Miss Locke and Miss Ardis, whose Christian names were Madison and Lora, were very eccentric. They lived in the biggest house in town, and yet they never had any parties. They wore their hair long, and dressed solely in a color that was darker than gray. Mother used to say that Madison and Lora were destined for jail because of their eccentricities, and it really was only a matter of time before they were discovered. Their existence never bothered me, but it seemed to bother Mother, Father, and the other people in town.

Miss Locke and Miss Ardis were very eccentric. They could be seen sneaking through town, holding canvas bags close to their bodies, eyes darting around wildly. They avoided contact with anybody older than six, but they often gave the sticky toddlers sticky treats. Sometimes, the toddlers would go to their houses, and come out later, silent. Mother used to say that Madison and Lora were destined for jail because of their obsession with children, and it was only a matter of time before they were discovered.

Mother used to say a lot of things about Miss Locke and Miss Ardis, none of them complimentary. I never disagreed with her, because Miss Locke and Miss Ardis were very eccentric, and they deserved the ridicule the town gave them. The only people who seemed to like Miss Locke and Miss Ardis were the children, and even they treated the strange women more like respected teachers than friends.

I never understood them. I never really wanted to. They were in no way important to me or my existence. They were just two very strange, eccentric women who lived in the large house down the lane. Those two very strange, eccentric women changed my life.

The events that I speak of occurred during a muggy day in May. I was out playing in puddles, getting the hem of my skirt muddy. The other children were off in a park, flying kites or sliding down slides. Such traditional amusements had never interested me, though. I liked to play with the filthy water that fell from the sky. I used to dream that the filthy water would take away my own impurities. Mother told me that our impurities kept us from achieving perfection, and that was what the president and his people were striving towards: perfection. I enjoyed the idea of perfection. I wanted to look prettier than Molly, who had perfect, white teeth, and perfect, cute dimples. If the president could find a way to produce perfection, I approved.

My childish thoughts were interrupted as Miss Locke bustled by, her head down. I wasn’t paying attention to her, absorbed in my puddle, and she wasn’t paying attention to me, absorbed in her thoughts. It was inevitable that we should collide, and we did. Being the smaller one, I went flying and fell down in my puddle. Miss Locke’s bag fell to the ground. The woman shrieked and threw herself at the ground. I thought she was going to scoop me up and apologize, but she didn’t seem to notice my mud-covered body. She was more focused on shoveling things into her bag.

“All ruined,” she mumbled to herself, shoving a stick into her bag, “All ruined. Foolish child...” I stared at her, listened to her strange murmurs. Miss Locke gathered her things in her bag, and raced off. I watched her, lying helplessly in the puddle, and then stood up, intent on forgetting the incident. However, an object caught my eye. It was like the other stick Miss Locke had put in her bag. On the end of the stick was hair. I studied it with wonder, playing with the tan hair. Miss Locke had red hair, and Miss Ardis had black. How very strange they would attach someone else’s hair to a stick. With a shrug, I pocketed it, and walked towards their large house at the end of the lane. I would return their strange stick, and get a glimpse into their house. A lucky day for me!

Their house was large, as previously mentioned. It was a Victorian house. Such a thing didn’t really exist in modern times. After the Purge in 2012, houses that were considered artistic or beautiful were destroyed. They were replaced with cozy suburban houses that all looked the same. Mother said that was when society began it’s quest for perfection. “Art,” my mother said, “had to go. As did science. They simply had to be destroyed.” I did not understand this mindset, and had questioned her. “I don’t understand, Mother,” I had said to her, eating my vegetables. Mother, with her stern face and dark eyes, had simply shook her head. “There are some things humans were not meant to understand. Understanding would lead to our destruction. If we had continued our artistic and scientific pursuits, we would have destroyed ourselves. And so, we destroyed them first.”

I never quite understood what Mother had meant, but I pretended that I did. Looking at the Victorian door in front of me brought a rush of similar conversations to mind, but I ignored them, and knocked politely on the door. How one can knock politely is a mystery, as a knock is a knock, but I imagined that I could knock politely. There was no answer, which was most impolite. Glancing around the area, I opened the door and slipped inside, shutting it quietly behind me.

A long hall stretched in front of my eyes. It was strangely barren, the woodwork feeling like it was missing something. Light was dim in the ominous hallway. I took a step forward, and the floorboards creaked creepily beneath my weight. Spider webs glittered in the pale light, the inhabitants scrambling up towards the dusty chandelier as I approached. Maroon curtains hung from the one window, dusty and decrepit, sagging beneath the weight of age. Definitely creepy.

I reached the end of the hall with no luck in finding Miss Locke or Miss Ardis. Turning into a room, I was shocked to see many strange contraptions in front of me. A wooden box with white rectangles on the front of it was sitting in one corner of the room. In neat little rows, shiny, brass-colored trinkets sat. One object was squat, but had twisted innards. Another was silver, long, with circular pedals on it. The one that attracted the most attention was the wooden box that sat upright, leaning against a wall. It had steel strings stretched lengthwise across it. I had never seen such strange objects in my entire life. After staring for a moment, I turned to go. Mother had always said not to pry into other people’s business.

I wandered aimlessly through the house. Each room held new wonders. One contained frozen pictures, hanging from the walls. At first, I thought they were images that came from the Purged picture-boxes, but it looked more like someone had transferred the images in their head onto a piece of paper. Another room had a table with small bottles on it, twisty tubes circling around into strange designs, to end in a glass bottle. Another room held boxes that, if you pressed the right buttons, would beep, or a picture would appear on the screen. A picture box. Eventually, I ran out of wonders.

I was studying a wooden box that contained strange, rectangular objects with paper inside when I felt someone place a hand on my shoulder. I froze and looked over my shoulder fearfully. A frightened looking Miss Ardis stood there, her eyes bulging, her mouth wide. I could see the back of her throat.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered frantically. I gulped, cleared my throat, and nodded courteously at the older woman.

“I am here to see Miss Locke, if that’s quite all right,” I said clearly, in my “talking-to-adults” voice. Mother had taught me how to use it. Lora Ardis stared at me in terror, and turned on her heel, scuttling away. Hesitating, I followed, hoping she wasn’t running, that instead she was taking me to Miss Locke.

This proved to be correct. She led me up ancient stairs, her small hands clutching the railing, making veins pop out. I followed her, still absorbed in the sheer beauty of the house. I didn’t understand why Miss Locke and Miss Ardis hid away in their small corner of the universe. They could have shared the beauty with others. It was very selfish of them not to share it.

Miss Ardis led me to a door, where she knocked swiftly, throwing nervous glances at me from time to time. Nothing happened for a moment or two, and then the door opened. Miss Ardis walked inside, and I followed.

Miss Locke sat on a stool, her red hair pinned up in a messy upsweep, wearing darker-than-gray pants and shirt. In front of her was a strange piece of wood that held a thick, large piece of paper. In her hand, she held a stick with hair like I had found. The end had blood on it. I stared.

“This girl said she needed to speak to you,” Miss Ardis said in a strange, airy voice. Miss Locke waved a hand at Miss Ardis in dismissal and rubbed the bloodied stick against the piece of paper. She tilted her head sideways and observed her action, and then turned on her stool, smiling at me. She was a very handsome woman.

“Yes, child?” Miss Locke said, her voice deeper and richer than her companions. I cleared my throat and stepped forward, holding out her stick’s mate.

“You dropped this when you ran into me today,” I said softly, loosing confidence when I saw the way Miss Locke held herself. Miss Locke stared down at the object that I held in my hand, and nodded slowly. She reached out a hand and took it from me.

“Thank you, child,” she said gently. She then turned back to her large piece of paper, forgetting about me. Miss Ardis stepped forward and took me by the forearm. I twisted away from her.

“What is it?” I asked suddenly. Miss Locke paused and smirked down at her lap. She stood and, ignoring me, addressed Miss Ardis.

“Close the door, Lora. This child is curious,” Miss Locke said, as though this were a great triumph. Miss Ardis didn’t move.

“But Madison... she’s too old. She has to be fourteen,” Miss Ardis whined, twisting her hands.

“Thirteen,” I corrected. They ignored me.

“She is curious. It is enough,” Miss Locke declared. Miss Ardis whimpered slightly, but turned and closed the door, locking it. I blinked, a bit worried by these precautions. Miss Locke approached me.

“What is this, child?” she asked, showing me the stick again. I frowned.

“But I just asked you. Why would I know?”

Miss Locke laughed, a dark, sad sound. There was no mirth in her laugh. It reminded me of Mother’s laugh. Mother never really sounded happy when she laughed. Most of the older women didn’t sound happy when they laughed. Children were really the only beings that could laugh with pure joy.

“You dear thing... has society fallen so far that a thirteen-year-old doesn’t even recognize a paintbrush?” Miss Locke said sadly. Miss Ardis sighed, apparently having given up her objections to my presence.

“You know it has, Madison. It’s illegal to speak of such things,” her friend reminded her. Miss Locke sat down again, suddenly looking quite old. I was confused.

“Paintbrush?” I asked.

“Yes, my dear. A paintbrush. You dip it into paint, and you put the things you see in your head onto a canvas. Or a piece of paper, or a building, or anything you see,” Miss Locke explained to me. I shook my head.

“You had your stick... paintbrush... dipped in blood,” I said, pointing. Miss Ardis laughed.

“That was red paint. Madison is painting a carnation,” Miss Ardis informed me. I walked over to look. It was a very good replica of a carnation, I thought. My mother grew them. I nodded slowly.

“So, you make the images in your mind visible for the world?” I asked. Miss Locke nodded.

“Yes, but it’s so much more than that. You put your emotions out for the world to see. The canvas captures not only your thoughts and emotions, it captures your soul. When you paint, the world will see you in the picture,” Miss Locke breathed, her voice passionate and full of unrepressed emotion. I looked at her painting of a carnation.

“I see a carnation,” I said bluntly. Miss Ardis laughed again. Her laugh, unlike Miss Locke’s, was a happy laugh.

“You won’t recognize art until you live it,” she explained to me. I shrugged. I didn’t really understand. Miss Locke stood.

“She doesn’t understand. Let us show her more,” suggested the artist. Miss Ardis sighed a bit, but nodded. Miss Locke unlocked the door and exited. I followed her, and Miss Ardis brought up the rear.

She led me down the stairs and back into the first room I had noticed. The room full of strange objects. Miss Ardis shut the door behind her, and walked over to the large box with white rectangles. She sat down on a bench that was in front of it, and hit one of the white rectangles. A sound came out, startling me.

“What was that?” I asked. Miss Locke, who was picking up the strange stringed box, chuckled.

“That was music,” she said. Miss Ardis shook her head fervently.

“No, no, Madison. That is a lie, don’t lie to the child. That, my innocent one, was a note. Notes, when put together, create music,” she said. She put her small hands on the white rectangles again, hitting them. Noise erupted from the box, each noise a different pitch, creating a simple tune that I almost recognized. A song, buried so deep in the recesses of my mind that I had long forgotten it. A song. Music.

“Happy birthday,” I murmured. Miss Ardis stopped playing and stared at me. Miss Locke froze in her process of rubbing a yellow block over the strings.

“What did you say?” Miss Locke asked, incredulous. I repeated my murmured phrase, and a genuine smile darted across Miss Locke’s face.

“She remembers!” she said to her friend. Miss Ardis smiled and looked at me.

“Do you know what this instrument is called?” she asked me. I shook my head, feeling stupid. Miss Ardis looked slightly sad, but didn’t scold me. Mother would have scolded me if I had admitted something foolish like that. “It’s called a piano. Miss Locke is holding a violin. Those are a trumpet, a trombone, a French horn, a clarinet, and a flute,” she said, pointing to each of the strange contraptions on the ground- instruments, she had called them. The twisted innards instrument was a French horn apparently, and the silver long thing with circular pedals was a flute. How odd.

“Would you like to hear true music, child?” asked Miss Ardis. I nodded. The woman turned and placed her hands on the piano’s white rectangles and began playing. It sounded simple enough, but the power of it struck me. It was a slow song. It sounded like water falling from the trees and landing in puddles. It took over six minutes to finish. When Miss Ardis hit the last combination of notes, I let out the breath I had been holding for a minute.

“It’s beautiful... what is it?”

“Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Number fourteen in C sharp minor, Opus twenty seven, number two. Commonly called Moonlight Sonata,” Miss Ardis said softly. Tears were rolling down her face. Feeling embarrassed, I turned to Miss Locke, who was still playing with her... violin. Violin, yes.

“Will you be playing for me?” I asked her. Miss Locke shook her head.

“No, not tonight. Perhaps another night,” she said. I smiled slightly.

“I am allowed to come back?”

“So long as you tell no one what you see tonight, you are always welcome back. The children come, sometimes. They learn. They provide hope for a new generation.”

I nodded slowly, and looked at the instruments that lay upon the floor. I wondered what music I could produce on such a contraption. I desired to know, but knew that now was not the time. I was beginning to become convinced of this world that Miss Locke and Miss Ardis lived in. I sat down on the bench next to Miss Ardis and pressed one of the white rectangles down. A sound came out of it. I looked at Miss Ardis.

“Why is all of this illegal?” I asked, gesturing around the room. Miss Ardis sighed.

“Art, you mean?”

“And science. You had something scientific in this house,” I said. Miss Locke smiled.

“The chemistry set. And the television and the computer. Yes, we do.”

“Why is this illegal? It’s so beautiful, so mesmerizing. Why would this be considered bad?” I asked, growing desperate for an answer.

“Many years ago,” Miss Ardis began delicately, choosing her words carefully, “a religious movement began that declared we were getting too close to God. We were seeing his face in our works of art, and imitating his work in our science.”

I interrupted. “Why is this bad, imitating the power of God? Seeing his face? Why is this bad?”

Miss Locke took over. “I’m not quite sure why. I admit, science was getting out of hand. Cloning. They had cloned their first human, you see, and creating life out of nothing was next on the scientific agenda. It simply had to be stopped. There are some things that humans were not meant to understand. Understanding would have led to our destruction,” Miss Locke explained, eerily echoing my mother.

“Art, however... art was simply beauty, and the religious movement felt that it was too beautiful. After President Gregory was installed, he put a ban on art and science, stopping it. His predecessor took it a step further. He said that anybody who owned art or science would be jailed. His predecessor took it one step further. She said that anybody who owned art or science would be killed. The world let go of art and science at that threat. So we returned to the beginning of time, a time of foolishness and emptiness,” spat Miss Ardis. Miss Locke raised a hand.

“Ah, but even the cavemen had art.”

“Even the cavemen had art,” Miss Ardis repeated sadly.

“So they got rid of art all together?” I asked, dumbstruck. Miss Locke shook her head.

“Art is in our blood. We may ban it, destroy it, despise it, but we live it each and every day. Life is art, art is life. Passion, love, hate, jealousy, fear, pain- all of it is woven into the intricate tapestry that is our life. You cannot escape it, just as you cannot escape yourself. You cannot ban it, you’d be banning existence. You cannot destroy it, it will be born into another child. You cannot despise it- you’d be hating yourself. Such is art,” she said eloquently, running her fingers down the strings of the violin. Shivers crept up my spine.

“Did people die so they could keep their art?” I asked. Miss Ardis nodded slowly.

“Yes, many people were killed. Many of my close friends, my family. My husband was a painter. He was stoned to death. It’s hard to give up a way of life,” she explained, her eyes misting over a bit at the mention of her husband. I patted her shoulder awkwardly, not really knowing how to show sympathy. She smiled vaguely at me, hit a note on the piano, and stood up.

“Shall we show her literature, Madison?” she asked Miss Locke. Her friend nodded, set down her violin, and exited the room. Naturally, I followed. They led me to another room that contained the wooden box with rectangular objects on it. Miss Ardis plucked a rectangle off the wooden box and opened it, revealing the paper inside. She cleared her throat.

“ ‘I am nobody, who are you?/Are you a nobody too?/Then there’s a pair of us- don’t tell!/They’d banish us, you know,” Miss Ardis said clearly, reading slowly, a faint smile on her face as her fingers traced the dusty, worn words. I studied the rectangle with words in it.

“What is that?” I asked. Miss Locke pulled another rectangle off the box and handed it to me. I read the words on the front. “A Clockwork Orange,” I read carefully. She nodded simply and took it from me, putting it back on the wooden box.

“These are called books. They’re thoughts that were put into words. Lora was reading a very famous poem by Emily Dickinson. These books have always been banned, even before the international ban. There were certain books and ideas that people thought were unacceptable and frightening. Several classics were banned. Sometimes in history, people burned books to make sure nobody could read them. It was a sad period of time. It still is,” Miss Locke explained sadly. I looked at the rectangles- the books- and read some of the titles out loud.

“ ‘The Secret Garden’, ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’, ‘The Bluest Eye’, ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’... are all of these fake? The words inside, did they really happen?” I asked. Miss Ardis shrugged.

“Some of the events are based on historical truths and things that happen in real life, but the authors didn’t base them off a certain aspect of their lives, necessarily. The people in the books never existed, and if they did, nobody ever knew of them,” she told me. I sighed.

“Why must they ban such beautiful things?”

“We told you. They were afraid,” Miss Locke said. I shook my head.

“So they give us warnings. But why couldn’t have each individual made a choice?”

“Because they didn’t trust people to make the choices that they wanted them to make,” Miss Ardis said. I sighed.

“I don’t understand,” I whined. Miss Locke and Miss Ardis exchanged smiles.

“You never will, child. Until you understand humanity, you will never understand their choices,” Miss Locke said softly. I furrowed my brow.

“How do I understand humanity? When will I understand humanity?” I asked. Miss Locke chuckled.

“You won’t understand humanity until you examine the work that they leave behind, such as books, music, paintings, science. You’ll see the deepest thoughts and desires that a person can express in one sitting, and you’ll feel their pain and their joy. Your soul will come alive, and fire will burn in your belly. When you yourself experience art, you will make a connection with humanity as a whole. Art is more than simple emotions. It is the greatest communication a person can have with another,” Miss Locke said softly, her eyes soft and dim as she stared off into space. Miss Ardis rested a head on her friend’s shoulder, and they once again exchanged sad, lonely smiles. I suddenly understood why these women in front of me so loved art. It wasn’t just a way to express yourself, and it wasn’t just you being imbedded into something eternal. It was a way to understand and communicate with every other living thing on the planet. It was no wonder they lived alone in their large, Victorian house.

“So you’re saying I’ll never understand humanity?” I questioned meekly. Miss Ardis shook her head sharply.

“Only if you keep silent, and allow the ban to continue. If you fight for art’s right, then maybe someday, you’ll make a difference,” she explained. My eyes widened in surprise and fright.

“But talking about art is punishable by death! And then I’d never get to experience art, and I’d never understand humanity!” I cried. Miss Locke sat down in a chair and folded her hands simply.

“Death is one of the most beautiful and most hideous art forms on the planet,” she announced to me. I stared at her.

“So you’d prefer me dead if it would mean art would be allowed?” I asked, incredulous.

“Oh, no! I’m just saying that death is an art form too- especially when it has a cause,” Miss Locke clarified. I nodded slowly.

“I see... so why haven’t you died for art?”

Miss Locke and Miss Ardis remained silent for a moment or two, sharing a glance or two as I waited impatiently for their answer. Somehow, I had a feeling it would be hypocritical.

“We haven’t died for art because we needed to teach a younger generation about the joys behind it, so they could pass it on. If everyone loves art, then there is no reason to die for it. Right now, though, everyone despises art and will kill whoever mentions it,” Miss Ardis said simply. Sighing, I nodded. It wasn’t a hypocritical answer at all. I turned back to the bookshelf and decided to look at the books once more, to see if there was anything I wished to read. However, Miss Ardis stopped me.

“It’s time for you to go,” she said. I looked up at her.

“Why?”

“You’ve been gone a long time. Your mother will wonder where you are.”

Moments later, I found myself standing on the street outside their house, a promise to come back on the edge of my lips. I turned to say goodbye, but the door had slammed close, and I was alone. With a vicious glare at the door and the strange women who lived behind the door, I walked home, thinking about all the things I had seen and experienced. I wanted to experience art. I wanted to breath in the emotions and the silent conversations that went on within the canvas and the music. But no, I wasn’t allowed. It wasn’t for me to experience. I was to live my life in loneliness. I cursed whoever had thought banning art and science would be a good idea.

When I arrived home, my mother was waiting for me, looking tense, upset, angry. I smiled my hello’s at her, but she merely stared at me, thin-lipped and full of rage. I waited patiently about the blow up about me being ten minutes late for curfew (which was five in the evening), but it never came.

“Your brothers tell me you went to Lora and Madison’s house today,” she said tightly. I blinked.

“I just had to stop by for a minute and return something,” I said truthfully. My mother frowned.

“What did you have to return?”

“Oh, just something she dropped. I don’t know what it was. It looked like a stick to me,” I explained. My mother shrieked and raced to the phone. I followed her, feeling slightly ill. My mother knew.

“Amy? Yes, yes, it’s Julia. Yes, yes, Lora and Madison have... it. They tried to corrupt my child today! Call the girls, we need to make sure they pay!” my mother shrieked into the phone. She hung up quickly and began to call other people. I stood next to her, feeling dumb with shock. I had always loved my mother and thought her to be an intelligent woman, but here she was panicking about something she didn’t even know. She had never seen art in her life! She knew nothing about what it inspired. But I said nothing.

An hour later, I watched as my mother and many other women and men walked down the street, holding lighters and lighter fluid. They were screaming in anger. Racing up the stairs, I entered my bedroom and looked out the window, where I could see the entire thing. I could see a figure light their lighter and set the bushes next to their house on fire. I saw one of the men spray lighter fluid onto the small flame, and it erupted. Within minutes, the front part of their house was engulfed. I watched in fear.

Then, quite suddenly, I saw Miss Locke and Miss Ardis dart out the door, clutching their violin, a book, and a painting. They looked distressed and upset, but before they could escape, the crown was upon them, ripping them limb from limb, screaming for their blood and body fluids. I could barely stand to watch as my mother, the woman I had admired and loved all my life, set Miss Locke’s violin on fire, and then the woman herself on fire. Miss Locke screamed- I could hear it all the way from my house. With burning hands and torso, she grabbed the dying violin in her hands and attempted to extinguish the flames, but when she discovered she couldn’t, she raised the wooden instrument up and began playing even as bits of it fell away. It was a haunting yet feverish melody that lilted through the air even as the woman burnt away. Finally, the pain grew to be too much, and she collapsed, allowing the flames to eat away her flesh and organs.

Miss Ardis’s death was no more pleasant than Miss Locke’s. The men grabbed the small, nervous woman around her waist and dragged her to a tree nearby. With cruel, vicious laughs, they used one of Miss Locke’s violin strings to hang her from the tree. As she was beginning to turn blue, they lit the tree on fire. My mother, in her passionate craze, stood in front of Miss Ardis as she died and taunted her, slitting the painting they had tried to save with a knife. When the woman started gurgling, my mother put her arms between the flames and cut off Miss Ardis’s head. Her head tumbled to the ground, the eyes wide with anger and fear even as the body spurted blood.

I watched from my window, silent.

My mother came home hours later, pleased with herself. She gave me a hug, gave me some milk and cookies, and sent me to bed, acting like she had done nothing wrong. I lay in my large bed with the plain sheets, the death of Miss Ardis and Miss Locke flashing vividly in my mind. I imagined all the art burning away, the words of artists and humanity lost forever in the flames. Tears pricked my eyes, and I fell into uneasy sleep.

I awoke the next morning, changed.