Graduation Day By Owen Butterfly

“It’s only fair”, said the president as he announced the remaining ARK would be decided

by a lottery. It was a culling of the lucky ones, blessing only them with a future offworld. There

weren't enough ARKs built for everyone, saying to do so would be “an impossibility”—an

outcome only caused by a complete lack of future planning. Gale had volunteered to assist in

construction with the hope it would earn her a seat on an ARK. Assigned to ARK-2070 in

Louisiana, she was given one extra entry in the lottery—totaling two entries to her name. “A

doubling of your chances”, they said, “Consider yourself blessed”. Every citizen in the United

States was given a lottery number. The chances were near zero. Only one ARK was decided by

lottery, with the rest already sold at luxury prices.

ARK-2070 was housed in Baton Rouge but named the Orleans by the crew’s foreman,

Gin. Having personally witnessed the submerging of New Orleans, he insisted the 2070 be

christened as the “Orleans”, immortalizing his city as it enters the cosmos and ascends into

heaven once more. Gale was a late addition to the crew of the 2070, flying into Louisiana about

halfway through the project. Across the street from the hangar that housed ARK-2070 was a

nursing home. One of the nurses, Tulip, would often visit the crew on her lunch break. Outsiders

weren’t supposed to be allowed near the ARK, but nobody—even Gin—could ask Tulip to leave.

Her smile was infectious and in that dark and dreary hangar she brought them joy.

The crew of the 2070 reveled in their constant debates around Tulip’s hair. It was an

impossible color, seemingly indefinable. The conversation would begin with someone pointing

out that her hair looks “dirty blonde” today only for someone else to rebut with another color,

that she actually looks like a redhead. Someone always threw out “dark brown”—a color nobody

believed true—just to stir the pot further. Tulip considers it a light brunette, which nobody

agreed with her on. Gale loved Tulip’s impossibly colored hair—loved most things about her.

Tulip felt the same way in return. Gale’s hair was a constant jet black, and Tulip looked forward

to seeing it every day. Tulip was the earth to Gale’s sky; her motivator, what grounded her. They

were the perfect couple in an imperfect world, both regretting it took them so long to find each

other. The only crew members who regularly agreed on Tulip’s hair color were the twins. Gale is

convinced they only said that because they’re identical—in both mind and matter.

Having finished constructing ARK-2070, nobody on the crew ever disagreed that they

should watch the drawings together. This group of people had become a family, drawn from

across the country, they had worked and lived together for years. They all understood that this

was likely the last time they would be together, silent with the knowledge that it was impossible

everyone would get picked. Their futures were out of their control—the drawings determined

that—so they reminisce on the past, celebrating their years of camaraderie together. On a

whiteboard they brought to every drawing, everyone’s lottery numbers were written in faded ink.

The numbers weren’t labeled by ownership, that was left for individual members to track. If any

one of their numbers were drawn it would be a victory for the whole crew. Numbers 51401,

51402 and 81262 were held by Gale. 51401 was wrinkled from the months it sat in Gale’s wallet,

the pink ink now barely legible. 51402 and 81262 were glued to a wilted mistletoe that identified

them as Tulip’s; one government issued and another a Christmas Gift from Gale. They had lived

on Tulip’s bedside table—and except for one glue caused crease—preserved in pristine

condition. Tulip refused to watch the drawings herself. Her work at the nursing home was

exhausting enough and she’d become infamous for her anti-lottery ravings at the 2070 hangar.

For this drawing, the crew met at the twins’ apartment, their small television barely visible from

the other side of the room. This was the fourth and final drawing for the public ARK, everyone’s

final chance to win a seat.

Every previous drawing began on a Saturday at 2pm with broadcasts beginning 30

minutes earlier at 1:30. The President always stood on the balcony of the Capitol Building next

to an enormous bowl of marbles each representing a lottery number. In front of him was a small

metal tray perfectly centered onto a small wooden table. Everything was placed with an exact

purpose—to do anything less would be considered disrespectful. Every word in the president’s

speech—the same speech he gives every drawing day—is given with a precise amount of breath

totaling to exactly ten minutes. A windstorm had been howling through Washington D.C. all

week causing the White House—in an attempt to preserve the sanctity of the drawing—to delay

it by one day. Now Sunday, with the windstorm continuing to rage on Capitol Hill, the President

stood outside to a field of only cameramen, refusing to delay the drawing any further. All

citizens in the D.C. area had been ordered to stay inside four days earlier when the average

windspeed hit a constant of 67 miles per hour. The president’s scarf dances violently in the wind

regularly blocking his face. C-SPAN’s camera had been blown slightly off center revealing a

row of chairs that had fallen on its side. It was as if the Earth herself was determined to unmask

the lottery as the sham it was.

So many people took the drawing days off it had practically become a national holiday.

Reasons varied as to why people wanted on the ARKs, but it was universally understood that

nobody wanted to be beside Mother Nature on her deathbed. Every hour ten marbles were drawn

and placed in the metallic tray—they were the lucky ones. In the second hour, one of the twins’

numbers was drawn. They had both agreed to use their ticket’s additional seat on the other.

51402 was drawn at the seventh hour. It was the ticket Gale gave to Tulip. Nobody else from the

crew of ARK-2070 was lucky. Gin took it the worst, punching through a nearby wall. Tulip gave

her extra seat to her mother. That didn’t bother Gale, she would’ve done the same.

“So, what happens with us?” Both Gale and Tulip knew exactly how this conversation

would go. Haunted by anxious thoughts during sleepless nights, they had regularly rehearsed this

conversation in their minds. Each dreaded the inevitable outcome. They knew what would

happen, the conversation went exactly as planned, but it didn’t make it less sad.

“Oh Gale.” Tulip sighs as the two come together in embrace. Gale’s eyes struggled to

stay open as the tears started to swell. Secretly she was relieved to not see Tulip’s hair, glad to

have refused giving it a final definite color. Through the bouts of tears the two attempted to

continue conversing, though they both knew much more was spoken through their tears. They

couldn’t find the words to communicate exactly how they felt. It was a breakup and death

intertwined in an imperfect union. “You should find a life on Earth without me.” Again, Gale

would’ve said the same thing but, this time it made it hurt more.

“You’ll watch me off right?”

---

Leaving Louisiana behind, Gale returned to her home in the Northeast and saw that

Thunder Airfield was in a state of disrepair. The grass had reclaimed the airfield, leaving the

landing strips undefined, inviting animals to reclaim the land. Their robotic limbs squeaked as

they ran through the grass beneath Gale. It reminded her of the cries of mice she used to hear in

the airfield’s hangars. Gale was glad that the void in nature’s soundscape, left empty by the

mice’s extension, had been filled by something. The sinkholes scattered across the field have

only gotten worse since she left. The fresher smaller sinkholes had yet to be filled in. Being only

ten feet across, they were the perfect size to bandage with leftover sheet metal. It broke Gale’s

heart to see such materials be wasted, knowing the planes withering away in the hangar were in

desperate need of repair. The larger sinkholes were identifiable by their sickly yellow grass,

desperate to draw nutrients from the cheap artificial soil used to fill it. Every nook of Thunder

Airfield radiated the idea that even in death, life persevered. They knew they would all die soon,

but that had never stopped life before.

When Gale was a child, the airfield was famous for its historic planes. Preserved in

pristine condition, their two biplanes were their most prized artifacts. Gale would watch them

whiz around the air streaking through the silent blue skies still free from the smog layer that has

now consumed the clouds. Her dream was to get into the cockpit and fly one, especially the red

one. She liked the blue plane but preferred how the crimson paint cut into the bright blue.

Gale’s grandfather founded the airfield and to this day he still owns it at 120 years old. Most

days he is found sitting on an old plastic crate watching the days go by. He defends this crate

with his life, having refused to relinquish it during the plastic recalls. His skin is withered and

saggy—a man long past his time refusing to die before the Earth does. Gale waves to him as she

passes by, her luggage bumping in the dirt.

“Didn’t get in?” His artificial voice box beeps in a raspy monotone voice.

“Nah.” Gale says back in an equally flat demeanor.

“You watching the ARKs fly off today?”

“Yup.”

“Grab me a beer if you’re heading to the house.”

Once Gale learned to fix the planes, she was allowed to fly them. It took her a few

years—and some help from her brothers—but she eventually got one working. She’ll never

forget how it felt.

To turn on the engine, to feel the wheels roll in the uneven dirt, to feel her seat rattle from

under her, and to finally take off letting the skies consume her. Her red comet, jetting into the

heavens. All her problems were left behind on solid ground. They were grounded but she was

not. Still, she knew she must land. Her body demands it.

Behind the airfield is the family house. Everyone in the family had lived under its roof.

Having been with them for four generations, it’s older than the airfield itself. To take a vacation

to the house behind Thunder Airfield is a rite of passage. After her parents passed, Gale became

one of the two permanent residents. Most days it’s mainly her and her grandfather, though it’s

rare for the house to not have guests.

Turning behind a hangar, two children nearly topple Gale to the ground. “Auntie!” The

shorter one—a young girl—yells as she wraps herself around Gale’s leg.

“Hope! How are you?!”

“We're going to sit with Grandpa and see the ARKs take off!” The taller one—a boy only

slightly older—waves Hope to keep up. The two dash toward the airfield, their eyes electric with

excitement. Gale didn’t know if they understood that the ARKs were leaving them behind.

The pathway to the house should be familiar to Gale. The vines and weeds used to be

familiar, but they’ve grown, consuming what she used to know. This is the path to the family

home, her mind remembers the path, she knows this is the way, but her body, the soles of her

feet, feel this is wrong. The greenery wraps around her, enveloping Gale and blotting out the sky.

Anxiety floods her body. This isn’t right, but she trudges forward anyways.

Ripping through the weeds and opening the front gate of the family house, she

immediately notices that the third porch step was still missing. It was nice to see some things

didn’t change. Instinctively, Gale’s legs leap over the gap aiming directly for the porch itself, but

her foot misses, slipping on the edge. She was wrong, her house had changed too. Entering

inside, nothing was visibly different, but it felt off. It was as if everything from the layout of the

furniture to the dimensions of the house itself was a quarter of a measurement off from how her

memory recollects it. Gale left her luggage outside her bedroom door, unable to bring herself to

go inside. In the kitchen, Gale went straight for the refrigerator, feeling on the handle a thick

layer of rust barely concealed under a poorly applied layer of paint. Swinging the door open, she

was enveloped by the smell of stale metallic air—a homely smell. She grabs all three cans in the

fridge. Just in case, she thought. The lawn chair was inside—it was never inside—leaning beside

the front door. It was waiting for Gale, as if aware she wouldn’t have been able to find the chair

otherwise. Returning to the airfield should have been a little easier, but it still felt foreign.

The sprawling field of nothing that remained of Thunder Airfield was the perfect place to

watch the local ARK’s takeoff. With miles of flattened dirt, there was nothing that impeded

visibility. ARK-2000 was being launched on the outskirts of New Boston, on an artificial island

constructed near the harbor. Promptly after the last drawing day, the governor—having not been

picked for a seat himself—let tears flow as he declared the ARK’s takeoff a holiday, “Graduation

Day”. Even hundreds of miles away, the ARK towered into the heavens, piercing the clouds.

Across the country, ARKs had invaded the horizon. They were slotted into existing skylines to

make them feel more natural, but ARKs overwhelm everything around them, a solemn reminder

of the future. The ARK loomed over Gale. It looked identical to the 2070. Her creation

consumed her. Everything about the ARKs reminded her of her insignificance. It made her feel

small.

The whole planet quaked as the ARKs began to take flight. It was the final whimper of a

sickly Earth resigned to her fate. It was the cheers of the hopeful few, blessed with new

possibilities offworld. It was the cries of those left behind, abandoned by their peers. It was the

human condition made manifest.

The roaring of rockets enveloped Thunder Airfield. Her grandfather stood solemnly; he

knew his future was nowhere but here. Hope and her brother cheered with excitement,

overwhelmed by humanity’s ingenuity; the two were intoxicated by impossible dreams. Gale

couldn’t understand her feelings.

Her grandfather put his hand on her shoulder, “You alright kid?”

“I think so.”

“How's Tulip?”

“Safe on the ARK.”

“Good for her.” He pauses as the ARK begins its ascension, pushing off from the Earth

below. “You gonna miss her?”

“Yea.”

The shockwave from the ARK’s takeoff shoots dirt and dust into the air and in an instant

the ARK becomes impossible to see leaving Gale alone with the Earth. She could hear nearby

animals as they grasped at anything to keep grounded. The sheet metal that concealed the

sinkholes were consumed by the gust, flapping wildly in the air. The Earth’s ailment was laid

bare for all to see. But even in sickness, Gale couldn’t help but find it beautiful. By the time the

dust had settled, the ARK had vanished into the cosmos, never to return. Gale wipes her eyes, “I

think I’d hate it out there, with no wind blowing in space.”