The Note

By Lina Miller

I looked dismally towards the ground. I look down at my watch. It reads 11:58, two more minutes before the mayor turns off all the lights in the city. More importantly, two more minutes to get home. My pace quickens, my heartbeat quickening with every step. Suddenly, I realize I'm running. My door seems to be sprinting towards me like I'm running on a treadmill. I look at my watch once again. This time it reads 11:59 and 58 seconds. I sprint towards the door, tears springing from my eyes. I reach for the door knob, then as suddenly as if someone had placed a black cloth over my face, it goes dark. This is the city of Awnina. I place where everything except us people and some food sources are battery operated or run on electricity. And this is where I, Delphia, live.

My parents, Ala (my mom) and Mo (dad), always say that Grandpa Standard (my dad's dad) could tell us what to do at a time like this in this screwed up world. I usually ask why I have never met Granda Standard and my mom looks into my eye with a glint of sadness and just says, "Now is not the time for a question like that." I try to give her a, "That's not an answer!" look but she always turns it into an, "Alright, I understand" look, which often leads to a "Good, I'm glad you understand" look from her. So, as usual, I slumped in my chair and sat there like a poor abandoned dog trying to understand human French instead of dog bark communication.

The next morning, I walked out side, the cool breeze blowing my hair in crazy different directions. A plump, puffed up robin flew down and promptly settled himself comfortably on my shoulder. It cooed softly and gracefully in my ear. I looked over at it and sacrificed my finger. It hopped on and I quickly reached under its chest, flipped the switch to OFF and slowly the bird's movements became extinct. I placed it down on a branch on an old white Layocoylie tree, its flowers almost awake from their winter rest and flipped the switch back to ON I walked on down the street, the ghostly silence surrounding me. I heard a crumple and a rip and looked what my foot had destroyed and saw a scrap of paper. I picked it up and looked at the crazy little scribbles on it. I ran home. I opened the wide broad front door and saw my dad hugging a portrait of my Grandpa Standard, mumbling to himself. "Hey, I'm home," I announced. "Hey honey," he answered. "Um, Dad, can you tell me what this is?" Sure," he said. I handed him the scrap of paper. He took the piece of paper and scanned over it, a sad but surprised expression on his face. He looked up, picked up the portrait of my Grandpa and stuffed the piece of paper in his pocket. "This belongs to me," and with that, he walked out of the room.

When I finally turned 17, my dad taught me how to read. A year later my dad passed away and after the funeral there was a reading of the will. To my lovely daughter Delphia: $200,000, and the note. Everyone there was confused by what that meant, but I knew perfectly well. After the ceremony, I ran to my house and looked on my dad's beside table. There lay the crumpled, chewed up note. I opened it and read:

The world is no longer safe. Pollution has gone too far to manage and the sky is turning dark gray. I'm writing this note because this is probably the last day of human existence. Please, if God gives us another chance, don't mess the world up or terrible things will happen.

P.S., Whoever finds this note, please find my son Mo Lalifey and read it out loud to him.

Sincerely,

Standard Y. Lalifey.