I stare at the empty eyes in the mirror. She’s screaming for help, but I can’t seem to get anyone to help her. I apply the makeup; the stuff I’ve spent nearly all my babysitting money on. I curl the hair; burning myself repeatedly, but feeling no pain. I change the outfit; it’s uncomfortable and it gets me the unwanted compliments that feed my insecurities. One final look in the mirror and the empty eyes are still there, but the body surrounding them are ready for the day, excited about hanging out with lifelong friends, and desperate for acceptance.

If I shoulda been upset at some point with my forebears for naming me at my birth Sherman Kermit Abernathy, a name riddled with portent potential for hurled sticks and stones, I was not, since it has never been my nature, far back as I can remember, to let any obstacle thrown in my path hinder me from getting from point A to point B arriving where I need to be, especially when the chips are down; there I am landing victorious as the last man standing, if not always, damn near close.

“Lest we forget up in the sky, it wasn’t a bird... it wasn’t a plane… It was Superman, faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, fighting the unending battle for truth, justice, and the American way,” E pluribus unum, and yeah that was the title sequence for an old black and white TV show, a fantasy, but if you would be so kind as to do me the honor and let me explain some of my real life heroics you will come to understand how I alone was able to do the impossible, how I, on my desert island, was able to convince 11 of my fellow jurors within the confines of deliberation, all of them dead set on a guilty verdict, held up in a room with no view to see things my way, and trust me I’m not one to fabricate fish tales, nor am I a braggart, I am just trying to help you to understand my capabilities, my nature, truly, so far be it from me to boast since us Abernathy’s, we understand the benefits of humility, but at the same time, little ole’ regular me, well I’m not so little, but I am just one single solitary man with a receding hairline, uneven nostrils and big buck teeth I struggle to conceal, wearing jeans a size too small, all personal attributes that have nothing to do with my character, but do help keep me humble, the point being, I Sherman Kermit Abernathy do solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but I am not on trial and I certainly did not commit a crime during the process of persuading any of those fine 11 American citizens not to convict an innocent man of murder, jurors just like me only doing their civic duty, but the fact alone that I was able to convince them was sorta in line with who I am, meaning no easy accomplishment, because I am the guy that found a big red tiger cat running across a divided highway at midnight with a Chef Boyardee can stuck on his head, in the rain, stopped my car, stopped traffic, picked up the cat without a the slightest retaliatory scratch, found an all night diner, went around the back where sure enough some guy name Raul that I never met before, honorable guy, came to my aid grabbing his kitchen shears lickity split and while I held down the cat he did the can ectomy ever so gently and voila, off with can, back in the car, driving right back to the place I picked up the relieved red rover, singing Home Home on the Range in three different keys the whole way, dropping him off like he had ubered me, waited and watched until I saw him duck down stealthily under a rocking chair porch unscathed, unperturbed, since I know my demeanor on the ride home kept him calm while his little tongue continued to do some dirty work, the same tongue that caused a most unfortunate predicament in the first place, remedied by yours truly.

And if that doesn’t grab you, if cats and dogs don’t pull at your heartstrings the way they do mine, you may appreciate that I am also the guy that was there at the bank at 2:45 in the afternoon on a sunny Thursday in March to make a deposit of $2500 cash, all hundreds, entrusted to me by my boss Larry, that had the time to do it himself, but why should he when he has a guy like me working for him ready willing and able to tackle anything and I mean anything asked of me, but how could he know what would happen when I was waiting on line behind a guy wearing a cowboy hat and alligator boots that said “Thank you ma’am,” I heard him, real polite handsome guy, looked a little like a Jonas brother, couldn’t tell you which one, or maybe a young Clint Eastwood, and then he says the words no one wants to hear in a bank, “Stick em up,” and I thought he was kidding or pretending he had fallen back in time to the wild wild west, or auditioning for some part in a B movie, but he wasn’t kidding but he should a been, cause one two buckle my shoe, I took him down in a full nelson hold faster than a dog on a bone, retrieving his weapon that was fully loaded but fake, not knowing that at the time taking a chance when I stuck it in the back of my skinny jeans, not concerned that it would go off, phew, it didn’t cause it wasn’t real, and the nice lady teller with the high ponytail who was just doing her job until evil Clint Eastwood made her day, bravely tripped the alarm without screaming or nothing and I just kept his pretty face down on the cold terrazzo floor until the Calvary came marching through the front door to relieve me, must a been 5 or 6 of them badged heroes in blue, and that’s exactly what they called me, a hero, when the gave me a citizen’s award several weeks later, ceremoniously hosted by the Mayor, guest of honor yours truly.

See what I mean?

None of the other eleven knew a lick about any of this or anything else about me, except they were about to find out I like Werther’s candies since when we entered the jury deliberation room on that first day, ushered in by the court officer; sorta okay fella, but a bit on the short and chubby side for a man in uniform if you ask me, acting quite authoritative as he lead us into the jury room, then seeming a tad bit annoyed at me, I know because he made that tsk-tsk noise with his tongue, while I stood just inside the door next to him, real close, like we were a welcoming committee duo for the jury, me pressing one wrapped sweet morsel into each of their unique palms as they entered the room before they could sit down, gently, like a lover’s kiss, shaking the other unencumbered hand vigorously, sharing my name proudly, asking them their names with a big smile, in spite of my self consciousness regarding my chompers looking them hard in the eye, and I knew right then and there I had them cause double entendre sugar has a way of speaking to people and I suppose they learned something else about me soon after we all sat, that fact being I can talk and talk and talk, as they all soon came to realize, more likely not a surprise to anyone I gather, because talking is really what I do best, always has been an Abernathey strength, besides the feat of being somewhat of a real life superhero on occasion, and I worked them over with my opening salvo and legal sensibility, as it is a typical propensity of us heroes to know right from wrong, talking over all eleven of them, some of them at moments covering their ears, others lowering their weary heads, and I took no offense, call my tongue a weapon if you may, but I used it well, since I got them to see things my way, dagnabit, convincing each and every one of them it was the right thing to do to change their vote to not guilty, when clearly as I told them over and over and over again, the circumstantial evidence pointed in that direction. Yes. I made my case single handedly. Boom. That’s how you do it my way, sugar ah honey honey, and not cause it’s my way or the highway, it’s cause my way is the truth, justice and of course the American way. Might I share a Werther’s with you?

#theholdout#randomhouse#theprose

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He lives in a pineapple under the sea

sometimes it rains beneath the deep

We know that a sea is mighty and deep

still it rains while I weep

Gravity makes it impossible for such a feet

hydrogen bonds are stronger between water molecules

they would rather be together

to fight the tides in numbers

but when I saw the rain

Picasso-ing its way to Van Gogh

erasing the paste of my storm

It as been on canvass for too long

Uplifted to enter the rain

I look past the sea of pain

Dancing from the depth of my heart

With Mr Crabs, Spongebob and Patrick

Chasing Jellys and crashing cars

I laughed so hard

Because I’m Plankton

you thought I was Squiword

they thought so too

Some people write

To give a voice to the voiceless

And in a sense

I do that too

Except the “voiceless”

Is me.

In person

My voice is sometimes nonexistent

I am submissive

I agree with other people

Say things I don’t quite mean

Because I don’t know how to say the truth.

The truth that I am louder than I seem

That I have a lot more to say

Than what escapes my lips

That I am not always

That silent girl in class

That I can be that funny girl who laughs with her friend

That I could be more popular

If I was given more of a chance.

Over and over

I tell myself to give up

Tell myself to shut the up

To keep the words bottled up inside

Because letting them out means people would know the real me

They would know what goes on in my head

My deepest secrets I clutch close to my heart

And I don’t quite think I’m ready for that.

Putting my life on display

To be walked all over

Talked about

Or not talked about

ignored, even

That is not something I can do

Not now

Maybe not ever.

My Love is here

I walk along the empty beach

kicking bits of jagged shells

reflections lying in musk of time

setting sun ushering the darkness

My Love is here

I crawl bereft into bruised dusk

salty tears mingle with his streams

sea of solace stretches out her arms

still, I scream mournfully at deaf sky

My Love is here

balmy winds breathe his kindness

glazed stars of his wide smile

palms up, he waves his sweet goodbye

my grief blends with the soft rain

My Love is here

I see the back of his head

slumbering in billowing clouds

thirsty tides have waned

he has floated into new ripples

My Love is here

the crested waves swell

forming stiff meringue peaks

broken shells washed out to sea

waters unassuming and deep

My Love is here

the peaceful sleep of angels

on calmness of ocean floor

casting his beloved shadow

upon my azure memories

My Love is here

carving a path in the sand

through the ups and downs of life

surging currents to remind me

that he is not lost in my sea

My Love is here

a life buoy to hold on to

smooth water fingers

cushioning me from grief

the soothing sound of silence

My Love is here

She hadn’t been home since the fight. Her mother’s words still resonating in her head, she put the last overnight bag into her old white Honda and started the long drive from home.

“You’ll never be anything but a burden to anybody!” her mother had shouted that day. “You’re just poison!”

She’d looked at the small woman in front of her, tears of sadness in her eyes. Years of hard work and worry had sunken in the mother’s cheeks and colored permanent black circles around the mother’s eyes. Prematurely gray hair was matted and damp from the excitement. The thin face was red, and small, over-worked hands were trembling from anger.

She had silently turned and left the small angry woman standing in the center of the tiny kitchen. The mother seemed so large as she was screaming, but as the daughter left, the mother seemed to shrink, being swallowed by all her worries, making the old kitchen look oddly large.

She’d last made that eight-hour drive more than three months ago. She had no choice but to make it again when the mother had called, heavily sobbing, and said, “Please come home.” She sighed as she hung up the phone. It had always been that way with them. Ups and downs marked the fragments of their relationship. The mother never made enough money and always blamed her for it. She learned early never to ask for anything.

The mother had her moments, though. When she was up, everything was up. She would do anything she could for her daughter, but usually the only time she did something nice for her daughter was to make up for something horrible she’d done. The daughter noticed that about her, too. She barely even liked to share her accomplishments with the mother because the mother never celebrated with her. The mother judged. Was scornful. Jealous. Never supportive. Never motherly. It got to the point where she would only tell the mother the essentials. “I got a job in Memphis. I’m moving there in a week.” Victories were not invited.

She switched lanes on the interstate, still thinking about that last fight. She had been for a visit before she moved again for her new job. She had gotten up early that morning as her mother left for work, cold and poorly rested. She just wanted to warm herself with a big cup of coffee, but as she’d reached into the cabinet for the sugar, a giant black roach scuttled across the cabinet in front of her face, and she jumped back, bumping the mug of coffee she had just poured for herself, sending it flying and breaking the cup.

The mother walked in as she was cleaning the mess and muttering something about the house being a nasty dump.

“What did you do?” the mother panicked, staring at the broken glass. “I barely get any hours any more. The plant has too few jobs for its employees. I can’t afford to replace that!”

The daughter exited the interstate, a blur of roaring cars flashed by her as she came to a stop at the end of the ramp. She planned to get some gas and a snack before she crossed the line into her home state. Kicking at the gravel, she refilled her gas tank. The afternoon was too chilly for her t-shirt and flip-flops, but she did not mind the cold. She glanced over at the next pump and saw a young father and his son making funny faces at each other through the glass while the dad pumped gas into his van. She grinned at the scene as she walked inside for a bag of peanut butter M&Ms and a Sprite.

“It’s just a mug, mom,” she argued as she wiped up the dark liquid with paper towels. “I’ll give you money for another one.”

“It’s not about the money, you ungrateful bitch! Nothing’s ever good enough for you! The mug probably didn’t live up to your standards, so you threw it! I heard you saying how nasty this house is. Well, it’s the best I can do.”

“A roach the size of my arm crawled through your sugar cabinet. You cannot blame me for thinking that is nasty. It’s disgusting. I bumped the mug when I jumped back. It fell, it broke, it was an accident.”

“I can’t help that the roaches get in! I can’t pay an exterminator. You should just deal with it. You’re the reason I’m stuck in this shit hole, anyway!”

The daughter could see the afternoon sun start to sink into the west through her rearview mirror. The golden light enveloped the tips of the evergreens, appearing to swallow all the world it touched. She took a deep breath and turned the radio up a little more, every mile bringing her closer to the woman who’d said she hated her own daughter.

“I did not do this to you,” the daughter said, indignation making her tone low.

“Yes, you did! I could have been somebody, but I got stuck here taking care of a bratty daughter that I hate! No one could love you. You are so unappreciative! You don’t recognize anything I’ve done for you or care about how much I’ve sacrificed for you!”

“What have you ever done for me? I worked two jobs to put myself through college. I sent you money every month, not the other way around. You’ve never done anything for me. You never even replaced that ratty-ass blanket that’s been on my bed since I’ve been alive. If you were going to be somebody, you would have done it. It is not my fault that you chased my dad instead of chasing your dreams. It’s not that I’m unappreciative; it’s that you don’t give a damn about me.” She grabbed her oversized purse off one of the folding chairs and began shuffling through it.

The thought brought fresh tears to her eyes as she pulled onto the road where the mother’s house was. Just a few more minutes and she would be doing what it took to put the woman back together again. The routine was predictable. They had been going around in the same circles for years. She was tired. Tired of the fights, the tears, the makeups. The mother never called at decent hour or at a time when it would be convenient for her to go home. But she had to drop everything. She always had before.

“I don’t give a damn! You’ve never been anything but a burden to me. That’s all you’ll ever be! You’re nothing but poison,” the mother cried.

The daughter finally found her yellow wallet at the bottom of her purse and threw the last of her cash, a ten-dollar bill, at the mother. “Here’s for another mug,” she said, taking one last look at the woman trembling with indignation. She grabbed her purse and slammed the door on her way out.

She finally drove past the last of the subdivisions of nice, big homes where nice, young, pretty mothers tucked their children in and read to them at night. She pulled into the driveway of their old rented trailer, parked, and took a deep breath. Her pale hands shook a little as she grabbed her purse and an overnight bag from the back seat.

She walked up the rickety steps to the dented back door and got out her keys. She tried to remember who had kicked that dent in the door. She had to jiggle the handle for a long while before the lock would release. “Something else to fix while I’m here,” she thought. As she stepped into the kitchen, the smell of freshly-baked bread wrapped around her like a hug. Her mother was slicing the bread and ladling bowls of hot broccoli and cheese soup—her favorite. Bowls of broccoli trees floating in golden broth were being set next to steaming mugs of tea. The bowls and mugs were chipped, and the paint had faded years before, but they were the best the mother had.

She should have expected the apology meal. It was what the mother did best. But even after years and years of fights healed with broccoli soup, it still somehow surprised her every time. She knew there would be cheesecake in the refrigerator before she even opened the door. She wondered how many times the mother had swept the floor, vacuumed the carpet since the fight. She had always put her worries into household chores—cooking, cleaning. One time she even hung all the rugs on the clothesline and beat the dirt out of them with an old softball bat. It was these moments, the ups, that made the downs worth it. As bad as they fought sometimes, they were still close. Always would be. It had just been those two for years and years. One knew just what to say to irk the other. Pushing buttons. It would almost be a game for them if each weren’t so volatile toward the other.

“Mom?” she started, nervous yet touched.

Her mother smiled, unable to say the words, tears already brimming.

She sighed. She was home.

Consider the arrival of a new tenant to a basement apartment. He is a young man in his late twenties. He has a goatee and sideburns, because the year is 1998, and most young men of that time had those things on their face. He wears jeans and a t-shirt, has very few belongings, all of which fit in the bed of a rusted pickup he’s backed into the drive of an old home. He turns the key in the door and enters for the first time to scope out the place he will call home. It is possible our story begins here.

It is also possible it ends here. Had we been following the previous tenant, this might feel right, as an ending. Perhaps our concern should be with this other person. He too is a young man in his late twenties, his appearance so similar as to be the same, whose departure is its own beginning. So you see, these decisions of story are arbitrary, and fallible. Mistakes might be made, wrong choices, when we attempt to decide such things.

And the question is, where to go from here. Which young man should concern us? The one arriving, or the one departing? And if we choose incorrectly, what then? I say we, but clearly it is I who must do the choosing. I must decide for us. And you must trust me.

I choose the man arriving. We will begin there. It will be our point of entry to the story, but not necessarily the beginning. Though at some point we may find ourselves back where we began. Or starting over. It all has much to do with the house.

The house has been crouched over the basement for one hundred years. It has a long history, and this history is unknown to us. The history may matter a great deal, but we cannot know how it matters, only that it does. We cannot know all the souls who’ve lived in the home, only that they have. Meals have been prepared, meat cooked in ovens, sauces simmered on stoves, bottles of wine spilled, children conceived. Wallpaper has been chosen, installed, enjoyed, become tiresome, been removed. Terrible fights have occurred. Love has been shared. And the residue of it all lingers like smoke in the walls.

People have died within these walls, and some have lived, more or less. There was word of a suicide. These details are lost to us. We know only that they must influence anyone who enters. Some people are more sensitive to these things, some less. But the house has had experiences over time, and absorbed them, as all houses do. And these things come to bear. They matter.

They matter because the basement is no longer a basement. Where once it had concrete blocks for walls and bare earth for a floor, it now has a carpeted floor, finished walls painted a neutral shade to beckon new tenants. The house above has been cut into four separate dwellings. It is no longer a family home, but home to many, some for short periods of time. People come and go now more than ever before. The life of the house has accelerated, as the house itself has aged. The older it gets, the faster it spins. It might wish to hold its weary head.

So there is risk involved in choosing where to begin, you see. But we've chosen. Or rather I've chosen, and you must trust me. Let us begin.

 The Prime Minister of Canada walked in to my room today, flanked by an army of security guards and photographers.

She had a wide, white toothed grin on her face and and little pep in her step. She had her arms outstretched, carry something she seemed very proud of.

As she came around the side of my bed and held it close to my face, I read the inscription:

Margaret G. Brace

World’s Most Intelligent Person

Me?! A College drop out, who’s last job was a Party Planner for spoiled, snot nosed, rich kids.

All that went through my mind at that moment was, the world truly had gone Mad and, thank God the nurse insisted I put on some makeup today. With all these photographers and important people focused on me, I was grateful for the extra effort I put into looking presentable today.

I suppose I should start from the beginning. Well, the second beginning.

I had been “awake” for 99 days. Just over three months. Months that in a sense made up the start of my life as I now knew it. A rebirth of sorts. The world was not the same world I was a part of before I went to sleep.

In those weeks I had become re-aquainted with a couple of people from my past. A childhood friend, who bless her soul, continued to check in on me all these years. And my brother and his son. Anyone else that would have meant anything to me, all of my close relatives and friends, were gone.

The Doctors and nurses and therapists were working tirelessly around the clock to prepare me for re-entry into society. A society I now, knew nothing about. I had a routine to follow each day. It began with breakfast. I would sit up, and attempt to eat as much as I could. I was learning to chew again, and swallow. The Doctor removed the feeding tube a couple of weeks ago, he was confident I could consume enough calories through my limited diet of solids. I was also drinking protein shakes to ensure that I was getting all the vitamins I needed. It was such a foreign thing to me, eating. The food often felt like rocks in my mouth, laying so heavy on my tongue that I could barely move it around. Sometimes it felt like I was chewing on stale gum, rubbery and tasteless, impossible to break down. It wasn’t as much the fact that I hadn’t eaten in 30 years and that my muscles were undeniably weak, It was more about how different the actual food was. It was so strange, unreal. Literally unreal! So highly processed and manufactured it was unrecognizable. Rarely would I get something that even slightly resembled a fresh fruit or vegetable. I was craving the tastes I remembered, could almost feel the soft fuzzy skin of a peach in my hand, smell it’s sweetness, taste it’s sticky juices. I just knew I would go completely crazy if I didn’t get one soon.

I hadn’t been allowed to leave my room for over two months. The artificial lights that were dimmed, were already too bright for my strained eyes. Each day my case worker, Deanne, would turn the lights up ever so slightly in hopes that my eyes would gradually adjust .

Deanne was a kind, patient woman. Her eyes were always smiling, even when her frown or furrowed brows gave away her concern. She was tall and thin with broad shoulders and strong hands. I doubted she was born this svelte. The toned, muscular form that pressed through her body suit, was evidence of time spent at the gym. She cared about the way she looked, her nails polished to perfection in vibrant colours to match her neon body suit. Most of the other staff wore dark coloured bodysuits, Navy or black and occasionally green or a deep burgundy or brown. I couldn’t help but wonder why they wore these tight fitting onesies. Certainly not the most flattering style for most bodies. What happened to the crisp blue scrubs and serious white lab coats of yonder years?

Deanne was also my only constant connection to the outside world. She was the only one on staff, that would answer my questions and give me insight into what it was like beyond my locked and shuttered window. There was no t.v. or phone or computer in my room. I didn’t receive any newspapers or magazines. I later learned that there were no longer any forms of printed media. Even books were a rare find, only available in private collections and museums. If you wanted news or a good read today, you would have to log on to the internet.

I wan’t allowed access to technology yet either. The only exposure I could tolerate, apparently, was the low frequency radiation from the institutes equipment and the monitors kept by my bed or the hand held devices the employees carried. In time they would expose me to more and more so that my body would develop a tolerance for the Electromagnetic signals and waves that were emitted.

My brother Adam and his son Blaine were allowed to visit twice a week, as was my girlfriend Shiela. They weren’t allowed to bring anything in with them, no gifts or gadgets. And they weren’t allowed to stay for more than a couple of hours. I relished those visits. I was desperate for the human contact. Physical contact that wasn’t just to fulfil a duty like changing my clothes or helping me get washed up. The physiotherapy was slightly more intimate but there was no emotion behind it. My brothers hand in mine was electric. Shiela’s warm, embrace was euphoric. My nephew would sit on the end of the bed with his hand on my shin as we talked. The heat from his touch radiated up and across my entire body. I realized in those moments, how essential human touch is to our well being.

My three visitors would tell me about all that had gone on in the years since my accident. They told me about the passing of each of my relatives. About new family that I have never met. I learned about the destruction of most of the worlds natural resources, something I couldn’t fathom. It was deeply upsetting and disturbing to imagine a world without Elephants and Rhino’s. No more Orangutans or Gorillas. Tigers were extinct, as were Pandas and most species of whales and Dolphins. Hundreds of other animals had disappeared or were on the endangered list. Many plant species were gone for good too. Most of our Lakes and Oceans and rivers were so horribly polluted that they were inhabitable. In what seems like the blink of an eye, the planet had been devastated. How could it have gone so horribly wrong in only three decades? I had a very bleak vision of what was in store for me upon my eventual release.

The psychiatrist visits became more frequent. And the list of tablets and pills and potions they prescribed me became longer. None of which I actually took, unbeknownst to the Doctors.

My girlfriend and brother were encouraged to only offer data from the outside, that would be up lifting. To only offer promise of a positive life. And so, the stories of all that had been accomplished these past few decades, began. My girlfriend would come skipping in the room, clapping her hands, excited and cheery like a small child on her way to the candy store. She would natter on about how much easier life was now. Everything was instantaneous, always within reach and sure to fulfil your every desire. Her focus was on the daily routines that have been all but abolished because of new technology. Laundry was quick and easy and almost fun (I couldn’t imagine laundry being fun) No more trips to the grocery store or cooking for that matter. Unless of coarse you wanted to cook. Housework was all done by robotics. You still had to work, earn a living, but it was so much easier and much less time was spent at it. People were starting to live much longer and remained healthier. There was a pill or a button or a switch or a program for everything.

My brother spoke of things like transportation and how quickly you could fly from one side of the world to the other. On space travel. He spoke of endless clean energy, a very new but promising development. He told me of all the advancements in medicine and science. His own son, my nephew was partially responsible in fact, for the machine to my left that I had been hooked up to for the past decade. An improvement on the previous cell regenerator that somehow kept all my organs functioning at their optimal performance while I lay comatose.

I was in awe of the progress that had been made. Marvelled at the leaps and bounds that happened in almost every facet of society.

It was overwhelming.

I wondered all the while though, at what cost had all this innovation come?

I wouldn’t really comprehend to what extent things had changed until I stepped out of my confinement and experienced it for myself.

On day 60 I was finally given that opportunity. I was decked out in a big pair of sunglasses, very Jacqueline Kennedy or Kim Kardashian or …well I don’t really know anyone hip or up to date to compare them to. I was covered head to toe, to protect my skin from the sun. They had me ride, as a passenger, on this motorized golf cart like thing. They were worried I would be over stimulated by all the new sights and sounds and energies, so thought it best if I was seated.

The doors slid open and I was greeted by the most beautiful clear blue sky I think I’ve ever seen. It was infinite. The sun was harsh, as was expected, even with my stylish shades on. But it was lovely. It was hot, almost scorching and I immediately felt beads of swear forming under my clothes. It took some effort to breath, the air felt heavier than I remembered. Almost like standing inside a sauna, the air moist and thick. The Doctor explained to me later that I had been breathing in filtered oxygen rich air all these years and so the natural air would take some getting used to.

Everyone stood there, in silence, all eyes on me. I sat still as stone. Hyper aware of everything around me. The Vibrant green of the grass. The calm, gentle breeze, whispering into my neck. The ever present sterile smell from the institution overpowering the vague fragrance floating past. It’s scent familiar, but it’s origin escaped me. And then I realize that even with all my senses so acutely in, heightened, I did not hear a sound beyond my own breathing. No birds, no planes, no cars or voices. I leaned into the empty space in front of me, concentrating. I closed my eyes and waited. But nothing. I opened my eyes and said “Hello”? To no one in particular. The driver seated beside me looked at me and shrugged, “Hi” he said. And I sighed with relief. I had started to worry I’d gone deaf.

I’ve come to realize that things are generally quieter than they used to be. Not as many birds around, cars and airplanes are almost completely silent. Less talking. It’s eerily quiet.

Deanne stepped forward and started waving her arms around ushering us all back in. “Ok,” she said, “that’s enough for one day” and before I could object the vehicle wheeled around and zoomed back into the building.

Every day after that I was taken out for a bit longer each time. Eventually standing and then walking. Soon I was circling the building and even venturing into the field around it. Sometimes I had lunch outside and started to meet the other patients. We would chat a bit, making small talk but mostly they wanted to know about me. No one else had been in a Coma, at least not as long as I had been. Everyone was fascinated to hear what I thought after being “gone” for so long.

A couple of weeks ago Deanne came in earlier than usual. She told me that there was a lot of interest in my story, my recovery. They had been receiving a lot of calls and requests for an interview. There was one Man in particular that had been calling and asking about me for years. Since the day of my accident in fact. He didn’t know me personally but for some reason felt compelled to keep tabs on me. He was in town, today, and was hoping that I would be willing to see him. He just wanted to visit but if I was receptive to the idea, he would ultimately like to share my story on his blog. Deanne gave me her handheld which was open to Mr. Taylor’s blog. She told me she would be back in an hour.

I read a few of Mr. Taylor, Edward Taylor’s, blog entries. They were lovely pieces. Very well written. With things gone the way they have, there are very few blogs left, very few articles to read at all. Most of the information was shared through video or audio. Not much needed to be read anymore. So, the very fact that he had written a blog and used such glorious vocabulary and had an obvious passion for the English language, endeared me to him right away. His blog was mostly about Times past, the way it used to be. Very nostalgic and often emotional. He also wrote about people who were inspiring to him, people that made a difference or overcame difficult obstacles. I was intrigued to say the least.

So when Deanna came back, I was already dressed, had eaten and was putting on a little makeup. She knew when she saw me that I had every intention of meeting with Mr. Taylor.

He arrived just after lunch. We sat outside under the shade of a big Oak tree. It had become my favourite place to sit, close to the stream that ran through the back field.You could see the entire property from there. It was a quite and peaceful corner of the yard.

Mr. Taylor, Or Ed as he asked me to call him, was an older gentleman, he looked downright ancient. Despite his age, he looked strong and healthy. We drank the tea that he brought with him. He said he couldn’t bring himself to drink the tea being offered most places. He had this tea specially imported from a dear fellow in England who still grew his own tea, amongst other things, in his green house. He said it was criminal the price he had to pay for it, but it was worth every ounce. It was delicious!

Our fondness for each other, the inexplicable connection you sometimes feel with a total stranger, was instant.

We exchanged some basic pleasantries before things turned serious. Ed had a lot of questions but he also had a lot to reveal himself.

Our first meeting lasted hours. We met again and Deanne finally agreed I was ready for a handheld so Ed and I could message each other.

Ed was fascinated with how much I had retained. That the years in a Coma had not effected my memory.

He told me that I would be sorely disappointed when I finally lived outside of the institution. That people no longer talked much at all. That kids weren’t being taught how to write. There was no need, everything was done electronically, you only needed to know how to use a keyboard. You didn’t need to know how to spell and in fact, didn’t really have to know how to form a proper sentence, it was all done for you on a computer. In school each child was given a specific area of study.They weren’t taught other subjects if they weren’t directly related to their specific field. So, if a child was being trained for a future in medicine they wouldn’t be given music or art classes, or even geography. People were less rounded, less knowledgeable about a variety of subjects. Musicians no longer learned how to read music, composers did everything electronically. Very little art was created on a canvas, it was mostly digital. Human compassion, empathy, creativity and morality were disappearing. There was a disconnection. Less emphasis on individuality and more focus on conforming.

I wan’t shy in voicing my concern about the lack of creativity and personal expression. The controlled way children were being raised and the lack of environmental interest shown by the government and the general public. I reminisced about days spent protesting deforestation and testing on animals. All that seemed to have been in vain. I wondered how this generation was going to fair without the appreciation of history and art.

After a couple of lengthy meetings and a few short emails and messages, Ed had written a blog about me. It was the longest he had ever written. And for the first time, he also made a video version, to ensure more people would hear his message. It turns out, Ed was in such anguish over the state of the world and the road we were on. The road he called, the path ton the inevitable deterioration or mankind. He was so concerned that he was desperate for everyone to see and hear about me. He believed I offered hope. I was the only one left that still had the knowledge that had been essentially erased by the advancement of technology and elimination of meaningful human interaction. Perhaps if people realized what they were missing, things would change.

Ed’s video went viral. His website crashed numerous times due to high traffic and his phone didn’t stop ringing. Masses of reporters and bloggers were hanging outside his home. And soon, they were hanging outside the institution too. Everybody wanted to catch a glimpse of me, talk to me, photograph me. They wanted to meet the woman who hadn’t been tainted by “progress”. The woman who knew the importance of preservation, conservation, individualism, emotional connection, diversity, history and experience.

Deanne did an extraordinary job at keeping me from being bombarded with reporters and strangers.

It was 5 days ago that Deanne along with a few of my Doctors and my psychiatrist came to me with the news. It had been declared by many of the most important and influential people in the world, that I, Me, Maggie, Margaret Brace, was the most intelligent person on the planet!

It was a ludicrous idea. I thought, they must be joking.

Over the next few days I had a lot of visitors. Heads of large corporations, The Top News reporters and Internet Moguls. Politicians and religious leaders. It was a flurry of interviews and conferences. Everyone working to establish if the claim was true.

Finally, yesterday, I asked that the deluge stop. That the frenzy come to an end.

I needed some rest. I needed some normalcy, whatever that was.

Deanne assured me that she would make my wishes known and that she wouldn’t allow anymore guests.

This morning, as every morning, my day nurse, Wendy, came in to give me my meds (the ones I always flushed down the toilet). She was acting strange, and looked unusually spiffy. Not a hair out of place. When I asked her if she had a hot date later on, she laughed, a nervous laugh, and said no.

“So, why the lip gloss and perfume?” I asked.

“Well, I’m not supposed to say anything” she answered as she looked tentatively towards the door. “but we have a special guest coming in today, it’s supposed to be a surprise.” she whispered.

“Well, I’m not big on surprises Wendy, so please, spill the beans”. I insisted

“OK, I know. And, well, you really should look nice. You might want to put on a little lipstick yourself. Maybe change into something a little less, comfortable.” she suggested.

“Why? Whose coming Wendy?”

“I’ve said enough already, I could get into a lot of trouble. So I’m not going to say anymore. Just trust me on this. You’re not going to be disappointed”

And So I trusted Wendy. I changed out of my sweat suit and made up my face. A little annoyed that someone was coming after I had asked Deanne to keep outsiders away for a while. But, also very curious.

And here we are, back at the beginning.

Now you know how it all happened, the morning I woke up as the most intelligent person in the world.