Hopeful Hearts

The Hopeful Hearts, is what they called us, in the first few days of the Markings. Messiahs. Prophets. Harbingers of hope destined to bring peace upon the decimated world. We were a small community, at first—strange but insignificant little anomalies rearing up in unrefined pockets of the chaotic world. We were easily dismissed, then. But it wasn’t long before our numbers grew, more and more of us bubbling up in more and more places until, finally, we could no longer be ignored.

I saw a map, recently, with glowing yellow dots betraying our locations. The dots formed no web—no recognizable pattern. It seemed so disorganized. So unkempt. As though God had decided to Mark us in the opposite fashion with which He was once said to have created us: Randomly, this time! Like throwing kernels of popcorn haphazardly into a fire. And His only distinguishable goal? To see where we would land and how many burns we could survive after popping.

So far, I’ve suffered quite a few.

Alec, the most recent addition to our group, waves me into the gathering circle. I believe I may have seen his high-spirit skip over the DANGER signs at the entrance to this hideout, but I hope I was mistaken. He’s the youngest out of all of us by far, and he reeks of naivety. He was branded & Marked just yesterday. The inked design of a heart-shaped locket glows fresh and blinding on his arm, the shadows retreating in several feet all around us.

The benevolent part of me—that minuscule, tiny sliver still left--is proud of him that he hasn’t yet used his gift.

But the larger, stronger part of me, hungers for something else.

We turn on our radio and catch the end of a broadcast.

“…and that was the fifth and final rule so far. As always, be safe out there...”

The voice trails off, then begins again with vigor at number one.

“The first rule of the Marked…” it begins.

“…Is that all wishes must be stated out loud.” I finish for the broadcaster, mocking his overly-formal tone.

I lean over and kick at the button that gives power to the broadcast. It takes me three tries, but I finally hit my mark. No one reprimands me; we’ve all already memorized the rules.

Number one: All wishes must be stated out loud.

I remember vividly the news coverage of that first discovery. I sat, glued to my television screen, as the Marked man told us of his plight. He was a farmer who had just lost his life’s work in a flood. “I miss my farm,” he lamented. “I only wish I had another one. I had thirty cows before. I wish I had even ten, now.”

As he spoke, his brand, a tattooed locket glowed bright, and then, there, in the wreckage of his old barn, a new building materialized. The camera scrolled over well-built beams and inside, beyond the gate, ten strong, healthy steers. The cameraman rewound the tape and played the footage again. One second: open ground. The next: an entire building, filled with animals.

This was the first proof that Markings could be called upon to make wishes come true. A few days later, the Marked man even replicated the results by saying the words a second time.

“So what should I wish for?” Alec’s voice pulls me back into the present—his joyful tone brings me back to those earlier, happier days. “What if I wish for—”

“STOP!” We all bark at him.

Rule number two: Any desire stated out loud may be interpreted as a wish—whether intended or not.

“Right,” he mumbles. “Sorry, I-I’m still new to this.”

Brian, the eldest of our group of stowaways, strokes his peppered beard. “Let’s make it simple. We could use more food and supplies. That would help us out and the light from your tattoo will dim enough that we can hide it. That’s good enough for now.” He pulls some bandages from his waistband as he mumbles through some possibilities.

“Okay!” says the boy, “Then I wish for food and supplies!”

He hardly finishes before the rest of us loudly sigh in frustration.

As the glow in his arm dims ever so slightly, a handful of berries, a ratty blanket, and a canteen materializes in front of us.

Rule Number three: in order to mediate the chance of being misconstrued or misinterpreted, wishes should be as specific and literal as possible.

I imagine slapping the ignorant child in the face, but I tear the bandages out of Brian’s hand and busy myself with covering his arm instead. I would never actually do such a thing, it’s just that recent events have seeded my mind with more gloom and doom than my imagination currently knows what to do with.

Right now, it’s difficult to be us. Those of us that are Marked are despised, feared, or hunted--some even enslaved, forced to grant their captors’ wishes. And wishes can go terribly, terribly awry, if the wish is asked incorrectly.

The non-compliant are brutally murdered. We’ve lost too many to count.

Young Alec’s frame wilts as he murmurs, “I’m...I’m...so sorry. I’ll do better next time.”

“You’d better!” I growl. Then, in a more supportive manner, I grumble, “Hey kid, there’s always next time.”

But I’m not so sure I want to wait until next time.

In fact, I may have just reached the end of my rope.

I’m sick and tired of running, and I’m done with hiding! Exasperated, I stand up, pull my shoulders back and raise my branded arm in defiance.

“I wish I was omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent!” I bellow.

I know the many ways this wish could go wrong. But I hope, desperately, for the small chance it may go right.

My Mark radiates a phosphorescent light. The sparkling illumination causes shadows to dance on the barbed wire fence surrounding us.

Our secret encampment will no longer be hidden.

My colleagues gawk at me in shock.

I force myself to stand up taller.

No matter what happens next, change begins now.

My time--Our time--begins now!