“Hey, honey,” my mother said as she came into the living room. It was a week or so after we moved here. I had seen Sophie in the front yard now and then, but she didn’t come across the street like I did the first day. Sometimes she was outside when I was walking home from the bus stop or looking through my binoculars at the sparrow family next door, and we’d wave to each other.
My mother named me Sophie because she isn’t a creative person. Everybody is named Sophie. I had four of them in my class last year. Why did she have to add me to the family of Sophies with uncreative mothers? “Its a lovely name,” she tells me when I complain.
I walked to the door of our new house and looked behind me, hand resting on the unfamiliar doorknob. It wasn’t a sight I was used to seeing, or even anything I was all that comfortable looking at, a scene that anybody who moves will know. The floors were bare and empty, as the carpets were still rolled up in another room waiting to be placed. The few cabinets and shelves around the various rooms were in their proper places, but had yet to be filled. Boxes were stacked here and there, pots and pans bulging from one, my stuffed animals spilling from another. Only the kitchen, with its strange faucet with the handles and knobs in a different place than the faucet I knew, and the dishwasher which my parents had yet to figure out how to run, had its dishes and utensils stored in its proper place. My mother had been working in there all morning.
I wandered over to the water, passing shells planted on their faces, bits of driftwood, dirty feathers half-buried in the sand. The sky arched in a flawless blue dome above me, curving down in front of me to met the water at the horizon far away. Gulls winged their way down the beach, searching for handouts and mischief.
I was already alone, of course. But it wasn’t until I unzipped my tent and looked out at the still, quiet world around me did I feel alone. But then, who wouldn’t when there’s nobody to keep me company for miles around and my relatives and friends probably think I’m dead? I got out of my sleeping bag and stepped out of my tent, and then it was suddenly like the tent wasn’t part of me anymore, wasn’t there to protect me, and I was shoved into this much harsher, more wild world.
Katie, whose father is in the hospital due to an undetermined illness, is excited about some new pieces her school choir has been working on, until a girl named Mia starts making fun of her. After being assigned a solo, Katie excitedly comes home to find that her mother has forgotten her.
Read part one of this story here.
Read part two of this story here.
I went to the only person I knew who could possibly be of any help. I walked all that long ways back to the place I had just left that afternoon. The janitors were still there, the after-school activities were in full swing, and Miss Whitley was standing next to her piano, reading something aloud.
Katie is excited about some new pieces her school choir has been working on, until a girl named Mia starts making fun of her.
Read part 1 of this story here.
The next several days, we worked again at the music, and Mia was always waiting for me at the backpack table as we went out. She always had something to say. According to Mia, not only could I not sing, but I couldn’t read music, I couldn’t say things the right way, I couldn’t dress right, I was stupid, and I was a showoff.
The second period bell rang shrilly in my ears. My history teacher yelled something about homework at our retreating backs as we hurried out of his classroom. I headed towards the large classroom where Miss Whitley taught second period choir. The rest of the girls who had chosen the choir elective moved in a surging crowd ahead of me, chattering and laughing. The place started to sound like the bird exhibit at the zoo. The boys went on to whatever class they had next—only trebles practiced second period, and the boys practiced fifth. This was easy to do in a small middle school like ours, and only about thirty girls had chosen the choir elective anyways. Besides, I doubted the teachers or rest of the students missed us much.
Once, long ago, a young girl lived. When she was a baby, she cried just as loudly as the other babies. When she was a child, she played with her simple toys just like the other children she knew. When she grew a little older, she had races and games just like the other children. But there was one difference which separated her from others.
She was the best artist in the entire world.
This is a continuation of a story started earlier. Lydia has always lived in the Establishment, where each action, word, and moment are exactly identical. Now she has an idea about leaving or changing the Establishment. She thinks it’s worth the risk of her life. Eager to discuss it with somebody, she breaks the rules and speaks with her Visiting Partner, Charlie. He is reluctant to admit that they need change but is willing to hear her plan. The next day, Lydia has already come up with the plan, readying herself for escape. She would go to the Head of the Establishment and through the Great Discard Chute, break the pane of glass which separated the Establishment from the world, and jump free. She shared it with Charlie, who refused to go with her. Lydia decided to go without him, and waited until night came.
Are you new to this story? Welcome! Make sure you catch up on the action by reading the last three parts, listed in order below.
When she was sure that the correct amount of time had passed to ensure that the Head of the Establishment was asleep, she crept out of her Person Cage. She considered bringing food, but she had eaten it all for that day. Besides, the Head of the Establishment was also where they stored all the food needed until the next import of supplies, and it would have plenty in case Lydia got hungry. She just carried the lightbulb, which lit the way in front of her.
© 2025 The Wattle
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
