From my author site:
http://www.barrioblues.com/un-blog-de-writing-musings/the-internal-editor-must-die-and-an-excerpt-from-the-harvest-pp-1-20
Today, I taught my first creative writing class.
I haven’t taught creative writing since 2008, but I wanted to teach it again since I am writing on a regular basis now.
Plus, I needed the space and reason, or excuse, to read about creative writing theory, again.
Working full time, running a union chapter, with two small children can often be a challenge.
In class, they did a number of activities.
One
of these was to have them meet each other, while I called them up to
the front individually to get to know them better and to memorize their
names faster.
Already, there are some budding authors, but
there are also the students who are struggling with serious writing
challenges, the kinds of challenges that kill projects before they even
start.
Some students can’t produce more than a couple of sentences.
Others have severe internal editors that block the flow of ideas.
I
spent a good number of minutes talking to one young writer, who said
the internal editor prevented him from getting any ideas out, yet he had
so many.
I really felt for him because I could see the desire to produce and the angst.
I essentially told him to kill that editor, metaphorically, with a large metaphorical gun.
I told him
that severe editing was mistimed and that he needed to save it for the end of the writing process.
I gave him some exercises to do, like to write,
just write, for ten minutes without stopping and grow from there.
I
even threw in some sage advice from Jack Hirschman, poet laureate from
San Francisco, who once said to me that in order to write, I needed to
“Take a pencil to paper and start writing.”
He is one of my favorite poets and translators of Latin American poets.
The man is also an amazing performer, but I hope this metaphor helped this pupil.
I also encouraged him neither quit nor drop my class.
All to these students have the potential to write and to love writing, and I can’t wait to read their work.
That is all I have.
I have to read a number of diagnostics and evaluate them thoroughly.
Below is an excerpt from the novel I am drafting for the third time and posting in chronological order again.
I am not sure if inserting a file into the blog is better than copying and pasting text.
I
haven’t seen the last post on my phone to see what is easier to read,
and no one has really said anything, not even my #1 fan, my sister
Diana.
However, I did get a lot of Likes on “Little Horny Bird” from some colleagues and poets I respect.
(I respect all my colleagues, but some have more street cred than others.)
Here’s to growing that love of words and helping each other along the path. =================
An excerpt from
The Harvest: A Novel, pp. 1-20, single spaced.
The Harvest: A Novel
[ME1]
My mother hands me an old gallon container; this one is grey without a
filter. I look out the window and see no Red Guards on the street. No
Guards means no Harvest, most of the time.
“Now, Ashley,”
says my mother, as if I haven’t been doing this run since I was six
years old, “Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t stay out in the sun too
long. If you hear the sirens, run to the old bunker. Just last week,
Mrs. Lopez’s boy was harvested right before he got to his safe spot.
You can’t hide here during harvest.” Her faded grey eyes are still
beautiful, and I want to trace that deep indentation with my finger, but
caring too much is a sign of weakness.
“Mom,” I sigh
looking at her weary face. She is leaner than I remember with ever
graying hair and perpetual orange stains on her hands and face from the
processing plant. Her hair is a knot over her head with nothing holding
it tight but a wispy strand of her own fading hair. I want to give her
a biting remark, as really, I should outrank her because I am more
productive now, but instead I smile and say, “Don’t worry Mom. I’m the
fastest runner in my class and besides, there was just a harvest
yesterday.”
Mom hesitates like she wants to tell me
something, but even plant workers are not supposed to talk about their
trade, and I am always suspicious of the packing plants.
“Just be careful,” she gives me an unusually long hug, “Remember-“
I clamp my hand over her mouth like I used to as a toddler and say in a
robotic tone, “ ‘Be productive. Be accountable. Be safe.’” But safe
doesn’t mean from the Harvest, but dangerous anti-government ideas. I
take my hand off her worried face, “I got the red ribbon again this
month. I will be safe.” It’s true. I have gotten the red ribbon award
for being productive, accountable, and punishing those who are not true
patriots. I am safe.
I step out into the harsh glaring
sun wearing a large Panama hat. Panama was once a country, and that is
all they tell us in school. I walk confidently because running is
suspect, but I manage to walk 3.5 miles an hour like I have purpose,
when my only purpose is to get clean water.
Half way
down the street, my heart freezes. The sirens begin softly, like an old
song you can’t forget, and then the sound rises to a near immobilizing
pitch. I check to see if guards are around and run, making sure not to
drop the gallon. I wonder where everyone is or if someone got an
underground notice I didn’t. I crash hard into an old man. It’s the
homeless man who has been avoiding harvest since I was a little girl:
Old Hope, I call him. He’s too old to be processed, but I always wonder
what they do with old spare meat or old people in general. I don’t
ever want to find out.
For a moment, we both have the same impulse.
Though I am only twelve, I am strong and lethal. I have learned
fifteen ways of killing someone, two with my bare hands. I could maim
him or at least stun him, so he will be left behind. But instead, we
both get up and run in opposite directions. I guess we are not
productive citizens after all. I head down Victory Road toward the
retiree compound. She will be waiting for me, my old friend.
I look quickly to my right and see a red squad beating a young boy
down. He is unusually fat for the neighborhood and is overburdened with
water jugs. Water jugs! I only carry one, and although I can lift 40
pounds easily, the empty container seems to weigh more than anything.
To my left a grey volunteer emerges out of nowhere and grabs for my arm,
but I offer a swift punch to her throat and easily scamper away into
Mrs. Jenkens’ apartment. Maybe she will get it, even though she
volunteers. I despise volunteers. They are normal women who can’t
afford genetic modifications, unfortunate women who couldn’t find a
sponsor. Still, that doesn’t give them the right to harvest us.
Especially not me.
I am a girl with high prospects.
I look for any squad member that might be lurking about. Hiding from
the squads inside your own home if you are on the streets when the
harvest starts is illegal; that tracking is possible because the census
software at home tracks your arm-port; one must be accountable. Being
hidden in others’ homes is frowned upon, but Mrs. Jenkens doesn’t care
what the neighbors think. She doesn’t care if she gets sent to the
processing plant. I really don’t think she cares about anything but our
weekly meetings.
“Thought I was going to have to get out there with my shotgun,” chuckles the old woman.
She
sits by the window, unafraid of gunfire. I know she has been waiting
for me because she is holding the old history book in her hand, the one
with
all the pages in it. There is the familiar smell of green
tea and black market biscuits. I spy them on the table and besides the
adrenaline rush, I feel a strong surge of hunger. I wonder how much
they cost her; in the market, non-meat products run astronomically
high. Last week, I traded a whole leg of dog and two bananas for mom’s
sanitary products. Mom never said where she got the leg; dogs are also
rare and bananas even more so. I give Mrs. Jenkens a sincere grin, and
know better than to pester her for details.
“Oh please,” I
answer catching my breath, “You wouldn’t last a millisecond. Out
there,” I point, “With your broken hip,” I aim at her hip.
I try not to stare at the bright orange shawl she wears that matchers
her orange feline fur, “Or that ‘kill me’ flag you have on.” Only Mrs.
Jenkens favors them over the military style uniform retirees wear.
Today, the woman sports a knee-high pink dress which makes absolutely no
sense and clashes against her intense blue eyes. Her cat like ears
flicker back, although I know they are her playful ears.
“Hmmm,” I admonish with mock-disapproval, “Trying to get arrested with those clothes?”
Taking my gallon, she walks with the step of a young girl into the
kitchen, despite her slight hobble “Bah, no one cares about a woman over
fifty. I don’t taste good anyway.” She winks at me and swishes her
tail. It is long and graceful, like the tails on our neighborhood cats
that run rampant.
“Don’t you mean sixty?” I say. A loud
bang makes me head for the kitchen but not too quickly. After all, we
are trained to be unafraid of death.
When I enter Mrs. Jenkens has the gallon filled to the brim. I never ask how, but she always has water.
Always has enough, but then, she lives alone.
“Two liters, not worth the risk,” says the woman, “You should go out on Sundays and with your escort.”
I snort, “Mom sold it. Besides, she doesn’t have the money to have me
engineered, again. Not that they’ll take me,” I pause and look over my
should, “I still can’t eat government protein. I tried again this
morning. Doc B says it’s the enzyme, but she hasn’t reported me. She
can’t run the test to figure out what is wrong with me. It costs too
much money, and mom is already so in-debt from the internal mods I
have.” I stare at her, longing to have fur on my skin and some day,
claws, “Mrs. J, are you sure the meat doesn’t come from the harvested?
Is it human meat? Tell me, honestly.” I always ask her the same
questions, and she always answers the same.
“No way,
that’s just a rumor to keep people more afraid. People are harvested
for organs and whatever the government needs. Most people are intact
and become servants., especially children.”
I give her a skeptical look, “Right, Mrs. J. Intact.” Almost everyone I have seen harvested is a bloody mess.
“Beatrice is a good woman,” she says switching the subject, “She was
one of my students once, before all this—” she says, “You’re so tall.”
“What?” I ask.
“You’re so tall and smart. I’m worried someone will want to patron
you, sooner than your finals” she looks out the small kitchen window,
“Then, I won’t see you anymore.” That is rare; patronage starts when a
girl is 16, usually, but some girls are more adept, and I have been
hiding some of my skills.
I give her a knowing look, “No
one will take me. You know that. It’s too expensive to feed someone
who can’t eat government meat. Anyway.”
The sirens end and the
announcer reports, “There will be no more gatherings for thirty six
hours. Be productive. Be accountable. Be safe.”
“Liars. Liars.
Liars,” I say in the same robotic voice, “This is the third harvest in
two weeks. Do you think we are gong to war again?”
Mrs. Jenkins
gives me a squeeze, “We’re always at war. Now, go take this to your
mother and come back.” She hands me a small pouch, “Plant this in the
rooftop like I taught you. Be sure no one sees.”
“Ah Mrs. J, everyone has a rooftop garden hidden under solar tarps—“
“Yeah, but not for girls. Now hurry along!” she yowls at me playfully.
I know she is right. The gardens are to grow food for boys, the lucky
boys who have brave parents. My mother jokes that the extra food is to
fatten them for the harvest, but she is bitter having lost two sons by
the age of sixteen. I never got to meet them, so they don’t mean much
to me, but she still mourns them, even though truly, she doesn’t know
what became of them.
I walk nimbly, avoiding strangers. No telling
who might steal my water or worse, says Mrs. J, but I am not sure what
worse is, yet. I have seen young boys being raped in the alley and dead
people starved or shot by regular citizens. Once, I saw a woman
selling her male baby on the street corner, and I held my tears all the
way home. We are not supposed to cry for boys.
“Hey,”
says a raspy voice. It is Guadalupe Ramirez or as I like to call him
Alan. Boys are given their mother or a matriarch’s name and father’s
last name. It’s cute for most mothers to do that, but his mother hates
him. That is part of the reason I call him Alan, after his father.
He
is my age and in the same class. He has the most brilliant smile with
strong white teeth. It’s the only thing that is strong in his body.
His hair is cropped short with highlights from overexposure to the sun.
Most boys in the neighborhood have dark skin and black eyes. He has
unusually blue eyes, and I wonder if somewhere along the way, the gender
got botched up. His smile warms me to the core, and for a moment, I
forget the ugly harvest.
I wave, then think better of it and scowl, “Carry this for me,
boy.”
Alan snorts and takes the jug, “Humbly, oh great one.”
We both giggle, and I pace two feet ahead of him, which isn’t hard
because today he is wheezing so loud, you can probably hear him way down
at the processing plant, which is three miles away. He wears an ugly
shirt with some red flowers and patched up blue jeans.
“Glad you weren’t harvested,” I say pointing at his shirt.
“You and me both; mom dressed me this morning, even though I could
barely breath. When the sirens went off, I hid under the old resistance
bunker. ”
I am instantly furious. Even if he is sickly,
she has no right. Boys, especially lowborn boys, are not allowed to
wear red. That is a color of honor, one I wear often but am not partial
to. Everywhere you see red: red cameras, red advertisements, red
screen ads. Red sidewalks.
“Next time, lose the shirt and say some girl tore it off your back,” I urge him.
“And get sun burned? Then, I’ll wear red all the time,” he hands me a
jug, bows gracefully, and continues onto his flat.
“Hey,
boy?!” I ask, “Where is your shit suit?” because I just noticed he has
not protection. Most Girls’ skin is genetically modified to bear the
sun’s deadly rays, but not boys, at least not boys in our neighborhood.
He shrugs his shoulder, “Mom sold it to buy lard.”
“See
you at school,” I say. I turn back to look at him; he is walking with a
limp on his left foot. I gaze upward and note how the hair on the back
of his head is near white, bleached from the sun.
I hurry up to see my mother, “Mom you here, or food?”
“Not roast yet,” she jokes giving me a big hug. As a plant worker, I
suspect she knows what happens when people get processed, but she has
never talked about her job, and I wonder if she is conditioned not to
say anything. She comes in to hug me but thinks better of it, and
yanks my ear. “What have I told you? Do not consort with that
boy.”
“Mom, he’s in my class, in my group,” I lie. All boys and girls are
put into groups until grade nine; he is in my year, but not my group. I
am glad, because after eighth grade the divisiveness starts. Boys
become the focus of teachers’ scorn. They get segregated and made to be
the practice targets of kicks and punches. Alan has been my best
friend since we could walk; the truth is I have few friends that are
girls because they are so competitive and would surely turn me in
knowing about my defect. Luckily, I have always been a recluse, a sort
of genius slotted to be patroned for engineering, so I can play the snob
and be detached. Girls aren’t supposed to love boys anymore, but I
care about him, a little.
“Too bad. You should be in a
private school for girls,” my mother rubs her hands together, “Not going
to school with
that boy.”
“Awe, mom, it’s OK. Some day I’ll go work in the Center and buy you a new apartment where only women live.”
Mom laughs. Her parents refused to modify her, although she claims
they had the money to do so, but that is a story all low class women
tell.
I go into my room and hide the seeds behind the
bedpost. There is a hole I carved there when I was five, where I used
to hide small trinkets. I am not the only one with one of these, but
people need some kind of escape, some way to feel they are not totally
controlled by harvesting laws. I pull something out and hide it in an
inner pocket. I look up to the ceiling. My dad inserted a panel in the
below the grubby chandelier. For someone supposedly of average
intelligence, he did a job even a Red Guard couldn’t see past. That is
where I keep my book of short stories and gun, just in case. I run back
to Mrs. Jenken’s street.
Up high on a reinforced
communications poll hangs the body of someone who will never contribute
again. That is the worst kind of punishment, someone who will never
nourish society. I wonder what he did. He could have liberated some
men or worse, killed a woman. But, that crime is rare, unless it’s
harvest time. It’s not knowing, what people fear the most. No one knows
what ever happens to those who are harvested. Some say it’s a gimmick
to control population. Others that they are sent to war. Few that
their meat is actually government protein, but I know eating human flesh
has dire health consequences.
In fact, last month a
woman three blocks down actually ate her little boy. It made the
national news, and as her punishment she was fed to the Pit. Even
though human life has little worth in the slums, cannibalism is highly
frowned upon.
My arm-port lights up and there is an
advertisement for a new mod I can’t afford, “Tiger Teeth,” not the most
creative ad. I shiver at what those teeth could do on the playground.
It would be so easy to list who was harvested with our technology, but
the government doesn’t share that list. Instead, it lists the names of
all the girls being patroned that month. I hit “Like” on a few; two
went to my school.
On my way back to her house, I almost
step into a large red pool. A long blonde hair dangles in the breeze.
I suck in my breath and think of Marcia Goodwin. She is the only girl I
talk to on at school, a plucky girl who always scores low on her
monthly tests. I think her mother did drugs when she was pregnant
because Marcia doesn’t even have the minimum internal attributes like
agility and intelligence. But, then genetic engineers are not gods. I
look again and imagine a volunteer or worse a Red Guard beating her down
because her name has made a list of someone who holds no promise.
Marcia Goodwin would never be truly productive in society, and I am not
even sure that she is safe from anti-establishment ideas. One day, I
spotted a book that was peeking out of her pocket, but her, I didn’t
report. I think she even knew that I saw, and she could have used that
information against me, but Marcia also has a weak heart.
Blonde hair is common
I tell myself, knowing instantly that long hair is not. Even I sport a
short brown bob, so I don’t waste water when I wash it. I turn to look
at the stain one more time and run right smack into a Red Guard.
“Watch where you’re going citizen!” she barks.
I look up; it is a slender, graceful woman with expensive Siamese grey
skin and flat pointed ears. Her eyes are an unusual emerald underneath
her crimson visor. But I notice she is relaxed and not poised to
attack.
“My apologies lieutenant,” I say confidently, “Be productive. Be accountable. Be safe.”
“Be productive. Be accountable. Be safe,” she answers with a slight smile on her face and marches on.
I can’t resist taking a look back. This guard hasn’t done the full
transformation, or she can’t afford it. Her butt is perky but flat
under her uniform.
What’s the point if you can’t swish your tail? I wonder.
When I walk into Mrs. Jenkens’ house, the teacup and biscuits are still
there. I put my hand over the items and let the warmth seep into my
hands; the tea is a rich Earl Grey, my favorite, and the biscuit is an
insta-biscuit, but Mrs. Jenkins has stuffed it with butter.
“Gift?” said Mrs. Jenkens automatically holding her hand out, “And don’t tell me what you did for it, dear.”
“Nothing perverted,” I say handing her the red velvet pouch.
“Oh my,” says Mrs. Jenkens, “What a treat!” Mrs. Jenkens picks a pinch
of white gold and lets the granules roll between her fingers and back
into the pouch.
I beam at her, “It’s real sugar. Real sugar, not some synthetic knock off.”
“How?” asks Mrs. Jenkens, showing genuine admiration.
“I helped the Lister girl pass her midterms. She may be modified with
the best, but she’s a total moron,” I smile triumphantly because that is
partially true; the other truth is that I had to beat someone up at the
playground who had upset her that day, “Her family is so filthy rich
compared to us, and Lister kept bringing chocolate and other treats. Of
course, she never shares, but just the sight of them made me think her
family had to have sugar. . . I was right, but . . . how is that
possible when the islands are gone?”
Mrs. Jenkens snorts, “You
still believe everything you read on the vid-screen or your arm-port? Ha!”
“But there were storms and famine,” I answer.
“Sure, but man has a way.”
“Don’t you mean woman, you dissident?!” I ask in the authoritarian tone I heard earlier.
For a moment, Mrs. Jenkens looks at me uncertainly, and we both start laughing.
“Let’s drink our tea and eat our biscuit where no one will see us,” heading to the basement, she urges me to follow.
Mrs. Jenkens always makes sure all the doors are locked; she sets the
wall vid-screen at a high volume with the national channel blaring.
Today, they are televising the arena but not a single famous woman is
fighting. No doubt, these women are just parading for show, so they
won’t fight to the death, just maim each other.
I walk into the basement, which is always cold, but the old woman asserts that helps a person think and stay alert.
“Today,” announces Mrs. Jenkens, “I’m going to tell you about China. . .”
Almost every day it is the same thing. Old Mrs. Jenkens, once a
respected member of the Old Guard tells me impossible stories. Families
used to have more than one child and celebrated boys. People ate
animals like cows. I can only imagine times what these were like and
can’t conceive anything being herded but citizens or criminals. Today,
she is talking about the flue, a disease that has since been eradicated
but nearly wiped out all of the Chinese population.
“Was it biological warfare?” I ask habitually because it’s always biological warfare.
“Well, that is one theory,” says Mrs. Jenkens, “You tell me girl, when
has there ever been a virus that only affected one area of the country?
Or one part of the world?”
I think long and hard, “Never, but then why was no one else in other parts of the world infected?”
“Well, some say it was the government itself that spread it through
food. Others an errant corporation that did not properly test its
products.”
“But,” I ask, “Weren’t most Chinese products exported?”
“Ah, that is the mystery,” she says looking out the widow and assigns,
“Try to figure it out, and we’ll continue next time.”
For the next few days, I analyze the problem.
Was it the food? No, most of that was exported.
Was it medicine? No, most of that was exported.
Was it a virus?
But, there were no reported cases elsewhere. I research the historical
archives, yet there isn’t much text left, just images and a few
articles that support the Red Guard.
I look at the images
carefully. They are advertisements with beautiful women, at least I
think they are beautiful because their skin is pale and their eyes the
color of burnt earth. There is not a single modification on them. I
look up at the window and see my reflection; I am tall for my age,
nearly 5’ 7” and although I am skinny, my instructors tell me I am all
muscle. Mrs. Jenkins says my face is sweet, the shape of a heart, but I
don’t see it. My hair is honey colored, and I hate to see the day it
has to be turned a deep, unnatural red, because if I am lucky, I will
join the Red Guard. If I am lucky and manage to eat government meat.
No. I look at the ads and see one for make-up. I can’t imagine
modifications without engineering, but people used to change their looks
like a chameleon.
Make up. Definitely not.
Then I notice a magazine from 2032 and spot something interesting at
the bottom of the page. It is in the August edition, and I haven’t seen
that mysterious ad anywhere else. I scan through other pages. I smile
contentedly.
“Well, well my little friend. Whatever could you be?”
I scan other international magazines, but find nothing.
I take a snap of the ad with my arm-port and go to see my history
teacher. I mutter to myself, “I know it’s cheating.”
Ms.
Loop, my history teacher is one of the few women I can talk to without
feeling measured and assessed all the time. Part of the reason is that
Ms. Loop is so uncharacteristically plump. She had the full genetic
modifications, but she is so clumsy that no one admires her. Here light
grey fur is luxurious to say the least and her amber yes, I really want
a set some day. I come in quietly and see her full bottom hangs over
the small government issued stool. Her tail is sticking almost straight
out; sometimes I think it has a mind of its own.
“Ah,” says Ms. Loop with joy, as she sips a cup of something, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I spy a clumsy rivulet of blood trickling down her expansive face.
Showing blood while you eat or drink is seen as a sign of low-class
starvation. Blood must never show. Hunger must never show. Although
we are always hungry.
“You have a little. . .” I inform caressing my own cheek.
“Oh!” snorts Ms. Loop, spilling more blood onto her desk, “Who cares
anyway? It’s not like no one knows. Government blood is the best for
optimal performance.”
Startled, I look around, but we are
alone. I want to ask her if she thinks it is human blood, but that is
a terrible insult.
“Would you care for some?” she says reaching for a cup, “It’s fresh. I believe this is goats blood.”
“No thank you,” I say although I am feeling treacherous hunger pangs,
“Uh, I was wondering if you could tell me what this was?” I show her my
arm-port.
Ms. Loop analyzes the image and smiles approvingly, “I see.”
“What year was this?” inquires Ms. Loop.
“2032, I think.” She knows no one has assigned me this work, but she
never asks why I am asking questions because she is ever delighted that I
do ask questions. The other girls avoid her and make fun of
her behind her back. Once someone drew a lewd picture of Ms. Loop being
done by a dog. Of course, I beat up that girl and erased the image; no
one has drawn stupid pictures of her since.
“And what was happening in 2032?” she presses on.
I answer uncertainly, “Well, a series of earthquakes in China, tsunamis
in Asia which hurt their economy, and most importantly, loss of crops
with dramatic weather changes,” I add in a joke laughing, “You know
people used to not believe in Global Warming? Now look at us?”
She laughs heartily, “Stupid men with too much power.” She snorts and
little blood oozes out of her nose, which causes us to both laugh.
She regains her composure as most women do, instantly, “How many people died in China that year?”
“Uh, over 800,000.” I still don’t see the connection, I admit I feel really stupid.
She never judges, “And how did they die?”
“The virus. Well, one of them,” I stare at the image, “I don’t understand.”
“Saliva,” answers Ms. Loop.
She looks at the advertisement. It is a cute cuddly creature, a cross
between a cat and a gerbil. The eyes are a disturbing red with hints of
green.
“These were government issued companions. If
you were stressed, if you were lonely, if you were poor, the government
issued one of these pets. Free. They are nothing like the android
companions of today, but they served the same purpose.”
I am stunned, “How many? How many were issued?”
“A little over 800,000. How did they not get out of the country?” she
says guessing my next question. “They were banned from airports and
honestly, they had a very short life span. Just enough to bring the
population to a controllable number, and even then, well. . .” Ms. Loop.
“Could they do something like that here to control the population?” I ask.
Ms. Loop smiles, “My dear, they don’t have to. Our system is near-perfect.”
“Of course, thank you,” I say bowing respectfully, “Be accountable, be productive, be safe.”
She smiles wide and tweaks my nose, “You be safe, my dear. Important
people are coming.” I want to ask more, but I leave wondering if she
just threatened or warned me about our ideas.
*
The
playground is the one place I hate to be, but we all need to be there.
The boys sit on the bleachers and watch, some of them jealous of us.
They can’t run as fast or do some of the flips we do. On occasion a
fight breaks out between the boys and girls, but the teachers let it go
just a bit, especially when potential patrons are around. Today, there
are two potential patrons lurking about, so the fighting will go on
longer than usual.
That stupid redhead, June Lister,
gives me a smirk; I know she’s jealous of me because I outscored
everyone in math, although not perfectly. Usually I do just above
excellent, but never the top. That day I was just so distracted with
the thought of mom and Alan’s raspy cough.
“Hey Starving Trash,” she says nastily as I walk past her.
I can’t ignore her or that would be seen as a sign of weakness, “I see
you got new shoes,” I comment before she attacks me.
She shows off her shiny leather shoes.
“I guess you got tired of wearing your mom’s heels. The cheap whor—“
I don’t even finish the sentence before she strikes, but I’m ready for
it. I lower my body unnaturally nearly touching the ground. She claws
where my face would have been; shots to the face are not allowed. I do a
back flip back and strike, get into pose 1, and strike her with my left
hand across the ear. That is a sensitive spot on her since her level 3
mods; she has soft grey ears cat ears with fur that peaks over the
edge. She yowls, and I grab her hair.
It’s slick, far
more slick than I imagined, which must be a new mod because it feels
smooth and slightly oily. She slips away and does a double back kick
clipping my chin. But I have been kicked harder before. My head
doesn’t even snap back, and, and I suck in and lunge forward.
I knock her to the ground and punch her repeatedly, being careful not
to hit her face. I punch the side of her pointy cat ear, the one I
struck before, again, and she screams trying to hold back tears. I
punch her clavicle and hear something pop.
My h
[ME2] omeroom teacher, Mrs. Aspen blows her whistle and slowly pulls me off with one arm.
“Ashley! You are not supposed to fight with level 3 mods. You are at a severe disadvantage,” she says angrily.
“Clearly,” says Ms. Loop laughing heartily.
This infuriates June, and she strikes my face. I know she has cut me
deeply with her claws, her absurd level 3 mod claws that are not
necessary in our age group. The blood is streaming down, and I have to
close my left eye, so it doesn’t get drenched.
“Now girls,” says Mrs. Aspen, “The fight is
over.”
There are rules to engagement, and June Lister has done the
unthinkable: She has acted like an animal. It takes a moment for her
to realize what she has done, and she tries to strike one more time
despite the coming punishment.
Reflexively Mrs. Aspen
grips her in a headlock and takes her away like a rag doll, while she
whines about her broken clavicle.
Ms. Loop escorts me to
the nurse, “Come now. I have Med Creds, just enough to fix up that
wound. Put some pressure on it before everyone wants to lick your
face.”
The thought is repulsive to me, but I see a fourth grader staring at me intently.
I look at her and the rest of the kids. Some of them are giving me
smiles of approval. They love it when a level 3 modified girl gets
shown up, especially by a lowly level 2. I look at my feet, then, at
Ms. Loop, “I think your wrong.”
“What?” she asks fumbling wither her account module on her arm-port.
“I think you’re wrong about animals being at fault for the flue,” I say
sighing heavily, “It’s always people that do the worst thing. Always.”
Ms. Loop gives me a warm look and escorts me to the medical wing.
There must be some important women there today because a girl four
grades above me has two of her fingers severed. They will be repaired
if she has enough credits.
“Wow,” I say to myself, “She must really need the money.”
Ms. Loop snorts, “Or she got what she deserved.”
I look at Ms. Loop. Teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, let
alone students they don’t like. All girls are equal and honored in our
society, at least that is what they tell us. Still, teachers tend to
favor their wealthier students; though, no one would admit to
favoritism. She smiles at me, “You should have gone to a privates
school.”
I smile at her weakly as the pain in my head grows stronger, “People tell me that.”
The nurse is in a cranky mood, “Shit. I’m running out of supplies.
Three sponsors are here! Imagine.” She grabs my face and looks at the
cut. The scanner checks for a concussion and for good measure she scans
the rest of my body.
“You need to eat more meat,” she
says, “You’re borderline anemic. No sponsor wants that. Hmmm, no
menstrual cycle at all, yet?”
I shake my head and try to
divert the conversation, “Why sponsor then? They’re supposed to help
needy girls like me.” Ms. Loop chuckles.
“Cheeky girl,”
says the nurse. With one sweep, she takes her silver machine. I smell
burning flesh, and it burns cold. In seconds, the cut is gone. I touch
for a scar and there is none.
“Good as new!” says Ms.
Loop cheerily, and escorts me back to class. By then everyone has been
talking, and Alan gives an imperceptible thumbs up. I go to the front
of the class where all the girls are seated. The boys sit in the back
and usually just tune out when the teacher talks. The teacher is overly
enthusiastic and almost bouncing, and then I see
her.
She wears an uncharacteristic silver outfit, tight around her body. I
look carefully and realize it’s the Red Guard I ran into before. She
smiles at me, and I stare at my desk. Could she be looking for me?
Sometimes the selection is so arbitrary. Sometimes it’s premeditated,
and no one ever knows what happens to the girls until much later when
they are unrecognizable. The teacher asks questions, and I answer well,
but not exceptionally because I can’t afford to be sponsored.
Productive citizens must consume, especially the government issued
rations and that means eating government meat.
On my way
home, I think about China for a long time. When I reach Mrs. Jenkens, I
feel more confident about the answer.
“Well, did you figure it out?” she watches me closely.
“No,” I answer, “I thought at first it was these . . .” I show her the
image of the government companions. “But, that didn’t make sense
because not just the poor got these pets; the president’s daughter also
died; that’s why China issued its first modifications of girls.
Resistance to this disease. I think the pets got infected first
somehow, and then the people.”
“Good work,” says the old
woman, “Most people thought it was these animals, but the so-called
experts were wrong. Those men.”
“Well,” I say waiting for an answer I know I won’t get by just asking, “What was it?”
Mrs. Jenkens clucks her tongue, “You haven’t figured it out yet?” She pulls out another ad.
There is only one full-page ad,
Nutri Pills, Your Pathway to Top Health. “Nutri pills?” I don’t believe it.
“The first ones,” answers Mrs. Jenkens.
“But, they weren’t starving in 2032. What was in them?” I ask staring at the ad.
Mrs. Jenkens shrugs, “Who knows? Political prisoners?
Herded people?”
she chuckles mocking my humans are food theory, “The product was
patented, and only top scientists knew what was in them, but I suspect
they were compliance pills. Once the Chinese project failed, not much
else was heard about Nutri Pills until fifty years ago, when we
developed our own.”
“Wait!?” she asks, “How do you know it was the Nutri Pills?”
“Because my father helped re-issue them,” she answers. I can’t tell if
she’s sad or just pensive, “He was a great doctor, just like me. Just
like me. And that is all for the day.”
I stare at the
clock, we have an hour left, but I walk home anyway. I think about my
father who was a no one. I often wondered if he killed himself, because
he was ever so clever and was too smart to get herded. Some men just
do that; they kill themselves. One day two years ago, he never came
home. No government papers came to report that he was processed or
imprisoned anywhere. In fact, for months, Mom would search the streets
and ask around the black markets. He looked for cannibalized parts
there, too. An eyeball on a disfigured face or his unusually thick
black hair. But, it happened that way sometimes; people would just
vanish. My fear was that someone we knew just harvested him in some
basement, processing unit and actually consumed him, selfishly with no
accountability whatsoever. Though illegal, some basement processors
existed, but the penalty was worse than death. At least that is what
Mrs. Jenkens tells me, and I am not sure what is worse than death.
“Hey your majesty,” says a familiar voice. Alan is sitting at the
doorsteps looking depressed and weaker than before.
I
sit next to him and take out my homework pad pretending I am showing him
how to solve a complicated math problem. We are better off than boys,
but girls shouldn’t always be cruel.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Mom says I have to go outside and play for three hours,” he answers bitterly.
“That bitch,” I glare back towards his house, “I should report her.”
“Who would care? They only care if girls are mistreated,” He nudges me
with his foot. It’s his way of warning me or questioning my judgment,
“What you got there?”
I show him the picture of the
government companion, “They were issued in China. You would most
definitely get one.” I laugh, but he doesn’t get the joke, so I tell
him, “I mean you’ve got such bad luck. You’d get an infected one. They
spread the First Flue in China.” That only makes him unhappier, and I
want to tell him the truth about Nutri Pills, but know truth is
dangerous.
“Want to go rat hunting?” I say cheerfully.
He goes to grab his stick, and we head down to the water channel. The
water channel is not off limits, but if you are caught there, there is
nowhere to hide. Only the rats are big enough to go into the small
openings. But they are starving too and roam the channel. If you’re
quick enough, like I am, you can bash a few over the head. Rat hunting
happens to be one of my specialties, and it’s one of the few types of
meat I can eat.
Today, I fake being dead. I have this
talent for being still for a long time, and my heart rate drops to a
near coma. I always wonder if the doctor messed up my engineering, but
it helps out. I lie still, and when the rats get close to my eyes, I
grab one by the body and second by the tail. Before they can wiggle off
I bash them in the head against the concrete.
“Two down,” I say triumphantly. Now, I run after the scampering rats and grab for one, but miss.
“Hmmmm,” says Alan, “Guess you must be tired today.
I grin at him, “I’d like to see you get at least one.”
He chuckles a false chuckle, “Thank you for dinner.” We walk back
together. Alan is always nervous. Thus far this year, he has been out
during four harvests, but he has managed to survive them all. He is
lucky.
“Don’t worry, if the sirens go off, I’ll protect you,” I say.
“I know,” he says blushing, “I would always protect you.” He blushes
near purple, and I try not to make a big deal about it.
I
start to laugh but bite my tongue. I pat him on the back, “Alan, I
wouldn’t want anyone else fighting by my side. . .Except for Mrs.
Jenkens. Maybe my mom, with a large gun.”
We both laugh, but we disengage as soon as we near other people.
“I hate this,” I say under my breath. When I was five, I was a scrawny
little thing. I could run, but Alan was always faster, stronger. One
day a hungry Rottweiler started chasing after me. He was a ways away,
but I knew he was after me. I tried running into my unit, but I forgot
the code in a panic. I saw it running closer, and I thought it was the
end. Alan came running out with something long and heavy, too big for a
boy his age to handle. He bashed that Rottweiler over the head, over
and over. By the time the Red Guard showed up, the dog was dead. We
had roasted dog for
four days.
Now, Alan
wheezes as soon as he takes a step outside. His skin is overtanned and
his whole head turning blonde in odd patches. He looks forward and
pretends not to hear me, “I’m sure you’re not the only one.” Alan winks
at me before he goes into his flat.
I want to say more, but what is there to say?
The trumpets blare, and I tune in with fake interest.
“Attention citizens, there will be a special challenge at 8:00p.m.
tonight broadcast on all channels,” the broadcast ends, “Be productive.
Be accountable. Be safe.”
It’s not law, but everyone
will tune in to watch the challenge. This means two high-ranking women
are going to battle, sometimes over trivial matters, often just to make
us crave what we can’t afford. I don’t really want to be genetically
modified any further. In fact, unlike most people, I like my body.
But, the challenge also means there will be no harvest, so I will be
able to haggle at the market. Today, we need soap, but I also want to
trade for a mouth filter for Alan. I have a harmonica my dad left me,
and even though no one can play it, the piece is old. Someone is bound
to trade for it.
The market is also not illegal, but
people with real goods are rare. Most items are banned anyway, like old
books or old music. Sometimes old paintings are banned, and if the Red
Guard catches you, you’re pretty much processed.
I look
for Alex Carpenter, an unusual name that could be a boy or girl’s name;
he’s not much older than I am, but he’s the best scavenger in the
market.
“What’s up squirt?” he says hugging me from behind.
I try to disengage.
“Guess all those genetic mods can’t always save you!”
With that, I flip over him unnaturally and give him a solid kick on the ass.
I smirk triumphantly as he lunges forward. The people in the market
stop; there is always the chance that a genetically altered girl could
go feral. It has happened before with illegal mods, but mine are
genuine.
I laugh good naturedly, “You were saying,
boy?”
He turns and grins, “Where’d you learn that? You’re too young for that type of combat.”
“Please,” I snort, “You’re never too young for any combat. . .I watch
government battles. Beside, they lowered the age, again.”
“Well, well, soon you’ll all be fighting in diapers,” he says.
“Watch your tone,” I say, not because I am offended, but because
someone might overhear and turn him in. And who wouldn’t for some extra
rations? That is the reward informants get, but if the Red Guard finds
the person has lied, he too becomes sent to the plant or wherever.
His face darkens, “Don’t worry squirt. No one here’s gonna say
anything. . . . Enough fucking around, what you got?” he holds out his
hand.
I hold back, “Please. Do you think I started trading yesterday?”
We go back and forth like this for ten minutes. I ask for high priced
items I won’t buy, when I really want that filter. He shows me
dehydrated coffee. I show him a rat pelt and rat jerky that I gladly
trade for soap. He shows me an apple, and I wonder where he got that
from. I don’t want the apple, but I managed to save some sugar. I
trade for five aspirin tablets for my mom’s headaches and joint pain.
Finally, I ask, “Do you have a filter? A mouth filter?”
“What do you need that for? I thought your lungs were already modified, you being a girl and all,” he says.
I have no comeback because anything I say will give me away. A girl
wouldn’t be trading for a boy, especially not one outside her family. I
hold up the harmonica and give him a steady look.
I try
not to look around to see if anyone is overhearing. I know he wants it
because the left corner of his lip involuntarily curls up every time he
sees something he really wants.
“Quit being an asshole, Alex,” I say ending the banter, “Trade me already. . . . Please.”
He pauses and stares for a moment, but he won’t just give up the
filter. He has to make me sweat; I think it’s his way of putting one up
over a girl, any girl.
“I have this pretty pair of silk underwear,” he says holding up a pair big enough for a hippo.
“Got plenty,” I lie.
“Or, how about this nice buck knife? I bet you could use one of those to skin your rats.”
“Don’t use them,” I start to grow impatient and start looking around.
Someone else could have it, but I don’t trust anyone else. He sees me
lose focus on him.
“Well, it’s an awful trade,” he says
pausing, “But, here you go. I’ll throw in the knife. Just give me
three, no five, of your next kills.”
We shake on it, grab my package, and I run without thanking him. That is rude, but girls never have to thank boys.
When I reach Alan’s home, it’s dark. His mother is watching the
vid-screen along with some other neighbors. I ring the bell five
times.
“What?!” asks his angry mother.
“It’s me,” I say.
She opens the door. I want to laugh because Alan’s mom now has cat
ears. I can’t tell which one because it’ dark outside.
“Uh, is Al—Lupe home?” I ask looking past her.
She gives me an angry look, “He’s gone.”
My heart stops, just like it stops when I hunt rats.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s gone. He hasn’t come home,” she says finally without a trace of sadness or remorse.
I want to ask more questions, but she slams the door in my face. I
stand there motionless, stuck between a sob and a scream. On instinct, I
run to Mrs. Jenkens’ place, and I don’t care. Maybe he’s there. Maybe
he decided to leave his lousy home, once and for all.
I
don’t even bother to knock and let myself in. Mrs. Jenkens is wearing
an outrageous flower print dress. I would normally mock her, but she
sees the frightened look on my face.
“What’s the matter?” she asks.
“Alan? Is Alan here!?” I yell not caring who hears.
She shakes hear head no, and I do the thing girls are never supposed to do. I run to her and cry.
Between sobs, I tell her the story about how sick he has become and my
trading. She purrs a low purr and strokes my head. When I finish
emptying myself out, all she says is, “Good friends are hard to find,
even if they are boys.”
Most women would admonish me, and tell me not
to care, let alone some sickly, skinny boy. Instead, she makes me a
strong cup of mint leaf tea.
“Did I ever tell you about the Mayans?” she asks.
I hold onto my warm cup of tea and let the warmth seep in. I sit and
try to listen, and images of Alan being hacked by a dirty axe invade my
mind.
“Like us they too killed to sustain their society. But, they
made sacrifices, so the world wouldn’t end. We kill because the world
is ending, and there are not enough resources for everyone,” she says.
I
almost start crying again, wondering if someone in the neighborhood was
desperate enough, but who isn’t? I choke on my tea and look at the vid
screen for the first time.
The images of two women show
up and I ignore them, until I realize one of them is the sponsor is
school, Ms. Way Warrior, the Guard from class, but I don’t care if she
gets her throat ripped out.
I think about what the days
ahead will be like without Alan. I will have no one to talk to after
school. Even ratting will become dull and more dangerous. No one would
ever harm a girl, not usually. People who are so hungry they wouldn’t
care if they were strung up alive along the wall. I walk home in a
daze.
Then things get worse. Eight days later, I come home and see the slick black car with red wheels outside our door.
I grow frightened. Has someone noticed I can’t eat government meat?
Have they come to investigate the garden? I enter using my most
confident walk.
It’s her, sitting on the couch. She has
short red hair and a swishy tail she seems to be enjoying. I look at
the tail, and then at her.
“Lieutenant?” I stretch out my hand.
“
Captain
Warrior can’t have children,” says an officer standing next to her, a
man, “She has seen your young girl and checked her fighting statistics.
Her intelligence may be below superior, but that doesn’t matter to
her.”
“I suspect that is an irregularity,” says Captain Warrior, enjoying her new title.
“Why do you say that?” asks my mom nervously.
“Because statistically, she shouldn’t be missing the same exact percent
of questions each time,” answers the young captain, “The mistakes are
patterned.”
I grow stiff. I didn’t think I was that
obvious; I was just always careful to miss a certain percentage of
questions.
“Is that true?” asks my mother faking disdain and alarm.
I know two things for sure. (1) I will be evaluated and (2) I will be
injected for optimal performance. I won’t be able to lie.
“Yes,” I say keeping my head up.
“Why?” asks the official, an old greasy haired man with thick glasses.
I answers as honestly as I can, “Because we’re poor, and I didn’t want
to be removed from my mother. She needs me, still. ”
Captain Warrior nods her head knowingly, “I grew up in Junk Town . .
.You wouldn’t know it. Now.” She stretches her slick arms and smiles
at me.
I smile at her; there is no point in being rude.
“You will be evaluated tomorrow morning with and without enhancement.
Be ready at 7:00a.m. and bring only one school issued bag. Here is a
list of what you can and cannot bring,” with that they leave.
I look at my mom, but I have no more tears left.
“Where were you?” she asks getting that nervous tick in right cheek, “I was worried sick!”
“I was with Mrs. Jenkens,” I answer, “Alan got taken away. Or worse, Mom.”
“Always that boy! Don’t you know your place!?” she comes to me and
hugs me tight because she once loved her boys too.
“Mom,” I say not caring if anyone hears, “Tomorrow I may be processed. They’re going to find out.”
Mom holds me tighter, “I don’t have any suicide pills.”
“No Mom,” I say horrified, “You’ll be processed too.” Women’s suicide
carries the penalty for all family members. Sometimes maiming, but
since mom is my only relatives, she would be killed for sure.
I pack my bag meticulously. We can only take arm-port cards, a spare
change of clothes, and one memento. I take a picture of my mom and am
careful to fold my dad’s image behind. It’s old and will look like a
sign of prestige.
That night, we play cards until 1a.m. and drink
black market tea. Mother should be alert for her job, always. Any
mistake, and she could be punished, but this may be the last time I see
her for months and months or ever.
I lay in bed, unable to sleep, but when I wake up, it’s 6:30a.m., and I am not exhausted.
[ME1]Running notes: Have a scene where the boys are fighting each other pathetically.
Putting the cannibalism back in, for the people living in the margins.
[ME2]Introduce this teacher earlier.
