My floury hands were buried in the sticky dough, but I couldn’t stop from gazing out the window. I watched as the Community’s men ran in circles around the Church Leader’s cornfields, as they did every morning. And I counted them, as I did every morning: one...two...three...four...all the way to twenty-three. I could always depend on that twenty-three. Twenty-three faces, the color of overripe tomatoes, dripping with sweat. Twenty-three men, who looked as if they were free. I wanted to be like them: legs pumping underneath me, arms swinging back and forth, heart beating out of my chest. I wondered what it would feel like to breathe as they did. I’d only ever seen a woman breathe like that when she was giving birth. It was different with the men.
“Rita!” Sister Barbara’s shrill voice forced me out of my trance. My mind re-entered the kitchen, its familiar yellow walls reminding me that I could not be out there, running with the men. Sister Barbara’s low bun and long black skirt invaded the cramped room, “Is the dough ready yet?”
“Just a minute,” I said, as I quickly placed the dough in its bowl with a damp cloth on top.
“What in heaven’s name?” Sister Barbara pointed her veiny index finger towards the counter, which was
covered in flour. “Rita, you always leave a mess.”
“I’m sorry, Sister Barbara. It won’t happen again.”
“Remember, Rita, idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Her beady eyes stared into me, as if they knew about all the lies I’d ever told her.
“Yes ma’am,” I said. She snatched the bowl from my hands.
“Now, go get ready for services.”
            Forty-five minutes later, my hair was wrapped into a low bun and my legs were hidden underneath a long black skirt. I was hardly distinguishable from the rest of the Community’s women who gathered in the pews around me, wearing the same uniform. Among them, I spotted Sister Jane, her exceptionally neat bun tucked behind her wrinkled, stern face. Though her eyes weren’t beady like Sister Barbara’s, Sister Jane’s nose was perpetually scrunched, as if the smell of onions constantly drifted underneath it. She communicated with the other women in a low, respectful volume, commenting on Karen’s new baby and the weather and the Church Leader’s grace. In their black garb, Sister Jane and the Community’s women looked like a group of ravens, which, interestingly enough, I once read could be called an unkindness or a conspiracy. Apparently, they could also be called a constable, though I found this harder to believe. 
 
            Sister Jane’s perfectly-ironed sleeve rubbed against my bare arm as she slid her narrow body right next to mine on the church pew. Then, the Church Leader began to speak, and his crowd fell silent. I tried to focus on the his words—knowing that if I didn’t I’d have to face Sister Jane’s wrath—but I was distracted by his shiny bald head reflecting the church’s glaring yellow light.
 
I was also distracted by the twenty-three men, who now sat in front of us. With navy vests covering their broad shoulders, they clutched their stovepipe hats in weathered, sunburnt hands. They were so close that I could smell them (fresh grass, wood, salt), and I could see dark hair swirling on the backs of their bare necks. The image of them running—their sweat, their pain, their alleged freedom—was still seared into my brain. The twenty-three men refused to leave me, and I didn’t know why.
 
I once read that running causes a piece of the brain to release chemicals. Chemicals that are almost magic; they lessen pain and increase happiness. When these chemicals are released, it causes a “runner’s high,” but I knew better than to call it that during lessons. Intoxication is a sin.
 
            I would give anything to continue my lessons. When I was a girl, attending lessons at the schoolhouse was a treat that I eagerly consumed. I filled out times tables faster than my brothers; I could play hundreds of hymns on the piano, and I memorized every psalm that I could. At the time, the Sisters resented me for it. But now there is no need for them to be bitter. Now I am a woman, and I can’t spend time on tasks better suited for men. Instead, I must cook and clean and tend to the children, in preparation for when I fulfill my purpose and have children of my own. At least, that’s what the Church Leader has been telling me, what everyone’s been telling me.
 
            Sister Jane pinched my arm. My mind had wandered. She raised her thinning eyebrows at me and whispered, “pay attention.” Even when hushed, her piercing voice was unlike any other. It made the hair on my arms stand on end. I felt my cheeks turn red, nodded, and turned towards the Church Leader, trying to drink in his words. As usual, he went on about kindness and responsibility. About how we do our part, for the Community. About how there are no exceptions. He went on like this for another hour. At the end, he smiled at us with his chipped, yellow beaver teeth. We clapped for him, like always.
 
                                                                        ***     
 
            The next morning, I was cutting apples, green ones, for Sister Barbara’s pie. My mind strayed from the stuffy kitchen—the stale, humid air and the solid tile floor—and settled on the men who ran outside. I resumed my counting: one...two...three...four...all the way to twenty-one...twenty-two. Twenty-two. There was no twenty-three. I shook my head and recounted, but twenty-three was still missing. It made no sense. All of the Community’s men ran. Always. The Church Leader made no exceptions. I couldn’t stop watching them run, they seemed even faster than normal. I couldn’t stop counting, panicking. Why was I panicking?
One...two...three...four...Where was he? Nineteen...twenty...twenty-one...twenty-two...
A sharp pain brought me back to the kitchen. I looked down at the cutting board beneath my hands, my vision blurred with tears, and realized that I’d sliced my pinky open. Blood flowed in miniature rivers into the white flesh of the chopped fruit. I sucked on my finger and tried to breathe. My mouth was warm and metallic, the sickening yellow of the kitchen made my head spin, and the tile floor trembled beneath my feet.
“Rita!” Sister Barbara called from upstairs, “have you finished cutting the apples?”
“Just a minute!” I called. Her heavy footsteps filled the stairway. As she entered the kitchen, I wiped my gorey pinky against my apron. Crimson crept into its stiff white fabric.
“Sister Barbara, I can explain,” I said, forcing my eyes towards her pinched face.
“Rita! You ruined your apron!” She shot me a look of disgust, the kind she usually saves for the Church Leader’s horses when they urinate in the wrong place. “Another mess,” she sighed, “I’ll get a bandage.” As she stomped upstairs, her long black skirt swished against each wooden step.
           
When Sister Barbara came back, I balanced on a rickety stool, my pinky pointing towards her. I once read that your jaw is strong enough to bite off your pinky—it would be as easy as biting through a carrot—but your brain stops you from doing it, no matter how hard you try. Sister Barbara wrapped my pinky carefully, her beady eyes staring into mine yet again. She now looked at me with frustration, or maybe it was regret. “You cut yourself because you were distracted. You always are. The other Sisters have noticed as well, Rita.”
“One of the men didn’t run today,” I told her, my voice quivering.
“All the Community’s men run. The Church Leader makes no exceptions, you know that.” Her grew more condescending, “But that’s beside the point. You shouldn’t be watching them anyway. It’s a sin. You should be doing your part.”
“One of the men didn’t run today,” I said again. “He didn’t. There are twenty-three men in the Community, and I only saw twenty-two of them. One of the men didn’t run today.” My heart was pounding.
“There are twenty-two men in the Community, Rita. Besides, it shouldn’t matter to you. What the men do doesn’t concern us. They run to stay strong, so that they can work for the Church Leader, for all of us, for the Community. You know that.”
“I know, but-”
“And we go to services. We stay inside. We clean and cook and prepare our bodies for the children. We must do our part for the Community too, Rita.”
“I know but-”
“Rita!” Her beady eyes lit up, “Don’t talk back to me. Cut the apples. Do your part.”
“I’m sorry, Sister Barbara,” I said, reaching my hands towards the apples. Sisters don’t lie. There are no exceptions. The Church Leader makes no exceptions.
“Idle hands, Rita. Idle hands.” She left.
When I glanced out the window again, all the men were gone.
 
                                                                   ***
 
            That night, I couldn’t sleep. The snores of the Community’s women, who slept so peacefully in their cots around mine, mocked my insomnia. When I lifted my head from my deflated pillow, I saw them, their faces framed by the pale moonlight. With their eyes closed, they breathed slowly and evenly. They looked so much younger this way; they looked like girls. I was envious of them. Envious of their ignorance, their contentment, their complacency. I wanted to believe that there were twenty-two men in the Community. I wanted to stop seeing them run every time I closed my eyes. I wanted Sister Barbara’s lies to stop ringing in my ears.
 
            I couldn’t be there any longer, in that room filled with innocence and femininity. My cold feet hit the wooden floor, and I stood up. I folded my scratchy blanket and placed it gingerly in the middle of my sheets. Tiptoeing across the crowded room, I navigated my way through the maze of cots. The bedroom door creaked as I closed it behind me, and I made my way downstairs.
 
            Downstairs was silent. In this light, the kitchen’s yellow walls looked grey. The counters were spotless. I peered out the window one last time, but I saw no men. All I could see was the Community: the Church Leader’s cornfields, the church, the schoolhouse, the birthing house, a few empty carriages. I was ready to leave it all behind. Everything I knew.
 
                                                                             ***
 
The oak front door was lighter than I remembered, and I pushed it open effortlessly. I pressed my bare feet into the damp grass and breathed in the sweet night air. The wind playfully blew my navy nightdress around my legs and tossed my moonlit hair behind my neck. I knew what I had to do: I pumped my legs underneath me like I’d seen the men do so many times before. I was finally like them, except I was free.
 
The earth moved under my feet. Soon, I could feel the sweat beading down my forehead. Those magical chemicals pulsed through me, silencing my pain and amplifying my excitement: my runner’s high. My arms propelled back and forth. My heart beat out of my chest. Though I could barely breathe, I’d never felt this good.
 
            I ran until my feet hit a foreign strip of land. It wasn’t earth, but it wasn’t wood or tile either. This land was a dark, uneven grey—looking like liquid stone—interrupted only by a yellow stripe: a ray of crooked sunshine. I couldn’t see where the stripe began or ended, but I needed to follow it. I placed each footstep into it; they fit perfectly. One foot in front of the other, again and again. I spread my arms out on either side of me for balance. I once read that penguins walk like this, that’s why they have wings. After all, penguins can’t fly.
 
An hour later, I still walked penguin-like down the stripe. The foreign land fought me, digging into the blisters on my feet, but I kept walking. My aching legs shook, begging my body to rest, but I kept walking. As my eyes drooped with exhaustion, the yellow stripe became more crooked and looked less like sunshine, but I kept walking. Then, I heard thunder. Groaning, I rubbed my sunken eyes, and, squinting, I saw a yellow light in the distance, coming towards me, blinding me. I kept walking. Soon, it turned into a metal machine, one that looked a bit like the Community’s carriages, only shinier. I kept walking. The machine was so loud and so close, and I tried to keep walking, but I just couldn’t anymore. My legs had finally betrayed me. The thunder became a scream. I accepted the yellow light. I had no other choice.
                                                                        ***
I once heard, from the Church Leader, that I’d see a light when the end was near. Maybe he had been right all along. (2158 words)