Posted 2020-11-12 11:58:05 (edited)
Share your short stories and RP snippets with me! Drop em down below!
Turns out it's too long (even without html formatting) so I'm gonna drop the link down below. I'll post a part of it here though. Linky Child If you like it and want to see more please just say so in the comments :D
PART 1
“They are beautiful beasts that will run as hard as you push them. They will run. And run. And run. Until they don't. Until their hearts explode.”- Mickey the Carver~
Year 736
A new day. A fake sun shining through worn and tattered curtains to wake the siblings sleeping in creaky beds under musky blankets and on old pillows. Another day waking in the dusty little shack to eat a small breakfast and don hand-washed clothes to finally stretch out once they’ve stepped into the sunshine. Another day of work. Another day.~
I blink against the early, artificial light, doing my best to shield myself from it underneath threadbare blankets. My brother, Othello, groans in the small bed beside me, just as happy with being woken as I am. But, his sense of duty is stronger than mine and he sits up and stretches as much as he can in the confined space. Grunting, he struggles to crawl over me and get up from the bed, kicking me repeatedly in the process. Soon, I follow with a sigh, dragging behind him and plopping down into a rickety chair beside the stove. “What’s for breakfast?” I ask sarcastically, rubbing the sleep from my ruby red eyes. “Well, my darling sister,” Othello jokes with a slight smile and an Old Earth English accent, “today we have fried prime stock eggs, lean bacon, straight from the slaughterhouse, and a warm stack of pancakes. To drink we have fresh milk and orange juice. And if m’lady would like, we have cream-filled pastries for the way.” I give a genuine laugh, rolling my eyes. No low-red from this side of the dome would ever have any of those things. “Stop that. You’re making me hungry.” In reality, breakfast would be nothing more than nutrient-packed grain bars in boiled water. Enough to live on, but never enough to fill our bellies. Occasionally, we do in fact have milk. And if we could sneak one or two from the orchards, we’d even have some sort of fruit or vegetable. But those opportunities are few and far between. So each morning we rise and eat a breakfast of grains boiled in water before getting dressed and heading off to work.
“Crops aren’t doing well,” I state for no obvious reason. Othello turns from the old stove to give me an odd look. A topic such as this is forbidden.
“No, but they’re managing. How did you sleep, Sin?” And like that the topic is shut, a silent lock to seal it. I play with my red carved sigils, discontent with his dismissal.
“Fine. Odd dreams,” I murmur, head hung low.
“Like what.” He cocks his head as he stirs the boiling pot.
“Nothing important,” I sigh, shoving away any attempt at real conversation. “Just jumbled thoughts.” And that’s that. Othello gives me a fake smile, pouring the soggy grains into both bowls on the table. I thank him with a nod before taking a bite, wishing I’d blown on it when the tasteless gruel burns the roof of my mouth. Othello joins me, scooting under the wooden table, careful not to break the rickety chair. He’s just raised his spoon to his lips when a loud horn sounds and echoes through the air. It’s time to work. We both sigh, downing our bowls as quickly as possible and rushing to dress.
Finally, we step outside into the cool air. It would be another scorching hot day. Nothing new in the biodome. The mornings are cool, the afternoons scorching, and the evenings humid, almost to the point of choking. None of this is coincidental of course; everything here has a purpose. The goal is to make us happy to get up in the mornings and too worn and tired to want to do anything but sleep in the night. Makes good us workers. Efficient is the word I think they use.
We begin our walk in idle chatter, other workers chiming in here and there as they join the procession to the groves. For as hellish as this life is, lack of community is not and never was an issue. By the time we reach the day's assigned orchard the sun is high and the heat sweltering, battering us and the other workers.
Each day is the same. Pick a certain amount of fruit by the end of sundown or be punished. Easy enough. Of course, the Coppers always change the quota. They randomly pick a worker and move their goal at the end of the day so they can meet their quota; a certain amount of reds in each clan has to fail. Both Othello and I have been picked one time or another. We are not given justice. After all, the ones responsible for us would dispose of us like broken tools at the first sign of weakness.
Despite the optimistic chatter of the walk, we go about our work silently, focusing on our tasks and nothing else. If a Gray found anyone idling it’d be a whipping. If we work hard enough there’s a chance of reward. Tonight is the Laureltide after all. One night a month where the total harvest is tallied up and the clan with the largest haul wins a laurel. Food and fabrics and medicine. Things I’d never had unless I’d bought it off of a high-red on the other side of the dome. Our clan hasn’t won in years. Not for lack of meeting the quota, but because we are not the favored; not like the high-reds past the delta. Even the cruelest master will have favorite slaves.
But, that’s their angle. Make us jealous and angry at our own instead of the society that keeps us chained. We’ll never win. But the hope that we might have some fresh fruit without the threat of a beating is enough to make me work without pause. After all, that’s what I was designed to do. That’s what all reds were designed to do; work and work and work until we die.
~
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