No Place

Being placed in an internment camp for opponents of the Iraq War was no small feat, especially to those who actually knew me. I didn’t even know I was opposed to the war, but now I walked to a large structure that resembled an overgrown parking garage, Katya riding her little pink Barbie bike behind me. Others would join us eventually, on the premise that we still had our freedom of speech. With past precedent of wartime internment camps, it wasn’t hard to make the jump from isolated speech zones to “long-term” speech zones to lessen the chance of treason.

This particular camp grew corn and made quite good money producing it into alcohol. Economically camps seemed to have some freedom, just as long as it was a designated crop. Looking at the grey concrete structure, I wasn’t exactly sure where the corn grew. However, I was sure that the people actually growing it were bound to be a relief from the world I was being forced out of, perhaps with a few ideologies or morals. I hoped that a collusion of like souls would move me somewhere I had not been before.

As I approached the entrance, a woman approached me and we exchanged trivialities for a few minutes regarding the schedule I’d follow. She noticed Katya riding on a lower level and sharply growled, glancing over at a rack of downtrodden grey bikes. “She can’t keep that. The other residents would surely hurt her to get it.”


05 2006

1 Comments Add Yours ↓

The upper is the most recent comment

  1. Heidi #

    Now thatI’ve had my fun, I should clarify that this was only a dream. But how long do you listen when someone starts to drone “So last night I had this really cool dream!” Yes.

    Also, “no place” is the literal meaning of “utopia.” You think about that.