Most people who are not American wish that they were. That image imported to them from across the Atlantic is so tangible, vivid, and reachable, that they can almost taste freedom even before they reach American soil. So many layers of freedom are laid upon the imagination by an American forging. First layer is freedom from oppression broken down into primarily freedom of expression and being able to speak your mind to whoever regardless of their social status in life. Then the freedom to choose who rules you be that the sage of the lot or the idiot of the village. The second layer is freedom from belief of choice imposed by a sect that dictates that all equal in belief, a proposition that is propestrous in itself. However, that freedom is granted within constraints, and therefor does that defy freedom or define it? The third layer is freedom of a choice of destiny. It is possible "only in America" to make your own destiny. That prospect that ranges from having your own house and car, to the owner of a money generating business, to becoming a millionaire or a president or - both!

Then comes the ideology of American freedom that deafen the sound of freedom all at once. There is equality but not between colors, even though so many attempts are made to make it so, and therefore barely a sense of freedom. Gender is not equal, and therefore not free, however hard that there is that push for it. And when it comes to belief, well! A mouthful is said but rarely is reality the soil of acceptance and tolerance, if applicability. Then all of these contradictions combined are exported to the world so that the world can free, yet everyone who received it found out, sooner or later, that is an alternate agenda. Put the town's sage or the village idiot at the top, American freedom remains the same.

Every freedom given the world from America is because it is in the best interest of America. If the statue of justice has a blindfold lady, then how can America with a single Vito title the balance of justice whichever way it seems fit because it is in the best interest of America. There was a youth revolution that stopped the Vietnam war because it was not America's business to interfere in a conflict that was not theirs. Move forward a few years, and a new generation of youth put their lives on the line for that same freedom contested years before in Afghanistan and Iraq. And after the whole the world stood in the face of Iraq invasion, American stilly defying and defining freedom, still went ahead and invaded it.

What is freedom? What is it if not without justice? If the last person standing cannot speak their mind, and those with decision making powers heed these words and act upon it. By definition of business, when a customer complains that actually means loyalty to the place of business. They would like to see that policies amended to serve the greater good. They would like to see their place of business improve, if not dominate the field that they are in. I guess we don't see anyone complaining about Apple, Nike or Toyota' prices. People are free to choose these brands because they know the quality in it. And it is a fair bet they lead the market because they LISTEN to their customers. So it is for freedom that is called upon its justice as long as cases are made and listened to and acted upon.

I am not sure whether it is amazing or amusing that people around the world remember the fourth of July as if it is their own Independence Day. They remember it as a day to celebrate but celebrate what exactly. The lasting memory is that of colors in the sky as if the whole world is rejoicing in something. Then turn that day of the calendar and no one is sure what the political kitchen is going to cook up next, where being American claims freedom for all, but when all claim freedom, it seems that the American distributor can only give it out in small doses, and not all can make the cut.

A man in chains, knows what it means to be free,

but if he is cut, does he not bleed? A man will ask,

just what is freedom? In this world there's but one,

and it makes life what it is. For all that are here born,

will one day escape, this house without any doors.

To reach behind the sky, the first sight of heaven...

where a man learns to fly!

“This is the third time time I’ve been kidnapped this WEEK. This is getting old.”

“Well if you didn’t keep escaping you wouldn’t have that complaint.” I pull the sack of off the man’s head, finally getting a good look of the man I’ve been ordered to once, twice, three times kidnap. I take in his tousled, brown hair, green eyes, tired face and smile...

“I see you staring at me.”

I snap back to reality. “What...?”

“You took the bag off my head. I can see you staring.”

I don’t know how to respond. I don’t have experience with men being so blunt.

Fumbling with the sack, I stick out my right hand. “I’m Jordan.”

The man stares at me. “Okay... so... one, my hands are tied behind my back. If you are expecting me to shake your hand, I don’t know what you are thinking. Two, is it regulation for kidnappers to introduce themselves to their kidnappees?”

I stutter. This man is tied to a chair in the middle of a dim warehouse. He’s talking to me like we’re at a coffeehouse together, and I’m his date, not like I’m the lady who just kidnapped him from his home an hour ago.

“Do you normally talk aloud?”

Oops. I thought I said that only in my head.

“I’m tied to a spinny chair. A freaking spinny chair. How bad can the situation be?”

“You have no idea.” I glance around quickly, hoping this will make him nervous. Boss won’t like him acting so chill about this situation.

“Looking for someone?”

“You know what?” I grab onto the back of the chair, spinning the chair so it faces the big doors in the back. I start pushing that chair in that direction. “I’m gonna tell you what’s going on here.”

“Great, I want to hear this. And you should know, you didn’t give me a chance to turn the stove off before you kidnapped me. My house probably burned down.”

“I turned it off. Calm down.”

“I’d like to remind you that I am quite calm right now.”

“Okay, you know what-”

“Yeah, you know what what? What were you going to say.”

“Okay, this is the deal. I’m the newest possible member of the Black Mamba Gang here in Westpoint. Boss wanted to see the skills I’ve got, so he sent me out to kidnap someone, anyone, bring them here and act like I know all their deep secrets and OOF!” I trip over a rut in the floor, my arms flailing, sending the chair spinning away.

“So! You picked me to kidnap! You apparently aren’t that good at it, considering this is the third time you’re giving this kidnapping thing a try!”

“Okay, yeah I’m not that good. But it’s either this or working at Wendy’s, and I’m not about to do that.”

The chair stops spinning. The man looks like he maybe might be sick. Oh yeah, I still didn’t get his name. But maybe kidnappers don’t get the names of the people they kidnap. Will Boss ask about that?

“How did you ever come up with Wendy’s and the Black Mamba Gang as your two job options?” The man yells across the warehouse.

“Mom’s idea of a job, and dad’s idea. And what’s your name, by the way?” I’m walking toward the chair, with the man simply staring at me.

“Let me guess, dad is the leader of the gang?”

“No, mom is. Dad owns the Wendy’s on Brookster Street.”

“Oh. And my name is Alex.”

“Well Alex, that’s my story. Now when you meet Boss, can you act like you’re scared shitless, and maybe I’ll get to keep the job?” I’ve reached the chair, grabbing it by the back once again, redirecting the chair and pushing it toward the big doors again

“If your mom is the leader of the gang, why aren’t you automatically in? And who is Boss?”

“Mom believes in equal opportunities for all. That means even her own daughter has to go through what every other stranger as to go through in order to get in. And Boss is Boss. Aka mom’s boyfriend. He weeds through all the good candidate, and then mom picks the final people to join the gang.”

“Oh.”

“Yup. So do me the favor-”

“And act scared shitless so you get the job. Yeah, I got it.”

“Yeah.”

“So what happens to me then?”

“You go home.”

“Will we still talk, sometimes?”

“What? What... I don’t know!”

“Okay! Sorry! Just a question!”

“Sorry. I’m just nervous.” We’ve reached the doors. I stop, take a breath. “You ready for this?” I ask, looking down at Alex.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

“Okay. Here it goes.” I push open the doors, propping them open. “Let’s go and introduce you to Boss.”

Branni finds herself in a world of glass and marble, and everywhere she looked was a work of art. She had never seen such beautiful artwork before and seeing them sparked her imagination. There was glass work that made her think of the oceans as she marvels at the frozen bubbles and swirling blues waves that stood still. Even the marble floor was a work of art as she stares in wonder at the stone tile floors that formed a picture of nature itself. Branni was fascinated by all this beauty that she didn’t noticed that someone was watching her.

Branni was staring into glass wall of glass goldfish when she spotted another reflection looking back at her. Branni gasps as she quickly turns around while her eyes widen at the sight in front of her. It was a person made out of glass with beautiful, long, blue hair. You know the many wonderful designs you see in marbles that you used to play with? This person’s hair was like the blue ones with those beautiful blue wave-like water. Those eyes were cat’s eyes of orange and green and their arms and legs were crystal clear with no design at all; their torso was sparkling like the universe with hundreds of tiny stars, galaxies, and planets as their outfit. Out of all the art work here this person was by far the most beautiful, and must lustrous, of them all. Branni couldn’t help but stare at this person’s beauty and his white marble face as he stares back at her. Then he spoke, “What goes on with those mysterious eyes of yours? What do you see in me?”

Branni was speechless as she held her tongue back from this noble trophy. The glass figure studies her as if memories of both good and bad were flooding in his clever mind. “Speak child, lest my glasswork will squish you into a pancake!”

Coming from the right a giant glass marble comes rolling down towards Branni as she gasps and runs away. More marbles of different size, but still bigger than Branni, were rolling all over the place while trying to squish the poor girl. She had no where to go and no where to hide, for if she did there would still be marbles chasing after her. Running around in this glass gallery-like maze, Branni couldn’t escape from the giant and medium marbles that were coming after her until she stops and noticed something. No, remembered something. She looks around curiously, as if searching, before racing back to the glass person and shout, “Where is your people? Your friends and family? There were more of you.”

“What?” The glass person stops his marbles from crushing into Branni all at once as he commands them aside.

When Branni was younger she would pretend each marble was a person, and their sizes tells her their age and their colors represent personalities. The glass person’s eyes were widen in surprised, but his expression returns to calmness. “Gone. Taken. Stolen from me by that fool.”

He turns to a wall as pieces of glass shows his story of how a certain jester took away his people, from the biggest marble to the littlest one. Branni watches sadly and never knew her jester would do such a thing. “I’m so sorry.”

“You shouldn’t say sorry until after you’ve done something to fix it,” said the glass person as he turns to Branni. “That is the proper way to ask for forgiveness.”

“Where are they? Your people, I mean,” asked Branni.

The glass person looks out into the distance, and there ahead was the Jester’s castle made by toy blocks and dominoes and in the center of a moat. “There. In the castle of blocks. Many others are in prison there, and are forced to be slaves to the Jester. He calls himself king, yet look at what he’s done. He’s even captured a human girl.”

Branni stares at the castle, wondering if the “princess” was safe, while feeling disappointment towards her favorite jester doll. She didn’t want to believe the glass person’s words, but she will see it for herself soon. “I’ll go get your people, and everyone else, too!”

The glass person looked down on Branni and spoke coldly, “You shouldn’t even be here. He’ll trap you, you know?”

“I’m still going, so don’t ty to stop me,” declared Branni as she walks ahead.

“I never intend to,” replied the glass person while the glass gates opened for Branni. “Take this road and it’ll lead you straight to the castle. Be careful . . . Branni. Now go.”

Branni turns back to the glass person, who had a deep look in his sorrowful face. Why does his glass eyes look sad? Branni wanted to comfort the marble person, but he refused her and orders her to go. Branni leaves the glass gallery and heads out to complete her mission that was now her quest. The marble person watches her leave as he lowers his head and began to sing his sad song. The song resonated with his glass body and artwork as the sound echo throughout the nearby areas around him. Branni runs as fast as she could while the song reached her and filled her heart with emotion and power.

Soon the glass person ended his song as he lowers his head while a figure stood behind him. The clown-like figure waves his finger at the glass person and raises a hammer high in the air. The glass person closes his eyes before being smashed into a million glittering pieces. The clown grins as he destroys the beautiful gallery and all it’s glorious artwork.

“You’re all getting soft,” grinned the Jester. “I will not allow it. Hurry, Branni dear! Hurry! This show has yet ended! Rise the curtain, and save the so-called “princess” you care! HURRY! Ahahahahaha . . . !!!”

(Here’s the song that inspired the voice of the glass person! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tO9hBNqTOGA )

We are all patchwork dolls, hodgepodges of the world we walk through.

I suppose that by that description, we were all born empty and bare and blank.

And sticky. We were all born very sticky, like balled-up strips of two-sided tape, constantly reaching out greedy, starving fingers for bits of dust and tiny ripped pieces of paper and little coils of string.

But unlike two-sided tape, our greedy, starving fingers reach out for something more substantial than forgotten scraps left underneath antique couches. We search, instead, for those opalescent pearls that only life can offer, those shiny moments in between the quotidian junk that composes the majority of existence. We shuffle through piles of ordinary and mountains of unremarkable, hunting down those bright pinpricks of excitement, of happiness, of progress, that when we find, we latch on to. We armour ourselves in these beautiful, dazzling fragments of exceptional that represent the best of this world and we treasure them like the gems that they are. Our natural stickiness holds them close, gathers them in, and cherishes them for what they are, and for what they to mean to us.

But accidently, unnecessarily, mournfully, we are too sticky. We don’t often have a choice when it comes to the things that attach themselves onto our lives, and for every new spark of life we are lucky enough to find, there are miles upon of miles of ground in between to cover. All of this time spent unmarked by glittering new discoveries is time where pieces of the world latch onto us. Unbidden, perhaps, but here to stay.

Sometimes there are valleys of deepest dark that we must traipse through, and sometimes the hideous night creatures snag on our throats and catch in our hair. We try to shake them off, peel their rusted, jagged claws away from the treasures that we have already acquired, but they are tenacious and our skin is adhesive and they will not go.

Sometimes we trek through winding rusted mazes in search of the prize that waits at the end, and to find our way, we bring along pieces that we plan to discard after all is said and done. The edge of a song, the corner of a map, a tatter of cloth; all the things that will fall away once in the face of the true awards. We wave them carelessly in the wind, fold them until they crease, not realizing that these will eventually stick and become a part of us, for sometimes, the reward of the journey is equal of the result.

And then sometimes, most times, there are the small things. The tiny, seemingly insignificant shards that stick to us along the way. The miniscule beads of matted hues that slip by the glossy edges, and become a part of us unknowingly, burrowing in to just the right places to make an unprecedented impact. Each one is small, barely the size of the tip of a fingernail, and rather plain, but we are unable to let them go. The color of each alone is unremarkable, but with so many different ones scattered across our skin, they intercept the light that hits them and they glow. The big pieces are few and rare; it is this collection of small things that make up most of the being that we are.

We are sticky, and if we were not, we would live our lives forever blank.

We are all patchwork dolls, and we will always have some surface space left for new pieces, new memories.

A whispered rumor circulates our town

That once there lived a stranger in this wood

Drove to madness, some say he would drown

Any soul that found him--dark or good

My pace is brisk along this creekbed path

I've fear of my own shadow 'cross the trees

I do not wish to meet the phantom's wrath

I cry out into nothing--fruitless pleas

My running feet are twisted into branches

I fall into the creek and crack my head

On the rocks, and my complexion blanches

When I realize that I'll soon be dead

I swear I see the cloaked man stand above

Though in my heart I know I am alone

There was no phantom there to give the shove

The madness that destroyed me was my own

Magic is considered abnormal

The idea people could fly or read minds

Just never seemed formal

We have never gone to other worlds and the fault is mankinds'

A lonely spirit drifts

Through the empty estate,

Her memory lost to blurred rifts;

An all but blank slate.

People come and they go,

But for what,

She doesn't know.

Doors open and shut

As she drifts past

These lively strangers.

Their faces aghast,

They cry, "DANGER!!"

They flee from a perceived invisible threat,

Leaving her no answer to her inquiry.

Fingerprints in the dust set -

A wordless diary

As the estate is left to rot.

She wanders alone,

Not spared a single thought,

Left forever to the Unknown.