This is a narrative version of how my grandmother asked my grandfather out, with translated dialogue from my grandfather's point of view.

"1964 marked the Brazilian coup.

"My job at the journal became more conservative, and my job at the radio, more radical. By day, I would write things for the dicatorship and by night, with the help of some of my university friends, we would broadcast our opinions to those who would listen.

"Your grandmother was more obvious about it. She was a wild child, all attitude, miniskirts, and lipstick. And she was nearly impossible to compete with at school. By this point, we'd already fallen into our rivalry.

"She was a vision, as the sun came up she'd yell out into the streets, spreading her pamphlets in front of the other students.

"The day I met her properly, without a hateful exchange, was a sunny day in June, 1967. I'd heard at the journal that the police would be at the school around noon after a tip from a teacher. My job guaranteed my safety, but your grandmother and the others were all but spitting on these people.

"I excused myself early, complaining of pain, then I hopped on my bike and zoomed all ten miles to the school.

"There she was, red skirt this time, with a long sleeved shit, talking about Trotsky. She turned to me and smirked before asking if I was there to watch her lecture.

"It was nearing noon, and we were running out of time. I yelled to the campus "The Police are Coming!" And everyone got to their feet. I stayed back, helping everyone climb over the back wall as the sound of cars approached. Your grandmother, of the same self sacrificing spirit, stayed back as well. When everyone had cleared and it was just us, I helped her up the wall and made my way over it myself.

"We hopped down and laughed for about an hour before she asked me out to dinner."

Guys, I had this like, Idea. And so I wrote kinda like a diary for one of my characters in this world to give myself a guide to how people thought this world worked rather than just my opinion. Just, tell me if this is a world y’all think I could build on and if anyone wants any more details and world building while I’m writing it.

It wasn’t always like this.

The world had men and women, prominent chests and broad shoulders.

They haven’t left, they just went somewhere else.

Ruling behind a transparent veil, iron fists stained with the blood of my fellows. Just children. We were just children. Persecuted at the masses. Our ticking clocks chime loud and clear, then after eighteen years since our mothers in tears held us to the world, the clocks chimed no longer, silenced. People live in dread, not of the tyrants above us but rather, their power. Power to restrict our free thought. Those with acute senses are exploited, but not for long, once their talent is exhausted they’re sent away.

People share the incredibly foolish talent of hope.

Ignorance is bliss, we make ourselves conform to this meaningless idiom because we were stripped of our intelligence and thought, and so we must- we simply must- attempt bliss.

We all have secrets, secrets are the foundation of society, and society creates flaws in people.

Four ministries, Ministry of Common-Wealth, Ministry of Defense, Ministry of Research, and Ministry of Labor. I work in Labor, a pawn. A desolate building, barbed wires hung loosely from the short gate flung open before the building, peeling paint and dying grass surrounding it. And one might wonder why they didn’t devote any of the incredible taxes they collected to make a presentation, only later when I dissented from society had I realized.

The place was meant to terrify.

So, we live day by day learning philosophy was only for those with time.

Dichonoia is our President. He fancies himself a just man.

The old people, deemed Elri after the Viking term, told us tales of a once free nation who controlled the seas and were benevolent and kind and helped other countries, who fought against evil forces. I always believed they exaggerated these tales but as I come of age, I realize their statements were truthful, which made it all the more incredible.

Humanity is a rare thing which few have, and these few were sent to selected areas with close to no government regulation and there, these over-conscious souls would wander in the eternal misery they sentenced themselves to.

We didn’t name this place. And we’re just as cruel as their torturers for we pretend they don’t exist, and if we are to even approach the area we fall into an eerie silence of guilt, but, it’s preferable For us. I’m unsure if it benefits them.

I associated myself with a small group after my escape, we would pretend to be an organized system but in such a world as the one we lived in, there could be no order. Chaos was order.

I was thirteen, the second to oldest of the group of five children and teens who would linger in the landscape. The area was freakish, trees growing through gray playgrounds and black birds circling the sky.

I was never sure as a child what birds they were. I was stupid and knew nothing of vultures, so I thought they were eagles. All the younger children believed my words and so we would look to these birds as rulers and believed they would liberate us. We had come to worship vultures. Though I rest assured they would make for a better government than that of Dichonoia’s.

We would leave a little piece of bread below where the vultures would fly. It was a sacrifice in our view, and over the years I believe we had wasted a good loaf of bread doing so, but we earned hope. And this was more important.

The oldest of us was Roanoke, sixteen, he was always befallen to bad luck, and this was saddening for he was of the highest intelligence. This, however, was nothing to match the wit of the youngest in our group. She was nine, she called herself Maybelle but her name was Alice. She hated the name, but that was what we all called her. She was, although the youngest, the one who always knew what to do.

In this society, those who reach the age of eighteen were seen as too intelligent, so they’re sent to camps to be conditioned as higher workers, or executed. The four others knew their parents were in a camp, and we had befriended a guard in the camp who agreed to deliver messages between us once a week in exchange for gods know what.

Roanoke handled that.

The other two were both eleven, Thalassa and Alex. They were trouble-makers, but lovable and kind.

It never troubled us what would happen when we reached eighteen. Labor took me back when Roanoke turned. I never heard of my companions. And I would have hope they are alive.

"I'm not insulting you, I'm describing you"-My sister to my brother

"I can explain it to you, that's my job, but what I can't do is understand it for you"-My teacher

"Silence is golden, and duct tape is silver."

"Babe you're like a fish, I'm not gonna judge you on your ability to climb a tree... What I will judge you for is your decision to keep climbing that tree despite knowing that you can't." -Me, always

"I do desire we may be better strangers" -W. Shakespeasre

She was a control freak.

Just... not in the way you’d expect.

She wasn’t itching to fix a flaw in her plan.

The truth was, she was fine with the mess.

As a matter of fact, she often caused it.

What she controlled...

Manifested red black and blue.

Thin lines on his arms.

A bruise shown anew.

Impulsive, yet calculated.

He was her masterpiece.

His world to her liking.

She led the dance,

I think that’s why he forgave her...

Because deep down, he knew

She was lost

And I think so was he.

The control that we saw entrap him

Made him feel free.

there was a toy soldier who stood at his Post

surrounded by those he thought mattered the most

he stood straight and tall

his stance wouldn’t fall

and his tongue always held a riposte

on a cold dry day, in the air he felt static

hearing some footsteps run into the attic

they said he held no worth

they left our soldier hurt

the experience very Traumatic

the scene became mem’ry he couldn’t address

on account of it causing him mountains of Stress

he ran from his trouble

his heart left in rubble

his mind going into recess

the little toy soldier was losing his mind

a low point of life flashing constant rewind

with his life in Disorder

he would tiptoe the border

his sanity left undefined