“It has been 1,467 days. Without mind body connection. Without imagination. Without creativity. Without ideas becoming reality. There is something in my mind that occurs when I write things down on paper. It makes it real. It makes it mine. It’s not typed on a keyboard, it is my handwriting, my thoughts, me. When that gotten taken away 4 years ago, our moral compass took us south. Our original ancestors who became writers still known today have turned over in their grave. I wish to be in a grave, the afterlife couldn’t be this cruel.” Beth put down the same pen she’s had for 4 years; she has never kept a pen this long. She reminisces about the feeling of finding a pen that wrote like silk as it glided along college-ruled notebook paper. She hopes she can feel that again one day. Until then, she will continue to be a justified criminal. She’ll write her tiny letters until she reaches her grave- the day she finds herself unable to ink her thoughts into reality she’ll know, she’s already dead.

If you’re reading this, I’m either in prison serving for life or dead. Please, for your own safety, do not tell anyone about this journal, keep it hidden, it’s actually a miracle if you managed to find it yourself. This nation is corrupt. I know what you’re thinking, “what could be corrupt, this place is perfect!”, but that’s just what they want you to believe. Outside of this place there is so much more, we’ve all been lied to for generations. If you’re reading this, I am passing on my mission to you. In the back of this book I have all the evidence that you need to show people the truth. What I need you to do is use this information and do everything you can to make it public, but do be careful, reader, because rebellion is punishable by death. Please, reader, do not let them control us for any longer, because if you do, they may finish the plan started centuries ago, the pl

THE LIMITS OF MY LANGUAGE MEAN THE LIMITS OF MY WORLD — SAID BY LUDWIG WITTGENSTEIN The words were whispered to me as my inFOLens scanned the navy-and-white poster, downloading its message onto my TMem. The accompanying picture was of a frowning man staring into a book that displayed diagrams of the stars, ignoring the night sky spread above him. I studied this man, the downturn of his lips, the hunch of his back— I studied this man so I would not look at Xiana. The problem with Xiana was that she was pretty. She was so pretty I had to silence myself when she was around. She was so pretty that I didn’t understand how the school’s feeds weren’t filled with constant, unintentional chatter about it. Xiana had dark hair, long and thick, that had defeated every elastic that had attempted to wrestle it into submission. She had strong, black eyebrows, dark brown eyes, and lips that she painted in various shades of purple. She smiled like she knew more than you, and she was probably right. She smiled like she didn’t care what you thought of her, and, true to her smile, she waded through the tumultuous sea of our high school feeds as if she couldn’t hear the psychic messages that bounced up and down the halls. Xiana knew that I thought she was pretty— it was the first thing I thought when I saw her, when we were too young to know when to silence ourselves on the feeds. I knew that Xiana thought I was boring— it was a thought that had slipped from her mind when I had been in the middle of a biology presentation. She had thought it with such force that it couldn’t disappear in the chatter. Xiana knew what I thought of her, and I knew what she thought of me. “Why are you here?” I couldn’t stop myself from looking. Her head was tilted ever so slightly, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt, which had fluorescent, mesh sleeves that didn’t match the delicate pink lace of her skirt. The social feeds had been flooded with snide comments. Even well-meaning people had let their judgements slip into the chatter. I was glad that feeds were shut off in detention, because I disagreed with popular opinion. Xiana made herself something worth seeing, something different. I was always looking for her these days, unsure why she would wear these things, but fascinated nonetheless. “I wouldn’t join our chemistry class feed when asked,” I said. “Why not?” Xiana asked, and I was faces with the nausea-inducing embarrassment that was my infatuation. “I didn’t want them to know what I was thinking,” I said, aware of my blush. What a stupid answer from a stupid person. Xiana didn’t think so. She twirled a piece of hair around her finger. “Fair enough. Guess that was obvious. Didn’t know you were that type of girl.” I glanced at another poster that was glued above the blackboard. THERE IS NO BAD THOUGHT THAT CANNOT BE FIXED WITH KINDNESS AND UNDERSTANDING, this one said to me in a voice that was not as calming as it should have been. “I’m not,” I said. “Seems like you’d have to be, or you wouldn’t have done it.” That was hard to argue with. “So maybe you could do me a favour?” Her leg bounced, shaking the desk. “What favour?” I asked. She hesitated, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. Then, quickly, she extended her arm towards me. “Help me hide this.” She held out something she had crumpled in her fist— a material with which I was not entirely unfamiliar, but which I saw so rarely. Paper. Xiana was trying to give me a ball of paper. My disbelief must have shown on my face. I looked around in alarm— we were the only people in the room, but there were cameras — how often were they checked? A poster of a sunset sang softly to me, THE ONLY JUST SOCIETY IS BUILT ON EMPATHY. “Is that—“ I began. The poster cut me off: WHERE EMPATHY CANNOT BE EXPLAINED, IT MUST BE PROGRAMMED. “You don’t need to know what it is,” Xiana said. My heart was hammering against my ribcage. “Jessie, please, they won’t check your pockets,” she begged. Above her hung a poster dripping with irony. STRONG IS A NATION WITHOUT MISINTERPRETATION. I had never understood why these posters were everywhere— who would want to use strange visual codes as a method of communication? Who would willingly deprive themselves of the psycho-meta data that came with communication via the feeds? The problem with Xiana is that she was pretty— so pretty that even the most pointless of actions looked appealing, crumpled up in her hand. “Come on. They trust you.” “Because I’m boring?” Xiana’s brow furrowed for a moment in confusion, but then I heard a hand on the doorknob. Xiana glanced to the door and I snatched the paper from her grasp and shoved it into my bag. Mr. Kelly walked in and looked between us. Xiana smiled at him, blinking innocently. I felt sweat roll down my neck. “Miss Gardiner, you may go,” he said, “Miss Campos, I’ll need five more minutes.” Outside of the school, my chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath. I walked straight out into the football field. I needed the open space. I needed to see anyone who might approach. I dropped my bag at centre field and stared up into the grey sky. I thought of the man in that poster, the stars hanging over his head and his eyes captured by the writing below. I had never seen real stars. I wanted to pull that paper out of my bag. I wanted it so badly that I was shaking. I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. I stared at my backpack on the wet grass. “I owe you one,” Xiana said. I was too worked up to be surprised. “I didn’t mean to bring it to school. But seriously, I know how much trouble you can get into for having—“ “Shut up!” I said, turning to face her. “You can’t— you can’t just say that out loud!” “Aren’t you silenced?” she asked. “Not on the mandatory monitored feeds!” I said. Xiana’s eyes widened. “How do you not have a block?” she hissed. “They’re illegal,” I replied. “So is jaywalking.” “I don’t jaywalk.” “Of fucking course you don’t,” Xiana said, dropping her own bag in front of her. She pulled out a small physical computer and sat, cross-legged, on the grass. “What are you doing?” I finally asked. Then I got an invite to a new, private feed. I had had this dream before. It had been both a good dream and a nightmare. “I can’t,” I said. “Accept the invite, Jessie.” So I did. My thoughts have never been particularly disciplined, but I have been lucky enough to think few that might be deemed offensive. Xiana was pretty. Xiana was pretty and thought I was boring and that pissed me off. Xiana was pretty and I didn’t know why she tried so hard to be different, but I wanted to understand more than I had ever wanted nearly anything else. My thoughts tumbled into the feed, an avalanche of feeling. I looked down at Xiana. Xiana looked down at her computer, the tips of her ears reddening. “The feed is encrypted,” she silently conveyed as we transferred our conversation to the virtual world. “It runs interference on government feeds. Anyone watching will think you’re trying to remember the name of a song you heard this morning.” “That’s incredible,” I said, shame fading into wonder. Xiana’s thoughts were well-controlled, but I still received a wave of bashful pleasure. I sat on the grass in front of Xiana, who still didn’t look up. “Did you want to know what was on the paper?” she asked. “Yes,” I thought, before I could do the sensible thing and say no. A memory flashed into my head— black markings on white page. “It’s an alphabet. You use it to make words when you’re writing,” she said. “Why?” I asked. “We have the feeds. They’re better.” Disagreement. Nerves. This was an act of trust, I realized suddenly. “They make us think in straight lines,” she said, “invade our heads. We can’t become real people because they punish everything they don’t like.” “We can understand each other better this way,” I said. “Is that true? Who are they understanding? Who you are or who you’re trying to be?” I didn’t know. “When do you feel like yourself?” she asked, “When you’re in a feed, or when you’re silenced?” She knew my answer the same moment I did. “Writing didn’t work. Different words meant different things to different people. Everyone argued about poems and religion and politics, because everyone saw those things differently,” I said. “Because we’re different people!” Xiana said. “What’s the point of us if we all have to have the same thoughts? Why not find the best human and kill the rest so he can be the only person, if all we are is the same guy in billions of bodies?” I didn’t understand it, but I wanted it. I didn’t understand her, but I wanted her. Xiana finally looked up, registering that last thought. Her eyes were so dark and warm, her cheeks flushed. She returned to typing. “I’m not going to convince you today, and we can’t stay out here for too long. But let me make you a temporary block, and then you can think about it and decide if you want to learn more,” she said. “I am not a rebel, Xiana,” I said. “I don’t believe you,” Xiana replied. With a triumphant flourish, she sent a file to my TMem, then shut her computer. She climbed to her feet, then held out her hand. I grabbed it. She pulled me up, and for a moment, we just looked at each other. I felt like I couldn’t be trusted. She felt a strong disagreement. “I’d be happy to teach you more. All you have to do is ask,” she said. “Thank you.” “No. Thank you. You saved my ass in there.” “It’s a nice ass to save,” I thought, and was surprised to feel her amusement. “And Jessie—“ Xiana said, a hand on my arm to delay my departure. “You’re not remembering right. I don’t think you’re boring. I think you’re bored.” She kissed me on the cheek, and then, with a soft smile, turned around and walked away. At home, in my room, I held the crumpled up paper that was Xiana’s unintended gift. At home, in my mind, I fiddled with the file that was her intended gift. HOW SMALL A THOUGHT IT TAKES TO FILL A LIFE SAID BY LUDWIG WITTGENSTEIN, said a poster on my wall. I open one, and then the other.

Nora and her friend Jamie were walking down the side walk that let to there usual cafe. “The rest of the world must think we are insane! Outlawing written word, like what?!” Outraged Nora “Girl you’ve got to relax, it’s already been a year since it was made official.” Jamie responded “Yeah but today is the day the all written word’s we’re finally, I don’t know what word would you use for that?” “Eradicated?” Jamie volunteered “Yes! Eradicated. Today is the day the all written word was finally eradicated in the US. And its not like we can go anywhere, what with every other country closing there borders to US citizens. It’s bull shit!” Nora complained “I know” said a resigned Jamie opening the cafes door. “Hey girls” called one of the workers (who happened to be the person who completed their treo) “Hi Tim” the girls said walking towards the counter, “Would you like to take a LOOK” he emphasized the word look “at our entirety word free, picture only menu?” He joked “Oh, don’t get her started.” Jamie said rolling her eyes “What?” Tim questioned “Oh you know, just Nora going on another one of her world famous rants” Jaime said, Nora punched her arm “I’m aloud to be mad” Nora respond angrily. Tim rested his head on his hand, and he shook his head. “You know, the name Nora really just doesn’t suit you.” He said, Nora groaned, and Jamie laughed “Now your just egging her on.” “Excuse me!” Said an uptight woman behind them “are you going to order?” “Yeah, lady sorry” said Nora rolling her eyes, “Iced coffee?” Tim said pointing to Nora, “you know me” she responded “And a latte?” He said pointing to Jamie “Yep” she said. The girls sat down at there usually window booth in the back corner and continued to talk about the next school year. How that had to video every thing instead of take notes. How there was a bunch of tv’s and tablets on the walls instead of posters for cubs and groups. And how being a musician was one of the highest paying jobs because lyrics are one of the easiest things to remember. Lin-Manuel Miranda was one the richest men in the world because he was teaching how to sing and “Wright” music, and he was creating a LOT of educational musicals such as ‘The Periodic’s’ ‘Washington’ and ‘Hitlers Men’. Ten minutes later Tim came and sat down, pushing Jamie over and sitting down. “So, what are we talking about?” “Nora’s favorite subject to start an argument” Jamie said “Outlawed written word?” Tim asked turning to Jamie. “Yep.” Jamie sighed “Can we please change the subject?!” Tim snapped, an unusual reaction for him. Both the girls exchanged looks and the Nora said “So, any luck with you coworker?” Tim sighed, “No, I was about to ask him out but then Karen came in and was, well she was a Karen” Jamie patted him on the back and Nora said “You’ll figure it out” then out of nowhere a big bang when off outside all of there heads turned to look at the street, hundreds of people were running, no, they were protesting, they had signs that said “we need written word” “reading is out right” “you can’t force us into submission” there were fires and buildings were being broken. Nora immediate stood up and ran to the door. “Where are you going?” Jamie and Tim said together. “I have to help, I need to join” and with that she open the door and joined the march. Tim and Jamie looked at each other and they both knew that they were thing the same thing ‘she is crazy, but we can’t leave her’ and they followed they’re friend out side.

It was impractical, so we, a collective hive mind, decided it need to go. Letters. Words. Sentences. All of it is gone; There is no need. Everything that has been written is everything that could have been written. So, we outlawed text, simple as that.

🪐 -> 🛸 -> 🌎 🛰 -> 📡 -> 👩‍🚀 -> 🚀 👾 -> 🚀 -> 💥 💥💥 👩‍🚀 -> ☠️ 🛸🛸🛸🛸 -> 🌎 -> 🏙🌇🌉🌃 👽 -> 💥💥💥💥 -> 🏃‍♀️🏃🏃‍♂️ 👽👽👽👽 -> 📚🚫 -> 🚨 👩‍⚖️ ⚰️ 👨‍🔬👩‍🔬 -> 🔬-> 🧬 -> ☢️🧨 🙏 -> ☢️ = 👽☠️… [end]

I ran my fingertips over the the small bumps and grooves that made up the front page—and every page for that matter—of the “Michigan Daily” newspaper. It has been awhile since I have kept up with current events. Truthfully, I haven’t been making the effort to keep up with anything since it’s hard for me to read what’s going on half of the time. Ever since the new President somehow convinced the American people and Congress to outlaw written words, the world has been a very different place. Picking up braille wasn’t an easy task, and it has been hell trying to teach it to my 9 year old. The written word ban went into immediate effect when Marley was only 6 years old. They say that it’s easy for a child to learn new languages quickly, however this case was very different. When you grow up reading and writing the alphabet, it is nearly impossible to forget words altogether after that. And the way the world is adjusting is tragic. No one wants to learn anything anymore. The only people who benefit from such an extreme way of living are the people who are born blind. A wordless world is all they have ever known. “Mommy what does that say?” I look down at Marley who is pointing to the newspaper. I feel another layer of exhaustion settle over me like a thick blanket in the winter time. “Grown-up things, baby” I sigh. I was much too tired to translate the newspaper for myself, much less to a 9 year old at 7:30 in the morning. “Come one, grab your things and let’s get ready to walk out to the bus stop” I say. I help Marley put her picture books and braille books into her book bag and we leave the house. As we come to the end of the street, I stare at the faded red octagon standing in the corner. No written words, but we all know it used to say ‘STOP’ in white bold letters. Now, all we have to rely on is our memory. I scoff to myself. What a shitty world. I’d write that word verbatim if I could. “What’s so funny?” Marley looks at me from the corner of her eye. Her steps were matching mine. I stare at her faded blue converse. They even removed the word ‘converse’ from the shoes. Ridiculous. “Nothing. I just thought of something silly” I look back up at her and smile. We arrived at the corner just as the bus pulled up to the corner. I watch as Marley steps into the bus and disappears behind the folding glass door. As the bus drives off, I stand there and stare at the back of the long, yellow vehicle before it completely leaves my line of sight. If someone would have told me 5 years ago that I would be seeing braille on every single yellow school bus in the Unites States I would have laughed. Just like I discovered 3 years ago, I realize that this is, in fact, no laughing matter at all.

As a child, the village elders would gather us around the rest days bonfire, all of us tired from running in the fields or helping the farms. Then they would take out long rolls of a substance and tell to us magnificent tales: valiant soldiers and damsels in distress, legendary monstrosities, and numerous others. I never understood what was on that roll, nor did I ever get to see those long rolls until the workings days came to a close. The tales, however, carved magnitudes of caves in my mind, all full with questions. One day those papers completely disappeared, that was also the day the warriors came. They were unlike those of the stories - cruel, unforgiving, and demanding. The strongly built men came and they destroyed, no sign of the caring and chivalrous disposition of the tales. From that moment on my childhood fascinations we’re continuously shattered. We were forced to work long days. No tranquil stories by the warm firelight on the resting day. Then more soldiers came and they pulled us out of our homes, dragging us to crowded places. The small houses fit barely fit two families of four and the streets were crowded with vermin and ragged, dirty people cupping their hands. Mother had always pulled me away from those strangers. For a time, I forgot about those wild tales on resting day nights. Then the large men came again and pulled us away in chains. They spoke oddly. To me it sounded like gibberish, but something one said made another man scrunch up his face. It confused me for a while before I realized we spoke differently. Suddenly, I could understand them again, and they were demanding where the monsters were, where those brave soldier disappeared, and where those long rolls of…whatever it was were. It all came flooding back, the adventures of the metal clad men, the damsels in distress, and the terrors guarding the….hoards….of treasure… Some of my playmates grandparents grabbed any linens they could find and began to scribble strange symbols onto them. At night, some of them would retell us those stories that we had heard so long ago by the fireside. Once I saw an old man take an ash stick and make the markings, but the soldiers came and dragged him away. I didn’t see him again after that, nor did anyone else. Years passed and the elders died. My people were still in chains, forced to plow and get barely anything in return. My playmates and I grew up. While searching for blankets one cold night, I found one of those linens with the lines on it. I didn’t dare ask around, everyone knew if you asked or got caught with those linens, you would be taken away. Quickly shoving the cloth away, I ignored the squiggles and finally located some horse blankets. Now, I sit in my chair, my bones weak from cold and age. I talk and tell of those fabulous tales that were once told to me to the children at my feet. Children who are worn, like me, but still have hopeful sparks in their eye. It has taken me this long to realize it was greed, that drove The Takers into our homes. Greed, for those fabled treasures. It has been long now since our enslavement- our children are speaking in that strange tongue of The Takers. My memory is slowly failing me. There is none now left to remember the stories but the children, who soon may be swallowed by The Takers greed too. If only someone could make the words we speak immortal. Make the words we speak tangible, held in hand and tell the stories so they all wouldn’t have to be remembered. It is too late, I think, for us to be saved, we will ever remain until nothing remains. Swallowed up by the abyss. But I think, yes, I believe I shall sleep now. Sleep and live those dreams among monsters, soldiers, and women in distress. Yes, I shall sleep now, eternally.

Elayna was running down the street. She didn’t dare look back, she knew they were after her. They always were. She looked at the buildings for any indication of a store. All the signs were either blank or filled with pictures. No words anywhere. Elayna sighed in frustration. She heard footsteps behind her and decided she couldn’t keep running. She was already tired and she was worried she was going to pass out. She had been on the move for weeks now. She thought she had escaped them, but yesterday, they were on her trail again. She scanned the buildings and saw a weird looking sign and barged inside. It was dark inside and she anxiously peered out the window, watching as the soldiers sped past. She let out a breath and backed up, bumping into something. She quickly turned around and put up her arms in defense. Everything was still. She squinted at the area, only seeing darkness. She heard a match strike and jumped, whirling towards the noise. A grizzled old man stood in the back corner of the room. His beard was cut ruefully as if he’d done it himself and his clothes seemed to be made of parts of the forest outside. Elayna froze, unsure if he had seen her or not. “You can come in,” he said in a gentle but slightly rough voice. Elayna looked around, but still held back. She had met too many people who had lied and tricked her to know to trust this man. “I can see you hiding,” he told her, not unkindly. “I may look blind, but I’m not,” the man said, chuckling at his own joke. “What do you want,” Elayna said fiercely, stepping slightly into his candlelight. “What I want?” He said, pausing before he replied, “There’s too many answers to that question. What I want is peace.” He sighed, as if he carried the weight of the world on his back. We waited in a silence as he seemed to contemplate his answer, then eventually he turned away, heading up a creaky staircase behind the a curtained off doorway. He left the candle sitting on a counter nearby. Elayna hesitated. She knew she should leave. It wouldn’t be safe for her here. It was never safe for her. She moved slowly to the window again and peered out. A bright torch flashed and she ducked down out of sight. Panicking she tried to even her breath. They were still looking for her. She gripped the paper in her hand even tighter. What if the man upstairs knew what she had. She had promised him that she would protect it. What if they had found out. The light outside passed again, closer this time. She knew she couldn’t risk to leave. Carefully, she made her way to the candle and using it, she shone the light on the stairs. They each had a weird star pattern on them as if they each represented a constellation. They glimmered softly and when she looked closer, it seemed as if they had words etched on them. But no- that would be impossible. Intrigued, she pushed past the curtain and made her way up the stairs. At the top, Elayna gazed around the room. An odd assortment of objects were scattered everywhere and she was tempted to pick a couple things up such as the hand telescope, the crystal globes, and the crown, but kept moving. She followed the light coming from a larger room with a fireplace. She hesitated at the threshold. No one sees to be there, but this room felt powerful. She took a tentative step in, then her eyes went wide. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed something. A book! She rushed over to it and picked it up. She ran her fingers over the pages and scanned the words. Most people her age wouldn’t have been able to read but Elayna’s mother always told her. ‘Never let anyone take knowledge away from you. This is your power. Share it with the world.’ She heard a noise behind her and hid the book behind her back. “Ah, you like books?” The old man said, coming into the room, near to where Elayna was standing. She stood frozen, but indignant. “How do you have books!” She exclaimed, truly shocked. “They are banned throughout the kingdom. Anyone who has books are killed or jailed for life?”

It makes it hard to remember things. But, even if we could write it down, we wouldn’t be able to understand it. Have you ever gone to read a sentence only to realize it’s in another language? Even though you know the letters you have absolutely no idea what they mean in this context. That’s probably what you think it’s like for us now. But we don’t even know what letters are. It’s like hieroglyphs in a sense; strange shapes combined to form a symbol that has no meaning anymore it might as well be abstract art. At least when looking at hieroglyphs you can understand that the set of horizontal squiggly lines means the sea, and the man shaped picture is, well, a man. But we look at a piece of paper filled with words our great grandparents could’ve read, understood, analyzed, enjoyed, with the same comprehension you would look at a banana duct taped to a blank white canvas behind a velvet rope in the MoMA. Words aren’t really spelled anymore. Letters are spoken of only in terms of pronunciation, letting you know if you’re pronouncing something right. A difference between the deeper sounding b and the level ground p. Think of it as; “Wait, is it brada, or Prada?” “Prada, with a p.” But that’s all letters are anymore. Ways to say things. Of course, a few of us still have to know what they look like. There are a lot of things we had to take; clocks, books, timers, papers, pencils/pens, signs (you don’t realize how many signs there are). There are so many things you can write with, so when we started we had to make sure they forgot how. A few things inevitably slipped through the cracks, but that’s why we’re here. Some families have kept the written word discreetly in their family, a relic of the past to guarded with everything. Of course, every family is bound to have a little avant garde rule breaker eventually. My job is to find out where they learned it and eradicate the source, but we won’t get into all that now. We’ll save all the boring work stuff for later. Before I let you go, let me tell you a few things you won’t go over again, but you might want to keep in mind. We had to get get rid of technology for a while. This was a very laborious and time consuming task for everyone involved. We’ve only had the internet for so many years, but the amount of material we produced… They had to wipe everything clean in order to reintroduce technology, to make sure none of the old web could somehow surface. You couldn’t even imagine all the things. Educational videos, closed captions, keyboards, speech to text, every art program had to be dragged up from the depths of the web, and they removed the text boxes. The instructions, introductions, how tos, and tutorials. Every last bit of everything had to be found, so of course it can’t all be gone. Yet. But the new web is done, and that’s the biggest and most important step. The internet will be safe for generations to come. The real issues now are the postal service and publishing industry, but you’ll be diving head first into that pool of molasses soon enough so I’ll let you breathe one last time. Good luck during your first day, and remember to burn this after reading. Sentimentality will destroy everything, we can’t leave anything behind. I’m sorry they pulled you out of everything to be here and do this. I know it’s hard to give it all up so abruptly, but it has to be done. Bye for now, Rosemarie