novel I read… I can’t quite remember the name… but it dealt with a young woman named Tess who gets raped. She gets pregnant, loses her child, but she is forever scorned for being an impure woman. She ends up marrying a man, only to run away later on with another man who she deems she will be happier with. What happens towards the end? She is punished, of course, for her infidelity, and the novel ends with her execution. Such a lovely ending, isn’t it?

On the other hand, I was genuinely excited with my cultural-historical requirement, Gender and the Republic, because although I’ve heard much about gender and sexual deviance from films and television, I haven’t had much of a chance to learn about it from an academic perspective. We all have to take a “practical” course every semester, and I guess learning how to cook decent meals would be a good skill to develop, especially since I rarely prepare my own meals and choose to eat at the dining hall instead. I double-tap on the screen to put my armlet into sleep mode, and I head out of the great hall to search for Alice.

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Sample Chapter of my Young Adult Novel, “Deviant”

January 3, 2013January 3, 20137 Comments

What I have here is a young adult novel that I’ve been working on for a while. The title of this work is Deviant, and in essence, it is my ultimate dream project because it combines all of the genres I adore: dystopia, science fiction, coming-of-age, and yes, romance. The themes of gender, humanities and the arts, and politics are very prominent throughout the entire work.

This novel takes a different approach to the coming-of-age genre. Although it has three main characters, the novel is peppered with preludes and interludes that tell the separate yet complementary stories of other characters. This constant deviance from the main plot serves to highlight the flaws and issues of the dystopic society without compromising the action and budding romance present in the main plot. The prelude and the interludes simply enhance the reader’s understanding of the tensions and problems that the main characters face.

As of now I only have about four chapters left to finish. But what I’m desperately looking for right now is some good (constructive) feedback. In this post, I’ve shared the first chapter/prelude of my young adult novel. It is not the final version of the chapter, and it is still subject to change. Do you think the novel seems interesting and/or worthwhile? Does this first chapter grab your attention? Does it make you want to read more? Any and all feedback is more than welcome.

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Chapter I: A Prelude

Amethyst

I rest behind the garbage bin, trying to catch my breath. I don’t know what’s more brutal… walking barefoot through the snow, or running through a city in the middle of the night with nothing but a hospital gown on. My feet are blistered. Shades of periwinkle overlap the bruises and scabs peppered all over my legs. I can’t remember the last time I had sensation in my toes. I huddle my legs against my chest in an effort to retain the little body heat I have left. Either I’ll die out here in the cold, or they’ll catch me. Either way, I don’t think I’m going to last much longer.

I take a deep breath, look up, and exhale. A large cloud of steam escapes my mouth. The cloudy wisps tango into the air until they dissipate. If only I were like the steam. If only I can disappear into thin air. I gently turn around and bend on my knees. I wonder if they managed to keep up with me. I grab the corners of the garbage bin with my fingers and I slowly tilt my head to the side. The three figures stand ominously across the street. Damn. I was too desperate to cover my footprints in the snow. I led them right to me.

I blow some steam into my hands, hoping to give them even a few seconds of heat and consolation. It’s useless. My fingers are a sickly shade of purple. I see a darkened alley nearby. Maybe if I make a run for it, they won’t catch me. I grab a crushed soda can near the bin. This is it. I launch the can towards the opposite direction of the alley. I hear the metallic clash a few meters away.

I run. Well, I stumble. I’m beginning to lose my ability to balance myself. My feet are warning me that they can’t handle much more pressure. I feel a beam of light hit the side of my face as I head towards the alley. So much for my distraction.

I head towards the alley and reach a fence. Seriously, a fence? I thought fences in dark alleys were only used to make escape sequences dramatic in action films. The movie’s hero is chased by the villains and he or she dramatically climbs the fence and jumps over it. That’s not happening here. Between my frozen feet and my frostbitten fingers, it would be a miracle if I could climb half a meter. I frantically look around. The windows of the adjacent buildings are also too high for me to climb. I’m trapped.

I sit on the ground, knees against my legs. I lean my back against the cold brick of the one of the buildings. Flurries continue to fall from the heavens. I can hear footsteps approaching. Bursts of bright light invade my pupils. I cover my eyes, shielding them from the gleam of the three flashlights. My back presses firmly against the grimy wall. The rough texture of the brick perforates my skin. Sweat pours down my soiled hair. My chest heaves back and forth. A continuous flow of steam escapes my mouth. My carnation pink hospital gown offers little protection from the wind and the snow. I always knew that they would find me, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon.

“I d-don’t care w-what you d-do or say. I’m n-never going b-b-back there.”

“Did you hear me? I…am never…going back.”

Two of the flashlights turn off; the other points directly at my face. Two men in black suits and cerulean ties grab me by each arm. The remaining light is soon consumed by the darkness. Even without the flashlights on, I can see their faces quite clearly. It seems that even the moon has a luminous interest in this recent development of events. The moon shining. The snow falling. What a lovely night this would’ve been under different circumstances.

There she is, staring at me with her cold, calculating, eyes—one glows with a yellowish hue, like the eyes of the panther. I can’t distinguish the color of the other eye, but it is much darker than the one on the left.

She loosens up her ponytail. Auburn hair begins to flow freely. Her flawless alabaster skin reflects the moonlight, and her bright pink dress suit, on the verge of a neon tone, could be spotted miles away in pure darkness. She reminds me of those brightly colored frogs that live in the Amazons, distinguished by their dazzling colors that serve as a warning to other creatures. Even animals know not to mess with beasts that don extravagant, bright-colored coats. Who knew that someone so beautiful could be so… menacing. Yet the beauty is a lie. Inside of that captivating shell, all that resides is ugliness. She’s a mummy within a jewel incrusted sarcophagus. I’m not one to be fooled.

“Well, Amethyst, it seems like you thought you could escape the Hub yet again. But as you very well know, nobody escapes. Deviants such as yourself can never leave, at least not until reparations are finalized. I must say, however, that your attempt to escape was quite a… noble effort. Ineffective, but very noble indeed.”

“There’s s-s-still p-plenty of time for me to es-ca-ca-cape.” No. I started stuttering again. The woman chuckles. Seems like she’s amused.

“Did you hear that, boys? Amethyst still thinks she has a shot at freedom. Little girls and their big dreams. Dreams are for weaklings, darling.”

“Denise knows better than to try and escape. She knows that we can repair her” says the woman, still inches away from my face.

My mind wanders off to my time in the Hub. I recall the cramped white room with nothing but a bunk bed, a sink, and a toilet. My cellmate was a seventeen year-old boy named Trevor. He was clearly ashamed about his recruitment to the Hub. It could be worse. Enrollment in the Hub was usually one of the lighter punishments for Deviants like us.

Trevor and I had known each other since our first year in the Culture and Communication Center. I was seven when I first met him. Our assigned Center is the least popular of all the training centers, and we knew that. Understandably, we weren’t excited to be there, but it’s not like we have much of a choice in terms of what center we are assigned to at that age. Although we briefly talked during the first couple of years, we soon grew apart. Who knew that we would one day be cellmates at the Hub?

The transgression that led to my imprisonment happened about four months ago. All it took was one moment. One moment to obliterate years of work and effort. One moment to destroy a lifetime of possibility. When it happened, Denise and I knew we were doomed. Hopeless. Lost. The Régime doesn’t take these matters lightly—and although it’s been decades since all the cells in the Hub have been full, you occasionally see one or two new faces in the dining hall every month or so. Denise and I were the unlucky ones this time. You can never be too careful here… the Régime is always watching, in addition to listening.

The agent stands in front of me, breathing heavily on my face, with a pocket placed firmly into her hand. I know what comes next. We all do. We’ve been warned about the penalties for multiple transgressions. We all knew the protocol that Hub-Masters usually followed when pursuing an escapee. Knowing what comes next, I looked at her adamantly with a sense of valor.

“Leave…Denise… out of this.” I’m losing my breath.

“Oh Amethyst, just drop the act of courage and valor. You already look pathetic. Do you want to actually be pathetic as well?”

I can’t take it anymore. With all my might, I yank my arms away from the guards and I lunge at her, trying my best to knock her into the snow. With any luck, her head will bash into the pavement. I lock my arms around her, but she barely budges. I must be way weaker than I thought I was. Not even adrenaline can save me now. She grabs me by my hair and tosses me on the ground. I look up and see those eyes. They truly do look monstrous in the moonlight.

I spit out the blood and watch the crimson masterpiece that I created on the silver snow. I lay the side of my head on the red-tinged snow. “I can’t be repaired. I refuse to be repaired” I whisper, loud enough for them to hear me.

The woman gives me a half smile and pulls out the roll of parchment that I was expecting to see. Parchment. How old-fashioned. How traditional. One of my history instructors back at the Center mentioned that all agencies belonging to the Régime use parchment for most of their official documents. It makes them feel as if they were in touch with history. The days when Deviants were nowhere to be found. The days when the entire population upheld the virtues of purity and dignity. Strangely, with my act of defiance, I feel like I have fully embraced both of those virtues.

She unrolls the parchment and reads the proclamation in a stern and cold voice. Even the snow seems warm in comparison to that voice. I know the proclamation by heart—I saw it all the time in movies and television shows repeatedly, all telling the story of people who dare defy the fourth natural law. To add insult to injury, they even made the proclamation rhyme—a lullaby uttered right before our final sleep. It sounds just like I expect it to sound, but with my name and borough mentioned in the first verse. Rhymes used to always calm me down as a kid. This rhyme manages to finish the snow’s job of freezing the blood running through my veins.

“Amethyst Jacobson of the South-western Borough,

The Régime has been clear, its stipulations were thorough.

Your defiance of nature, and a will that won’t bend,

Leaves us no choice but to uphold and defend

The revered mandate of the fourth natural law:

your sacrifice will bring order and peace to us all.”

As she finished the proclamation, she kneels down on the floor and pulls out a syringe from her pocket. She pulls out a vial with a rose-colored liquid and fills the syringe. I don’t even feel the needle piercing my flesh. I never thought I would die this way. I always thought I’d be old, surrounded by my loved ones, dying in the warmth of my bedroom.

I feel the heat draining away from my body. My chest tightens. No more steam escapes from my mouth. My eyes are open, but now, all I see is darkness. My spirit breaks as I realize that for me, there is no white light at the end tunnel.

—

ALL RIGHTS TO THIS POST RESERVED BY AUTHOR

Published by Angel Daniel Matos