“Hey, Echoe. Care to join me on a run?” My best friend, Lark Thomas, asks me. I smile, for I’ve been waiting to escape the bleak wasteland that is my home.
“Of course. Let’s go!” I reply with enthusiasm. I skip out my front door, and jog alongside Lark. There’s silence between us, but not an uncomfortable kind. It’s simply an absence of sound, because we don’t want to utter a word about our secret. It’s so extraordinary we can’t speak of it out in the open, as it is punishable by death.
Our feet find the path to The Artists’ Palette all by themselves. My eyes search the dull town for a sign of happiness, of life, but to no avail. I knew I wouldn’t find any, though I had to try. All that’s left of my once lively, colorful, town is a gray nightmare.
My village used to have bright houses dotting the roads, with yards of emerald green grass, towering trees, and flowers of every shade. Once there were children laughing and playing in the parks. Pets were walked on the streets, and festivals were held in the center of town. That was before the Administration took over.
The once vibrant houses are now drab shelters. Grass and trees are sparse and colorless. Children are at school for ten hours a day, plus two dedicated hours for exercise, one hour before and one after school. When students graduate at age eighteen, they are forced to work. Pets are prohibited, and festivals outlawed.
Nothing dares to stir or make any sort of noise, for fear it might sound “expressive”. The townspeople are all terribly frightened of the Administration. Not that I can blame them. I am scared as well, though nobody would guess. It terrifies us all that at any moment, any person can be executed, and nobody can protest.
You see, four years ago, any use of the right side of the brain was banned. This is the part of you that controls creativity, humor, philosophy, religion, and any kind of art. If a person or object was found with even one of those qualities, it was deemed illegal.
These changes came to pass because it had come to the attention of the Administration that people were spending too much time on self-expression. According to those in power, time should be spent on learning math and science. Our country was falling behind other nations intellectually, as they had begun to invent things that weren’t even on our list of dreams. This scared the Administration. What if they were creating war devices of similar complexity that would make us an easy target?
Immediate action was taken. Language arts, music, and visual arts were completely cut out of our curriculum. Instead of devoting study time to history, we were given a faint outline of our past. Math and science were our focus, and school days were extended.
In the midst of all of this change, the Administration felt that we were also becoming physically unfit as compared to other nations. They mandated two hours of vigorous aerobic activity every day as a requirement of our education, one hour before and after school. It had been discovered that exercise helped create neurons in the brain, thus improving brain activity, and increasing concentration.
Acceleration was seen almost overnight. Students were advancing at a rapid pace, and we would catch up to the other countries in a generation or so. Yet, in the eyes of the Administration, this new strategy wasn’t working quickly enough.
It was concluded that the expression of individuals was the cause of our dismay. Time spent on creative pursuits, such as art, poetry, music, entertainment, and religion was diluting the time we had to study. The Administration could not afford this kind of distraction. As a result, it was decided that upon turning eighteen, we would have the right side of our brain deactivated, allowing us to focus entirely on math and science.
Very few people agreed with this, but nobody would contradict the Administration for fear that their families and loved ones would be targeted. Some brave souls tried, and their entire town was decimated with poisonous gas, flown overhead by specially equipped airplanes. Now everybody gets unnerved at the sound of an airplane overhead.
I was thirteen years old when the Administrators came around, destroying our beloved possessions. I could not bear to see them go, so I hid mine. They were concealed in an old warehouse down the street, and luckily, it was so dilapidated, most had simply forgotten about it.
In this forgotten space, I was introduced to Lark. At the time, he was just a scrawny kid with dull black hair and terrified blue eyes. He was also thirteen, and hiding his favorite belongings as well. We swore to each other that it was our secret, and we tried to return every afternoon during our “run” also known as “AEH” for “Afternoon Exercise Hour”. Sometimes, if we could manage it, we would try to sneak in during “MEH”, also known as “Morning Exercise Hour”.
One day, when Lark and I were taking our daily run to the warehouse, a few other children followed us from school. This small troop had become suspicious of the two of us suddenly becoming friends and running together. They confronted us as were entering the warehouse. It was demanded that we tell them what we were doing, or they would tell the Administrators about our hideout.
So, we informed them of what we doing here. Their faces lit up in surprise, and begged us if they could “join”. We reluctantly agreed, mostly out of fear that they would tell on us. They told some of their close friends. Those kids told their siblings, and their siblings told other friends.
My secret hideout with Lark grew into a community of artists. We ranged in age from six to seventeen. Even though we weren’t a powerful, or intimidating force, we had a cause. We had a reason to go to school each day, to follow the rules. For if we didn’t draw attention to ourselves, if we kept quiet and obeyed, we would most likely be undiscovered.
We were all sorts of artists, our interests as diverse as the color palette. So, when it was decided we needed a name for our haven, I suggested The Artists’ Palette. The name stuck, and is now our official label. The people that belong to our group became known as the Artists.
It was agreed that we needed to stagger our visits, so that not all fifty Artists were appearing at once. We came up with a schedule, which we followed almost religiously. Once or twice, there were small issues, when people forgot what day they were supposed to be there, or whether they were going during AEH or MEH, but they weren’t big deals. For the most part, our schedules have been followed and concealed.
Of course, somebody needed to keep things under control around The Artists’ Palette. We voted, and decided to have a representative democracy. In our council, there were four Representatives, and five Overseers. It was the job of the Representatives to collect information from the Artists, and gather suggestions for improvement. If the Artists had an issue, they would bring it up with the Representatives, who would tell the Overseers.
It was the responsibility of the Overseers to determine if the rule was necessary. They would also head drills, hold assemblies, work out schedules, and make sure nobody knew about our fortress of creativity.
“Echoe, we’re here.” Lark’s soft voice snaps me back the present. I see that The Artists’ Palette has come into view. A smile forms on my lips, and I break into a faster run. It seems that it has been far too long since I have visited even though it has only been a day.
“Welcome to paradise.” Lark murmurs under his breath. We enter through the back door, and burst into the happiest place on Earth.
The jewel-tone walls were barely visible, under the layers of artwork that decorated them. In the center of the main room, a statue stands tall, of a young woman, her long hair in a braid down her back, holding a paintbrush and a color palette. In front of her is an easel, which she was staring at in concentration. This statue was the first of the art to decorate The Artists’ Palette, created by Lark. It is perfect symbol of our mission, to keep creativity alive.
Arella Norton, one of my close friends, comes running up to us.
“The Representatives are holding a meeting in the theater! Come quickly, they want everybody to be there!”
The three of us dash to the “theater”, which is no more than an empty room with an elevated surface at one end. This is where we perform plays that some of the Artists have created, and we hold assemblies there. All Artists present stream through the wide doors.
Once everybody is settled, Kenton Wace steps forward to command our attention.
“I am sorry about the unexpected meeting, but some valuable information has been discovered this morning, and we thought you should all be aware.” Wondering chatter sounds in the crowd. “We have been detected! The Administration will be after us, banging down our doors very soon, so we need to hide all evidence of the existence of The Artists’ Palette. We have a Situation 23, and this is not a drill!”
The room becomes chaotic, as people start sprinting out the door and begin disassembling our home. Artwork comes down; the supplies are stored in a large, locked closet with a rusty steel door. With all of the Artists working together, we move at an incredibly rapid pace.
When the Administrators knock down the door, we are almost finished.
A hush falls over the warehouse. Everybody is paralyzed with fear, our minds are racing with ideas of how we will be tortured or killed.
The Administrators march into to the room with such arrogance, it sickens me. Nonetheless, a squeal of fear escapes my throat. Lark, standing next to me, takes my hand in his.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here? This is quite the gathering of rebels, now, isn’t it?” A thin man with a menacing voice snickers. I recognize him as the captain of the Administrators in my town. His closely cropped hair is hidden beneath his beige hat, and he gives of an aura of nastiness. “What should we do with you?”
“Please, sir, don’t harm us.” Six-year-old Tiri squeaks out.
“Harm you? I wouldn’t dream of it.” He cackles. “I plan to torture you all until you beg for mercy, and consider death a blessing.” Muffled sobs escape a large amount of us. “Unless, of course, you tell me who led you into all of this. Then, you will be spared.” Nobody moves, points, or shouts out. They would never rat me out, or Lark. We created all of this. “Ah, well, I assumed you would be smarter than this. I suppose I will just have to kill you all, then.”
I cannot let that happen. This is my fault, and I refuse to let others suffer because of my actions.
I look at Lark. His ocean-blue eyes beg me not to speak, but I shake my head. I need to.
“I am the leader.” I hear myself say in a strong, clear, voice. It makes me sound much more confidant than I truly am. Everybody stares at me in disbelief.
“She’s lying, sir. I am.” Lark speaks next to me. I glance at him in horror.
“Two volunteers? Come forward, both of you.” The captain jeers at us. We step towards him in perfect unison, the crowd parting easily to let us through. Once next to the evil man, I have a perfect view of everybody.
“Now, you will both come with me. The rest of you pitiful creatures will be imprisoned. You will dearly regret this, I promise you.”
“Sir, please, can you just take me? Spare him, he had nothing to do with any of this.” I beg.
“No, sir. I had everything to do with this. She did nothing at all.” Lark responds. My eyes match his now, pleading for him to back down, to let me sacrifice myself for him, my best friend.
“What is this? I know one of you is lying. Though I am sure it would be much more painful if you both suffered. I think I will just take you both. Stop begging me for the impossible, as it will only spoil my mood.”
“Lark, no.” I hiss. “Let me do this. I know how to protect myself. Stop it, now!”
“No. This was all my idea, and I will not stand to let you be harmed because of me.” He is now staring into my eyes. He pushes a lock of fire-red hair out of my face, and before I know what’s happening, he kisses me. I’m startled, but I don’t stop him. I never imagined this would happen, as Lark and I have never been more than friends.
The captain separated us with a harsh blow to our heads. We staggered apart, but now we were joined in a much deeper way. I catch his eye, and it has a sparkle. That kiss was a promise that we would never abandon one another. Whatever the captain has planned for us, I know I can face it. As long as I have Lark beside me, I am invincible.