A large poster is taped to the front of our classroom. It’s grey and has the word “creativity” written on it in big, black, block letters. Through the word is an X. This poster is in every grey classroom in our small town.
We aren’t allowed to have any creativity; we aren’t permitted to have ideas outside those that the Government wants us to have. We only read textbooks. Ten pages a night from 7:00-7:10 between our half hour of homework and hour of physical activity. No art except for the posters can be seen around town. No music is played. There is nothing to brighten up our dismally grey world.
We aren’t even allowed to control our own conversations, our own emotions. If the scripted conversations you have with your family and pre-selected friends say you’re happy, then you’re happy. The same applies if you are sad. This is how life has been for the past century and it isn’t changing any time soon.
Our teacher drones on about why creativity is considered evil and a sin. Why the only colours we see are black and grey with the white that makes up everyone’s hair.
We’ve all heard it before, but we listen anyway with neutral expressions, our backs as straight as boards and our hands folded in our laps.
The teacher speaks in a tone as neutral and emotionless as his expression, occasionally writing on the blackboard in a font identical to the textbooks.
His lecture ends immediately before the bell rings. Everyone stands up as a group. We swing our bags onto our shoulders and file out of the room in a perfectly straight line just as we’ve done for years.
We march out of the room, take exactly twenty paces, stop, do a quarter turn and open the doors to our lockers. Girls’ lockers are on the right and boys’ on the left.
After we empty our backpacks into our lockers a single book remains in them. We simultaneously slam them shut, turn around, and take two steps forward. The boys have done the same and now we are a step away from them.
The person across from me is Stephen Hazelton. My partner, who will become my husband in several years, I will have one daughter and one son with him. His platinum blonde hair reaches his ears and his bangs just reach his eyebrow. He has bright blue eyes and sharp features. He is a foot taller than me, which could prove to be problematic. The only things that set him apart from all the other boys in the line are his features and height.
He holds out a note as everyone other boy does. As a collective, the girls accept the note and read them. They all say the same thing: Should I come over to your house in half an hour? Not exactly vague. After a minute we make eye contact and I nod, sliding the note into my pocket. He gives off a slight smile.
We do a half-turn so we face the door and Stephen grabs my hand. Everyone else does the same. We begin our march home.


When I step into my house, my brother is in the living room watching the approved program at this time. It’s explaining how creativity was the ruin of the world. Different ideas clashed and spiraled into disagreements which turned to war. With everyone as a single individual, it’s hard to keep them under control and to ensure no one is injured. With everyone as a collective, it’s easier to keep disagreements under control and decrease the number of injuries.
Normally I would join him for half an hour before we would stand up and have a snack before dinner. But, since it’s Friday and Stephen’s coming over in half an hour I need to go to my room and get ready.
I’m nearly trembling as I walk down the hall, but I’m keeping my walk and facial expression in their neutral positions in case my brother happens to look over and see me. Five steps to my door, four, three, two, one. I close the door behind me and dash to my bed, nearly jumping up and down with excitement. I get to be alone for half an hour. I hit the floor and reach under my bed, feeling for the loose floorboard. I rip it upward and pull out sheets that were originally white, but are now spattered with beautiful blues, rich purples and deep reds.
I roll up my sleeves and poke my arms through the rips in the bed sheet and my head through the large one at the top. I reach under the bed again and this time I come up with a canvas, a palette, a few paintbrushes and some paint.
The canvas is only half coloured in swirls of yellow, lines of green and shades of orange. It’s something called an “abstract” painting, so it has no definite form or shape. It can be anything you want it to be, which is exactly what I want my life to be like.
I sit down in my desk chair, squirt some paint on my palette and begin to transfer the colours onto the canvas, mixing them and swirling them around together. I glance to the clock twenty-five minutes until Stephen arrives.


My painting is nearly finished when I have five minutes left before Stephen knocks on my door, and I’ll have to look like I’ve been preparing for half an hour. I desperately want to finish my painting, but if he sees it then there will be serious consequences.
The Government never explained what they do to people who are practicing painting or any type of creativity. The closest I’ve come to knowing that tidbit of information is the story of little Charlie Abbott, who was found with papers upon papers of words, crafting a tale I would’ve thought would be beautifully written.
Alas, his parents discovered it and turned him into the Government. They handcuffed him, threw him in a car with windows you couldn’t see into and drove away. I never saw him before or after he was taken away.
I do not want to befall the same fate as him so without cleaning my palette or brushes, I open the loose floorboard, insert everything inside, including the bed sheet and replace the floorboard.
I try my best not to run over to my wardrobe as I replace my school dress with my casual wear, an unflattering grey dress and a belt that wraps around my waist. Just as I finish brushing my hair, a knock sounds on my door. I straighten my posture and create a neutral expression on my face, erasing the hurried look it had a moment before. All the while I count in my head: five, four, three, two, one. I open the door. Stephen is standing there, his hair neatly brushed, his casual grey shirt and pants impeccable.
“Hello,” he says tonelessly.
“Hello,” I reply in the same tone.
He asks if he can come in and I nod and close the door behind him.
“How are you?” he asks, gingerly sitting on the edge of my bed as he has done every time he comes over.
“I am well, thank you. How are you?” I sit beside him and we stare at each other unfathomably.
“Well, now that I am with you, but I had a horrid day at school,” he replies.
At this point I ask him why and he stands up and walks away and turns towards my desk and feigns closure as if he doesn’t want to tell me what’s wrong. Then I usually stand up and touch his arm and say comfortingly that he can tell me anything.
Our conversations are always dry and predictable since each of us knows what is going to happen in the end. He’ll end up telling me what’s wrong, I’ll comfort him, I tell him some of my own problems that have been pre-decided, he comforts me and we continue on like this for an hour until he bids me farewell and leaves.
“You can tell me anything,” I say, touching his arm gently.
He doesn’t look at me like he’s supposed to; instead he’s staring at my desk.
A drop of blood red paint lies there. He raises a finger. “What’s that?” he asks looking at me with hard eyes, not his usual blank ones.
“I don’t know,” I try to say confusedly, but I know the game’s over. I’ve been caught by Stephen. Any minute now he’ll dash out of my room heading straight to the phone and he’ll call the authorities telling them I’ve been practicing creativity.
Stephen looks at me with a raised eyebrow and turns to face me, grabbing my shoulders. “Ashlea,” he says strictly. “We both know what you’ve been doing in here.”
Under different circumstances I would have been surprised at how easy he can speak without a script. When I first started I could barely say anything. I sigh and look at the ground. “I’ve been painting.” I tell him the obvious, knowing that he probably doesn’t even know what painting is. “But Stephen you can’t tell anyone.” I look up at him, my eyes pleading. “Please.”
“I have to, you’ve been practicing creativity,” he says in a blank tone, he turns away from me and begins to march towards the door. I run in front of him, spreading my arms across it.
“Stephen please,” I nearly cry, before lowering my voice remembering my brother is in the next room. “Don’t tell anyone about this. I’ve got to paint, I’ll do anything you want me to, just don’t tell anyone.”
Stephen stares at me blankly. “Ashlea, I have to tell somebody, it is against the law to be creative. Do you want to start a war?” His tone changes from strict to comforting in a fluid motion.
“No,” I reply shortly. “But I don’t understand how one painting will start a war.”
“One painting turns into two and two turns into four and next thing we know there will be as many paintings as there was in the Old Days.” The days where creativity was permitted, I wish I could go back in time and live there. “People will begin to have arguments and the world will spiral back into battles. You have heard the lectures before.”
I stare down at my feet. “But I’m just painting for fun, besides I’m not showing anybody.” This was a lie. I was selling them through the black market. I would give them to Zelda and she’d sell them, keeping the profit and buying my new supplies when I asked for them. I was still permitted to paint. It was what would’ve been called a win-win situation.
Stephen shakes his head mechanically. “You will start to.”
“I promise I won’t, Stephen now please don’t tell anyone, we can continue our conversation like nothing ever happened,” I try to say in a soothing tone, but it comes out rushed and desperate.
I take his arm and sit him on the edge of my bed. I straighten my posture and put a neutral expression on my face. “You were just telling me about your day at school,” I say in a blank tone in an attempt to be normal.
He doesn’t buy it and shakes his head again. “No, Ashlea I have to report this.”
“Well, then it looks like I’ll be getting some blood on my hands today,” says a voice that is not mine. Stephen and I both look towards the window and see a girl with honey-coloured skin outside leaning on the windowsill. She’s wearing all black and her chocolate brown hair is streaked with reds and blues. A gun is in her hand and she’s chewing a wad of something yellow.
“Zelda? It’s Friday you aren’t-“ I begin, but Zelda waves her hand.
“I’m aware of the days of the week, thank you Ashlea.” She climbs in through the window with no difficulty. She sighs and begins to say something else when her eyes land on Stephen. “Charlie?” she says, her eyes lighting up in surprise.
“Zelda? What are you doing here?” he says his voice showing a hint of surprise, but was otherwise unfathomable.
Surprise clearly shows on my face as my head swirls with questions, yet is simultaneously frozen with shock.
Zelda recovers from her shock first and her face morphs into a relaxed expression. “Since you left, I’ve picked up a new client. How’s life going for you with your new family? It took a lot to put you there, after your carelessness got you kicked out of your original.”
Quickly, I put the pieces together in my head. Stephen is Charlie Abbott, the boy who was taken away because he was writing on his own.
“No one suspects a thing,” Stephen-Charlie- says stonily.
“Great,” Zelda turns on her heel and looks at the clock. “Well, you two love birds have fun, seeing as you only have ten minutes left of your precious alone time. And Charlie, or should I say Stephen, I trust you have enough sense to not repeat our little encounter to the government.” Zelda winked at us, twirled her gun in her fingers and slid out the window.
I turn to Charlie and the questions come spilling out of my mouth. “So you’re Charlie? The one who was prosecuted for writing?” I ask excitedly.
He nods slowly. “You must know about the underground market and how everyone needs a client to earn their wages. I was Zelda’s client; she took my writings and sold them, keeping the money for herself much like she does for you now. I got caught, but I had time to tell Zelda and she arranged for me to go with Government officials from the black market. I did and they put me in a new home away from everyone who knew me and no one knew about our deal,” Charlie says, his expression blank. I’m surprised at the ease at which he tells me this. It must be because I’m Zelda’s client.
He glances at the clock. “Good-bye Ashlea, good luck on your painting.” He leaves my room and I glance at the clock. We still have forty minutes together.


That night I wake up to someone roughly shaking me awake. “Get up! Come on!” Their voice sounds pleading and their grip is strong. I open my eyes groggily and Zelda is hovering over me.
“Wh-what’s-“ she cuts me off before I can finish my stammered question.
“There’s no time for questions!” she exclaims, pulling me out of bed, she shoves a pair of holey shoes towards me. “Put those on,” she commands.
I blink blearily up at her. “Now,” she says angrily. I can tell she’s on the verge of yelling, but she is keeping her voice in a hushed tone.
I do as I’m told and she violently grabs my arm and pulls me out the open window and slams it closed. She takes my arm and sprints through our yard with me.
I have trouble keeping up to her. We never did any running at school and now I know why. It was so we can’t make a quick getaway when we need to. She nimbly leaps over the fence and I follow her lead, but I don’t do it as gracefully and I end up tripping and falling face first into the gravel in our alley. I skin my knee and tears burn my eyes.
I’ve never seen my own blood before, except for the rare paper cut. In school we aren’t allowed to use scissors and our parents don’t let us touch the knives and everything sharp is kept out of reach. We never tripped or fell because all the surfaces we walked on were smooth and it was absolutely forbidden for us to go into the alleys.
Zelda makes an impatient noise and yanks me upright, pulling me along until we reach the end of the alley.
She lets go of my arm, her fingers have left red marks. I rub it anxiously and wonder if I’m going to die from lack of blood circulation. I ask Zelda this and she laughs hollowly.
“People are right when they say that you guys are as stupid as you look. The Government never teaches you anything, even things that wouldn’t hurt them if you did know them. You aren’t going to die doll.” Although this isn’t the answer I would like to receive to my question, I sense that Zelda’s on the verge of being very angry so I don’t ask her to elaborate.
Zelda kneels down, does a quick sweep of the street with her eyes. She brushes some gravel around, revealing a smooth metal plate. Zelda looks up again cautiously and lifts the plate, revealing a deep, black hole. She motions to me and I went over to her looking down the hole. I can’t see the bottom. It was like a giant black mouth trying to swallow me whole. I gulp and look down at her apprehensively.
“For God’s sake,” Zelda mutters as she straightens up and pushes me into the hole.
I scream as the darkness engulfs me. I keep screaming until I hit a layer of softness. Hands grab my arms and drag me off the layer and I stumble onto a concrete floor. Fluorescent lighting flares into action and I blink against the sudden brightness.
I am in a hallway that is painted black; the fluorescent lights are embedded in the ceiling. I am basically standing beside a pile of soft objects. A black wall is erected beside it, ending the hallway. Behind me is a corridor that seems endless, the lights go on forever in the dark hall.
The person who grabbed me is a young boy, no older than fifteen. He is well-built and short for his age. His black hair is spiked up in the front and is tipped with blonde. His hands are streaked with paint and are rough with calluses. A gun is in its holster around his waist. It’s strange to think that someone so young would be armed. Then again, the only person I’ve seen with a gun was Zelda. I wonder if everyone young and old carried guns in the Old Days.
Zelda lands behind me with a thump. She slides off the miscellaneous soft objects, her boots hitting the floor with a clack. “Ah, I’ve seen you’ve met Matt. Matt, this is Ashlea she’ll be joining us here in the Underground.”
Matt smiles at me and holds out his hand. “Ashlea, that’s a pretty name.” I shake his hand once. His grip is strong and rough. I release his hand, hoping he doesn’t notice the sweat on my palms. I wipe them of on my nightgown and he frowns before he leads Zelda and me down the hall.
Zelda walks up and starts speaking with Matt. “She’s my second client, other than Charlie of course.”
“I figured as much,” Matt says with a slight smile. “She’s the painter right?”
Zelda nods and he abruptly laughs. “You aren’t getting much luck with clients are you? They both get caught within three years of each other.”
She scowls. “It isn’t my fault that they’re careless.”
“At least you could save this one,” Matt says, jerking his head back at me. He turns around and walks backward so he can look at me. “So... Ashlea, how did you get caught?”
“I didn’t,” I say looking at Zelda, she rolls her eyes.
Matt laughs. “So what you’re saying is you just decided to pay us a visit in the middle of the night?” His eyes scan me, taking in my grey nightgown and skinned knee.
“No,” I say defensively. “Zelda dragged me here.”
He raises his eyebrows at her and she shakes her head. “She doesn’t know the full story yet.” She glances back at me and sighs. “Get this, Charlie and her were supposed to be together as in husband and wife. Anyway, I happened to check on her while he was over. Bright little Ashlea here,” she says this part with her voice filled with sarcasm,“forgets to clean up her work station and he starts saying he’s going to tell the Government about it. So I come in and I see that it’s Charlie. We have a little chat he heads home and I follow him home. Next thing I know he’s phoning the Government about it. Turns out that instead of Ricky and Joseph picking him up some Government officials did and put him back into society as their little spy. Ashlea was just his victim this time.”
I blink at Zelda and her story quickly snaps into place. No wonder Stephen left so early. He wanted to tell the Government about me. And that’s why he was pushing to leave before Zelda got there and I only thought it was natural behavior for people like us, well them now.
“Betcha couldn’t have figured that one out on your own, eh Ash?” Zelda ruffles my hair as we reach the end of the hall. She whispers something to Matt. He nods and with a final smile he disappears through a door at the end of the hall. I make to follow him, but Zelda grabs my arm and pulls me into a separate room.
This room is painted yellow and has a white bed in the corner. A table is beside it and on top of the table is a white box with a red cross painted on top. Opposite the table is an oak wardrobe.
“Sit there.” Zelda commands as she points to the bed.
I nod and sit down. She opens the box and rifles through it, extracting white gauze and disinfectant along with a few patches of cloth. She pours some disinfectant onto the cloth and starts cleaning my knee. It stings and I wince, tears stinging my eyes.
“A stranger to pain are you?” Zelda asks lightly, not looking up at me.
I bite my lip to keep from crying out again. Zelda wraps my knee in the gauze, blood spotting the white cloth.
Zelda finally looks up at me her dark brown eyes filled with something like amusement. “Emma,” she says sitting down beside me.
“Excuse me?” I say looking at her with bewilderment.
“Your new name. Emma. You can’t go around with Ashlea anymore. You don’t want to make it any easier for the Government now do you?”
I consider this a few moments before agreeing with her and saying:“Why Emma?”
“We lost our E a little while ago. There’s only 26 of us here, the rest who get caught we reintegrate into society. 26 is all it takes to run this place. Everyone has a name beginning with a different letter. We forsake our names and families and come to live under here. You’re going to join us. Our E, Eric was killed recently so we need a new one. That’s going to be you, Emma.”
“Emma.” I repeat, looking at Zelda with a little less than bewilderment. “What was your name before?”
“Ava,” she replies shortly. “What do you say Emma? Do you want to join us?” There’s a spark of interest in her eyes and it looks like she’s hoping I’ll say yes.
I consider my options. Either stay down here and be protected or go back to my family where the Government will most surely catch me. The answer is obvious. I nod and Zelda’s face breaks into a grin. I start to smile too, I like the way she keeps saying my name.
“Excellent. Training starts tomorrow, Emma. We have some clothes in the closet over there and you’ll get your gun in the morning. See you tomorrow.” She smiles again as she leaves the room.
“Emma,” I whisper to myself. I like it; I like it better than Ashlea. I smile to myself. A new name for a new life. A new colourful world, the Underground.