I walked up the stairs, and I walked, and I walked. The white marble steps seemed to go on forever. When I reached the top there was a concrete platform with no roof. I walked out near the edge. The view was of a clear meadow. Trees of oak and maple outlined the grassy field dotted with goldenrod, Queen Anne’s lace, and other wild flowers. Butterflies fluttered from black eyed susan to purple thistle. Closing my eyes, I felt the sun’s warmth on my face, and I heard honey bees buzz by my ear.

Opening my eyes, the sun was beginning to go down over the meadow. I blinked and the meadow was full of people, crushing the wildlife beneath their feet. Men, women, children all shouting up at me. No, chanting. I couldn’t make out what they were saying from this high up. I could only feel the rhythm of their collective voices. Inching closer to the edge to hear better, I slipped on the smooth stone. My heart skipped a beat and down I tumbled through the warm air.

The crowd parted to let me fall. Wind rushed around my ears, in my mouth, and eyes. The ground looked cold and unforgiving. My heart turned to ice with fear. I closed my eyes a moment before impact.

Instead of bone crushing ground, my body dove into a heavy liquid. My eyes opened to see a yellow substance all around me. There was sunlight above my head, and I looked up to see the distorted images of the crowd now looking down on me from above into this pool of whatever I landed in.

I open my mouth to scream for help, and it is slowly filled with a sweetness that could only be honey. I swam up, struggling with the viscosity. A woman with hair the color of the honey I was in appeared above my head. The crowd dissipated from behind her. She reached a hand into the liquid and pulled me the rest of the way to the surface. The pool was gone, and I stood alone in the meadow with this woman. It began to rain, and I felt the honey easily wash off my skin. The woman was wearing a bright dress. I couldn’t decide if it was white or yellow, and it seemed not to be getting wet in the rain. She looks away from me and took in the meadow. “This will make a lovely home,” she smiled. “Thank you.”

I opened my mouth to speak to this woman, but a strange sensation in the back of my throat stopped me.

“Achoo!” I sneezed under the covers of my bed.

The scent of the rain washed meadow was replaced by the stale smell of my room. The cold trickle of air licked at my toes from under my blanket, urging me to get out of bed and move. But I lingered just a few moments longer, holding onto my dream.

I rifled through the cabinets in the kitchen, hoping that some guest at some point had left more coffee. It’s too early. That dream had me up before the sun. Eventually, I gave up and walked down the hall. There was no surprise to see Pam at the front desk. The news was on and she stared at it from the counter. No one died last night, nothing was burned, or looted, so the news was having a rough time of it.

President Persim was visiting other cities in the country where her Volunteer Tax was apparently making a difference. Blueprints were being discussed for new schools that will be possible in five to ten years.

I almost open my mouth, but I know by now that Pam doesn’t want to hear me. Instead I walked behind the counter and grabbed the trash can to empty it before any guests wake up.

“‘Scuse me,” I say as I squeeze behind Pam’s knees for the small plastic can.

“Of course, dear,” she replied.

Dear? I thought to myself. She must think I’m a guest. That or she is starting to lose her mind. I don’t reply to her comment and push hard on the front door with the trash bag in my hand.

Outside the wind was at a constant gust. The sky was gray and hard. The short walk to the dumpster in the alley behind The Palace felt twice as long. When I reached the dumpster, I stuck my hand out to throw open the lid, and I saw a white dot appear on my skin. I tossed the small trash bag in and looked up at the sky to see the formation of little flurries floating slowly down toward me. I hurried back inside out of the freezing cold.

Back inside Pam had moved from the counter to the chair. “Your turn,” she said. I was about to argue that I wasn’t supposed to man the counter until this evening, but I thought better of it. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. I inhaled and let out a deep sigh.

Two of our guests, the men of the two families that joined us late yesterday, walked out the front door. Off to try and figure out the insurance for their losses. No new guests joined us in the time that I was asleep.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

I saw Sam peek out of his room once, but upon seeing Pam, he turtled his head back inside.

“Pam,” I said after standing behind the counter for two hours arranging and rearranging the pens.

To my surprise, she not only responded, but turned her head from the television. “Yes, Dear?”

I cleared my throat, “Do you mind if I leave for a bit? Technically, I am not on the counter until six.”

“Of course! I am so sorry I forgot,” Pam smiled at me like a storybook grandma and lifted herself out of the chair.

The walk to the library was cold and sunny. The flurries had stopped and the clouds had cleared. I neared the local soup kitchen. There were no camera crews today. The Volunteer Tax was old news now; however, the line was still out the door.

I should help. I thought. It’s not like I have a full time job. But then I remembered I have no money. I can’t even afford to volunteer. An uneasy feeling filled my gut. I stopped walking; I could at least talk to the people in line. Then my stomach growled. And the thought that I never thought in all my days would cross my mind, crossed my mind. I need help.

I refused to get in the growing line for food. I resumed my walk to the library at a faster pace than before, determined to find a job that got me out of The Palace.

The walk home was a little more motivating. There had been a tray of free cookies and coffee at the library entrance for an event promotion for a poetry night. So my stomach was no longer imploding upon itself, and I sent my resume to at least five different companies that were hiring with little to no experience required.

I neared the soup kitchen again, only this time the line was completely gone. Strange. I walked up to the door and saw a large, gray faced woman nailing a poster to the door.

“Excuse me, Ma’am. I-”

“Closed, no food.” She replied shortly without turning to look at me.

“I don’t want any...no food?” I said. I couldn’t have heard that right.

“And we won’t be getting anymore either.”

“What?”

The woman finally gave up and turned to look at me. Her eyes were red with crying. “That wretched Volunteer Tax. It doesn’t just affect people. No, that was hard enough, but I told my husband,” she sniffed, “I told my husband, we just have to help. But now, oh now.” She used her red coat sleeve to dab at the snot beginning to drip from her pointed nose. “Now, the tax is affecting the stores that donate food to us. Krogers, Walmart, Foodtown, they’ve all backed out of the deal. Say their company can’t support any more financial donations at this time.” Then she straightened up and snorted the snot back into her head and wiped her eyes. “It’s not wretched. I take it back,” her eyes darted around no doubt looking for any drone police hovering within earshot (which turns out is 50 yards for the technology). “I’m sure the new policy will just take time. I’m sorry for my reaction. Persim cares for you and I.” She hurriedly walked away from me burrowing her head in her sleeve. I stood there for a minute staring at the white paper nailed to the door before turning to walk off the steps feeling empty.

The sun was still out, but now I could see it highlighting the cracks in the pavement, the dust on the window’s of businesses and apartments. In the shadows of alleys I saw the East End’s growing homeless population. Despite the cookies and coffee in my stomach, I felt empty. My mind was blank and full of emotions simultaneously as my feet moved my body without thought.

I was lost in my head until I bumped into another body. I looked up from the sidewalk, “Excuse-” and my eyes locked with the red headed teenager from last night. The little punk that threw a glass bottle at my head. I could tell he recognized me because his lips began to go up in a thin snarl when he saw the scratch on my forehead.

Shit.

“On your way to a Speakeasy?” he growled. “I guess for you, that may be for the best.”

“No, I, uh-” This is stupid, toughen up. “Move,” I said in my most commanding voice. I only shook a little bit, probably not even enough for him to notice.

I was surprised when he stepped to the side to let me pass peacefully. But not nearly as surprised as when he kept pace with me.

“You look worn out.” He said to me, “Split my sandwich?” There was no malice in his voice as swung his backpack from his shoulders and began to unzip the side compartment.

My stomach growled, “No, go back and have a look at the soup kitchen on Sweetwater Street. Give it to someone there, but be careful of the police. There’s a tax for giving to the needy now.” I rolled my eyes and walked faster.

For the third time he surprised me, “Okay,” he yelled to me from where I left him on the sidewalk and turned around in the direction I had just come from.