Emily Kinney's Blog - Posts Tagged "lote"
It Then Led Her Elsewhere
There wasn’t any noise or movement or any other logical explanation that night for Kirsta waking up. She was a sound sleeper and far from the habit of waking randomly during Earth’s dark hours. Her bed was soft, adorned with sumptuous, one-hundred-percent cotton peacock patterened sheets, with matching down throw pillows that she claimed to her mother she had to have.
“Some things were meant to be in sets,” Kirsta had explained to her. “Like drums, or flatware.”
So, discomfort wasn’t to blame. Later, when she had the time to look back and wonder, Kirsta could not actually recall the reason why she woke up, unprompted. But she did.
Her eyelids slid back uncerimoniously, revealing enormous, dialated pupils surrounded by clover green rings. A mishapen lump sat directly in her line of vision, and when she slammed her lathargic arm down on it, it proved to be a pillow. Not one of the throws, but a respectable pillow just the same. Groaning and rubbing her porclin forehead, Kirsta rolled onto her back, annoyed at being awake. Reaching out blindly, her hand found her tiny, cheapest-they-had alarm clock and brought it to her face. 12:07.
“Ullllgg!” she grumbled, flinging it back with revolt. Twelve oh seven at night was a time for insombiacs and those saucy individuals who liked late shows. Not for her. Not when ther was school and baton and her complection to think about.
Unable to determine what had roused her, Kirsta, in turn, rolled her eyes and then her body, snuggling back down into the luscious blue and green sheets. But, before she could shut her eyes once more, a flicker alerted them to the far wall of her room. There, floating as inconspicuously as a fly in someone’s lemonade, was an oval-ish sort of light.
Kirsta blinked. It was still there. She squinted. It didn’t disappear.
“What the . . . ?” she whispered, slowly propping herself up on one elbow. Chestnut hair, straight and silky with tending, fell like drapery over her shoulders and down her back. One of her favorite assets, her collar bones, stuck out as she hunched closer to the edge of the bed, her brows wrinkling in confusion.
The light remained where it was. It did not waver. However, it did seem to glow.
How long she stared at it, reassuring herself that she was really awake and that it was really there, Kirsta did not know. Not too long, though, because her arm started to ache from holding her up.
Shoving aside the blanket, Kirsta lowered her bare, bird-boned feet to the floor, her gaze never leaving the light. Standing up slowly, as if she were afraid she’d spook it, she tentatively walked towards it. It didn’t move. Stretching an arm, she brushed the spot with her fingers, but felt only wall. Sheetrock and interior paint. The glowing oval did light up her hand, though, making the typically pale skin a warm yellow, almost honey like.
Still frowning, only now with curiosity, Kirsta looked behind her to see where the light might be coming from, and saw her window. Her window overlooked the edge of a woods. She used to play there when she was younger, and full of free-spirited emotions and musings, but those were days long passed. It had been quite some time since it had even touched her thoughts.
Quickly, yet being careful not to make any noise and alert her fellow house-dwellers, Kirsta glided to the window, her eyes darting back and forth between it and the light on her wall. Looking past the glass and into the inkiness of the night, Kirsta’s breath froze in her throat. There, in the midst of the bark and tree trunks, was another light. Well, probably the same one, only travelling through the foliage, it’s source somewhere amid the trees.
Kirsta stared, mesmerized. What was it? Not a flashlight. It would have jiggled or something by now. Not a camp fire. Not a lanturn. Surely, there wasn’t anything that could make it shine so far and strong, especially with so many obstacles in the way. What on Earth was it?
Curiosity and a long-burried sense of adventure now overrode Kirsta’s reasoning. She could have gone back to bed, yes, but the light still would have been there on her wall, teasing her, haunting her. She couldn’t stare at a mystery all night. She’d go crazy.
Thoughts of tomorrow and what the consequences might be for sneaking out evaporated from her mind, a rush of adrenaline washing away her weariness. Tiptoeing to her beauru, she pulled out some socks and a bra, since wandering through the woods at night just screamed bra to her. After all, she really wasn’t a kid anymore. Slipping on a pair of sneakers and a zip up hoodie, she crept to the door, double checking that the glowing, golden light was still hovering there. It was.
Getting out of the house proved to be easier than she had anticipated. Being so far on the outskirts of town did occationally have it’s advantages. Such as, her father hadn’t invested in the pricey, automated alarm system that all the other fathers had. A deadbolt was good enough for him, particularly since he was a man who considered the best kind of security to be an oak baseball bat. This almost crossed Kirsta’s mind as she slid back the deadbolt, but only almost. Thankfully, everyone was sound asleep. Once on the outside, the night air surprisingly warm and inviting, Kirsta eased the front door shut again and took off around the house.
Scurrying up to the woods, she eagerly looked around for the light, and saw it. Gaze locked on it, Kirsta took slow, measured steps towards the treeline, suddenly well aware of what she was doing, and perhaps maybe she should try for a little caution. Not that anything too unsavory lived in this wood, the worst just an occational groundhog. But, still.
It almost felt like the woods swallowed her when she entered, but after a quick look over her shoulder at her house, sitting there in the dark, familiar, welcoming, always going to be there if she wanted to go back, Kirsta shook off the feeling and began walking.
She followed the light through brush and dips in the ground and all kinds of trees. Birches and maples and pines, all looming way up over her head, and yet not intimidating at all. Kirsta didn’t feel scared. The trees seemed friendly, almost as if they were happy to see her. It was so warm out, the air alive with the sound of crickets and peepers, that Kirsta couldn’t help but feel perfectly safe. And besides, the light kept her company.
For a while she journeyed, huffing just a little as she trundled through undergrowth and gradually becoming aware that she, Kirsta Sevaan, was roving through a forest in the middle of the night, instead of being tucked in bed, resting up for the next day. Further more, she was chasing after a light that probably was just some nut trying to contact the aliens. What exactly was she thinking?
However, before her common sense could return and force her to go back the way she had come, something else caught her eye. Up ahead, the trees came to an abrupt halt, because there was a clearing. The light was also getting brighter. Larger.
Her mental chalkboard wiped once more, Kirsta headed for the clearing, green eyes wide. As she emerged from the cover of the treetops, her mouth bobbed in awe. There, in the middle of the carpet of soft, long grass, was a tent.
Of course, ‘tent’ might be too commonplace a word for it. ‘Tent’ is typically used to describe the canvas-walled lean-to things people camp in, or the huge, hold-a-city striped forts erected at the circus. Kirsta didn’t know who had put this one up, but they were certainly not camping or from the circus. It was small and circular, its plush sides purple, orange, and blue swirls, as was its pointed roof. Gold, tasselly trimming hung all around where the walls and roof met, with various object dangling from thin chains every yard or so. And then, crowning it like the star on a Christmas tree, was the source of Kirsta’s excursion: A vibrant, dewy, raindrop-shaped lanturn that sat atop the point on a rod. As she approached, Kirsta could make out ornate designs adorning the lanturn, which might have been the size of a street light.
Of all the explanations Kirsta had conjured in her head, this didn’t even come close. As stunned as she was, somehow she managed to keep walking, though her footsteps were much smaller now. She circled around the mysterious, incredibly out-0f-place tent, giving it wide berth. The oxygen around her was quiet now; all the insect life and swifty sounds made by the breezes through the leaves had died away.
The intricate lanturn up above illuminated the tent enough for Kirsta to make out and appreciate the details in its fabric, as well as its ornaments. Baffled, not just at its majestic appearence, but at the fact it was standing there at all, Kirsta paused just to gape at it. Who had put it there? And why there, of all places? In the center of a nondescript forest that was only still around because developers hadn’t taken notice of it yet. Just what was so important about here? And of course, the final, most crucial question: What was inside?
Both causion and curiosity burning within her intensely, Kirsta continued surveying the tent at a distance, until she finally arrived at the opening; the mouth, as it’s been called by some. It’s door was nothing more than a flap of the luxurious fabric, and it been drawn back and tied with a coil of satin. Though the unguarded entrance radiated – nay, insisted welcome, the inside of the tent was pitch black, and Kirsta couldn’t see anything. It might not have been her brains that were getting her places in life, but she still knew better than to go barging into a strange, unlit confined space.
Disappointment dousing the wonder and mystique, Kirsta prepared to turn away. She had followed the light and found its source, precisely what she had set out to do. Now what else was there? She couldn’t go in; so, there was no going on, only going back. And she would have gone back, too. . . .
But just as she began to avert her gaze, a soung broke the pocket of stillness surrounding the tent.
“Ki – irst – ahh.”
It was a voice.
“Kir – irst- ahhhhhh.”
It was coming from in the tent.
Kirsta froze, all of her, except for her heart, which beat with an intense iciness. She knew she hadn’t imagined it, the same way you know you didn’t imagine five icecubes falling into your glass instead of three.
“Kirsta. Come in, dear. Don’t linger on the doorstep, where the wind blows fiercest.”
The voice, unlike other disembodied voices Kirsta had experience with, such as in horror films or ghosts on a haunt, didn’t sound eerie or threatening. It was clear and solid, without a hint of malice. In fact, it almost sounded pleasant. However, something about it was off. Almost as if the person speaking were . . . very weak.
Facing a paramount moment of indesicion for the second time that night, Kirsta, against the advice of speaker, did take the liberty of lingering before the door, frightened and unsure. The bizarre quality of this excursion was increasing dramatically, and she didn’t know how much more she could take. Whatever was inside that tent, whoever it was that wished her to enter, she didn’t know if she could handle finding out the what and who. But . . . could she possibly walk away now? When the tent knew her name?
She didn’t. Again, she fought her flight mode and stepped forward.
Walking into the tent felt akin to walking through foamed milk. Kirsta had taken a large step, because she couldn’t see where she was going and wanted to first feel around for anything that might trip her. Instead, she passed over the threshold in one fell swoop, the blackness of the door way feeling like the above mentioned foam milk, and suddenly found herself in a tiny, brightly illuminated room.
However, she had no time to marvel at how this difference was accomplished, or at the various mysterious looking objects that littered the area, matching the mysterious-ness of the exterior. As soon as her eyes readjusted to the light, they fell upon the middle of the tarp floor, and the man laying there. He almost gave her a heartattack, which, based on his appearance, was a possibility he had just recently suffered as well.
Outfitted in an overly big, flowy navy robe, the man was extremly skinny, knobbly, and wrinkled. Every inch of his coffee brown skin sagged with age, great black pools beneath his eyes, and a scraggly white beard hugged his chin. He was bald, though a floppy, elaborate beret lay about a foot away, too far for him to reach. Truthfully, he looked as though someone had pushed him over onto his back and he hadn’t the strength to get back up, so he simply had been lying there, for a while it seemed like.
If Kirsta’s reaction to this stranger’s existence was total shock, his was the polar opposite. When his sunken, blood-shot eyes alighted on her, standing in pajamas and sneakers, considerably paler than usual, a delighted smile split his face.
“Ah,” he gasped, stretching a claw-like hand in her direction. “You made it. I am ever so grateful. There’s not much time left.”
Kirsta, wrapped up as she was in the world of high school batonning and the mall, had never seen a dying man before. Yet, there could be no mistake. Right away, she knew this man, whoever he was, was not long for this planet.
“Please,” he wheezed, gesturing for her to draw near. “Please.”
It might have been pity, it might have been fascination, or it might have been out of obligation, but for some reason Kirsta found herself edging closer. And closer. She knealt beside him, suddenly a thousand questions popping into her brain, washing away her astonishment.
“Who are you?” she inquired, a tremble in her voice. “How do you know who I am? Why are you here? Did you want me to come here? Did – ?”
He raised his aged palm for patience, a cough guttering deep in his throat.
“Peace,” he whispered. “I know you must be confused. And for that I am sorry. I am sorry about so many, many things, and that you will stay confused for some time joins them. For there is no time for a proper explanation. How I wish there were, but there isn’t.”
Pausing, he hacked miserably and then took her hand. “Kirsta,” he moaned. “I don’t believe that fate is an unavoidable thing. I believe that it tries to chase you down and bang you over the head, but if you are clever enough you can, in fact, evade it.”
Briefly, is watery blue eyes met hers and he smiled sadly. “Ah, but, my dear, you never were very clever, were you?”
With a hand that shook visciously, he reached into the right pocket of his robe and pulled something out. Turning over her hand, so that her palm faced up, he lifed his other hand, quavering, and placed an object in hers, curling her fingers around it. Drawing back with an exhausted gasp, he lay back down on the ground, his face drained of all color. Weakly, he regarded her with tranquil eyes and a slight, final shake of his head.
“Such cruelty to be thrust into a position of ignorance,” he whispered. “May it not last long. I leave you all that you see, though what will help you most is what you now hold. Humorous, isn’t it, that the purpose and the plan be one and the same?”
”What?” Kirsta managed to choke out, her heart hammering. “I – I don’t under- understand . . .”
But already the man was staring beyond her, his chest falling still and the windows to his sould glazing over dully. The man, whoever he had been, whyever he had stopped, was gone now.
Stunned, Kirsta could feel her own breath hitching, her own eyes smarting for the loss of a human she didn’t know and now never would. Wiping away a straying tear, she looked down and unfurled her had to see what she had been given.
There, hard and cold against her taut, white skin was a glass vile about six inches long, an ornate pewter stopper at one end, shaped like a face swallowing a flower, a star, and a bird.Emily Kinney
“Some things were meant to be in sets,” Kirsta had explained to her. “Like drums, or flatware.”
So, discomfort wasn’t to blame. Later, when she had the time to look back and wonder, Kirsta could not actually recall the reason why she woke up, unprompted. But she did.
Her eyelids slid back uncerimoniously, revealing enormous, dialated pupils surrounded by clover green rings. A mishapen lump sat directly in her line of vision, and when she slammed her lathargic arm down on it, it proved to be a pillow. Not one of the throws, but a respectable pillow just the same. Groaning and rubbing her porclin forehead, Kirsta rolled onto her back, annoyed at being awake. Reaching out blindly, her hand found her tiny, cheapest-they-had alarm clock and brought it to her face. 12:07.
“Ullllgg!” she grumbled, flinging it back with revolt. Twelve oh seven at night was a time for insombiacs and those saucy individuals who liked late shows. Not for her. Not when ther was school and baton and her complection to think about.
Unable to determine what had roused her, Kirsta, in turn, rolled her eyes and then her body, snuggling back down into the luscious blue and green sheets. But, before she could shut her eyes once more, a flicker alerted them to the far wall of her room. There, floating as inconspicuously as a fly in someone’s lemonade, was an oval-ish sort of light.
Kirsta blinked. It was still there. She squinted. It didn’t disappear.
“What the . . . ?” she whispered, slowly propping herself up on one elbow. Chestnut hair, straight and silky with tending, fell like drapery over her shoulders and down her back. One of her favorite assets, her collar bones, stuck out as she hunched closer to the edge of the bed, her brows wrinkling in confusion.
The light remained where it was. It did not waver. However, it did seem to glow.
How long she stared at it, reassuring herself that she was really awake and that it was really there, Kirsta did not know. Not too long, though, because her arm started to ache from holding her up.
Shoving aside the blanket, Kirsta lowered her bare, bird-boned feet to the floor, her gaze never leaving the light. Standing up slowly, as if she were afraid she’d spook it, she tentatively walked towards it. It didn’t move. Stretching an arm, she brushed the spot with her fingers, but felt only wall. Sheetrock and interior paint. The glowing oval did light up her hand, though, making the typically pale skin a warm yellow, almost honey like.
Still frowning, only now with curiosity, Kirsta looked behind her to see where the light might be coming from, and saw her window. Her window overlooked the edge of a woods. She used to play there when she was younger, and full of free-spirited emotions and musings, but those were days long passed. It had been quite some time since it had even touched her thoughts.
Quickly, yet being careful not to make any noise and alert her fellow house-dwellers, Kirsta glided to the window, her eyes darting back and forth between it and the light on her wall. Looking past the glass and into the inkiness of the night, Kirsta’s breath froze in her throat. There, in the midst of the bark and tree trunks, was another light. Well, probably the same one, only travelling through the foliage, it’s source somewhere amid the trees.
Kirsta stared, mesmerized. What was it? Not a flashlight. It would have jiggled or something by now. Not a camp fire. Not a lanturn. Surely, there wasn’t anything that could make it shine so far and strong, especially with so many obstacles in the way. What on Earth was it?
Curiosity and a long-burried sense of adventure now overrode Kirsta’s reasoning. She could have gone back to bed, yes, but the light still would have been there on her wall, teasing her, haunting her. She couldn’t stare at a mystery all night. She’d go crazy.
Thoughts of tomorrow and what the consequences might be for sneaking out evaporated from her mind, a rush of adrenaline washing away her weariness. Tiptoeing to her beauru, she pulled out some socks and a bra, since wandering through the woods at night just screamed bra to her. After all, she really wasn’t a kid anymore. Slipping on a pair of sneakers and a zip up hoodie, she crept to the door, double checking that the glowing, golden light was still hovering there. It was.
Getting out of the house proved to be easier than she had anticipated. Being so far on the outskirts of town did occationally have it’s advantages. Such as, her father hadn’t invested in the pricey, automated alarm system that all the other fathers had. A deadbolt was good enough for him, particularly since he was a man who considered the best kind of security to be an oak baseball bat. This almost crossed Kirsta’s mind as she slid back the deadbolt, but only almost. Thankfully, everyone was sound asleep. Once on the outside, the night air surprisingly warm and inviting, Kirsta eased the front door shut again and took off around the house.
Scurrying up to the woods, she eagerly looked around for the light, and saw it. Gaze locked on it, Kirsta took slow, measured steps towards the treeline, suddenly well aware of what she was doing, and perhaps maybe she should try for a little caution. Not that anything too unsavory lived in this wood, the worst just an occational groundhog. But, still.
It almost felt like the woods swallowed her when she entered, but after a quick look over her shoulder at her house, sitting there in the dark, familiar, welcoming, always going to be there if she wanted to go back, Kirsta shook off the feeling and began walking.
She followed the light through brush and dips in the ground and all kinds of trees. Birches and maples and pines, all looming way up over her head, and yet not intimidating at all. Kirsta didn’t feel scared. The trees seemed friendly, almost as if they were happy to see her. It was so warm out, the air alive with the sound of crickets and peepers, that Kirsta couldn’t help but feel perfectly safe. And besides, the light kept her company.
For a while she journeyed, huffing just a little as she trundled through undergrowth and gradually becoming aware that she, Kirsta Sevaan, was roving through a forest in the middle of the night, instead of being tucked in bed, resting up for the next day. Further more, she was chasing after a light that probably was just some nut trying to contact the aliens. What exactly was she thinking?
However, before her common sense could return and force her to go back the way she had come, something else caught her eye. Up ahead, the trees came to an abrupt halt, because there was a clearing. The light was also getting brighter. Larger.
Her mental chalkboard wiped once more, Kirsta headed for the clearing, green eyes wide. As she emerged from the cover of the treetops, her mouth bobbed in awe. There, in the middle of the carpet of soft, long grass, was a tent.
Of course, ‘tent’ might be too commonplace a word for it. ‘Tent’ is typically used to describe the canvas-walled lean-to things people camp in, or the huge, hold-a-city striped forts erected at the circus. Kirsta didn’t know who had put this one up, but they were certainly not camping or from the circus. It was small and circular, its plush sides purple, orange, and blue swirls, as was its pointed roof. Gold, tasselly trimming hung all around where the walls and roof met, with various object dangling from thin chains every yard or so. And then, crowning it like the star on a Christmas tree, was the source of Kirsta’s excursion: A vibrant, dewy, raindrop-shaped lanturn that sat atop the point on a rod. As she approached, Kirsta could make out ornate designs adorning the lanturn, which might have been the size of a street light.
Of all the explanations Kirsta had conjured in her head, this didn’t even come close. As stunned as she was, somehow she managed to keep walking, though her footsteps were much smaller now. She circled around the mysterious, incredibly out-0f-place tent, giving it wide berth. The oxygen around her was quiet now; all the insect life and swifty sounds made by the breezes through the leaves had died away.
The intricate lanturn up above illuminated the tent enough for Kirsta to make out and appreciate the details in its fabric, as well as its ornaments. Baffled, not just at its majestic appearence, but at the fact it was standing there at all, Kirsta paused just to gape at it. Who had put it there? And why there, of all places? In the center of a nondescript forest that was only still around because developers hadn’t taken notice of it yet. Just what was so important about here? And of course, the final, most crucial question: What was inside?
Both causion and curiosity burning within her intensely, Kirsta continued surveying the tent at a distance, until she finally arrived at the opening; the mouth, as it’s been called by some. It’s door was nothing more than a flap of the luxurious fabric, and it been drawn back and tied with a coil of satin. Though the unguarded entrance radiated – nay, insisted welcome, the inside of the tent was pitch black, and Kirsta couldn’t see anything. It might not have been her brains that were getting her places in life, but she still knew better than to go barging into a strange, unlit confined space.
Disappointment dousing the wonder and mystique, Kirsta prepared to turn away. She had followed the light and found its source, precisely what she had set out to do. Now what else was there? She couldn’t go in; so, there was no going on, only going back. And she would have gone back, too. . . .
But just as she began to avert her gaze, a soung broke the pocket of stillness surrounding the tent.
“Ki – irst – ahh.”
It was a voice.
“Kir – irst- ahhhhhh.”
It was coming from in the tent.
Kirsta froze, all of her, except for her heart, which beat with an intense iciness. She knew she hadn’t imagined it, the same way you know you didn’t imagine five icecubes falling into your glass instead of three.
“Kirsta. Come in, dear. Don’t linger on the doorstep, where the wind blows fiercest.”
The voice, unlike other disembodied voices Kirsta had experience with, such as in horror films or ghosts on a haunt, didn’t sound eerie or threatening. It was clear and solid, without a hint of malice. In fact, it almost sounded pleasant. However, something about it was off. Almost as if the person speaking were . . . very weak.
Facing a paramount moment of indesicion for the second time that night, Kirsta, against the advice of speaker, did take the liberty of lingering before the door, frightened and unsure. The bizarre quality of this excursion was increasing dramatically, and she didn’t know how much more she could take. Whatever was inside that tent, whoever it was that wished her to enter, she didn’t know if she could handle finding out the what and who. But . . . could she possibly walk away now? When the tent knew her name?
She didn’t. Again, she fought her flight mode and stepped forward.
Walking into the tent felt akin to walking through foamed milk. Kirsta had taken a large step, because she couldn’t see where she was going and wanted to first feel around for anything that might trip her. Instead, she passed over the threshold in one fell swoop, the blackness of the door way feeling like the above mentioned foam milk, and suddenly found herself in a tiny, brightly illuminated room.
However, she had no time to marvel at how this difference was accomplished, or at the various mysterious looking objects that littered the area, matching the mysterious-ness of the exterior. As soon as her eyes readjusted to the light, they fell upon the middle of the tarp floor, and the man laying there. He almost gave her a heartattack, which, based on his appearance, was a possibility he had just recently suffered as well.
Outfitted in an overly big, flowy navy robe, the man was extremly skinny, knobbly, and wrinkled. Every inch of his coffee brown skin sagged with age, great black pools beneath his eyes, and a scraggly white beard hugged his chin. He was bald, though a floppy, elaborate beret lay about a foot away, too far for him to reach. Truthfully, he looked as though someone had pushed him over onto his back and he hadn’t the strength to get back up, so he simply had been lying there, for a while it seemed like.
If Kirsta’s reaction to this stranger’s existence was total shock, his was the polar opposite. When his sunken, blood-shot eyes alighted on her, standing in pajamas and sneakers, considerably paler than usual, a delighted smile split his face.
“Ah,” he gasped, stretching a claw-like hand in her direction. “You made it. I am ever so grateful. There’s not much time left.”
Kirsta, wrapped up as she was in the world of high school batonning and the mall, had never seen a dying man before. Yet, there could be no mistake. Right away, she knew this man, whoever he was, was not long for this planet.
“Please,” he wheezed, gesturing for her to draw near. “Please.”
It might have been pity, it might have been fascination, or it might have been out of obligation, but for some reason Kirsta found herself edging closer. And closer. She knealt beside him, suddenly a thousand questions popping into her brain, washing away her astonishment.
“Who are you?” she inquired, a tremble in her voice. “How do you know who I am? Why are you here? Did you want me to come here? Did – ?”
He raised his aged palm for patience, a cough guttering deep in his throat.
“Peace,” he whispered. “I know you must be confused. And for that I am sorry. I am sorry about so many, many things, and that you will stay confused for some time joins them. For there is no time for a proper explanation. How I wish there were, but there isn’t.”
Pausing, he hacked miserably and then took her hand. “Kirsta,” he moaned. “I don’t believe that fate is an unavoidable thing. I believe that it tries to chase you down and bang you over the head, but if you are clever enough you can, in fact, evade it.”
Briefly, is watery blue eyes met hers and he smiled sadly. “Ah, but, my dear, you never were very clever, were you?”
With a hand that shook visciously, he reached into the right pocket of his robe and pulled something out. Turning over her hand, so that her palm faced up, he lifed his other hand, quavering, and placed an object in hers, curling her fingers around it. Drawing back with an exhausted gasp, he lay back down on the ground, his face drained of all color. Weakly, he regarded her with tranquil eyes and a slight, final shake of his head.
“Such cruelty to be thrust into a position of ignorance,” he whispered. “May it not last long. I leave you all that you see, though what will help you most is what you now hold. Humorous, isn’t it, that the purpose and the plan be one and the same?”
”What?” Kirsta managed to choke out, her heart hammering. “I – I don’t under- understand . . .”
But already the man was staring beyond her, his chest falling still and the windows to his sould glazing over dully. The man, whoever he had been, whyever he had stopped, was gone now.
Stunned, Kirsta could feel her own breath hitching, her own eyes smarting for the loss of a human she didn’t know and now never would. Wiping away a straying tear, she looked down and unfurled her had to see what she had been given.
There, hard and cold against her taut, white skin was a glass vile about six inches long, an ornate pewter stopper at one end, shaped like a face swallowing a flower, a star, and a bird.Emily Kinney
The Island of Lote chapter three: The Summer Camp
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
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
