Carter, 19, leaned his unicycle against the aluminum fence. He walked down the path of metallic debris, accompanied by the warped reflection his thin frame cast against the chrome rubbish; occasionally acknowledging its presence through his peripheral vision.
Small wisps of smoke rose and danced in the heavy air. They would rise and vanish into the dark sky. Some white vapor strings teased other waves of gray blur and then died out together. If Carter were to stop walking, the smoke wisps would congregate around his ankles, orchestrate their suicides, and then present a new game of resurrection to each other.
Heat would arrive and leave in flashes. It hovered above everything, causing all unstable surfaces to rumble. It was operated in shifts, through a mechanical ‘churn’ of sorts. The churn supplied warmth and light to a lot called Borough 27. It housed thirty-seven families, totaling three hundred and seventy-seven civilians. The churn was manually operated. Residents worked an eight-hour shift, either pedaling with their feet, or ‘churning’ with their hands.
Warmth and milky-white light would spill through cylinder tubes on poles. Light and heat were both generated by the same machine, both making no promises to remain for days to come. Individuals would arrive late; others would miss their shifts entirely, leaving residents in cold darkness.
The imitation of natural light in this lot was “God” to Borough 27’s inhabitants. It lit their homes, and the pathways to and from their workstations. It cooked their meals and kept them warm at night. Standing near it gave an individual a luminescent halo. Residents who had nominated themselves as the youngest survivors, would stand underneath it and re-enact big-screen scripts that everyone only vaguely remembered. The older generation would reminisce of a more comforting time, embellishing make-believe tales to make up for the moments that had left their memories forever.
Carter remembered his father’s booming voice once reciting comedic lines from famous screenplays. He recalled watching him performing the theatric pieces by candlelight in the front room of their house. He had grown up believing his father had written the phrases, until he heard on one of them spoken by a civilian during one of their improvised performances under the “angelic light” one day. Carter repeatedly reminded himself that he was in this world alone now. The only existing fire would infrequently stir behind his chest when he thought of a simpler time.
Carter neared the clearing where the largest spotlight stood. He ascended the stone steps that lead to a two-story apartment. The door to room seventeen was ajar, and Carter approached. He tapped softly on the wooden plank.
“Safety,” Carter spoke into the empty room. Each section of the lot had established a word of protection before entering any location unannounced. He pushed the door open farther.
The room was disheveled. Alternating piles of bricks and books patterned the floors. Tattered fabric hung pathetically in front of opaque aluminum windows, that the residents had repeatedly told themselves were reflective. With the disappearance of the sun, there was no glass or any form of a substantial mirror. There was plenty of sand however; plenty of sand as well as the judgment of others.
“Is anyone here?” Carter spoke to the walls.
“Where are you coming from?” a voice replied. Carter turned to see Lank, a boy three years his elder.
“Home Life.” Home Life was section seven, one of the smaller lots across the field.
“I forgot you were coming. I’ll get your things.” Lank turned and left through a darkened doorway.
Lank looked much older than twenty-two. His face resembled a worn leather bag. His hair hung in long braids against his tanned shoulders.
"I managed to salvage mostly everything.” Lank said, re-entering the room.
Carter watched as Lank shuffled through a large box. He walked over to it and touched it with the palm of his hand, forgetting the name for its material.
“It’s not much I know, but I do know that he would have wanted you to have them.”
“Do you think so?” Carter asked. Lank allowed the corners of his mouth to respond, as they arched into a smile.
“That, and they are only collecting dust in my closet. He would have hated that.”
“He’d be used to it by now.” Carter remarked.
Lank walked over to the opposite side of the room and pressed a button on the side of the wall. Hot water began to dribble, then spit, then run down into a ceramic bowl. Lank dipped a bare foot into the bowl to test the water, cringing as they met.
“Cold?” Carter asked. Lank nodded. The room began to darken.
“I’m late.” Carter spoke, “I’ll pick up my things tomorrow.”
“Don’t forget. My girlfriend is moving in tomorrow and I promised her a dresser drawer and half a rack in the closet.”
“I won’t forget.”
Carter left the apartment room, descending the stairs two at a time.
A woman was standing in the corner beside the exit handing out flyers. She gestured to Carter by uttering a loud, exaggerated cough.
“No, thank you.” Carter said, without looking up.
“Please?” she shoved a slip in his face, “You’re not carrying anything.”
Carter looked at the woman. She was paper white and covered in scabs. Some of the wounds were open and oozing a brown fluid. Her hair looked as if one day it possessed luster and volume, but it was now grey and straw-like.
After a pause that felt like an eternity Carter spoke, “I’m late, you don’t want to freeze tonight do you?”
“A little chill never hurt anyone before,” she fiddled with the end of her skirt, lifting it slightly. As she did this, she released a rancid stench that Carter felt like he could taste.
The remaining light was fading quickly. Voices in the apartment could be heard yelling and complaining.
“I’ll read it on my way to the churn.” Carter suggested.
“Read it now,” The woman grinned, revealing a checkerboard smile.
Carter sighed heavily and opened the pamphlet. The sheet was glossy with bold lettering written diagonally across the front and back. The contrast of the bright letters against the darkened background of the paper irritated Carter’s eyes. He managed to make out random letters between blinking.
Carter heard the door open behind him.
“You’re still here?” it was Lank, “its’ getting dark.”
“I’m leaving.” Carter stepped down the outdoor steps, glancing backwards as he often did in his dreams. As he predicted, the woman had disappeared.
Carter jogged back along the dirt trail he had walked on moments before. He picked up his unicycle and carried it under his arm to the pole in the center of the community lot. He placed it on the ground and knelt. He opened a compartment in the pole, revealing an electrical outlet. He pulled out a black cord from his back pocket and plugged it into the outlet. He attached the other end to the back of the unicycle’s seat.
Carter mounted his one-wheeled bicycle and began to pedal. He hated how it was impossible to tell what time of the day it was. He often wished that he had been born into these times, so he would not have any recollection of the heat and light of the sun’s rays.
Carter continued to pedal and tried to read the pamphlet from the woman in the apartment. He assumed it was a religious tract of some kind, because nothing else was worth promoting those days in that world. He became bored with it and tossed on the ground.
He saw someone in the distance and recognized his body language. It was Lank, carrying Carter’s box. Lank began to run. Suddenly, he lost his footing; the box sailed through the air and dropped on the ground. The contents of the box fell in different places on the cement ground and Carter shuddered to think of what might have broken.
Lank struggled to his feet and then resumed his position on the ground to gather the picture frames and other nick-nacks. Carter continued to watch as a woman approached the scene. Lank turned to her and then turned to the direction of the central pole. Carter could feel Lanks’s eyes on him, even though they were so far apart. He began to pedal harder.
The woman walked closer to Lank and then gestured to the box. Lank pointed at the box and then pointed in Carter’s direction.
A tube atop one pillar suddenly exploded into small pieces. The tube above where Carter was pedaling began to spark. He felt the orange and yellow sparks fall and kiss the back of his neck and ears.
Carter felt as though small flames were swimming in and around his leg muscles. His speed increased and the reflections in puddles on the ground began to reflect artificial rainbow prisms.
Carter watched beads of sweat fall from his nose and onto his thighs. He crossed and uncrossed his arms; he was on a unicycle after all.
He could here someone calling his name over the sounds of the lights shattering and his feet slipping, and then finding themselves back onto the pedals.
“Hey Carter!” It was Lank again. He was standing atop the box waving his arms in the air. The sky grew lighter.
Carter blinked through the sweat, letting his arms fall to his sides.
“I’m sorry about your father!”
Carter’s pedaling didn’t slow. If there were birds in the air, they might have flown overhead at that moment.
Carter watched Lank take the woman’s hand and walk back into the apartment, leaving the box in the middle of the pathway.
