Emily Kinney's Blog - Posts Tagged "fantasy"

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The tower could be seen for miles all around. It easily cleared the crowns of all the trees and almost always had at least one lit window at night. Only rarely did it’s chimney take a break from puffing black smoke, though it was debated in whispers who stoked the fire.

THERE ARE TWO very different types of people in the world: Individuals and followers. Individuals are their own person, and are exactly who they want to be. Followers try to take on the image of the individuals, and do things exactly like them. Individuals don't follow the crowd, unlike the followers, but create their own image and don't care what people think of it. Some of the individuals and the followers are rather rebellious. Some choose to be that way, while others simply ended up that way, due to pressure. While most rebellions aren't very much appreciated, there are times when they can be quite useful. They can help keep people out of trouble, or help teach them to stand for what they believe in, which you don't see all that often.

One very good-rebellious person in the world was sitting on a car seat one warm afternoon, hugging her knees, and was staring out a window. This person was a fourteen year-old girl, named Milo Hestler. And she was distraught. At least her stomach was. Speaking of which, the distraught feeling in Milo Hestler's stomach increased to an almost unbearable amount as she gazed out the window of her parent's car. They were driving through a neighborhood called Shady Ally. Though it seemed to Milo that it was more like a city than a neighborhood, but her parents delclared it a neighborhood, so it remained that. She also didn't know why it wasn't spelled with an 'e'.

The reason it seemed more like a city was because there were no houses. The only living quarters in Shady Ally were apartment buildings. Dozens of them, all lined up next to each other on each side of the road. That road was the only road there, stretching leisurely onward, making it look more like an actual alleyway. Each apartment building was about thirty to fifty stories high, and they took up most of the sky view. The sun was rarely ever directly over head, but always more to the side, casting shadows from the buildings into the street. So in a way, it really was like a shady alleyway.Why the good people who inhabited the place wanted to use "ally" instead of "alley" was a mystery. An ally is supposed to be someone you trust and rely on. If your ally is shady, it probably isn't a wise idea to continue the relationship.

But that was a very small reason why Milo was feeling nervous. Like any kid moving into a new home, she was worried about adjusting and making friends. The first home she lived in had burned down when she was little, forcing her family to move. She had many friends and relations there and was heartbroken to leave them, especially when she moved into their new house and found that nobody wanted to be friends with her. She moved three times after that, and each time she never made any more friends. She also lost contact with her friends and relations from her first residence.

Continuously finding herself alone, Milo began to fear that she would never have another friend again. She was wrong about that, of course, but for the time being, she begrudgingly sat scrunched in the back seat of a 2002 Camry.

"We're here!" her mother's voice sang out as they braked in front of 711 Shady Ally.

"Ooooh! Goodie!" Milo snapped. "Let's hope we all don't puke with joy!"

Milo occasionally got creative with her words. Her father turned around in his seat and glared at her.

"Sorry!" she said, lowering her eyes. "It's just that, how do we know that this time we're actually 'here'?"

"Oh, Milo," her mother groaned, grinding the heel of her hand into her forehead. "Can't you just try to be a little happy? I mean, we've been driving around all day, all yesterday, and all of last week. We didn't drive all that way not to be 'here'."

It was Milo's turn to groan.

"Fine!" she mumbled. "I'm a little happy. At least we can get out of this car." She opened her door and got out.

"That's the spirit, hon!" her father said heartily, swinging his door all the way open.

Whenever Milo's father wasn't mad at her, he called her "hon".

"You'll see," he continued. "Things will be different here. You'll make plenty of friends and get used to living here like that." He snapped his fingers. "It'd be impossible not to. You don't even need to leave the building for anything! Your mom and I will have to leave for work of course, but you won't ever have any reason to go outside again, hon!"

Milo stopped in her steps, which were leading to the trunk of the car.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her stomach not settling any. Both her parents grinned at her.

"We wanted to surprise you," her mother said. "The building we are going to live in, 711, is one of the neighborhood buildings in Shady Ally."

"It's an entire system of living inside one place, hon," her father said. He pulled two suitcases out of the trunk and handed both of them to Milo's mother.

"It's huge!" she exclaimed, obviously sold on the idea long ago. "The building I mean. The idea of an entire neighborhood inside one place isn't very popular at the moment. I don't know why, it seems wonderfully convenient to me. But, as I was saying, the building is gigantic. It has everything you need inside it. First and foremost, a school -"

"A school!" Milo broke in, her eyebrows up. "Right in an apartment building?"

"Yes," her mother said. "Not only that, but also a Wal-Mart and a miniature mall. That's all in the basement. The school is the entire thirty-eighth floor. There are restaurants too, like Burger King and the Olive Garden!"

Milo scrunched up her nose. Despite the fact that she couldn't believe that all this was crammed into one building, she had to sneer at the thought of any restaurant. The family had been on the road for two weeks, eating nothing but fast food. Therefore, just the thought of Burger King made her want to throw-up. She didn't really mind the Olive Garden, but it was still a restaurant and restaurants weren't something that Milo approved of.

Milo preferred to make her own food. She had been interested in cooking ever since she first saw an oven. She kept a large notebook filled with recipes that she had copied from cookbooks. Every time she would find a recipe that she liked, she would copy on a blank page of the notebook, slowly compiling a complete cookbook.

She took this notebook everywhere with her, along with the two other most important things in her life. All three were in the backpack her mother handed to her. The other two were a diary, in which she was writing down her life, and her little radio and headphones.

Without these things, Milo figured she'd die or suffer from some sudden madness. She would write in her diary whenever something interesting in her life happened, such as her house burning down or moving three times. And she would listen to her radio often, in order to relax and momentarily forget about her troubles. She kept extra pens and batteries with her in case one or the other ran out or got lost just when she desperately needed them.

Turning away from the car, with her backpack on her shoulder and a suitcase in each hand, Milo stared up at the building in front of her. Tilting her head back, she could just make out the roof of the building, and much to her surprise, she saw the crowns of trees sticking up from it.

"Uh, Mom," Milo said. "What's that?" She pointed her left suit - case at the roof. Her mother peered upward.

"Oh, right!" she said absently. "There's a garden on the roof."

"Really?" Milo said, perking up. "That sounds cool. It's been a while since I've been able to be alone with nature. This place might not be that bad after all!"

"Not bad?" her father said, striding towards the doors, laden with luggage. "It's the most fantastic place in the world, hon! And the rent's not bad, either. What more could you ask for?"

"Friends?" Milo asked shyly. Her parents grinned at her. Her mother put her arm around her shoulder and guided her to the doors, her father holding one open with some difficulty.

"You'll see," her mother said confidently. "Things will be dif - ferent here."

Of course things weren't going to be, but Milo didn't know that. Almost smiling, she and her parents strolled into the lobby, which was decorated with tinsel.

Milo's mother walked up to the tinsel strewn desk and found the bell. Three rings brought a woman in from another room, tottering on heels far too high.

"Hello?" she said, looking around as if blind. She then reached into a skirt pocket and pulled out a pair of eye-glasses. She slid them on and jumped back in surprise, not helping her precarious balance.

"Oh! My! I mean, hello." She smiled broadly. Milo's mother smiled too.

"Hi there," she said. "We are the new tenants. You must be the Lobby Secretary?"

Personally, Milo had never heard of a "lobby secretary" before, but the woman immediately said, "Oh. Yes. I mean yes! Of course I am! I'm Miz Ricca, and you must be the . . ."

Not waiting for a reply, she made her wobbly way past them to the desk, where she began to flip through a registry book.

"Hestlers?" she finished, squinting at a spot on a page.

"That's right!" Milo's father replied robustly, grinning.

"Well, welcome to 711 Shady Ally!" Miz Ricca said, bringing out a set of keys and handing them to him. "Here are your keys, you can make as many copies as you want, and I look forward to getting to know each one of you!"

"Well, thank you!" Milo's mother said sweetly. "Let's start right now, shall we? I'm Sherrill-Jean Hestler, and this is my husband, Earnest, and our daughter, Milolantalita."

"Actually, it's just Milo," Milo piped up, not knowing where on Earth her mother had come up with "Milolantalita".

It most certainly was not on her birth certificate. She had heard the story often enough of how, at her birth, they had wanted to name her Mila, but her father's hand writing had caused the 'a' to look like an 'o', and it got recorded that way. Though they both claimed that they liked it better that way, Milo always had a feeling that her mother was rather miffed that her daughter had a boy's name.

Her mother nudged her hard and said, "Now tell us your name. Surely there's more to it than 'Miz Ricca'."

"Oh! No! I mean, no. I'm sorry, dear," Miz Ricca said apolo geti - cally, seemingly startled. "I'm not allowed to tell you or let you use my first name. It's a Lobby Secretary thing, and if I make an exception for you than I'll have to make an exception for everybody! And believe me, there's a fair number of young men in this place who would love to call me Reba! Now then, if you need anything I'll be here, and if you get lost, there are maps all over the building."

"Reba Ricca?" Milo muttered to herself.

"And if you have any questions," she added, "don't hesitate to ask."

"Yeah," Milo said, jumping at the opportunity. "Why is Shady Ally spelled without the 'e'?"

Miz Ricca's lips became a line. "What do you mean?" she said casually.

"I mean," Milo said clearly. "A - l - l - y spells al-i. Alley is spelled a - l - l - e - y."

"Oh," Miz Ricca said, looking away. "That. Well, it does read alley, only they thought it would look nicer without the 'e'. It's still the same thing."

"But," Milo insisted. "It says al-i. Not alley."

"Yes, it does."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does!"

"Thank you, Miz Ricca!" her father said abruptly, well aware of his daughter's legendary stubbornness, and wanting to actually reach their apartment some time that day. "You've been very helpful. By the way, I like what you have done with the lobby."

Miz Reba Ricca glanced around, distracted and pleased. "Really? You do? Well, thanks. It's one of my own designs."

Milo, deciding to let the issue go, took in her surroundings and couldn't quite see where the word "design" came in. Tinsel was strewn all over the carpeting, all over the furniture, and was glued onto the walls. Milo looked up and saw it dangling from the ceiling in great clusters. The only thing it didn't seem to be covering were the lights, which shone down on it all, making the room look very bright and glittery.

"I think it perks the room up a little," Miz Ricca said.

"A little?" Milo thought.

"The elevators are over there," Miz Ricca said, pointing to a hallway on the left side of the desk. "I can see that you have quite a lot of luggage, and elevators are always better than the stairs. Nobody in the building ever really uses the stairs, so we had to install extra elevators. We might have removed the stairs entirely, except for those pesky building codes. Escaping fire and such. I'd help you with your luggage, but I'm afraid of hurting my back. I've not much practice with large, heavy objects; the most I've carried around is papers, pens, keys, and tinsel."

"That's quite alright, Miz Ricca," Milo's father said, hoisting several bags onto his shoulders. "We'll manage to manage just fine!"

He began to lead the way to the elevators. Milo followed with her mother, but something inside of her told her that it'd be better for her health to take the stairs.

That thing inside her was her conscience, and she was so often arguing with it, that she had personified it and called it Bob the Conscience. That particular day, the argument inside Milo's head, went something like this:

"You know, it'd be better for your health if you took the stairs," Bob the Conscience said.

"I know, but our apartment is on the forty-sixth floor. It'd be too tiring to go all that way with all this luggage," Milo replied as she stepped into the elevator. Sometimes, Milo was so into the conversation that she spoke out loud. But she was careful not to when she was around other people.

"You can handle your luggage," Bob the Conscience retorted. "It'll just make it more challenging. Besides, after being cramped in that car all that time, your legs could use some stretching. It will make you feel energized and happier, too. You should take the stairs."

"No," Milo insisted. "By the time I got to the forty-sixth floor, my parents would have already moved in and started dinner. The elevator is faster; look, we're already on the thirty-sixth floor! And you wanted me to take the stairs! Ha!"

She heard Bob the Conscience sigh.

"Yes, Milo," he said, patiently. "It is faster, and it is useful, if we are on a schedule. But if you keep on riding elevators, you will start to get fat!"

Milo chuckled. "That would do me a world of good," she remarked. She looked into a mirror at herself, which was an easy thing to do because enormous ones lined the walls of the elevator.

She didn't like what she saw.

She could name the things she didn't like about herself from head to toe, starting with her hair. It was a rich, dark brown that hung down past her shoulders. But Milo thought it was too dark and, like all the girls of today, she wanted highlights but didn't have any.

Moving downward, her next complaint was her body. She was very skinny for her age and it showed. Two full weeks of eating fast food, without any exercise, hadn't made her an inch rounder. Milo's arms were spindly and long, and she didn't think she had much muscle on them. Nevertheless, whenever she needed to push bullies away, she always found the strength she needed.

Her legs didn't really matter much to her, but she still found them far too slender for her liking. Indeed, she often referred to them as "tooth picks". Not that anybody could tell, for she often wore baggy jean cargo pants.

Her face didn't contribute much because it was always sur - rounded by her hair. It was thin, but not pinched. Sure, it wasn't filled with chubby cheeks, but at least she didn't look like she was starving. That wasn't the reason it was normally hidden by hair. The reason was that Milo couldn't find a way to keep her hair at bay. Usually, she would have it up in a ponytail to keep it out of her face, but her mother hated that look, and would always tell her to let it down. Therefore, Milo usually couldn't quite see what was on either side of her.

"It gives you a shy look," her mother had told her when Milo tried to complain about it. She had tried to explain to her mother that the look didn't suit her, because she wasn't a shy person, but her mother wouldn't listen. Milo found that happened a lot.

"It would do me a world of good," Milo repeated softly.

"What's that, dear?" her mother asked.

"Nothing," Milo said quickly.

"No," her mother said. "I'm sure I heard -"

"Here's our floor!" Milo's father sang out as the elevator stopped with a ding. "Our new lives start the minute we walk out of this elevator, ladies."

Of course, for Milo that wasn't true, but she thought it was, as she followed her parents out into the hallway and up to a door that said "B-1107". She didn't know that it would merely be a push in to her real new life.
The Island of Lote

HAVE YOU EVER heard of the saying, "Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back"? That saying is merely implying that sometimes when people, or cats, become so curious that they stick their human nose, or kitty nose, into something they shouldn't, and end up getting in trouble. However, they can get out of that trouble by having whoever they are in trouble with change their minds. That last part does not happen very often, though, and the "cats" usually stay "killed". This is why people usually just say, "Curiosity killed the cat." We have long forgotten about the part, "But satisfaction brought it back."

That saying can be interpreted another way; that's the way it was for Milo. Each time that she let her curiosity overthrow her common sense, she felt a little bit of herself getting killed. Occasion ally she did find the satisfaction to bring back those little bits of herself, but it was never much satisfaction.

For instance, when she first stepped into her apartment, a tiny bit of her died when she saw that one of her bedroom windows had a hole in it, like some vengeful individual threw a rock through it. Oddly enough, nothing else in the apartment was harmed. Milo found a little satisfaction though; it was the beginning of June and very hot at night, so the hole in the window was appreciated rather than shunned.

When Milo finally worked up enough curiosity to walk into the school for her first day, a small part of her died when she saw that all the children in her class, and the whole school in fact, wore a snarl and XXL pants. Milo felt like a piece of angel hair spaghetti in a pot of killer meatballs, but she was somewhat satisfied to be back in school. All of the teachers were very nice, the total reverse of their irate pupils, and, also oddly enough, were just about as thin as Milo was.

The reason for this, Milo discovered, was that the entire twentyseventh floor was a gym. All of the grown-ups in the building visited it regularly and were extremely fit. But children under the age of twenty weren't allowed to go there, it apparently being a safe haven for the adult population, and even if they could Milo had a feeling that they wouldn't.

When Milo's curiosity got the better of her and she travelled to the fourteenth floor, where the restaurants were located, a little bit of her spluttered out when she saw almost every single kid in her class at B.K. She didn't dare go in, especially when a boy with sinister eyebrows close to the entrance growled at her. She did, however, find some satisfaction when she went to O.G. and saw that their prices were half of what they were outside.

And finally, she got soooo curious, and bored, that she went down to the basement. Once there, an itty-bitty chunk of her died when she saw nearly all the kids in the building hanging out at the miniature mall, which she quickly learned they did basically every day. The way they glared at her made her so uncomfortable that she couldn't bring herself to enter. But she achieved some satisfaction when she went into the Wal-Mart and saw that very few other kids were there. She was also delighted to find a grocery store attached to it.

She bought ingredients for one of her favorite pasta recipes, and went straight up to her apartment to make it. When she arrived, though, a little bit of her died harshly when she realized they had not installed the oven yet. Frustrated, she put her ingredients in the refrigerator, which thankfully had been install, and grabbed her diary and little radio, deciding to go up to the garden. But when she got into the elevator, she saw that there was no button to take her to the roof. Milo, on the verge of utter exasperation, abandoned the elevator and took the stairs, which were rusty and noticeably neglected.

"She was right when she said that nobody uses these anymore," Milo muttered, referring to Miz Ricca. Every couple of steps or so, she had to wipe flecks of rust and dust off her hand on her jeans.

After stepping out onto the roof, quite a bit of her died woefully as she took in the garden. It was extremely overgrown and a haphazard mess, as if nobody had gardened there in decades.

There were weeds everywhere; in the path, in the flower beds, which had perhaps once held pretty, vibrant flowers, and they took over the grass. The bushes and shrubs looked like someone had stopped pruning them a long time ago. Vines grew all over and constricted the two lovely fountains, which were both cracked and dirt encrusted. The leaves from years of roof top autumns had not been raked, making a thick carpet of matted crumbling, brown leaves and coarse weeds on the ground. A tree that had grown so old and rotted that it had fallen in a swoon had not been removed, or trimmed down, and vines and lichen had claimed it for their own.

Milo, who had always been a lover of nature and well-kept gardens, wanted to cry as she gazed around at everything. There were benches that had barely any paint left on them, the wood shrunken and splitting. Way off in a corner, there was a section of the garden that appeared big enough for a small game of soccer, but was at the second stage of becoming a swamp.

"Great!" Milo muttered dismally, sitting down on one of the benches.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!" Bob the Conscience said, but he was too late. The bench creaked then cracked, sending Milo crashing through it.

"Ow!" she whined, groping for the iron arm of the bench.

"Thanks a lot, Bob!"

Despite a garden full of weeds, which was undoubtedly full of all kinds of insect life, and unstable benches, Milo found satisfaction in the fact that no one else was up there with her. She was at last completely alone. She found a moss covered rock under a tree and sat down. She slipped on her headphones, turned the radio on, and tuned into a good hip-hop station, since that was the music she liked best. She spent about two hours in the garden, scribbling ferociously in her diary. At about 4:45, she decided to go back.

As she stood up, she happened to brush off some moss from the rock and an engraving materialized. Curious, she took a closer look, scraping off more moss with her fingernails. It read:

"This garden is dedicated to the mayor of Shady Ally. Let us hope that when we get one, he will come here."

"Okay?"Milo said, confused. "That's nice, I guess. But . . . heck, if it's in this bad a condition, they probably never did get one!"

She straightened up and trudged back to door to the stairwell, but instead of going to B-1107, she rode the elevator down to the lobby. Once there, she carefully picked her way through the tinsel, finally making it to the desk. Miz Ricca being nowhere in sight, she located the bell and rang it three times. Miz Ricca came hurrying in from the hallway on the right side of the desk.

"Hello?" she said, puzzled, then put on her glasses. "Oh. Hi!" she exclaimed after seeing Milo. Milo gave a little wave.

"Good afternoon," Miz Ricca said cordially, her brow furrowing.

"I'm so sorry, but . . . who - I mean, what is your name . . .?"

"Milo," Milo said.

"Oh. Yes,"Miz Ricca said, chuckling pleasantly. "Of course, how could I have forgotten? Well, Mila, what can I do for you?"

"Actually it's MILO, trust me, and I was just wondering about the garden on the roof."

"Yes, what about it?" Miz Ricca asked, teetering towards a chair that didn't seem to have enough tinsel on it.

"Well,"Milo said slowly, watching her. "It seems a little, let's see, how shall I put it? Un-taken care of."

"You've been up there?" Miz Ricca cried, whisking around in alarm, her ankles almost giving way.

"Yes," Milo said, feeling uneasy. "Why? Is it off limits or something?"

"Oh. No," Miz Ricca admitted, patting gently at her hair, as if worried her sudden movement had disturbed it. "It's just that - well, the reason for it being so unruly is because we haven't really bothered to hire a gardener to keep it well groomed."

"Why not?" Milo asked, hoping she knew that they were talking about a garden and not a dog.

"Because, nobody goes up there," Miz Ricca said carelessly, flicking some tinsel off her sweater. "So it's not worth it. The new elevators don't even have a button that leads up there. I heard that it was once a very popular place in the building. You know; a place where the kids could go and get exercise. But then its splendor wore off, and people didn't care for it anymore. And besides, they were sick of paying the bills for it; so many other worthwhile things to have bills for. It was completely forgotten when the mall and restaurants came. But that's only what I heard."

"Oh," Milo said softly. She felt discouraged. "But it's okay if I go up there, right?"

"Hmm? Oh. Sure. But if I were you, I wouldn't. As you probably guessed, as Lobby Secretary I hear a lot of rumors, and one that I am always hearing is that the garden is full of lice!"

Milo's eyes widened. "Lice?" she croaked.

Miz Ricca nodded amiably. "Yep. Uh-huh. Just chock full."

Milo stiffened and began to walk backwards down the left hallway.

"Um, thanks, Miz Ricca," she said. Miz Ricca smiled and waved. "No problem, dear. Take care. See you later!"

"Yeah," Milo muttered, turning around. "Sure you will." She pressed the button for an elevator then checked to see that she was alone.

"Bob!" she hissed. "Bob! Answer me! I know you're there! You can't be anywhere else!" "Actually," Bob the Conscience whispered ruefully, "I was in the membrane preparing my dinner. Oh, Milo! I'm sorry. How was I supposed to know that it was a lice garden?"

"I don't know!" she hissed back. "You knew that bench was crap and you told me!"

"Well, that one was obvious!"

"And a weed-filled garden isn't?"

Bob the Conscience, for once in his life, was speechless. That's not a good thing for a conscience to be. Bob the Conscience was aware of that, so he spoke anyway.

"Okay! So I didn't see it. But you didn't either. I thought you had more sense than that."

"I do!" she shouted by accident. "I do," she hissed, glancing around hastily, seeing if anyone had heard. The elevator opened and she stepped in. "It's just that you are my conscience and now thanks to you lice may be partying all over me! Now look, boi! If you don't perk up and pull your act together, I'm going to find a new conscience!"

Bob the Conscience gasped in horror. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, yes I would! Get it?"

Bob the Conscience groaned. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good," Milo said tartly, as the elevator stopped at a floor different from the one she had punched in. Somebody else had called it there, and as the doors parted she saw who. Five kids from her class stalked into the elevator and began their habitual glaring.

"Well," one of the boys said loudly as the doors closed. "Look who it is! Otis!"

Milo gulped. "That's Milo," she said, quaking.

The boy growled low in his throat. "Right," he said. "Milo, the little shrimp who decided to die!"

"Actually, no," Milo replied, her voice getting higher. "I don't. Not that it wasn't nice of you to offer!" she added quickly. "It's just that I would prefer not to die. Not that I believe that you would actually kill me!"

She chuckled weakly, clutching her diary to her chest, her eyes shifting from one face to another.

The boy leaned forward, leering, and said, "What makes you so sure?"

"She's such a snob!" a girl piped up. "Always eating at the Olive Garden alone and not talking to anyone in class!"

Milo wanted to explain why she was doing such things, but thought it better not to. Right then, accusing them of anything didn't seem like the best way to get out of the situation.

"Well," the boy said, grinning evilly. "We know what to do with snobs!"

"I told you, you should have taken the stairs," Bob the Conscience said grimly.

. . . . . .

"You could have called for help," Milo's mother said to her some time later back at B-1107.

"I was in an elevator!" Milo cried. She was sitting on a counter, holding an ice pack to her head, while at the same time nursing both a nose-bleed and split lip. Her parents hadn't exactly been thrilled to come home to find their daughter in such a battered state. This was far from the first time, and quite frankly they were getting quite tired of it.

"That's not the point, Milo!" her father said. He had a tone in his voice that was purposely not comforting her. He had taken a wide stance in front of her, arms crossed. "I am sick of you always getting into fights! It seems to happen everywhere we go!"

"Hey, it's not my fault this fight happened!" she said defensively.

"Why do you always do this?" her father asked, ignoring what she said. "Is it because you want attention? I always thought you liked to be alone; to be by yourself. Not that I think it's good for you to always be alone. I would prefer it if you were active in a group or something. You don't get into groups by picking fights. You only get into gangs that way and you certainly are not joining a gang! You also don't make friends this way. I thought you wanted to make friends?"

"I do!" Milo said, fuming. "I told you, this wasn't my fault! I didn't cause it! I don't go around picking fights. They come to me!"

"Nonsense!" her father said dismissively. He raised his chin and looked down his nose at her. "I don't believe you. You know what I heard from your teacher? That you don't 'interact' with the other students! Look, Milo, I am not raising a stuck-up child! For some reason I always thought that you were a shy, sweet little girl. My little girl. My little baby girl! Now what's a father to think when his little baby girl is always coming home with black eyes and broken bones?"

"First of all,"Milo said, wincing as she moved her lip. "I only got a black eye once, and I've never had any broken bones!"

"That's not the point," her father shouted at her, his temper flaring up. "The point is that instead of shaking hand, you use yours to make a fist."

"Second of all," Milo continued through her teeth, forcing herself to ignore him. "I was never your shy, sweet little girl. I am not shy or sweet, and you have never considered me your 'baby girl'. I've always been 'hon'! You never have been there to comfort me. It seems like you just blame me to make parenting easier for you!"

"That's enough, Milo!" her mother said sharply. "You have no right to talk to your father that way! I am very disappointed in you!"

"As am I!" her father agreed. "How dare you say such a thing? You ought to be ashamed of yourself! The utter ingratitude! We bring you to this wondrous place, supplied with everything you would ever need. Friends included, but for some reason you seem to think that every person on the planet is against you."

"No," Milo objected, shifting the ice pack on her forehead. "Only anyone who gives me the stink eye."

"Is that so? And exactly what evidence have you seen that proves that any child in this building is a bully?"

"Have you seen the kids in this building?!" Milo asked in astonishment.

"That's not nice, Milo!" her mother said. "Just because the chil - dren here are slightly obese, doesn't give you the right to talk so."

"Slightly?" Milo said dubiously, even though she had meant their irate attitudes.

"Milo!"

"Enough!" her father shouted. He ran his fingers through his hair, thoroughly worked up. "Milo, I am disgusted with you! And what's more, you are grounded for a week!"

"What?!" she cried, almost toppling off the counter. "That's not fair. . . . At all!"

"Provoking kids with cruel remarks is what's not fair. When you say things like that to them, of course they are going to release their hurt inappropriately."

"I didn't . . . I - I would never do something like that!"

"No? Then how come you came home absolutely injured?" her mother inquired smartly.

"Because!" Milo cried out desperately. "They're all bullies! They growl at me whenever I'm around them for Pete's sake! Like pit bulls! I don't know why they did this to me! Who knows? Maybe they're jealous of me or something. Jealous of how I look."

"Jealous of how you look?" her father said incredulously.

"Well, why not?" her mother asked, briefly siding with her daughter. "I can imagine why they would be. She is a lovely girl."

"That's not what I mean," Milo said, gingerly touching the bump on her lip.

"That still wouldn't be enough to provoke them," her father insisted skeptically.

"Why not?" Milo spat, though she didn't mean to and used her ice pack to wipe it off the counter top. "I always told you, Mom, that some day my looks would get me into trouble! And I guarantee you that this won't be the last time!"

Although Milo didn't actually know this, it was quite true.

"Unbelievable!" her father exclaimed, rubbing one temple and starting to pace. "The excuses you come up with! The ungratefulness! Everything you would want; everything you would need! One place! Nothing but trouble, always!"

"Not everything I need is here," Milo interjected, pointing to the empty corner in the kitchen.

"The oven isn't installed." Her father glanced at the desolate corner, then back at her.

"There are well priced restaurants on one of the floors. You don't need an oven," he stated.

"I need an oven," she insisted.

He rolled his eyes. "Fine!" he said. "If you need one that badly, then you can buy one at the mall in the basement."

"I don't have money for something like that!" Milo cried in protest, sliding off the counter onto her feet.

"Well," her father said, at last looking pleased. "Isn't that your problem?"

"For your needed information," Milo snarled, "cooking happens to be my most favorite thing in the world! But of course you wouldn't know that, because you continuously find short-cuts around parenting!"

"ENOUGH!" both her parents yelled at once.

"Go to your room!" her mother shouted, face flushed from either shame or rage, or both.

"You mean my naturally air-conditioned room?!" Milo asked savagely.

"Yes!" her father snapped. "And you are still grounded for a week!"

Milo grabbed her ice pack, then stormed into her room and slammed the door. This is a very loud and rude gesture, but after all that had occurred, slamming her door made Milo feel quite good.

"Well, look on the bright side," Bob the Conscience said brightly.

"What bright side?" Milo moaned, flopping onto her bed, her head aching for two different reasons.

"You probably gave them all lice!"

And that made Milo feel very good.
The Island of Lote

HAVE YOU EVER heard of the most-of-the-time-true theory that after a good night's rest everybody is in a better mood, and they take back things they said and punishments they inflicted? This theory did not come to pass for Milo and her parents. When Milo awoke the next day, she was hardly in a better mood; her head and lip still hurt, and she was freezing because it had been an unusually cold night.

Her parents were also not in a better mood because, instead of going to bed and forgetting the fight, they had started a fresh one with each other. This fight had lasted half the night, and therefore they were exhausted and grouchy in the morning, their personal dispute still lingering in their minds.

Since not one of them was in a better mood, nobody took back anything they said, and so Milo remained grounded. Grounded of course means the same thing in an apartment building as it does in a house: She had to go to school, (not that she wanted to), she couldn't go to the mall, (not that she ever intended to), and she had to come straight home to sit dejectedly on the couch with no television, radio, or books.

None of it truly bothered Milo, besides the injustice, but she was now nervous about using the elevators, since they had proved to be an exceptionally dangerous mode of transportation. The danger itself had gotten worse, because Milo's parents had forced her to apologize to her rotund and conspicuously unblemished fellow skirmishers; in front of their parents, no less.

She recited her lines in front many crossed arms and narrowed eyes, the kids smirking menacingly at her from behind their parents. Milo, with sinking spirits, knew that they were thinking that if they ever did it again, they wouldn't get in trouble. All they would have to do was claim that Milo had offended them into passionate retaliation.

Their parents, all roughly the same shape as a tri-athlete and apparently unfamiliar with the hostile side of their children, were nothing short of enraged at Milo. They believed everything her parents described to them; or felt compelled to believe it, much in the way all parents feel they must put faith in their offspring instead of visible evidence. Therefore Milo, standing before them bruised and swollen, was found guilty of all accusations.

This was how the parents of the elevator terrors came to have an unfair and unwarranted grudge against Milo. They, along with their kids, glared at her whenever she happened to be nearby. To avoid this, and any more future beatings, Milo made the decision to take the stairs back and forth between her apartment and school. It was only eight floors, which wasn't nearly as bad as what she was avoiding.

An entire week of sneaking around in a stairwell sounds tiring, but Milo actually benefited from it. Because she was grounded, she also couldn't go to the restaurant floor; therefore, her father, annoyed but left with no choice, bought an oven and installed it. Otherwise she would have starved. Its presence made Milo a little happy, until her parents told her to prepare a special dinner for her adversaries and their parents, as a further apology.

Milo was furious, but powerless and a night of pure tension, but delicious food, at the dinner table occurred. The kids, apparently not only violent but scheming too, were even more convinced to gang up on Milo again. Why not? They wouldn't get in trouble and also get a lovely meal out of it. Milo was therefore reduced to peeking around corners and tiptoeing down hallways if alone or, whenever possible, always standing close to some version of an adult. She was receiving plenty of sidelong glances, but right then she valued her health more than her pride.

The entire week dragged by with excruciating slowness, Milo becoming increasingly frazzled by the day. To boost her morale, she began to pretend that she was the last golden, scarlet-spotted leopard in the rainforest, evading ruthless poachers. This lasted until a few snide comments from Bob the Conscience put an end to it.

After the week went by, her parents, never exactly ones to dwell on anything, had completely forgotten their fight with Milo, and were in terrific moods; partly because they were both having a very good week at work. Milo's mother had been promoted to a higher rank, even though she had only started there a short time ago. And her father, whose company was stationed practically everywhere, had received a large raise.

They both were happy and jolly when they came home for dinner. They chatted cheerfully to each other, not noticing that Milo wasn't making a sound and was just picking at her food. This lasted for a couple of days after the "Week of Horror", until they realized she looked thinner than usual.

"What's the matter, hon?" her father finally asked during one meal. "You aren't eating very much."

"Not very hungry," she replied tonelessly, not looking at him.

"You haven't been very hungry for a few days," her mother pointed out. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

Milo wearily lifted her head to look at her parent's kind, inviting faces. Her shoulders sagged.

Yes. Sure there were things she wanted to tell them. She wanted to tell them about the way she journeyed to and from school each day; slinking around and hiding until she was in a teacher's sight. She wanted to share how she stayed home on weekends, doing nothing and going crazy. She didn't dare venture out of the apartment in general; too risky. She longed, rather sulkily, to tell them about how she had lice all through the "Week of Horror", and how she had to secretly go to the school nurse for a bottle of medicated shampoo.

There were also the recurring nightmares she had of tinsel turning into a monster and decorating her room; the fact that word of no punishments and lovely dinners had spread to most of the kids in the building; the stairs were exhausting her; the way kids and adults looked at her when she walked by; she hadn't had any peace too long a time; and the only way she got any fresh air was when she went to bed at night, only end up with a cold in the morning.

"No peace," Milo thought sullenly. "No place where I can think."

"No," Milo said to her parents, sighing. "There's nothing."

"Are you sure?" her mother pressed.

Milo faced her, shaking her head.

"No, not really," she said. "It's nothing. Really. I'm just a little . . . overwhelmed. I guess it's the whole moving experience. . . . I just wish I could go somewhere to think all this out. Somewhere away from here."

"Is that all?" her father asked in surprise, reaching for a special bottle of wine. From the dark splotches under her eyes, he had expected more. "Well, hon, if you can find a place, you can certainly go there. My goodness, you scared me! I thought it was something else. Like a boy or something."

He saw her shocked face and giggled mischievously.

"Sorry, hon, but it's been on my mind lately. Why don't you have a boyfriend? A pretty girl like you should have no problem getting one."

"I'll have one when I get one!" Milo said through gritted teeth. This was a rather delicate subject for her. She had her own theories about boyfriends and love and so on, and she was determined that nobody was going mess with them. So much in her life was indefinite, she wanted to keep at least one thing consistent.

"It is unusual. That fact," her mother said thoughtfully, taking a sip of wine, acting as if she hadn't heard her. "You know, Milo, there's a women at work who has a boy about your age. If you like, we could hook you two up."

"No!" Milo snapped, jabbing a piece of steak as she did so. "I am too young for dating. At fifteen I can start dating. I only just turned fourteen. I got another whole year to go."

"But don't you want to date, Milo?"

"Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "Of course I do. But not right now, and I want to do it my way. And my way is that I find my own boyfriend; someone that I really like and trust. You know I have my principles about stuff like that. I'm always going to live by them and nobody is going to make me do otherwise!"

That ended the discussion, though Milo, of course, was wrong about that last part. But she was contentedly unaware of this as she lay in bed, trying to think of a place where she could go for a while to clear her head. When she said her prayers, she asked God for a place to go. She didn't care where. Anywhere, really, as long as it was far away. Just a place where she could hear her own thoughts and have maybe even have a little fun.

An answer to her prayers came a few days after school ended. She was walking tentatively through the lobby when, for the first time, she noticed a bulletin board next to the doors. She hadn't seen it before because Miz Ricca had tried to cover it with tinsel. However, all the people who had put up flyers and have-you-seen papers got angry at her, and so she had to remove her special design.

Tacked to the bulletin board that particular day were flyers for a summer camp in Australia, called "Camp Outback". There was a kangaroo in the center of the paper, wearing a khaki vest and giving a cool stare. Milo took a close look at one of those flyers, grabbed it, and dashed into an elevator, scattering all manner of tinsel in her wake.

She rarely saw the lobby these days, not wanting to risk getting trapped in the elevator with any unsavory humans, and the stairs were too long. She was only down there that day because her mother had taken her to the hospital, the only service the building didn't provide. It was only a check-up, since she was very worried about Milo's health. Her appetite hadn't improved yet, and, honestly, Milo could only get so thin before she started to frighten anyone who laid eyes on her. The doctor finding her perfectly healthy, if not underweight, her mother had dropped her off at 711 before going off to work.

Milo, now giddily pressing the down button, prayed that nobody would be on the elevator with her. Once again, God came through for her, and she made it to her apartment safely. It happened to also be her father's day off, so when Milo charged into B-1107 she had a parent to show the flyer to.

"Dad! Dad!" Milo shouted into the kitchen.

"In the living room, hon!" came a voice from another room. Milo redirected herself to the living room and found her father sitting on the couch, browsing through business papers.

"Dad, look at this!" Milo said excitedly, thrusting the flyer in front of his face.

After backing up to see properly, he read, "'Camp Outback: The camp where kids get to have fun, make friends, see amazing sights, and learn the art of boomerang hunting, all in Australia's breathtaking outback. If you are interested in signing up your child, then just call the toll free number below: 1-800-Outback.'"

When he finished reading, he glanced blankly up at Milo.

"Yeah, what about it?" he asked, confused.

"What about it?" Milo repeated. She tapped a finger frantically on the kangaroo. "This is where I can go. The place we were talking about. You said if I found a place then I could go. I did. This place!

This is the place! Where's the phone?"

"Whoa!" her father said, holding up his hands. "Slow down, hon! Breathe. Look, I know I said that, but I think before we do anything we should discuss it with your mom."

"Why? Can't you just call?"

"No. We have to talk about it first. You don't go running off to Australia on a whim."

"But -"

"No buts!"

Milo groaned. "Fine," she muttered.

She stuffed the flyer into one of numerous jean pockets and went into her room. She spent the rest of the day in solitude, listening to her radio and telling her diary about the summer camp. When her mother finally came home, Milo immediately whipped out the flyer to show her. Her mother said that they would discuss it after dinner. Again Milo had to wait in the agony of patience while they ate. She could barely swallow her throat was so tight with anticipation.

Afterwards, her mother took a good look at the advertisement, sighed and said, "Oh. I don't know, Milo. It seems sooooo far away from home. So far away from us."

"Exactly!" Milo said, grinning.

"Milo."

"Sorry."

"Well . . . I know that we said you could go if you found a place."

"And I found a place,"Milo said genially, pointing to the phonenumber on the page.

Both her parents had to smile.

"Are you sure you want to do this, hon?" her father asked. "Summer camps are a lot of fun. I know I enjoyed going when I was a kid. But you've never been to one before. You get pretty homesick first time around."

"Look," Milo huffed, rolling her eyes. "I've wanted to go to one for a long time, but we were either moving, or settling in, or we couldn't afford it. Well, this time none of that is holding us back. Not to mention, I would have to be in the Arctic, starving to death, and riddled with frost-bite to ever be homesick for this place!"

Her parents were taken aback a bit by that remark, both of them blissfully well-adjusted to 711, but did agree to call and sign her up.

Milo whooped for joy and danced her way to her room singing, "Joy to the World". Once there, she pulled out her suitcase from her closet. She had hoped a short time ago she wouldn't have to use it for a while, but now she kissed it and gave her backpack a hug. She sorted through her clothes and packed the lucky chosen while belting out, "Hallelujah". She tucked her little radio, headphones, diary, and cookbook into her backpack while crooning, "You're a Lucky Fellow, Mister Smith".

The next morning, she jigged her way to the elevator and rode uninterrupted down to the Wal-Mart. There, she bought four packages of Pilot Point Precise Grip Pens, her favorite type of pen, three pens per package. She also bought five packages of triple a batteries, that being the type her radio used; eight batteries per package. She wiped out most of her money that way, neither item cheap, but she didn't care. Milo considered this camp to be like a vacation, the outback a refuge, and every cent was worth it. She also bought the strongest sunscreen they had.

As she returned to the elevator, bag in hand, and pressed the button, Bob the Conscience suddenly yelled out, "Wait!"

"What!" Milo shrieked in surprise as the doors closed.

"I don't think we should take the elevator this time," he said.

"Why not?" Milo demanded.

"I dunno," Bob the Conscience admitted. "It's just a feeling. A really bad feeling."

Bob, who was a conscience and is supposed to be usually right, was right. For a few moments later the elevator halted at the eleventh floor and opened to reveal the very five kids who had ganged up on Milo the first time, along with three others. Milo stood frozen in fear, her thought process shutting down.

"Well, look who it is!" the lead boy laughed.

The rest began to laugh along with him. A deep, mocking, maniacal laugh. They sneered at poor, scrawny Milo, all alone in the elevator, and took a step forward. In that moment, as each foot landed, Milo made a life changing decision. A decision which would allow her to go to camp, instead of getting into more trouble and thus anchored to 711 Shady Ally. If she hadn't made this decision, there would not be a story to write down. Milo made the decision to run.

She bent her head low, clasped her bag to her chest, and broke into a sudden sprint. Surprising the delinquencies, she managed to worm her small body through the gaps between the bellies before they could grab her. Once past, she made a break for the exit at the end of the corridor that lead to the stairs.

"Hey, you! Get back here!" they yelled after her. "Come on guys! Let's get her!"

They began to chase after her, shouting nasty threats as they ran. Milo had gone through the door and was already in the stairwell, sunshine weakly pouring in through the grimy windows, but the gang closing in. Swallowing hard, she started to climb.

The stairs didn't seem to prove much of an obstacle for her pursuers. At least not for four floors. At five they were panting. At six they were gasping. At seven they were gulping down air. At eight they were moving so slow that they barely moved. They clung to the molting railing and leaned up against the cold concrete walls.

"Just one more floor to go!" Milo whispered encouragingly to herself.

She wasn't exhausted at all. She had been climbing for weeks.

At the forty-sixth floor, she paused to look over the railing at the gasping, furious gang and shouted gaily to them, "Bon Voyage! I'll be seeing you in a month!"

And with that, she sauntered through the doorway into the hallway, headed for B-1107, singing, "This is My Once-a-Year-Day".
The Island of Lote

FOUR DAYS LATER, the Hestlers traveled to the airport. Milo already had a passport, procured years ago to make moving easier, and her ticket had arrived surprisingly quickly. Her backpack and suitcase were crammed with new clothes, her mother having insisted that just because she was going to the outback didn't mean she couldn't look nice. "You are also going to want extra if any get torn or dirty," she had said.

She also had suggested, Milo agreeing wholeheartedly, that they put her radio/headphones, batteries, pens, diary, and cookbook in sealable plastic bags. "It will make it easier if security wants to search your bags," she had said. "Not to mention, you don't want anything to get damaged. I know how much you love all those things, though I'm fairly certain you'll be too busy chasing wallabies to need any of them." Milo strongly disagreed and said that was irrelevant; those objects went with her everywhere, period.

At the airport, her parents waited off to the side while her passport got scrutinized. Once it met the approval of the security personal's shrewd eyes, she was allowed to check her suitcase. Milo had made sure beforehand that her backpack was the right size to carry onto the airplane. She wanted to keep it safe with her until after the trip. Nothing must be lost, or end up in another state.

Before heading down the boarding bridge to the plane, her parents came over to say goodbye.

"I can't believe you're leaving already," her mother said, pulling Milo's scrunchie out of her hair. "I'm going to miss you. We'll be eating out a lot."

"Aw, Mom," Milo groaned, reaching for her scrunchie. "Come on! Just for today?"

"Please, Milo?" her mother asked, holding it behind her back and giving her daughter a hopeful smile. "You look so sweet with your hair down."

"I know," she said. "That's why I want it up. I believe in honest appearances."

"Oh, fine!" her mother said in exasperation, tossing the scrunchie back. "But I give you fair warning. Hot Australian boys are looking for shy, sweet girls."

"Uh-huh?" Milo said, sweeping her hair up into a ponytail. "I'll keep that one in mind, Mom," she lied. "See you later."

"Goodbye, dear," her mother said, giving her a hug and kissing her cheek.

"Bye, hon," her father said, doing the same.

"I'll see you guys in a month," Milo said, other people filing past her into the tunnel.

"Okay and don't forget, you're a Hestler," her father said proudly, beaming at her.

"Um . . . alright. Why?" she asked.

"Well . . . I don't know, hon. Just don't. It wouldn't be fair to us if you did. So don't."

"Right!" Milo mumbled, rolling her eyes at his cryptic words.

"I've always admired your father's satisfying way of answering questions," Bob the Conscience remarked. Milo snickered.

As she entered the grey wormhole, walking to the plane door, her parents called after her. Their voices echoed throughout the terminal, causing several heads to turn.

"Goodbye!"

"Bye, hon!"

"We love you!"

"We what?"

"We love her, Earnest!"

"Oh! Yes! Of course we do! We do!"

"Don't forget us!"

"If you can help it!"

"Keep out of trouble!"

"Keep out of wombat holes!"

"Don't stare at your counselor's butt!"

And just as the door was closing, her father bellowed, "And if he looks at yours slug him!"

"Oy!" Milo moaned, her face burning.

A nearby flight attendant gave her a wan smile, but tactfully didn't say anything.

Milo determinedly tried to forget what her parents had just shouted all over the airport, and found her seat. She didn't put her backpack in the overhead. Instead, she sat down and hugged it tightly, attempting to leech out some comfort from it.

"We're really doing it," she whispered excitedly, glancing out the window at the grey stretch of runway. "We're by ourselves on a plane, going to camp. It's really happening."

"Are you talking to me or your backpack?" Bob the Conscience inquired.

"I don't even know," Milo admitted.

The instructions for such-and-such things came while the plane roared and started to move, but she didn't pay much attention. She had been on airplanes plenty of times before. She knew everything there was to know. While the flight attendants showed everyone how to buckle the seatbelts, Milo gazed up at the white tufts of clouds in the vibrant blue sky, knowing they were about to get significantly larger.

The rest of what happened was regular. The plane sped up and took off, momentarily pressing the passengers to the back of their seats. Milo worked her jaw in circles to get her hearing back once they leveled out. The seatbelt sign eventually turned off, and people began the perpetual shuffling back and forth to the bathroom.

Milo spent the rest of the morning listening to her radio and writing in her diary. When they served lunch, she ate an egg salad sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes. She then recorded the recipe in her cookbook, deciding that the bread had been some sort of sourdough. She had recently come up with a title for her cookbook, writing on the cover in big swirly letters: Milo's Cookbook of Plagiary. This is actually a very appropriate title, if you mull it over. Milo adored it.

At two o'clock the plane hit an unusual amount of air pockets, sending drinks, food, items, and people's stomachs everywhere. As the plane was being cleaned, the flight attendants apologizing profusely, several important looking men dashed by Milo's seat and entered the cockpit. The plane didn't settle down for a while, outside or in. When the turbulence finally stopped, they were able to fully clean up. All the spraying and wiping was for naught, though, because there came suddenly a horrid bump. This was followed by an enormous bang.

Everybody inside the plane, all ordinary folks and high strung, flew into a terrified frenzy. Milo, curled up into a ball on her seat, stared unblinkingly at all the yelling, pointing, and pushing. At last the captain himself had to emerge and calm the passengers down.

He composedly explained to them that it was only a small problem and there was nothing to worry about. This seemed to be accepted willingly enough, and everyone sat back down. But even so, Milo felt uneasy. She put all her things away in the bags, making sure each one was sealed. She then hugged her backpack for an hour, telling herself that everything was fine. Another hour later, she was fast asleep.

It's a funny thing, sleep. Deprived of it, you are cranky, tired, and forgetful. Therefore, people ought to get plenty of it. But sleep has one unfortunate stipulation: You must close your eyes, removing yourself from reality, in order to slowly fall into the cycle of sleep that makes you dream. And when you dream, you are in another world, even though you are still in this world, and are oblivious to what is going on around you.

It is therefore good to have an alarm clock, or a reliable mother, to wake you up in the morning. If you didn't, you wouldn't know that morning had come at all, and might miss the bus and have to walk to school. So, even though sleep is usually beneficial and on our side, sometimes it isn't.

It certainly wasn't on Milo's side while she was on the plane. It prevented her from participating in a very important event, thereby putting her life in danger. Nobody bothered to be a reliable mother and wake her up. She what woke her was a loud, blaring alarm. It had been going off for some time, but she had been sleeping deeply, in a very involved dream, and didn't hear it until then. She also woke up because the plane happened to be shifting and rocking violently.

Blearily, she sat up in her seat and looked around, everything dark and blurry at first. Nobody else was with her. Adrenaline shot through her, immediately making her wide awake and alert. Clutching her seat's headrest, she stood up and looked behind her, then in front of her.

The plane was completely empty except for her. Masks were dangling from strings from the ceiling, bopping and dancing wildly as the plane shook. Luggage had been thrown aside and abandoned in the aisle, the arms of seats broken and swinging limply. Milo stared around frantically in confusion, sweat erupting all over her face and neck. A red light was flashing languidly, illuminating the space in an unnerving scarlet glow before fading to darkness. It revealed vacated cushions, rows and rows of them, not a soul to be seen.

Normally any other human being would have panicked, and Milo wasn't looking to be different. She panicked, but only for about two minutes, because when a plane is twisting violently in the air, people have to concentrate on balance more than panicking.

Milo steadied herself and grabbed one of the masks, trying to calm down. She held it to her nose and mouth, taking huge breaths. The jerking and downward, falling motion prevented her from inhaling too long, however. She pushed the mask away, slung on her backpack, and shakily walked into the center aisle.

"Hello?!" she called out, just in case someone was hiding.

There was no answer.

"Hellooo??!" she yelled, taking a wide stance to keep from falling over. "Is aaanybodyyy here?!!"

Once again, no answer came.

"Please!!" she cried miserably.

She looked around frantically, squinting in the meager, red light. She was entirely, one hundred percent alone.

"Oh!" she groaned, clutching her stomach as the plane lurched horribly.

She began to make her way to the back, though the floor was slanting. She caught a glimpse out a window then quickly looked away, gulping. An engine had exploded, and fire was leisurely engulfing the aircraft.

Milo whimpered for a second, then screamed and started to run. She didn't stop until she got to the end of the plane. To her surprise, all the classified, locked doors were flown open, and there was a huge emergency exit open in the back. Night air rushed in at her, chilling her to the bone. She had no idea how long ago she had fallen asleep. She had no idea what time it was. She didn't care. Inching towards the hole, making sure not to get too close, Milo peered out. Stars were sailing by, the moon full and off to the right. It was too dark to see what was below her, though.

The room she was in had been fortified with different supplies for escape, such as instant inflatable rafts, thousands of parachutes, maps, transmitters, first-aid kits and food kits. All the rafts were gone, as well as the kits and transmitters, but there was one more parachute left. Milo crawled over to it and unhooked it from the wall. She shifted her backpack so that it was on her front, and then fastened the parachute to her back.

Suddenly there was an enormous explosion on the left side of the plane that Milo deciphered as the other engine blowing up. It told her that she'd better move it. She clasped her backpack, screwed her eyelids shut, ran, and took a daring leap.

Air whizzed past her, filling her ears with a hollow roar, but she still was able to make out a furious grinding sound. Looking up, she could see underneath the plane and that one of the compartments had broken open.

Suitcases came spilling out, dropping as fast as Milo. A familiar one, perhaps inexplicably able to sense its owner's presence, collided with her head. Blood trickled down her face, getting in her eyes and blinding her slightly. A searing pain raced across her forehead, making her gasp.

Remembering suddenly that she had to open her parachute, she groped behind her for the string that released it. She gripped it and tugged, but it nothing happened. She pulled harder. Still nothing. She yanked with whatever strength she had left and finally heard a click. Cloth came billowing out. The parachute snapped open and caught air, stopping Milo with a jerk.

Her legs swinging loosely below her, she tried to catch her breath, the parachute straps digging into her armpits. At least she was no longer plummeting towards the ground, which was still shrouded in darkness. Yet, she didn't seem to be drifting either. Milo peered upward through the blood and night, trying to figure out why she was still falling rather fast. Her vision hazy, she could just make out a squarish lump amid the stars. She made a strangled noise when she realized that it was the suitcase that had crashed into her head. It was tangled up in the strings of the parachute.

This didn't help her situation very much, but it also didn't hinder it completely. At least she was slowing down a little bit. A good thing too, for a few moments later her legs hit water. Coldness enveloped her as she went under, her body smarting from the impact. Instinctively she began to kick, searching for the surface. Her head suddenly met air, and she pushed hair out of her face.

As she spat water out of her mouth, she noticed it was sicken - ingly salty. The ocean. She was in the ocean! Salty water splashed into her mouth and seeped into her injury, making her wince. But she didn't have time to fuss about it. The parachute, once her savior, was now filling with water, dragging her down. She detached the belt quickly, letting it slide off her shoulders and sink into the briny depths. Her head was throbbing, making everything pulse blurrily. She worked her arms and legs back and forth, treading water and snorting it out of her nose.

The suitcase floated up, bumping into her fingers. She lunged for it, gripping its handle. She flung her backpack upon it, and floated for a minute, pulling herself together. Gingerly, she touched her forehead, igniting pain. Milo sobbed and whipped her hand away. Tilting her face towards the sky, she saw the plane, all ablaze, barreling downward. She looked to where it was headed and, to her absolute shock and relief, saw an island.

From where she floated, it didn't look extremely big, but at the same time exactly tiny. She couldn't make out any details, but it was solid land and that's what mattered.

As the throbbing increased and her vision got fuzzier, she began to kick her way towards it. Already exhausted and sore, she began to pant. She checked her course every now and then, and soon saw the plane crash down on the other side of the island, creating a mushroom shaped explosion. It surged into the sky and was followed by a deafening boom.

Breathing raspily and heavily, Milo tried to increase her speed. Not only did her head hurt, but her stomach and jaw too. She wished she could throw-up; maybe she had swallowed too much sea juice, or maybe it was panic. But she couldn't stop. In the back of her mind, Milo didn't doubt that she was about to fall unconscious, and she wanted to be on dry land when that occurred.

More blood oozed from her head into her eyes, clogging her nose with a metallic stench. She tried to blink it away, but only suc - ceeded in making it worse. The only good thing in the whole messy ordeal was that the tide was pushing at her, making it easier to move. For what seemed like hours, she kicked away in the water, which had numbed her long ago. On all sides of her, suit cases bobbed and floated aimlessly, headed in the same direction. Now and then she had to pause to push one aside. Nothing was going to get in her way. The island was her goal. Nothing else mattered to her at that moment except getting to that island.

She mumbled dumbly to herself, "Must keep going. Must keep going. Gotta get there! Just gotta."

As the island got closer, her legs got stiff and lazy, until at last she couldn't even move them. Suddenly the water changed climates. It was gradually growing warmer, but that didn't reinvigorate Milo any; she was still too tired to kick. Her consciousness was slowly ebbing away, the lapping sound of the water getting fainter and fainter.

She laid her head down on the suitcase, letting the tide carry her the rest of the way. The shore was growing closer. It looked very foggy and red and was still far off, but she could see it.

"I'll get there," she thought weakly.

She had to. Just had to. She would. She had to. Had - to. Just . . . had . . . to. Just - had . . . to. Just . . . had - to. Just had . . .
The Island of Lote