Grandma had once told me about her childhood home.

It was a cozy, ranch-style house in what used to be the Midwest. She described having a huge garden planted below her bedroom window, and that she would watch her tomatoes and carrots everynight like clockwork, anxiously waiting for them to grow.

She would have to drive with her father in something called a “Ford” down to a nursey 30 whole minutes away to pick up soil and tools. Imagine that? To think of how slow transportation used to be! I would get bored to death on the journey over, I imagine.

Apparently, her father owned the very lost model of a “Ford” ever produced. Which is the original branding for what is now the Q-90. It had a rusty metal pipe that would blow black smoke everywhere. If the windows were rolled down, and they were driving at a decent enough pace—at least 35 miles per hour—her eyes would water from the fumes.

I couldn’t imagine choking on the very own air we depend on, endangering not only ourselves, but the very structure of the city itself. Altough, she says every vehicle used to do the same thing. No one batted an eye at such a display. Some days she has a particular gleam in her eye, like she misses it the toxic sting of it.

I sometimes stop on my walks to school and take in the sights around me. The bright orange solar lights above, the whisping trees lining my path. If I close my eyes at night, I can depend on the light hum of the 8th Street Hydro Train to lull me to sleep.

One day, i’ll remember this world fondly for what it was, just as my grandmother does. I hope to be content in my nostalgia for the world I live in, just like she is, but I get worried sometimes. Society has changed so rapidly in a such short time, will it be too fast for me to catch up? Will it slip between my fingers before I even get a chance to realize it’s leaving me behind? Will I one day sit outside and yearn for the very same plants around me now?

I wonder if my grandmother ever had the same thought, that we may all haunted by places and feelings we can never return to.

It wasn’t the name that sent alarm bells ringing in his head, nor was it the dead eyes staring back at him on the televised news feed. It was the word “Frannie” neatly written in black ink across the top of the criminal’s left collarbone that did it.

Frannie.

He remembers the embers floating down past his helmet. The scorching heat that made sweat pour down his back and ash cling to his suit. The civilian had begged him to leave him in the ruins of what was once a bathroom.

“Don’t focus on me,” he had said, “you need to get Frannie! She’s stuck in the bedroom!“

“Frannie’s—?”

“My daughter! She’s in her crib! Please just get to her already!”

It took another 6 minutes to retrieve Frannie and the man, pushing them both out of the collapsing house and into the back of an ambulance.

As the man sat there, eyes on Frannie, the script peeked out from under his sleep shirt. It sat on his skin, as bright as the flames still burning outside. It was neat and bold. It was created with love and care and devotion in mind.

“My daughter’s named Frannie too.”

The man looked up at his hero, silent for a moment, before nodding.

In that moment, the two knew each other more intimately than any other man on site could. They were one in the same.

“In that case, we must be the luckiest men on planet, huh?”

Looking at the mugshot now stings his eyes. The man’s unapologetic face, the lack of empathy in the way he holds his head high. Its hard to imagine this to be the same man who had once begged him to save his child’s life. Who thanked him for sparing him grief and pain.

He thought the two of them understood each other. That they both felt the paternal need to protect their young.

It’s why he had saved Frannie all those years ago. In a way, he had saved his own Frannie on that call too.

Now, he can’t help but grieve her as if she were his own.

Frannie practically is.

Everyday I scratch my fingers nonstop. My cuticles, torn to shreds, crack and bleed. I tug and tear and rip away the skin. It stings, each and every time it stings.

Everyday I pick my sensitive skin. I trace over grooves and bumps feather light, Then dig deep into the blemishes there. It aches and it burns and I know its wrong,

I must force myself to keep breathing deep. Ignore the constant itching in my brain. Leave it be. Bandage it up (Over scabs) I beg and I plead with myself to stop. Have you ever had such an itch before?

I beg my own forgiveness as I scratch. The itch won’t go away, I know that now.

I pick and I pick and I pick and I—

My eyes close tightly to block out the moon.

In the morning, I will wake. Not on time, no, As the last bell chimes (as usual). In a rush (as usual), Underdressed (as usual), Heart beating out of my chest (as usual).

I will work the day away. I will speak and sell and count, Taking money (always taking money).

I wish to start my book, It’s been on my list forever, Tomorrow will be the day. But how can I? A chapter cannot be read in fifteen minutes. At least, not properly, The way it is meant to.

Dinner will be set (Take out or three day old leftovers). I will be too exhausted to do much else. I will rest. Stare at my television until my mind, blanks.

I may do the dishes (I won’t). I could do the laundry (I won’t). I should have something done, Anything at all. I was just much too tired tonight. Tomorrow, for sure (I won’t).

I will lay myself down under my sheets. My alarm will be set, Come the morning after, the day will be brand new.

New memories. New thoughts.

Come the morning after, the day will be brand new.

Same home. Same job. Same paycheck. Same lousy schedule. Same exhaustion seeping into my bones and beating the hobbies and interests I used to enjoy out of me.

Come the morning after, the day will be brand new.

My eyes close tightly to block out the moon.

There was a relief in feeling the storm’s approach.

Air thick with heat, Sparks laying dormant in the sky. (Not for much longer)

The grass seems cooler, Blades thicker, more resilient.

The universe is on edge, Anticipating the onslaught mother is preparing for us.

The animals, hold their breathe. The trees, hold their breathe. The humans, hold their breathe.

A crack in the sky, A droplet splatters onto concrete, A booming shakes our very foundation,

A final breath we let out, She’s arrived.

The rain stopped first.

A dry spell they said. For days and days? We said. It’s no matter, this has happened before.

The fish started dying. Sand beds creeping further away from us. Whichever creature could swim the slowest was left behind. Rotting flesh and pointed bones littered the exclusive beaches and familial lakes we once resided in.

A child can now walk miles before being submerged in the salted sea.

Please, we begged, do something. We were ignored.

Water flew off the shelves, Showers became scarce, The young, the old, the sick, began dying off.

Chaos, mayhem, anarchy, broke out. They could not stop the people, The poor, sick, thirsting people.

The tomb said as much would happen, Yet do we ever listen? Why would we, There was never a need to before.

The bathroom light is shining a bit too bright.

It’s too blue, it’s too surgical sometimes.

It only sharpens the shadows on my face and irritate the already red skin across my cheeks.

I think of what my mom said this morning.

How i’m lazy, how I don’t listen to others, how I am cold.

It hurts, badly, to have your flaws thrown in your face on a weekly basis. I have tried countless times to keep myself motivated, but I never follow through.

The face staring back at me is already too old, despite how young I’m supposed to be.

The stress lines, the dark circles under my eyes, the discolored marks and acne sprinkled around my face.

It’s not even that i’m lazy, I’ve said to her, it’s my job. I work such long hours, am I not allowed to spend what little time I have off focused on myself? I relax when I can, try to keep my mind occupied on things I truly enjoy in life. Why is that a problem?

I listen plenty, i’ll have you know. I listen to my boss, to the customers, to my coworkers. So I sometimes drift away during a conversation, is it such a crime to daydream? To get lost in a world of your own creation? I engage when I can, advise when need be, but surely I don’t have to be completely present during every single conversation. I doubt anyone else in the world is.

I turn on the sink faucet, and splash some water on my face. I try to keep a regimented skin care routine in hopes that my acne will vanish. It is a bit more involved now than it was when I first started; I can’t help but wonder if she’ll comment on that as well.

I huff to myself.

Cold.

My own mother thinks i’m cold.

I rub face cleanser on my skin, really scrubbing my forehead. I can’t get her out of my mind.

I have never been an emotional person. I’ve always described myself as calculated, even she has said so occasionally. So why is this suddenly news to her?

Am I sympathetic? Of course. Empathetic? Obviously. So why must I cry at every small story she tells. Why must I react in the same outlandish way she does?

I think before I speak. I try to make sure everyone is heard. I don’t react impulsively. Of course I care, I have plenty of friends and family I cherish dearly. Would she not be insulted if I called her dramatic? Emotional? Impulsive?

I rinse off my face. The soap suds sting my eyes a bit, but I wash it out quickly (perhaps a bit too harshly). It seems the water ran down my arms and made a mess of the countertop. I grab a towel to wipe it all away.

This relentless nitpicking and arguing won’t change anything. She sees me one way, I see myself in another.

It’s fine, at the end of the day. I know to cut myself some slack, i’m human, not a machine. I can’t be the carbon copy my mother hoped I would.

I may be the villain in her story, but I refuse to be one in mine.

You’ve been going down the path for hours now.

Well, you’re not quite sure it’s been that long, but it sure feels as such. The walls have not changed; a simple beige wallpaper decorates them. It’s been laid out flat, no bumps or tears in it as far as your eye can see. You’ve run your hand against them long enough to prove your eyes right.

It feels like you are in someone’s home, but that’s not possible, the hallways cannot go on for this long.

You remember vaguely turning a few corners here and there.

A right, a left, two rights…maybe three?

Whatever, you say to yourself, there’s no reason to attempt tracking the path. You’ve already tried going back the way you came. The halls change.

That right corner you turned?

It smoothed out, curving a bit more to the left than you last remembered.

Curious, you think, how the walls never go up or down. There have been no stairs, nor bend in the floorboard to indicate that you’ve gone farther down, deeper into the earth. You travel through a never ending pathway, no way back the way you came (and a seemingly never ending way forward).

Your stomach aches; when was the last time you ate? Drank a glass of water?

Your heart is beating so fast you can practically hear the blood pumping through your veins.

Maybe it has been hours, you worry, could have been days for all you know.

Your feet ache. Your joints are stiff. Your head is pounding.

You lean your back against the nearest wall and slide down until you are seated. You cross your legs and put your head on your knees. You hug yourself just a tad too tightly.

Soon enough, you’ll start feeling truly trapped. You will start getting paranoid. Feral, to the point of clawing at the finely glued wallpaper.

Eventually, you will break your hand in a poor attempt to break the wood apart and will resort to slamming your head into the walls over and over and over—

In this moment, however, you hope tomorrow will be a fresh start you need to continue on your way.

Hopefully tomorrow you can find the strength within yourself to keep moving forward.

(You know deep down you won’t)

Monetization makes the world go round. Marketing your likes and interests as if they’re a commodity. Merchandising your words and emotions in order to make ends meet. Marrying your dead end job to line your pockets just enough, Maybe you can put some aside, Maybe you can add to your savings, Mad idea that, Money going into your own pocket? Making a living? Moronic. More in the hands of those who do not need. Mugging you of your life without so much a warning. Moiling for those who would drop you without a moments hesitation. Make a decision, what will it be? Match? Money for one, money for all? Mitigate, mediate? More for you, less for them? Mutiny? Maybe.

I never noticed how out of place the trees are here.

I often take the time when i’m not in our family dome to walk around the neighboring sectors. Quadrant Three has a lot more foliage and flowers than ours does. It helps me relax on busy days where I can’t keep my thoughts from racing. Especially when the sight of the dry arid land outside our windows grates on my last nerve.

On days especially rough, like today, I clock out of work early and take a walk around. It’s not too big of an area; we don’t live in a major hub, but the surrounding quadrants are a nice change of pace. Quadrant Seven has a lovely moat that encloses everyone’s dome inside it. Quadrant Eight has a cute little community garden at its center (their dirt is a lot less firm than ours). I remember planting seeds there for a school project a couple years back, but for the life of me I couldn’t name a single flower my classmates and I grew.

The thing that I always seem to come back to is the small wooded area in Quadrant Six. The wooded area has about four trees at most, but they grow apples every other year, so they tend to gather quite a crowd while in season.

I used to take my grandmother to see the apple trees. She never complained a single time. Grandmother would sit down on the benches lining the trees and watch me swing around on the branches. She used to tell me stories of things like the ocean, which was a huge hole in the ground filled with water. This “undrinkable” water held magnificent creatures that didn’t need oxygen, and they floated around from land mass to land mass. She spoke of huge gusts of wind that would either suck up everything in their path or move things out of place—she mentioned her childhood quadrant back on The Mother Planet had to relocate after twelve domes got destroyed during the storm. It makes me grateful that we only deal with dust cycles every once in a while.

I think she never minded taking me out to play because she got to see the apple trees. She never said much about them. Instead, she would sit down and simply watch them sway back and forth, side to side. She once mentioned how the trees would be surrounded by more green plants called grass.

“The smell would be so sharp some days, it would make my eyes water.” She had said.

Imagine that, nothing but green surrounding you for yards and yards. I can barely picture the sight of something so beautiful.

I think of the large chunk of rocks surrounding the bright apple trees, and how the roots are forced to dig deep into dry dirt, rather than in soil like they were designed to. Cool green against beige as far as the eye can see.

“They tried their best,” she used to say to me, “that’s all anyone could ask for.”

I look at the apple trees. The first fruit of the season is starting to bloom, bright red and shiny.

I guess their best is all this planet could ask for.