Freedomia -- land of the blessed. Fasten your seatbelts for landing.

Freedomia Rules
By Angela Rasch

Tires squealed and the plane lurched slightly as we touched down on the tarmac, in the sweltering heat, of southern hemisphere summer.

I would enjoy the opportunity, to work on a tan, given the sub-zero temperature I had left behind, in Chicago. I already regretted wearing a wool suit. Even though I had bought it at Macy’s, the jacket seemed a bit mannish and clashed with a skirt that allowed my knees to peek out.

Of course, as a pre-op transsexual, I too could be termed a bit mannish.

“This story is perfect for you,” my editor had said with a malicious grin. He hadn’t been happy when the paper’s human resources people hired me, without his consent. Outside of a corporate attorney and the V.P. of human resources, my editor was the only person, at my new job, to know of my transitioning.

I had moved four hundred miles and created a new career, to put my past behind me. “Your perspective on certain issues will bring verve and tension, to a story about Freedomia.”

Jerk!

I looked around the cabin, of the airplane, at my fellow travelers.

Many had opened their in-flight Bibles, once we lifted off, on the final leg of my journey. For the next four hours, they kept their eyes glued to the Scriptures. Other than a certain holier-than-thou attitude that might have been just something I was imagining, they seemed to be an average group of people.

“To Hell with the United Nations” blared a headline on the local newspaper at, the first kiosk after our gate. I hadn’t read the story -- but imagined it would be a screed regarding the United Nations’ decision to level sanctions against Freedomia, for civil rights violations.

“Where to, Honey?” the taxi driver asked, with too much familiarity.

To avoid a bias, in my article, I’d skipped the background research I’d normally do. I intended to do that after my trip, once I’d formed an unvarnished impression. I knew that Freedomia’s laws were based on religious beliefs. Nonetheless, his obvious sexist attitude left me momentarily speechless. “Take me to the Bennington, please.”

“Are you meeting your husband -- there?” He asked, in an obvious probe about my marital status. From what I had been able to gather, through minimal reading about this new country, the males in Freedomia out-numbered the females by nearly twelve to one. The divorce rate between couples when the male decided to move to Freedomia, from the United States, had been nearly eighty-five percent.

“I’m traveling alone,” I replied, keeping information about my single life as quiet as my ringless fingers.

“I take people to the Bennington every day,” he said. “Most are new to our grand country and are looking to buy a home. They stay in the Bennington only as long as it takes, for them to close, on a house. I can help make that happen for you, within twenty days.”

He turned, reached over the seatback between us, and handed me a brochure, for a real estate firm. “They’re a good outfit. Someone told me they’re selling nearly a hundred homes a day. Praise the Lord, there’s a lot of people, who want to live in Freedomia.”

I involuntarily squeezed my knees together. The secret between my legs could land me in jail, or worse. I had never experienced any difficulty passing for a woman. Not once in the last five years, since I had been living as a woman fulltime, had anyone given even the slightest indication of suspecting anything.

But Freedomia had achieved a reputation for its anti-trans laws.

My editor hadn’t given me a real choice. He said I could take the assignment, or he would demote me, to copy editor.

I loved writing for the paper and the freedom, to report, on issues I felt were important. I wasn’t about to let one jackass, in his ivory tower, ruin that for me.

As we drove from the airport, to my hotel, I was struck by how much similarity there was between Freedomia and the United States. More than enough McDonald’s, Domino’s Pizzas, and other franchises “graced” their streets.

My eyes stumbled when they saw a sign, for a store called 21:7. “Don’t they mean 24/7?” I asked.

“I don’t understand,” my driver answered, clearly baffled, by my question.

"Shouldn’t the sign on the store say 24/7? You know. They’re open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

He gasped. “Are you crazy?”

I looked at his license, displayed on the dash where a radio would have been, in most cars. “Paul,” I said, hoping I could start to gather information for my article, by getting him to talk. “My doctor tells me my mental health is just fine.”

He didn’t laugh. “No one in Freedomia would be stupid enough, to work on the Sabbath. We honor Exodus 35:2. I, myself have had the distinct pleasure of taking part in a public stoning, to execute a sinner, who violated the Sabbath. He claimed he forgot what day it was. Can you imagine?”

I shuddered. It was one thing to have heard a little about the laws, in this new form of government based on Holy Scripture -- but quite another experience, to have someone talk so eerily about lethally throwing rocks at another human -- meting out punishment, for working on Sunday.

“That store you asked about,” he said as he slowed for a red light. “The one with the 21:7 sign -- is where you go to purchase someone’s daughter. You’re a Believer, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” I had been prepared for that question. My faith was strong, but not to the degree of fanaticism I expected to encounter.

“Then I will remind you of Exodus 21:7, which provides the right, to sell your daughter, into slavery.”

I stifled a yip of protest. My marriage had not produced any children and since we had been divorced for five years, probably never would. If I would have had a daughter, I couldn’t imagine what on earth could ever possess me . . . to sell her!

I thought of my older sister and the childhood grief she often had given me. Maybe selling her, for a weekend or two, would have been okay. My smile quickly diminished when I grasped how horribly real the prospect of being sold was, in this strange land.

We had entered the downtown area. I was struck by the number of women on the street dressed in bright red. “Why all the red dresses? Is it a special holiday?”

The driver laughed in that superior way I hoped I had never used. “Those women are all being visited by Aunt Flo. Leviticus 15:19-24 demands that we not touch a woman, in her period of menstrual uncleanliness. Women here must let the men know by wearing red. Look — if it’s your time of the month, I can take you to a store, so you can buy suitable clothing.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, trying not to sound too indignant.

As we continued toward the motel, the driver spoke of upcoming sporting events and the weather. For that brief period, everything seemed normal.

Stepping from the cab, a sharp odor caused me to blink. “Ewww. What’s that smell?”

“Someone is sacrificing a bull, on their home altar. Around the holidays, we actually get smog from all the bull-burnings. I usually travel to the outlands, to fulfill my Leviticus 1:9 duties. But too many -- simply don’t care.”

I checked in, without further problem. After a four-hour nap, I woke famished and went down, to a restaurant, on the second floor.

A young man who introduced himself as “Curt” provided a menu. He wore a silver, solid ring on his left wrist that he couldn’t possibly take off.

I was amazed at his commitment to fashion. “That’s a lovely bracelet.”

His look of disgust nearly bowled me over. But he said nothing.

“I’m from the U.S.,” I said hurriedly. “I just came to your country today and will be here the next five days, on assignment, for my newspaper. I don’t know all your customs, yet. If I’ve said something, to upset you, please tell me.”

A single tear trickled down his left cheek. “Slavery, ma’am,” he whispered, through clenched teeth. “I’m a slave.”

“Slavery?”

“These fools use a Bible passage, Leviticus 25:44, to support their slavery laws. I’m from West Alma. Slavers crossed the border, from Freedomia, into my homeland -- and captured me.”

I drew in a sharp breath and glanced around, to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “The United Nations has an interest in your plight. Things may change soon.”

“Thank you,” he gushed. “It means a great deal to have some hope.”

I smiled. “I don’t really need to look at the menu. All day I’ve been craving lobster.”

He looked at me with shock. “You could be stoned to death, for eating lobster. No restaurant here would ever serve shellfish. The Bible says it’s an abomination. Leviticus 11:10.”

I shook my head and opened my menu, feeling the relief one gets when the brakes work properly. “I’ll have the petite sirloin steak.”

“Good choice.” His grin told me he was pleased, to have saved my life.

“Could I ask you a question,” I asked, again looking around, to assure our privacy.

He nodded.

“You have short hair. Is there another one of those strange laws, about hair? Almost every man I’ve seen has long hair and a full beard.”

“Leviticus 19:27 — because I’m a slave they don’t care if I have long hair or not. But all the male true believers are subject to stoning, if they cut their hair -- or shave their face.”

He reached into his pocket and handed me a pamphlet titled, “Things You Need to Know.”

As I waited for my meal I found that touching the skin of a pig was also a capital offense (Leviticus 11:8), as was approaching the altar of the Lord, if my eyesight was less than perfect (Leviticus 21:20).

The pamphlet told of a farmer who had planted two different crops, in the same field -- and had worn a garment made of both cotton and polyester. His whole town had turned out, to stone him, to death.

I thought of my soon-to-be husband back in Chicago and how I was twice an abomination in the Freedomians’ book.

I beckoned to Curt. When he arrived at my table, I gave him a one-hundred-dollar bill, to cover the meal and his tip. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite,” I explained, as I rose to leave.

Once back in my room, I hurriedly packed and went to the airport. I would catch the first plane home, to the relative sanity of a world whose inhabitants pick and choose their foolish bias and laws, with a slight bit more discrimination.

The End

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a kudos and a comment. They mean a lot to me.

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake