Creation I cannot fully recall the moment that, to this day, sits at the very edge of my consciousness. I was a Writer then too, just as I am now. But something was different. There were scents, varied and impossible to label at times. I can almost recall my surroundings, but I don’t quite remember the nuances, the important and defining details of what renders them remarkable now. What I do see clearly, however, is the woman I was to work with. A "report"— a concept I once tried to explain to the others, but to no avail— that’s what I was to write. But I never wrote the report. My last memory is of a chamber, a body-sized chamber that I was forced into after much struggle. I had wits enough about me to jam my pen into the closure of the thing, and that was that. But I cannot tell anyone about my last memory, as no one could possibly understand. I do not believe anyone else is aware of the existence of something beyond Creation. I’m not certain such a thing exists, but there’s something about that final memory which doesn’t comport with our present circumstances. “Beautiful. Just beautiful, Jess,” says Janet. She’s one of the Dancers. We’re required to watch other Talent’s performances or observe their works for inspiration, so she and I became fast friends. Due to the organization of our leisure room, I am acquainted with many Creators whose names begin with J. “Just what I needed. You’ve taken such a turn from your last work. What a fantastical land you describe. I could dream up a ballet on the city alone.” Janet is right. A City of Twine is my best work, but only because I did much pleading to be able to use the concept. I was supposed to be Creating
on the subject of Churches, but the idea of a City—a thing almost taboo in nature—was just too alluring. I asked the Head of Focus, and he approved on the condition that Wessely was to paint the city I envisioned. Of course Wes said yes, so I got my writing Slab and began the inspiration process. I was allowed to look through all of the old manuscripts with the Old Artist’s projections of what a city might look like. It was thrilling. “You should,” I say. “If the HOF approves, you could work with Kelly the Designer and Tim the Setter. Wouldn’t that be lovely?” “Oh, of course!” she says. “That would be utterly Creative. Jess, you’re a shining star as always.” I smile. “Stars sound so precious,” I say. “It’s a shame they don’t exist. Can you picture what life would be like with the things we’ve Created?” “Like the permanent skin artwork,” she giggles. “Wessely would do a fine job. Did Turner say if it would hurt, or no?” “It would hurt,” I say, “because it uses sharp objects called needles to put the ink under the skin.” “How perfectly horrible,” she says. She clutches at her sides and makes a face. “Why would he dream up such an awful thing?” “I’m not sure,” I admit. Janet twists her light blonde hair into a bun and knots it on the top of her head. “A world without pain is a dull one. You know that.” “Quite,” she says as she pulls off her ballet shoes and points at her bruised and calloused feet. “But it’s worth it for Creativity. James did a portrait of my feet, did you know that? Just like this. It was wild. It has never been done before. The HOF was pleased and gave him an extension on the mountain moving piece.” Oh, that mountain moving piece again. She’s gone on for days about it; how striking and innovative the idea is of having one made-up Creation move another made-up Creation. I often wish mountains were real. A character of an earlier manuscript climbed up a mountain, one that was terribly steep. I hadn’t a solution to
make the mountain any easier to climb, so the character never reached his destination. The idea of taking those things Steven painted—he calls them machines—and using them to modify such a huge mound of Creation seems quite absurd, now that I've been corrected. The HOF subdues the complexity of our Creations if our ideas get too out of the ordinary, such as when I wanted to split the mountain in half with a contraption called a saw. Some sort of sharp tool or whatnot. Apparently, Tyler’s idea of a saw was much too small to cut something so large down the middle, and by that time I had already devised an alternate solution. “Will you and James have supper with Wessely and me tonight?” I ask. “I notice the two of you have sat yourselves off alone lately. Collaborating on something?” “Oh, no,” she says with a laugh. “We just enjoy our alone time with one another. It’s hard to have a personal conversation when the rest of the Creators are around, you know? Funnily enough, I plan to coordinate a ballet with segments of silence. I’d like that. Silence. Time to just listen and dance and twirl without the voices of hundreds in your head.” She stands up and raises her arms in the air, then spins and smiles at the roof, her slightly crooked teeth exposed. It makes me think of something I’d seen during one of my viewings. Someone came up with the idea that if small metal squares were glued to one’s teeth and were connected by a metal wire, the teeth could be straightened. It was ingenious, and although we know nothing of the Technical realm, the concept seems like it should be real. Braces, that’s what they are. “Jess!” a voice says. I turn and see Wes, who has a bit of pink paint smudged across his cheek. He begins to walk toward me, but Josie intercepts him and puts her hand on his chest. “Stay put,” she says. “I want this photograph. It’s the antithesis of delicate. Recall how in Janet’s third ballet, male Painters were depicted as effeminate?” she asks as she snaps the first photo. “I would like to CC, Janet. This is the perfect shot to capture the unbridled masculinity of the male Painter.”
Wes is well-built, strong, and tall. Handsome. Bushy eyebrows, slanted eyes, and a smile that had found its way into more than one of my manuscripts during the past year. That sort of inspiration was what the HOF wants us to draw from. “Josie, a CC is such a hassle,” Janet groans as she hurls a shoe at her. It hits her in the stomach just after she clicks off another photo. “Is it really necessary?” “I believe it is,” Josie replies as she takes a final photograph. “Counter Creations are only fair. I don’t agree with your beliefs, so I’ll do my best to disprove them and have your work replaced and, therefore, eliminated. The HOF already approved my CC, so be ready to work on a compromise. Ta.” “Wonderful,” Janet says with much sadness. There are tears in her eyes as Josie saunters off into the hallway to develop the new photographs in the darkroom. “That ballet was my favorite.” She quickly covers her mouth, but we all grow scared. Creators are forbidden from choosing a favorite work. The consequences are unknown for doing so. All art is supposed to be equal. “Dinner,” I say. “Let’s all go to dinner. Janet, go find James and sit with us. Please.” I take Wes by the arm and pat Janet’s arm reassuringly. Receiving a CC is uncommon and destructive, not to mention dangerous. Harold the Composer received a CC for his dissonant music, but he couldn’t come to an agreement on the compromise. Word was that he was taken to the Community after the Hounds got to him a few times, which explained why we’d never seen him again. “Will Janet be alright?” I ask Wes as we change from our Creation clothes into our meal clothes. Our meal clothing is scruffy and itchy. “Josie had to be joking about the CC. Who does that anyway?” “Josie,” he says with a smirk. “She’s sent Creators to the Community before. Remember Harold?”
“Yes,” I say. I am surprised that he remembers. “That was her? She did that?” “She did,” he says with a sigh. “Brilliant Composer too. Spider to a mouse.” Spider to a mouse is code for one Creator being better than the rest within a particular field. Again, favoritism is discouraged and largely banned, but we cannot stop ourselves. We cannot like everything presented before us no matter how hard we try. “Did you drink your milk today?” I ask Wes as we pass by the milk counter. The bottles look cold and inviting, but I already consumed mine for the day. “You seem tired. The Exhaustion Hounds will be on you for sure if you don’t replenish.” “I’ll take that risk,” he whispers to me. When no one is looking, he pours out half a bottle of milk into the sink and refills the remaining space with water. “Wes, you’re crazy,” I tell him as he begins to drink. We continue to walk. “Half a milk is not enough to sustain you. What are you doing?” “I need to talk to you,” he says before taking another sip. “In private. Just me and you later. You’ll understand soon. Janet and James are here, go say hello.” I make sure Wes finishes the rest of his milk before finding an open table for the four of us. It is exciting that we are no longer restricted to socializing with only Creators in our own fields. The HOF reasons our creativity will expand if we are introduced to new and stimulating art forms. “Janet drank an extra milk,” James tells me as we sit down. “She should be better soon. She’s upset, but she’ll pull through.” Wes joins us just as the supper buzzer chimes. It is one of Harold’s pieces today which the Chef sings, and a few of us who remember him encounter tears in our eyes. Ballad for Fire is a tune we know well. It has been passed around as an homage, but we never tell the HOF that. It’s
something subtle and secret, and we owe it to Harold to not tell anyone where his melody has traveled to next. “Don’t worry over it too much, Janet,” I say as we rise from the table to collect plates and silvers. Something cold touches my ankle; the tongue of an Exhaustion Hound. I push Wes ahead of me to block his scent with my own. “Apply for a day off and view the exhibits. You need the rest.” She shakes her head, dishes out a small plop of potatoes onto her plate, and hands the scoop to me. “I don’t know. There was something about Ombrédusk I won’t be able to let go of. It’s not fair that someone can just come in and take your Creation away from you.” Wes turns around and looks at me. I do not say anything. I know he is trying to read my face. There are certain things that one shouldn’t say, so we say them without words. The Exhaustion Hounds are weaving around us again. I worry for Janet and Wes. That is everyone's greatest fear: to be taken to the Community. When the Exhaustion Hounds alert the Trainer that one of us is underperforming, the exposed Creator is taken away for a day. When they return, they are obsessive over their work. The Creator slaves away and passes meals and even forgets to drink their milk. They push themselves so hard that the Hounds find them again, and again, and one day, you know they'll be gone forever. Everyone knows that to be sniffed out by the Exhaustion Hounds will mean the end of your time in Creation. One of the smaller ones begins to sniff at Wes’ shoe. It whimpers, and I cough so as to pass off the sound as being my own. The creature’s long ears perk up, but it does not cry out. Instead, it waddles over to Janet, who is heaping a scoop of ice cream made by Greg the Chef. Wes painted the ice cream arrangement only several weeks ago. The Hound jumps up and braces itself against her legs. It’s sniffing. Janet freezes. The fear in her eyes is clear. She knows that fear is not tolerated and the Hounds can sense it just as well as they can sense her
exhaustion. The Hound’s eyes narrow, and its lips begin to retract into a menacing growl. Janet shovels a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. I think she believes eating will help her. The Hound is almost growling now, and I grab Wes’s arm. I cannot be scared, or they will find me too. The Hound barks. The sound fills the entire supper room, and everyone is frozen. The end has come for poor, sweet Janet. James cries out, but it is too late. Her plate clatters to the floor and spills, and several of the Photographers rush over to capture the moment. Documentation was approved by the HOF three years ago and has been a popular project proposal ever since. The Trainer takes Janet by the arm and leads her away and down the Forbidden Hall. “Poor Janet,” I say as James stoops to his feet to pick up her spilled food. “Josie should be the one to go with the Hounds, not her. Can you imagine what Janet must be going through?” “There’s the Reassignment,” Wessely reminds me. “That will absolutely ruin her. She can no longer pursue her HOF-approved projects. The post-Hound projects are much more complex, if I remember correctly.” “Like Harold,” I say. “The HOF wanted him to compose a four-day opera. Can you think it?” “I’d prefer not to,” he says. “Imagine what he’d have us do. You, a series of thirty manuscripts. Me, some expansive mural on a ceiling.” All of us, James included, sit down at the table and begin to eat. James is chewing more slowly and more deliberately than usual. I feel bad for him. He really likes Janet. “She’ll be back soon,” Wes tells him. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her. Don’t let her overwork herself like Harold did.” “I’ll do my best,” James says, but he gets up and throws his plate in the trash and walks off, leaving me and Wes alone at the table for four. We eat the rest of our meal in silence. When we’ve finished, Wes asks me to follow him into The Gallery.
“You have tickets?” I ask, but he holds them up before I can utter another word. They’re so smooth and radiant that I can see my own pale face reflected back in them. It startles me, as we are not to look upon ourselves intentionally. I saw myself once, in a photograph; I was never supposed to have come across it, but I stumbled into the wrong Talent’s room during an inspiration process. I have shoulder-length brown hair and a mousy face with a little nose and thin lips, and I’ll never forget seeing myself on either occasion. I often wish that the others could see their beauty for themselves, but it’s too risky a thing to do. We are each other’s mirrors, and that is how it was meant to be. “I got them as part of my inspiration process,” he explains. “For the city in your manuscript. The HOF wants me to paint it, remember? I don’t know what a city is, though. That’s why I requested the tickets.” “They didn't allow you access to my manuscript?” I say with a laugh. “Your work could be countered, and so could mine. Research.” “I want to do something a little different,” he tells me. “I did read the passage where you describe the city, but it was missing something. A remedy. So many tales of gushing water ruining these cities. Then I thought, why not have a floating city? So there you have it. The Floating City, presented by Wessely the Painter.” “The HOF gets particular when we try and solve problems like that in our works. You know that,” I say. He hands me a ticket and I clutch it tightly. I have never been in The Gallery before. “And how did you manage two tickets?” “In case I wanted to return,” he says. “But really, it’s because I wanted you to come along with me. We still need to discuss something.” Probably another collaboration. I hope it is already HOF-approved. I don’t want to spend time on a project that could be cast aside and deemed inappropriate. Wessely can be rebellious at times, and I’m not sure how far he can push boundaries before being taken away to the Community. We hand our tickets to the Ticketer and go inside The Gallery.