inspired by "Roselily" by Alice Walker

Someone has painted smog across the sky

And made her hands soft–

No more sewing needles or thorny flowers

From her father’s yard, bright and almost pungent

With the smell of an ending summer. 

Instead, she holds bottles.

His large hands. Their tiny ones. 

Sometimes she forgets to worry 

About anyone else.

Not even the people who sat on the sunny grass

And watched her bind herself

To him, a new her

That they had never met. 

A young woman, in a veil.

They are of a different world.

They don’t understand

The god her children will soon pray to,

Small mouths wrapping around strange words. 

She wants to shut their lips,

She wants to shut her own. She wants

To return, but she knows the smoke

Rising at the edges of the skyline

And the sturdiness in his swallowing eyes

Have sealed her here.

Where she is loved, she is told.

Where she is safe, she is told. 

So she lets him paint a smile across her face

And smog across the sky.

Introduction: I’m writing a story that hopefully never comes true. I recently read Orwell’s 1984, and I saw some disturbing similarities to today’s United States under the Trump administration. It inspired me to make my own dystopian story portraying what could happen if people like President Donald Trump aren’t held in check and gain more power. I’m also basing this story on the writing prompt "Values: Kindness" for the Young Writers Tomorrow Project challenge. Here is my original story: Love Lives On.

“I pledge allegiance, to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

We started eating lunch once we’d finished saying the Pledge. It was now customary to do so before every meal. I looked around the table at my “perfect” American family. There was Mother, my little brother Thomas, and my big sister Mary, all as patriotic as could be. There was me, Clara, a sixteen-year-old girl who loved her country more than anything else in the world. We all paled in comparison to Father.

He was considered a hero in the Great Cleansing of 2029. I was only six, so I don’t really remember it. The government had performed an official purification of the country by removing those they considered imperfect. The non-white, the LGBTQ+, and anyone else who didn’t fit the mold of the perfect American had to go. They were collectively referred to as the Lessers. Father turned in over a dozen Lessers, earning him an award and making our family incredibly wealthy.

What the government did with the Lessers varied. At first they just shipped them off to concentration camps in other countries, like they’d already been doing with illegal immigrants. However, the camps were soon packed full, and there came a time when the rest of the world refused to have anything to do with the United States. So we set up ghettos throughout the country and trapped the lessers there for the rest of their lives. If we let them live, at least. Father worked part-time patrolling our local ghetto to keep everyone in line, and part-time managing his own large grocery store. I was very grateful that people like him kept the innocents of our nation safe from the Lessers.

“How’s work going, Father?” I asked between bites of hamburger. “Is the grocery store still running smoothly?”

“Mostly,” he said. “But today’s shipment was awful. A lot of the food was unusable. Let me show you.” He picked up his phone, selected some pictures, and displayed them to us. They showed misshapen fruits and foods in slightly dented containers. 

“Why can’t you use them?” Thomas asked. “Isn’t the food still good?”

“They’d look bad on the shelves,” Father said dismissively. “We’ll send it all to the dump later this week.” It seemed like a shame to waste all that food, but I knew better than to contradict him. Thomas was already absorbing everything he said.

“And how was your work at the ghetto?” Mother asked.

“Did you get to beat up any Lessers?” Thomas cried enthusiastically. 

Father grinned. “I may have taught a few of them a lesson or two. First, I--”

Before Father could start describing what he’d done, I accidentally and foolishly jumped in. “Libby was very naughty today. You won’t believe that she--”

“Shut up!” Thomas snapped. “No one wants to hear about your stupid kitten!” He turned back to Father with a riveted expression.

“Agreed,” Mary said, barely glancing up from her phone. “Let’s talk about something important, like how the Lessers coat every license plate they make with toxic paint that twists people’s minds into having liberal thoughts.”

“That would be just like them! We’re getting new license plates as soon as possible!” Mother said with a terrified expression.

“And throw the old ones back in the ghetto!” Thomas screamed, standing up in his chair. Father slammed his fist on the table. 

“Shut up, all of you!” he shouted. “When I’m talking, you need to be quiet and listen!”

As I silently leaned back, Libby jumped onto my lap. I scratched her fuzzy white head, and she purred. Sometimes she seemed to be the only one around who was genuinely happy. I smiled slightly, distracted from whatever violence Father was describing.

“Father, Clara has that filthy animal in her lap!” Mary whined. 

“How many times do I have to tell you, idiot?” Mother snapped at me. “Only family members at the table, no pets!”

“I said be quiet!” Father raged. “That’s it, lunch is over!”

I hurried outside to go for a walk with Libby. It was summer, so I was wearing a red t-shirt and shorts to stay cool, with my brown hair pulled back in a messy braid. My favorite necklace, which I wore every day, dangled around my neck. It was a golden swastika from my father, a symbol of Godliness, patriotism, and purification. Libby had a matching one on her collar. As we walked down the sidewalk, Libby happily bounced around, pouncing on shadows and insects.

We passed several rows of dully-colored houses. Each had a neat, freshly mown lawn, a general lack of decorations, and a large American flag flapping proudly in the wind. Fancy cars were ostentatiously parked along the curb. The few visible trees and plants lay in perfectly straight lines. Everything appeared to be spotless and brand-new. The street was mostly silent, apart from the voices of a few other people out walking. They seemed to be gossiping about their neighbors. We also passed the family grocery store.

Eventually we reached a rather unsettling sight: the edge of our local ghetto. The view inside was mostly blocked by dark, intimidating barbed-wire fences, but I could see the shadowy outlines of dilapidated buildings behind them. I shivered at the thought of the evil, terrifying people on the other side. I wondered what life was like when they were free to roam the country and do whatever they chose.

“Thank you, government,” I murmured to myself as I tried to hurry past. Libby trailed behind, cheerfully sniffing at the spiky fence. “Get back here,” I said, gently reaching for her. “You could get scratched.”

Libby dodged my hand and turned around to meow at me. Then she darted to a tiny gap between the fence and the ground. “Libby, no! Bad kitten!”

She meowed again and wiggled through the hole. Once on the other side, she happily pranced off to explore her new surroundings. I began to panic. How could I possibly get her out? 

Thankfully, I remembered that because Father worked as a guard there, he’d received several personal keycards to the ghetto. I didn’t want to ask for his help though. I’d be in big trouble if anyone found out about Libby crossing the border.

So instead, I did something I’d never done before. I waited till my family was distracted, then stole, er, borrowed, a keycard from my parents’ room. The main one was missing, but luckily there was a backup. My heart beat faster and faster. This was the worst thing I’d ever done. The key felt like a red hot ember in my hand. I nearly dropped it, but held on when I remembered Libby’s sweet, loving little face. Sometimes I felt like she was the only one who really understood me. I couldn’t abandon her, no matter what.

I snuck out of the house and returned to the ghetto. I walked until I reached a small, hidden gate near where Libby had entered. I tapped the keycard against the door, and it creaked open ominously. A shadowy alley lay before me. I took a deep breath and stepped in, closing the door behind me.

I felt like I was entering another world. Unfamiliar smells assaulted my nostrils, and I saw several colorful posters in other languages hanging on the old brown brick walls penning me in. I spotted several garbage cans and heard some ominous squeaking noises within. I hurried past. The ground below me was covered in dirt. Tiny paw prints trailed through it.

Despite my fear, a slight smile crossed my face. Libby had been here! I ran forward, following the trail. I burst into a street flooded with sunlight. It was lined with stalls selling various items, from food and water to worn-out clothing. I heard the sound of a drum, and saw a man skillfully striking several upside down buckets. There was a sculpture in the shape of a large bird that seemed to be made of bits of trash. The people wandering by had a virtual rainbow of skin tones, unlike the same pale shade everyone at home had. A group of children were scribbling out drawings on a dusty broken sidewalk.

Most of the people were so thin that their ribs poked through their clothing. Some had dirt smeared on their faces, and the smell of sweat hung in the air, suggesting these people didn’t bathe often. For every child smiling and playing, there was another who sat begging for food. Several rats scurried past me, but no one else seemed startled by their presence. I did my best to ignore the distractions and press forward. The paw print trail had ended midway down the street, but Libby couldn’t be far.

Suddenly, the people around me scattered and moved to the sides of the street. In a moment, I saw why. Eight men in military uniforms marched toward them, each with a cold, calculating stare. They looked at the people around them the way my little sister looked at the sweet potato baby food she hated, or my brother looked at green beans. Then I recognized one of them, a tall, proud man with cold eyes and a neatly-shaven beard. It was my father.

I gulped and ducked down. My heart felt like it was trying to climb out of my chest and up my throat. I desperately looked for somewhere, anywhere I could hide. If I was caught now, I might never see Libby again.

I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I turned around, and saw a middle-aged woman with light brown skin and warm brown eyes. “Come with me,” she whispered. I was terrified, but I didn’t have a choice. I nodded slightly, and she took my hand and led me through the door of one of the tiny decaying houses. 

The room we entered was very small. It had a stained folding table with seven chairs and an old green sofa leaking stuffing. Several cots lay on the ground with thin blankets draped over them. The walls were tan, covered with some hand-drawn pictures that appeared to be made by children. The only light came from a small window. Several dolls and stuffed animals that seemed to have been sewn from rags were scattered across the rough carpet floor.

The woman carefully watched the street through a window. Several minutes passed, and she turned to me and smiled. “They’re gone. Don’t worry, you’re safe here.” I exhaled in relief.

“I’m sorry, I’m really not supposed to be here,” I said awkwardly. 

“It’s fine. Plenty of people around here have needed to hide from the patrols. I don’t think I’ve seen you before though. I’m Mrs. Torres. What’s your name?”

“I’m Clara,” I said. “Thank you so much for helping me.”

“Don’t mention it, dear. We all have to look out for each other in a place like this. Carlos, children, we have guests!”

Four kids scampered into the room, each with grubby faces yet bright smiles. A man in faded blue overalls followed them. They all had the same light brown skin as Mrs. Torres. It had been startling to me at first, but I was slowly getting used to it.

“Everyone, this is Clara. Clara, this is my family.” They smiled at me, and to my surprise, I smiled back. I heard a cheerful meow, and saw Libby prancing along behind them.

“Libby! I was so worried about you!” I cried, picking her up and pulling her into my arms. She purred, looking a little too innocent for someone who’d forced me to sneak into a terrifying new place to rescue her. 

One of the children, a girl who looked to be about six years old, bounced up to me. “Is she your kitty? We like her. I’m Emilia, by the way.” She reached out to pet Libby, and the kitten happily nuzzled her hand. Seeing Libby do this put me strangely at ease. She wasn’t normally so friendly. 

Of course, this didn’t quite feel like a normal family. There was something different about them, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. There was a certain sense of kindness hovering around the room, instead of the sense of pride I’d become used to. It was a little like walking inside a warm building after being outside in a snowstorm. 

“Yes, this is Libby,” I said, smiling at her.

Mrs. Torres glanced out the window again. “It might be a while before the patrol completely leaves the area, so how about you stay to have dinner with us until the coast is clear?” Her husband, Carlos, nodded in agreement. “Thank you,” I choked out.

We sat down at the folding table together, with Emilia happily sitting next to me with Libby in her lap. Mrs. Torres brought over three platters of food. One had a little bit of meatloaf, one had a limp pile of salad, and the third had a few slices of bread. “It’s not much,” she said, “But you’re welcome to share.”

The family filled their plates, and I realized I usually ate more in a single meal than all of theirs combined. When Emilia passed me the platter, I shook my head and passed it on. “I’m not hungry,” I lied. I wasn’t going to take any food from them, not when I had plenty of food and they so desperately needed it. 

Each person around the table took a turn telling about their day. Mr. and Mrs. Torres worked at a textile factory together, and had slightly exceeded their production quota for that day. Emilia and the other children had made three dollars from begging. Everyone was very excited about both things. They were even smiling.

How could they be happy with so little? Then I saw the way they looked at one another, and the love that passed between their eyes felt more valuable than all of my own family’s wealth and pride. My own family never looked at anyone that way. Suddenly, I felt like I was starving as well. When it was my turn to speak, I stammered that I hadn’t really done much, apart from hiding from the patrol. 

“I like your necklace!” Emilia said innocently, trying to be helpful. “It matches Libby’s!” I looked down at the swastika I was wearing. Emilia was apparently too young to know what it meant. Mrs. Torres followed my gaze, and her smile faded. 

“You’re not from here, are you?” she said. I hung my head. In the past, my necklace had made me feel proud. It was a reminder of my purity and supremacy. However, in a place with no pride whatsoever, it felt strangely powerless and almost shameful.

“I’m from outside the ghetto,” I confessed. “My dad was one of the people in the patrol. Libby got under the fence separating this place from the outside, so I borrowed a spare key from him and snuck inside to get her. Please don’t tell anyone! I’d be in big trouble if my dad found out about this.”

“Your secret’s safe with us,” Mrs. Torres assured me. She reached out and patted my hand.

I was shocked. How could they welcome me after they knew I was their enemy? Are you really enemies? a tiny voice whispered within me. The answer came to me in a heartbeat. No.

I wanted to apologize, to tell them what I’d learned and how I now felt. The words didn’t come, no matter how hard I willed them to. I felt like I was burning up inside. Tears came to my eyes, and I leaped out of my chair before anyone could see them. I scooped up a startled Libby and ran toward the door.

“Clara, wait!” one of the children called. I ignored him, too caught up in my own shame to respond. I bolted out to the hidden ghetto exit, no longer worrying if anyone saw me. I yanked the keycard out of my pocket and slammed it against the gate terminal. I burst through and slammed the gate behind me, panting. Sweat dripped down my forehead. Without even thinking about it, I ripped off my necklace and unhooked the charm on Libby’s collar. I cast the swastikas a disgusted look. I finally knew what they really symbolized. I flung both of them into a nearby garbage can.

As soon as I walked in the door of my house, Mother grabbed me and held me tight. “Sweetie, are you okay? I was so worried when you didn’t show up for dinner!”

Mary walked up beside us. “I guess the underground communist cult let her go.”

“No, no, I’m fine,” I protested. “I just, uh…” I couldn’t lie to my family, but I couldn’t tell the truth either.

“Libby ran off, and it took me a while to find her,” I said. Technically true. “Sorry for worrying you, Mom.”

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” she assured me, giving me another hug. “But don’t run off by yourself again. I also heard that the Lessers are piloting plutonium-filled drones from inside the ghettos. They’re disguised as clouds, so no one can notice them.” I sighed. At least she meant well.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The day’s events flashed through my head over and over.  It felt odd to see everything so normal after realizing my world was nothing like I thought it was. It seemed like everything should be upside-down or sideways, reflecting the massive changes in my mind. Unfortunately, the physical world did no such thing. Had it all been a dream?

I glanced at Libby, who was snoring away on my pillow beside me. Her collar was missing its usual swastika charm. It wasn’t a dream. My mind turned to the people I’d met in the ghetto. The Torres family was so welcoming and kind. They all took care of one another, and even took care of me and Libby. I only wished I could care for them in return. How could I sleep, knowing they were trapped with barely any food?

Then I got an idea. I bolted upright in bed, waking up an annoyed Libby. She hissed at me. “I know what I have to do,” I told her, throwing on a dark blue robe and pulling the hood up. I put Father’s keycard in the pocket, as well as my own key to the family grocery store and a flashlight. I forced myself to slow down, then carefully opened the door and slipped out of my room. Libby followed me.

We crept out of the house, down the street, and into the grocery store. It was completely empty. I gulped as I looked down the endless rows of shadowy aisles. Rumor had it that the store was haunted by the ghost of its original owner. I picked up Libby and held her close as I made my way to the stockroom. Sure enough, the shipment of damaged goods was right there, waiting to be sent to the dump. Father didn’t want them, but I knew some people who would.

I loaded up a cart and pushed it out of the store, all the way to the ghetto. Taking a deep breath, I opened the gate again. The place was even gloomier at night. The people had no electricity, so they couldn’t light up the street. I used my flashlight to find my way to the Torres’s house. I tentatively knocked on the door. Mrs. Torres answered, holding a flashlight of her own.

“Clara, you’re back! Are you stuck here? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I assured her. “May I come in?”

“Of course, you’re welcome anytime,” she said.

As I stepped in, I saw the sleeping forms of the rest of the family lying on the ground. Most of them rose to sitting positions. Libby ran over to one of them. “Libby!” Emilia’s voice squealed.

“What are you doing here?” Mr. Torres asked, sounding concerned.

I smiled. “I wanted to treat you to a meal of my own.” I pulled in the cart full of groceries. As soon as Mrs. Torres realized what it was, she threw her arms around me. 

“Clara, I can’t believe it! We finally have enough food for a whole week!”

“I’ll bring more,” I promised. “Whenever I can.”

Each member of the family joined the embrace. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Emilia shouted. I grinned at her. Maybe I could teach my own family to be more like them. At that moment, I finally felt at peace. Because even in the darkest of times, love lived on.

Cold, unforgiving wind batters against my patchwork coat as I shove my way through crowded streets. Tiny snowflakes glitter on my eyelashes and my breath freezes as soon as it hits the air. Heat radiates from tiny shops advertising for the Christmas season. Children run towards the windows, fogging them up with their greasy hands and warm breath. Their parents follow, ready to do anything at their beck and call. I turn away, feeling a hollow pit form in my stomach.

 A little girl brushes past me, auburn braids flying free. She looks too much like Maggy. 

My Maggy. 

I blink my eyes rapidly and look the other direction. There’s too many people, I think, trying to return to the task at hand. I’ll have to return at dusk. 

Suddenly, a glint of silver catches my eye. I turn swiftly and scan the ground. There! To the left of the manhole. It was a small, round sixpence, halfway buried in the snow. Forgotten. I look at it greedily; that sixpence could mean a difference between hunger and good fortune. I start making my way towards it, tentatively. This was almost too good to be true. Maybe I don’t have to complete the task after all, I think.

As I reach out, my eyes meet those of a small girl. Her hair is matted and oily, her eyes large and wet from crying. She is covered only in rags, her dress old and too small. She has no coat to keep her warm and looks like she is about to pass out from the cold, hunger, or both. With shock, I realize that I must look just as poor as she does. My hands shake. I need that coin. 

I grab the sixpence from the snow, holding it close to my chest. The girl makes no sound, but stares at me sadly with her big eyes. If I take this, she might not survive. I think hesitantly. If I don’t, I will be hungry tonight, my legs shake from hunger and fatigue. I close my eyes and clutch the coin. She needs this more than I do. 

I open my eyes, still holding the sixpence. The girl turns away, resigned. I think I see a tear slip down her cheek. She begins to walk away into the cold and snow. 

“Wait,” I say, my voice hoarse. “You can have this.” I hold out the coin, my frostbitten fingers painfully clenched around its smooth surface. The girl turns around slowly to face me. She reaches out and plucks the coin from my shaking hand. Her face lights up in a quick smile as she holds it close. With the coin in her hand, she looks stronger and less hungry. I tilt the corners of my mouth up in a partial smile for her benefit, even though my heart is breaking on the inside. The girl nods at me in thanks, then disappears into the bustling crowd.

Gone.

let me tell you what i saw today

when i was downtown with 200k others

in the heart of the city of the nation,

a swamp raised to stand above the world. with

flags & 

signs &

blow-up frog suits, we marched down

connecticut and pennsylvania avenue, voices heard

from blocks away to the

national guard on the roofs of surrounding buildings. &

for the first time in ten months

something felt right

for the first time in three months

i felt safe in my beloved city. if the media

doesn't or won't tell you, allow me: they walked

with us. calmly & silently while we 

spoke for those who couldn't. from 

LA to NYC, from 

Chicago to Portland, allow me to write these words

so i can tell my future daughters

i was on the right side of history. allow me 

to document the miracle of compassion so that

the sin of hatred won't win again. allow me

to fight for those who can't & use 

my privilege for good

i won't always be perfect

but i swear on our forefathers

i'll try. 

When you were a kid,

When you were still learning animal names,

And awed by the world around you,

What did it mean when you looked up,

At other kids, at adults,

When you smiled and said, my favorite color is,

blue, pink, green orange yellow purple red.

Maybe it was conforming to a standard, pleasing people.

Or maybe favorite meant familiar, meant fascinating, meant fun.

Maybe when you grow up and realize,

You never chose your favorite color.

You branch out, never quite settling on one,

Or pick one and hold fast until it becomes your new normal.

But you still get a feeling from that very first color.

And maybe your first choice was bias,

Maybe you didn’t really get a choice at all,

But you spent years loving that color.

Maybe we can learn to love not in spite of, but even more so because of

The choice we never had.

Because there were people who wanted you to love this color.

So maybe we can still look up and say, my favorite color is,

red purple yellow orange green, pink, blue.

And we might have been pushed into it, but maybe that's okay

America is not make up of one flag

and should never resort to a statement otherwise.

I saw

many flags

that represent you and me

and US because

we are made up of 

gay,

queer,

trans,

immigrant

and so many more populations.

Everyone here stemmed

from a flag 

without red, white and blue.

We need to raise those flags

more often.

We are each stitching, thread, and vibrant color

in each of the flags that makes US.

I saw a ton of flags,

and none of them were "American"

They were US.