April 16, 2078
Before Omar Ibrahim started trying to hit me almost every day, we used to be friends. I was his 'girl next door'...literally. We grew up together.
We walked to school together.
He'd come over and play in my back yard, when playing outside was still acceptable behavior. You know, kid stuff. Slaps. Aliens and Space Police. Guard the Fortress. Run for your Life. Since neither of us had siblings, we were kinda like brother and sister. But not really.
Omar's dad, Ibrahim Ibrahim, never approved of our friendship. How could I tell? Well, he'd sit up there on his front porch, arms crossed over his gut and just glare at me, mumbling under his breath in a language I don't know. Sometimes I got English.
"Poor little girl is not your friend, Omar," he growled.
"I know, sir," Omar winked at me hidden from his father's gaze.
Sometimes Mr. Ibrahim would spit in my direction. I knew he'd warm up to me.
Omar's mother, a beautiful bronze woman with heavy eyes, stood in the shadows just inside the house. She'd wave to me from a window, offer a smile now and then. It was enough for this motherless girl to think that she was like a captive princess, and Mr. Ibrahim was the evil ogre guarding the tower.
One sunny afternoon - they were all sunny back then- we found my Dad's old hardball gear in a box in the garage. We suited up in his old oversized pads. Omar took the wrist pads and a busted old helmet and let me wear the chest pad, shin guards and the newer helmet. We marched out to the backyard, swimming in the adult-sized padding- it was hard to believe my Dad was once that big. Omar's dad sat up on the porch, lost in space.
I dropped the steely ball on the ground and kicked it gently to Omar. It picked up speed as it rolled; it got alarmingly fast. Way faster than I had kicked it. Omar stopped the ball with his foot and immediately recoiled in pain.
"That hurt, Silvy!" he groused.
Mr. Ibrahim snapped awake from his day dream.
"Good, poor little girl."
He creaked out of his rocking chair and stepped off the front porch, one step at a time on a rickety right leg.
Omar kicked the hardball at me. Without thinking, I lunged to the side to knock it away from my goal. The ball ricocheted off my shin guard. Even through the padding it stung. The ball accelerated through the air, whistling, right toward Mr. Ibrahim's head.
His hand shot up and he caught the ball in his open palm. The slap of the ball hitting bare skin made me cringe, but Mr. Ibrahim didn't even wince.
"Good...very good, poor little girl. I teach you children how to play real hardball." He thought for a second. "Omar, she is still not your friend."
"I know, sir."
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Chapter 2
DATE: 03.13.2073 1618 hours.
Diary Activated by unknown user. Please identify verbally. Please pick up device.
Unknown User 1 @ 03.13.2073 1618 hours not identified. No Vocal Chord Signature Detected.
Fingerprints unidentifiable. No Record Match. No Record Match.
...
Device Registered to Silvia Pinto...awaiting fingerprint identification and vocal calibration.
...
Encrypted Entry 1 Uploaded. Password Accepted
...
Encrypted Entry 2 Uploaded Password Accepted
...
Encrypted Entries set to DISCOVERABLE.
...
Inscription Mode Activated. Please record text.
...
To my dear daughter on her eleventh birthday. You are the best part of me and my love for you goes beyond words. You are growing into a remarkable young woman; your mother would be so proud of you. You're capable of more than you know; believe in yourself. You're my princess and my stardust and I will always be with you. May this diary be your friend if you're lonely, your confidant when there's a secret to big to tell Dad and may it be a true reflection of who you are when you need it most.
I love you.
Be Good.
P.S. No dating until you're 16.
...
Entry accepted. Set to video/audio record mode.
...
"Hi Dad!
School was fine. You know, normal stuff with Coach and I found out that Mr. Culpepper's going to be moving up with our grade again! Isn't that weird?"
You do? You have a present for me? Dad, you really didn't have to--Okay, what is it?
Oh, Daddy! A DigiDiary? Ohmygod! It's amazing! It's what I really, really wanted! I mean the sweater was nice but THIS! Come on! It's so flappin' great!
Sorry. Yes. I'll watch my language.
I gotta go show Omar! He'll help me set it up.
Yes. Yes. I'll use the fingerprint security thingy. I understand.
Okay, G.T.G, I'll be next door!
I'll be back for dinner.
Oh...kay...meatloaf?
Well, then I'll be back for dessert!
Oh, and Daddy, I love you. Thank you."
...
DATE: 03.13.2073 1637 hours.
User 2 @ 03.13.2073 1637 identified. Volcal Chord Signature Detected.
Fingerprint Identification and Vocal Chord Calibration Complete.
Sending Security Data to HomeBase One:
Owner Identified as Silvia Pinto.
Female.
11 years old.
D.O.B. 03.13.2062.
Awaiting input.
Diary Activated by unknown user. Please identify verbally. Please pick up device.
Unknown User 1 @ 03.13.2073 1618 hours not identified. No Vocal Chord Signature Detected.
Fingerprints unidentifiable. No Record Match. No Record Match.
...
Device Registered to Silvia Pinto...awaiting fingerprint identification and vocal calibration.
...
Encrypted Entry 1 Uploaded. Password Accepted
...
Encrypted Entry 2 Uploaded Password Accepted
...
Encrypted Entries set to DISCOVERABLE.
...
Inscription Mode Activated. Please record text.
...
To my dear daughter on her eleventh birthday. You are the best part of me and my love for you goes beyond words. You are growing into a remarkable young woman; your mother would be so proud of you. You're capable of more than you know; believe in yourself. You're my princess and my stardust and I will always be with you. May this diary be your friend if you're lonely, your confidant when there's a secret to big to tell Dad and may it be a true reflection of who you are when you need it most.
I love you.
Be Good.
P.S. No dating until you're 16.
...
Entry accepted. Set to video/audio record mode.
...
"Hi Dad!
School was fine. You know, normal stuff with Coach and I found out that Mr. Culpepper's going to be moving up with our grade again! Isn't that weird?"
You do? You have a present for me? Dad, you really didn't have to--Okay, what is it?
Oh, Daddy! A DigiDiary? Ohmygod! It's amazing! It's what I really, really wanted! I mean the sweater was nice but THIS! Come on! It's so flappin' great!
Sorry. Yes. I'll watch my language.
I gotta go show Omar! He'll help me set it up.
Yes. Yes. I'll use the fingerprint security thingy. I understand.
Okay, G.T.G, I'll be next door!
I'll be back for dinner.
Oh...kay...meatloaf?
Well, then I'll be back for dessert!
Oh, and Daddy, I love you. Thank you."
...
DATE: 03.13.2073 1637 hours.
Fingerprint Identification and Vocal Chord Calibration Complete.
Sending Security Data to HomeBase One:
Owner Identified as Silvia Pinto.
Female.
11 years old.
D.O.B. 03.13.2062.
Awaiting input.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Chapter 1- alternate
October 4
A whimper, not a bang. That's how some writer a long time ago said the world was going to end. With a whimper, not a bang. Well, the world ended, they say, and from where I'm sitting, it wasn't even a whimper. It ended with a whisper, and a shrug and then everybody left just kinda moved on.
The apocalypse totally wasn't even that bad. Worse things have happened to me today and it's not even fifth section yet.
In history classes my whole life I've heard about the single act of terror that lead one nation to attack another, and then a domino effect ripping the entire globe into a chaos of rocket propelled grenades, nuclear bombs, chemical weapons and all sorts of awful death and carnage and stuff.
We put up a big wall around us from the rest of the world. We moved on. For a generation, we've moved on. We have movies, and libraries and the mall. We have boys and marching bands and football and chemistry class. We have puppies and chicken pox and baked potato night. I've been warm and comfortable and I guess happy my whole life. It's pretty easy and safe here, except for the occasional murder and robbery and kidnapping you hear about. But I guess that's normal for any civilization. For some reason, people like to take kids. It's better than blowing them up with bombs, so I guess it's the price we have to pay to live here.
Some conspiracy nuts, like my English teacher, Mr. Culpepper, like to whisper that that the whole system is broken...that it's closed-circuit. That it's rigged. That nothing is coincidence: the murders, the kidnappings, the whispers. That the battle rages on around the globe.
But I don't care about the globe. I've never even left New Columbus. I've never seen a gun, let alone a megaton automatonic nuclear drone. And I don't even own a crossbow, like all of the heroines in those post-apocalyptic books and movies. So, I don't give a spit about the terror mastermind, or the ambassdors or the soldiers or rebels.
Why should I care about the apocalypse when my Dad forces me to finish my algebra homework before we even get to play chess or watch a movie.
Why should I even care about the wars when Coach Galriddy expects me to keep running faster and longer, even though I'm already the fastest on the whole Cross Country team.
Why should I care about the end of the world when my Mom died doing something so easy as giving birth to me? Tons of people do that without dying every day. How weak.
Why should I care about armageddon when my Dad's sick and refuses to go to the doctor.
Why should I care when Omar was sent away to boarding school without even getting to say goodbye?
Why should I care about humanity's end when by nightfall, I'll be dead. Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that?
My name's Silvia Pinto and today is the day I die.
How's that for a bang?
Chapter 1
October 4, 2080
A whimper, not a bang. That's how some writer a long time ago said the world was going to end. With a whimper, not a bang. Well, the world ended, they say, and from where I'm sitting, it wasn't even a whimper. It ended with a whisper, and a shrug and then everybody left just kinda moved on.
The apocalypse totally wasn't even that bad. Worse things have happened to me today and it's not even fifth section yet.
In history classes my whole life I've heard about the single act of terror that lead one nation to attack another, and then a domino effect ripping the entire globe into a chaos of rocket propelled grenades, nuclear bombs, chemical weapons and all sorts of awful death and carnage and stuff.
We put up a big wall around us from the rest of the world. We moved on. For a generation, we've moved on. We have movies, and libraries and the mall. We have boys and marching bands and football and chemistry class. We have puppies and chicken pox and baked potato night. I've been warm and comfortable and I guess happy my whole life. It's easy here.
Some people, like Mr. Culpepper, whisper that the battle rages on around the globe. But I don't care about the globe. I've never even left New Columbus. I've never seen a gun, let alone a megaton automatonic nuclear drone. And I don't even own a crossbow, like all of the heroines in those post-apocalyptic books and movies. So, in short, I don't give a spit about the terror mastermind, or the ambassdors or the soldiers or rebels.
Why should I care about the apocalypse when my Dad forces me to finish my algebra homework before we even get to play chess or watch a movie.
Why should I care about the end of the world when my Mom died doing something so easy as giving birth to me? Tons of people do that without dying every day. How weak.
Why should I care about armageddon when my Dad's sick and refuses to go to the doctor.
Why should I care when Omar was sent away to boarding school without even getting to say goodbye?
Why should I care about humanity's end when by nightfall, I'll be dead. Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that?
My name's Silvia Pinto and today is the day I die.
How's that for a bang?
A whimper, not a bang. That's how some writer a long time ago said the world was going to end. With a whimper, not a bang. Well, the world ended, they say, and from where I'm sitting, it wasn't even a whimper. It ended with a whisper, and a shrug and then everybody left just kinda moved on.
The apocalypse totally wasn't even that bad. Worse things have happened to me today and it's not even fifth section yet.
In history classes my whole life I've heard about the single act of terror that lead one nation to attack another, and then a domino effect ripping the entire globe into a chaos of rocket propelled grenades, nuclear bombs, chemical weapons and all sorts of awful death and carnage and stuff.
We put up a big wall around us from the rest of the world. We moved on. For a generation, we've moved on. We have movies, and libraries and the mall. We have boys and marching bands and football and chemistry class. We have puppies and chicken pox and baked potato night. I've been warm and comfortable and I guess happy my whole life. It's easy here.
Some people, like Mr. Culpepper, whisper that the battle rages on around the globe. But I don't care about the globe. I've never even left New Columbus. I've never seen a gun, let alone a megaton automatonic nuclear drone. And I don't even own a crossbow, like all of the heroines in those post-apocalyptic books and movies. So, in short, I don't give a spit about the terror mastermind, or the ambassdors or the soldiers or rebels.
Why should I care about the apocalypse when my Dad forces me to finish my algebra homework before we even get to play chess or watch a movie.
Why should I care about the end of the world when my Mom died doing something so easy as giving birth to me? Tons of people do that without dying every day. How weak.
Why should I care about armageddon when my Dad's sick and refuses to go to the doctor.
Why should I care when Omar was sent away to boarding school without even getting to say goodbye?
Why should I care about humanity's end when by nightfall, I'll be dead. Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that?
My name's Silvia Pinto and today is the day I die.
How's that for a bang?
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Chapter 12
I carefully turned the worn brass knob and tried to sneak out the side door like a shadow. But I wasn't stealthy enough.
"Hey, poor little girl! Why aren't you dead?" My life-long neighbor stood on his front porch in a loosely drawn bathrobe, pajamas underneath. Arms crossed.
"Not now, Mr. Ibrahim," I said.
"No. Yes, Now!"
I put my napsack down and drifted over the driveway that separated his land from ours. "What do you want from me?" A quiver in my voice.
For the first time I could remember, I saw a glint of kindness in his eyes. "I'm glad you're not really dead. I know who you are."
Him too? Am I the punchline to some secret joke. What the hell? I climbed up the steps to his porch two at a time and rushed him.
"How is it that I'm the last one to know this secret? How long have you known?"
"I've always known."
"Then why have you been so mean to me? Throwing stones at me? Teaching your girls to sneak attack me? Forcing Omar to beat me up?"
At the mention of his son's name, Mr. Ibrahim dropped his crossed arms.
"I do this for you...not against you. To make stronger. To prepare--"
"Prepare me for what?"
"To prepare for this!" He waved to the heavens above and the world around us, which had fallen and collapsed in on me in the last 24 hours.
He was right. Through kicked shins and pulled hair I had learned to take a punch I knew I could take, and how to avoid one I needed to miss. Dammit; The Ibrahim reign of torture had saved my ass this afternoon. The soldiers didn't know that they weren't the first kids on the block to try to ambush me.
"What now?" I ask him.
"First, you run. Run fast, run far. Go with Raznofsky. Into the woods. And when you're ready to go to war, just come back for me."
"War? What do you mean? What war?"
"The war they declared when they took all of us...when they did this to you....when they took my son. My only son. Every time I cry for him in the night, I wake up the next morning and get a gun."
"Guns? We're not supposed to have--"
"I have cried many times. So I have guns. I have phasers, lasers and tasers. I have pellet guns, bean bag guns, dart guns. Sonic blasters, flame throwers, bayonets, rifles. They are in my basement. I show you sometime."
"Look, Mr. Ibrahim, I'm not a soldier. I'm a...a....Junior in High School!"
"Not any more. Now you are dead Junior in High School. Only on the books. But if you stand still too long, then you'll really be dead Junior in High School." He crosses his arms again.
I jump down the stairs and stare at the spot in the driveway where I had written my name alongside his: "Silvia and Omar." I turn back to him over my shoulder. He silently motions to my bag.
I lean down, grab my stuff and say goodbye to my house. To my Dad. To Highschool. To Life.
I turn away and head back into the darkness.
"Wait, Poor Little Girl. I almost forget." Mr. Ibrahim stood on his son's name and threw something at me.
I caught it before I knew what it was.
"Good reflexes, yes?" He was proud.
I look in my hands and see a small, shiny black handle. I push the silver button on the side and a blade pops out. I push it back into place with a quick.
"It was your mother's."
"You knew my mom?"
A helicopter whizzed by, too closely in the night sky.
"Run, little girl. Run!"
So I put the knife in my pocket and ran back into the woods behind our neighborhood.
"Hey, poor little girl! Why aren't you dead?" My life-long neighbor stood on his front porch in a loosely drawn bathrobe, pajamas underneath. Arms crossed.
"Not now, Mr. Ibrahim," I said.
"No. Yes, Now!"
I put my napsack down and drifted over the driveway that separated his land from ours. "What do you want from me?" A quiver in my voice.
For the first time I could remember, I saw a glint of kindness in his eyes. "I'm glad you're not really dead. I know who you are."
Him too? Am I the punchline to some secret joke. What the hell? I climbed up the steps to his porch two at a time and rushed him.
"How is it that I'm the last one to know this secret? How long have you known?"
"I've always known."
"Then why have you been so mean to me? Throwing stones at me? Teaching your girls to sneak attack me? Forcing Omar to beat me up?"
At the mention of his son's name, Mr. Ibrahim dropped his crossed arms.
"I do this for you...not against you. To make stronger. To prepare--"
"Prepare me for what?"
"To prepare for this!" He waved to the heavens above and the world around us, which had fallen and collapsed in on me in the last 24 hours.
He was right. Through kicked shins and pulled hair I had learned to take a punch I knew I could take, and how to avoid one I needed to miss. Dammit; The Ibrahim reign of torture had saved my ass this afternoon. The soldiers didn't know that they weren't the first kids on the block to try to ambush me.
"What now?" I ask him.
"First, you run. Run fast, run far. Go with Raznofsky. Into the woods. And when you're ready to go to war, just come back for me."
"War? What do you mean? What war?"
"The war they declared when they took all of us...when they did this to you....when they took my son. My only son. Every time I cry for him in the night, I wake up the next morning and get a gun."
"Guns? We're not supposed to have--"
"I have cried many times. So I have guns. I have phasers, lasers and tasers. I have pellet guns, bean bag guns, dart guns. Sonic blasters, flame throwers, bayonets, rifles. They are in my basement. I show you sometime."
"Look, Mr. Ibrahim, I'm not a soldier. I'm a...a....Junior in High School!"
"Not any more. Now you are dead Junior in High School. Only on the books. But if you stand still too long, then you'll really be dead Junior in High School." He crosses his arms again.
I jump down the stairs and stare at the spot in the driveway where I had written my name alongside his: "Silvia and Omar." I turn back to him over my shoulder. He silently motions to my bag.
I lean down, grab my stuff and say goodbye to my house. To my Dad. To Highschool. To Life.
I turn away and head back into the darkness.
"Wait, Poor Little Girl. I almost forget." Mr. Ibrahim stood on his son's name and threw something at me.
I caught it before I knew what it was.
"Good reflexes, yes?" He was proud.
I look in my hands and see a small, shiny black handle. I push the silver button on the side and a blade pops out. I push it back into place with a quick.
"It was your mother's."
"You knew my mom?"
A helicopter whizzed by, too closely in the night sky.
"Run, little girl. Run!"
So I put the knife in my pocket and ran back into the woods behind our neighborhood.
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