Blues

Prologue

In our country, there's little to do that doesn't involve some kind of a theater.

 In America, kids do a variety of things for recreation - they see movies, yes, even occasionally they will see a play. But there's more. Some kids play sports. Some build robots. Some have part-time jobs. They go to socials, they go shopping. There is at least one beautiful thing in America, and it goes by the name of variety. And while you only have to ride a subway in the States to hear a tired businessman complain of "day in and day out," the American conception of monotony is a joke. An American will talk until he's blue in the face about how he doesn't have the job he dreamed of, but the truth is, he has no idea. At least he was once allowed to dream. 

The Herel Plain used to be part of America, centuries upon centuries ago, but a history of political turmoil left it geographically disputed and, essentially, up for grabs. To hold power over the land, one only had to fight the others off for it. To be willing to kill for power. To prove the strongest and the most popular. Harving Herel, the former U.S. senator and ex-marine who led the charge to formally separate the Plain from the States, was this person. The truth was, he was not ready to rule a country, and the Plain was not ready to be one. Under Herel's government, the economy of the Plain plummeted exponentially, with each and every industry failing, one after the other. Our children starved, and those who were able migrated. The population disappeared with the domestic profit.

In all the infertile, fruitless land, only one industry managed to survive: the film industry. Hereli directors and producers who rose to prominence during the first years of independence proved to be our infantile nation's greatest asset. American investors wanted Hereli movies. Soon, we had actors' guilds. We had film festivals. We had tourism. Those who managed to break into film managed to stay alive in the Plain. Those who couldn't, well, we couldn't.

That is why every Hereli child is bred, from the day we are born, to perform. We are not taught academics. We are not taught trades. We are taught to put on a show. If you don't have a talent in my country, you are as good as dead. Only the fit can afford to stay here; unfortunately, most of the rest cannot afford to leave.

"Vannah," Jack calls quietly from across the dark room. It is nearly midnight, and while I am wide awake, he was supposed to be out hours ago. 

"What are you doing up?" I ask.

"I'm not tired," he says, but I know he is lying.

Still, I give him benefit of the doubt. "How come?" I ask. "You were up early this morning."

He just shrugs. "Tell me a story."

"I don't know any stories."

"Tell me about the time you won that pageant."

I shut my eyes in exasperation, figuring he can't see it in the dark of the bedroom. "Which pageant?"

"The one with the big crown."

"Which big crown?"

"The silver one in your shoe box," he elaborates. You'd think he would lead with this, but kids have a tendency to start general and get specific, and Jack is no exception.

"I don't like that story," I give as the simplest response.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't, Jack."

"Then why do you still have the crown?"

I sigh. He is oblivious to everything, except to the things you'd expect him to be oblivious to.

"Jack, go to bed."