Savior

This is a short story I wrote for a couple of contests, neither of which I ended up actually submitting to, which is what a blog is for. One of the contests was for a dystopian short story, while the other encouraged applying biblical themes. Thus, here is a short story about a cannibalistic dystopian society in which self-sacrifice plays an important role.  


     I don't know when people decided to start eating each other. Some of the eldest of our camp speak of famine, others of war. But not everyone is starving now, and some could afford peace. At least, that's what I've been told. All I know is that those who don't have the luxury or conscience to partake in this practice still go hungry and still fight for their lives.
     An undeniable chill clung to my skin, not only from the freezers but from the lurid feel of this place, until I ached from resisting the urge to shiver. I wondered if this struggle in my body could be heard, or the pattering of my socks against the concrete floor, or the frantic drumming of my heart.
     It grew colder as I walked through the slaughterhouse and approached the first of many platforms. Rows upon rows of naked, gutted human bodies hung by their ankles from the ceiling. I had no impulse to vomit as I thought I would--there was no smell of flesh in the sterile air. Could a passerby, then, detect the stench of my shoes, tucked under my arm in order to quiet my footsteps? I wasn't waiting around to find out. I needed to get to the holding cells. I needed to find my brother.
     I had no idea where I was going, but let my impulses guide me. Left at this hallway, second door on the right. My mother had told me that I had good instincts, that I would be a good big brother because of them, that they would help me take care of Kendall. That was before she died, her own body starved in order to feed the two of us. Things have gotten better since then, maybe because I've relied on my instincts to keep my brother and myself alive. But we weren't always lucky, and sometimes I wondered if my mother had only told me about my "instincts" in order to motivate me to work harder, which I did once she left us. Now, for Kendall's sake, I hoped that she was right after all.
     I knew that most of the meat that the Hunters harvested would be shipped out of the ruins of our city to where those of wealth were fabled to live, which meant I only had so much time before he was butchered and sent away. I had already waited until nightfall to break into the slaughterhouse--I knew I might already be too late.
     I swallowed back my guilt as I crept past racks upon racks of gutted humans, heading for whatever lay on the other side of the slaughtering floor. I shouldn't have blown up at him the night before for scaring me. He hadn't returned from scavenging at sundown. I thought for sure the Hunters had snatched him, until he finally loped into our shelter with that stupid grin on his face, telling me that he'd wandered beyond our territory and  found the ruins of an ancient airplane. I gave him a black eye, wiped his grin right off. He hadn't spoken a word to me the rest of the night, and stalked off the next morning without eating.
     I found a freezer-sealed door that made my muscles burn as I hauled it open, revealing a narrow, empty corridor that served as a buffer between where the people were slaughtered and where I could only hope the people were kept. I hurried to the end of the hall and opened the next door.
     A blast of humid, dank air hit me. The lights were much dimmer here, as if to match the heaviness I felt on entering that place. I did want to vomit once my eyes adjusted tot he row upon rows of cells--no, cages--that extended all the way to the back of the building.
     At the first sound of a human voice, my legs began to move. My instinct to run preceded the sudden howling of those around me, begging for help, for mercy. There was no way this uproar would go unnoticed. The time to find my brother had been drastically reduced.
     I scanned each passing eye as I sprinted through the cellblocks. Some were clouded from sedation, others were dilated, white with terror. In the back of my head, I noticed that many of the cages were empty and thought, Room for expansion...
     I found his eyes just an instant before he screamed my name, "Harlan!" My brother's bony fingers were white as he clutched the bars, standing there in his same crumpled clothes, his eye now dark and swollen.  Tears ran down his cheeks.
     My socks caused me to slide as I stopped and fumbled for he lock pick in my pocket. It had been my only strategy for rescuing my brother, and it had gotten me this far. My hands trembled as I jiggled it into the key hole, and for a moment I thought the lock might be too sophisticated to be picked. Then, I heard the click.
     Kendall stumbled out of his cage, and I had to catch him to keep him from falling, he was shaking so badly. He clung to me and I held onto him, as if squeezing him tighter would make him safer. It was the first time we'd embraced since we were children.
     "They didn't hurt you?" I asked, still unwilling to let him go.
     He shook his head against my shoulder, "They said-they said they had to wait for my black eye to heal, that no one would mount a damaged head."
     So, I had saved him once from the monsters with enough extravagance as to use the heads of fellow men as decoration. Could I do it again? "Let's go," I told him. I slipped my shoes on for a quick getaway, then took my brother by the hand.
     Though still shaken and stiff from his confinement, Kendall began to fall in step with me, and we made good progress getting out of the cellblock, out of the screaming and sobbing and wanton hope that I knew I had caused.
     We made it out to the slaughtering floor before the night guards rushed in, six or seven of them, guns at the ready, shouting at us to halt. They hesitated to fire, and for a moment I had no idea why. Then, my instincts gripped me, and I pushed my brother onto one of the platforms of hanging, gutted bodies. Kendall cried out as their cold, stiff fingers caressed his skin.
     I managed to catch him by the shirt as I dove in after him and pulled him towards the back wall. The night guards shouted at us to come out, the barrels of their gun searching for us in the human forest. But, they wouldn't fire. As popular as the consumption of human flesh was, it was an expensive, difficult venture, and whoever ran this place couldn't afford to have their product riddled with bullets.
     For just a few minutes, we and the guards were at a stalemate--they blocked our exit, and we threatened their business. The men hesitated, muttering amongst themselves. Then, several of them headed in after us, with the rest still guarding against any escape.
     Kendall and I weaved away from them, now trapped in a gruesome maze of hanging bodies. We began losing ground--the ones coming in after us were driving us towards those who guarded the entrance. Before long, we would run out of cover. The idea hit me, and I knew it would either be our salvation or my final act. I reached up and pulled one body from its hook. It hit the ground with a stiff thud. I unhooked another and another.
     The guards dove for them, desperate to save their product. At the first opening I saw, I grabbed my brother, slung a small, hollow body around our shoulders, and bolted for the door.
     My trick didn't last long--I could hear their boots thundering behind us. We rounded a corner, and I could see the door to the outside still ajar from when I had sneaked in. We were going to make it; as soon as we were out of the building, we could duck into the city ruins and disappear. We were just a few hundred feet from our freedom.
     Then, the guards began to fire. Bullets riddled the meat shield on our backs, almost knocking us onto our faces.
     "Harlan!" my brother cried out. I could feel his nails digging into my hand. I glanced back at him, saw his wide, terrified eyes, saw the guards just behind him, saw the bullets ricocheting off the walls. I looked back at the door that didn't seem any closer than it had moments ago. We weren't going to make it, not like this. There would be no salvation for the two of us
     But maybe for my brother.
     With what I knew would be my last act of instinct, I hurled Kendall towards the door and shouted at him, "Go!" I didn't have time to wait and make sure he listened. I spun on my heel, and my vision shrank to a small circle surrounded by black clouds, centered on the face of the closest guard. I ran at him.
     Sure, my brother was an idiot. He was lazy and irresponsible, and he could barely take care of himself. But he was my brother, and I loved him, and if one of us had to die today, it wasn't going to be the one whose "stupid grin" could illuminate my dark, dismal world. I ran at the guards, using myself as his new shield. And as the clouds consumed the rest of my vision, I imagined that each bullet that entered my body was another year he could keep smiling.

Character Description: Aden, Age 10

     His brow was always hardened and stern, betrayed by his large rosy-colored eyes and chronically disheveled hair. He was just a few inches taller than his sister, enough to glare down at her as it was needed, and enough to stand in front and shield her if it was necessary. He was pensive, serious, bossy, though he knew from his upbringing how to take orders, except for those that put his sister in jeopardy. He was fiercely protective of her, always holding onto her wrist or hand, and the only times his expression softened with something akin to contentment was when she was by his side, safe and well cared for. Of the two, he was most certainly the mutt, with pale skin and nearly translucent blonde-white hair, long, lanky limbs, and harsh angles in his face. He was a muddled-colored copy of his father, with both his father's solemnity and his mother's fire broiling just behind his eyes. This fierceness of features made him the favorite target of his masters and of others--he had no shortage of scars from various, colorful beatings. He didn't mind it, though, so long as his sister was spared; in fact, he often took the blame for her mistakes. There was no limit to the sacrifices he was willing to make for her, even if he did boss her. On more than one night, he went without food in order for her to be full, and kept vigil as she slept when strangers looked at her with hungry eyes. If he was any sort of improvement upon his father, it would be due to his passionate loyalty, to his courage to protect the ones he loved, even in the face of a master towering over him, whip in hand. That was what would have made his mother most proud.

An Excerpt of a Story Idea, Involving an Android, Inspired by Rubber Rain Boots

     Interestingly enough, artificial skin is difficult to manufacture. Thus, while her internal mechanics were quickly repaired and replaced, she had no choice but to don a stiff rubber substitute, which now coated her legs from the calf down. The cumbersome new skin made it difficult for her to walk, keep her balance, and pull on skinny jeans, among other things. But, after the initial dismay over the fact that the material was fairly hideous, she became suddenly fascinated by it in a morbid, melancholy sort of way. She loped around the room on her toes, the shape that the cast-mold had been, trying to flex her ankles. Finally, she stood in front of her full-length mirror, and her mechanically bright eyes grew dim. "I really am just a Barbie doll, aren't I?"

Pen Name? (Some Thoughts on the Matter)

     I'm not sure why I prefer to write from the perspective of a protective male figure. My creative writing teacher has expressed concern for author Nicholas Sparks, who is essentially my opposite, but I don't see any problem with my point of view. It's just the persona I assume, the character behind the veneer of reality that occupies the same space of my mind. My biggest concern, actually, is the misinterpretation of my writing. Because I'm a girl, people assume that I write from a girl's perspective.
     This isn't a problem, of course, for any of my novels, in which there is plenty of exposition with which to clarify the gender status. However, the anonymous style in which I write my short stories leaves it open to interpretation, and since I am a girl, most people assume that the perspective I write from is female. It always comes as a shock to me when someone refers to my protagonist as a "she," and I realize that the person has not read the same story that I have written.
     Is that okay? We are reading short stories in English now, and I have realized that knowing gender, age, race, and more can change the entire context and tone of the story. No, it's not okay to let my  readers assume the character's gender--that would be a misrepresentation of the other reality that I'm trying to share, and thus, as I said, it would not be the same story.
     So how do I fix the problem? I like the anonymity of my short stories, and I do not want to have to make awkward arrangements at the beginning in order to accommodate for any gender questions. Should I use a male pen name? I like David Mark. Then how would I distinguish that the work is mine? What about leaving my name as ambiguous as my characters? H.E. Solomon. My last name would also suggest masculinity; people would assume. I like it. Problem solved?

Voice

     The king loved music. So much so that he gathered the most brilliant musicians from across the kingdom to serenade him day and night. To our despair, my sister had the misfortune of  having the most beautiful voice our town has ever known.
     Of course, it wasn't a misfortune at first. Neighbors and transients alike showered her with praise. She would beam whenever someone requested that she become the center of a wedding, or delight important travelers in the tavern (always accompanied by myself, of course). Soon, visitors to our small town came expecting to hear her, went out of their way on their journeys to come and hear her. By the age where she should have been refining her homemaking skills and thinking of marriage, she was so busy with requests to sing that she could hardly entertain just one of the many suitors that came knocking on our door.
     I never minded escorting her to so many events; hearing her sing never grew dull to me. Her voice was crystalline and soothing, but never more so than in the confines of our modest home, for that was where her voice sounded the sweetest. After a long day of working, I would lie on the hearth as the sun set through our window, watching the light from the fire dance on my skin as I listened to song after song, ones that our grandmother had once taught her when she first recognized her granddaughter's gift. Often those old melodies would bring my mother to tears while she sewed in her rocker. Often they would lull me to sleep.
     The summons was unexpected, barely two knocks at our door before the cottage began to rock at the seams from the flamboyant procession that invaded our home, carried on the blasts of trumpets. A man in a brilliant yellow suit and high collar demanded the presence of my sister. We were so stunned that he had to repeat himself before my mother came to her senses and told me to fetch her.
     She had been tilling in her garden, and entered the house like a timid bird, face flushed as she tried to hide her dirt-stained hands behind her soiled apron-skirt. The envoy announced from a parchment carrying the king's seal that my sister was being summoned to perform.She was to leave immediately and her stay would be indefinite. There was no need to pack.
     Before the words were out of the man's mouth, the soldiers that flanked his sides began to hustle my wide-eyed sister out the door. My mother and I started for her, but the burly men held us back. The envoy flippantly informed us that she would be sent to visit as soon as possible.
     Just as quickly as the procession had come, it was gone, and a sensation like the emptiness following a storm descended on our heads. My mother cried. Neighbors came and offered their condolences, assuring my mother that her daughter would lead a grand life now, with fame and happiness that exceeded their imaginations. It surprised me how many of them shed tears of their own. It was as if my sister had died.
     Yes, she sang for the king. She sang for him endlessly, entertaining at grand banquets by day, serenading him at night. The king gave her few breaks, few hours to sleep, few minutes to rest her voice. She was gone for three months.
     Her return was not nearly so splendid. Neighbors from up the street came pounding at our door, telling us that a royal carriage was on its way. My mother scrambled to sort the house, and I ran out to the square to greet my sister.
     The carriage was royally humble in comparison to the one that had taken her. No soldiers attended it, and thus it was unable to press through the fascinated crowd that gathered around and clogged the streets. Finally, the driver gave up and pulled the two horses to a stop. A much younger, less splendid messenger stepped out and entreated the crowd to make room.
     Neighbors pushed me forward until I found this handsome, plain man staring down at me with a skeptical curiosity. The elegance in his simplicity made him all the more intimidating.
     "That's-that's my sister," I stammered. Through the window in the carriage, I could see the back of her head gazing in the other direction.
     The envoy rose his eyebrows, then stepped aside and opened the carriage door, "Collect her, then." He called her name as he pulled a sealed letter from the folds of his sleeve.
     My sister stepped onto the street, and I knew something was wrong. She saw me right away and ran straight into my arms. Her tears dampened my shoulder. As we embraced, the man read the letter stating that my sister had fulfilled her usefulness to the king, and that her services were no longer required. Without so much as a farewell, he stepped back into the carriage, and the driver began the tedious task of turning around.
     Everyone pressed in on us, shouting their questions at us and finally giving room for the messenger to get away. I nudged my sister to acknowledge them, but she shook her head against my shoulder and continued to hide her face. I could feel her shoulders begin to heave, though I couldn't hear her sobs over the crowd. Finally, I took her around the shoulders and pushed our way back to our home.
     Our mother ran to us and pulled my sister to her bosom as we hurried through the door. "What's wrong?" she asked when she saw my sister's tears. "What happened? Speak to me, dear." My mother pulled away to look at her.
     After more weeping and our mother's anxious coaxing, my sister finally opened her mouth. She let out a strangled noise, then broke into a fit of coughing unlike anything I had ever heard, her hands clasped over her mouth. After several terrifying moments, the fit subsided. My mother and I let out a gasp as she pulled her palms away from her mouth. Ruby drops of blood spattered her hands, her lips, her chin. She continued to cry.
     The king had forced her to sing until her voice had died. She had been made presentable in his service, of course--her hair was still neat and groomed when she returned to us, and her skin was like polished porcelain, with faint stains of rouge still on her lips and cheeks. But no one had taken proper care of her. Over the next several days, we realized just how dire the situation was. She became bedridden from fatigue, unable to eat or drink. My mother could only give her little spoonfuls of broth or tea that dissolved in her mouth. My sister slept and cried and filled up so many cloths with blood form her pained coughing.
     Her return was a strange mixture of birth and death. Neighbors once again visited our home, bringing food and gifts and condolences and quiet questions about whether she'd ever be able to speak again. We didn't know.
     Slowly, my sister began to recover. The coughing fits grew less frequent, and she was able to swallow soft foods and get out of bed for short periods of time. Still, her voice did not return, and the pain remained. Often she became frustrated to tears when she failed to communicate through desperate pointing and hand gestures. At night my mother would try to soothe her with her own voice. It only gave my sister more nightmares.
     It didn't take long for the town to learn that the little mute girl clinging to her brother's sleeve could not be comforted.

    
 

Boots

     It was my first time wearing rubber rain boots, and it felt like both of my feet were asleep--clunky, immobile, and numb. You can imagine the difficulty of driving, or in walking up the three flights of stairs to get to my locker. It was still a little bit wet, and my classmates knew our teacher was taking us outside, but no one else was in boots, at least, not the practical kind. I saw people glancing at my feet, or maybe at the way my khakis were hideously stuffed into the tops. I had tried to fold the pant legs in the way I had seen Meagan do it, but it hadn't quite worked. I just hoped that my over-preparedness would pay off.

I'm feeling a little bit inspired...

     ...because I got some new notebooks for writing. A few years ago, an author said that writers should carry paper around with them everywhere so that they can write any inspiration that hits them. In the past, I've had a hard time doing that, but now I want to start collecting my thoughts, as I am realizing how easily they can slip away.
     I'm telling you this because from here on out, I will try to post everything I write throughout the day here, thus killing two birds with one stone--I keep both my blog and my writing active.
     As I become a more mature writing, I am realizing that another frequent piece of advice from authors, "Write every day!" does not mean that I must always be working on a novel. It means I just...write. Write whatever comes into mind, whenever I start to play with my words, whenever the inspiration hits me. So, I'm going to try to do that.
   
     This might last a week. :)

Reread (General Angst Post)

     It's so frustrating being stuck in limbo. I feel as if I'm rereading the last sentence of a chapter over and over, but I can't move on to the next. I know the line is important, and that I can't continue until I master it, but no matter how many times I read it, its meaning continues to escape me.
     Thus, I'm repeating the same tedious tasks over and over. Going to a school where I've ceased learning, a church where I've ceased growing, a home that I wish I could be watching from the outside-in.

     Is it bad to say that I feel my parents have nothing left to say to me? They call my name over and over, pull me out of whatever I'm doing, just to say hi. Again and again. That, or it's the same old lectures, the same old listing of their ever-growing fears for me. On the brink of my freedom, I feel more afraid of them than ever. I'm always on edge, because I don't want them to hurt me again. As much as I love them, I can't deny that they have both hurt me, and I'm still terrified that they could sweep in and snatch everything away from me again, that they'll rip the rest of the pages out of the book and keep me reading that same sentence over and over and over and over...

    Or maybe I'm just mad because they told me to go upstairs and do my homework, and by blogging my exaggerated emotions, I continue to procrastinate.
     ...I'm not very good at these angst posts.
   
     But, as ridiculous as my mind tells me that my feelings are, I can't deny that they are there, and the fact that they might be silly doesn't make them any less real or valid.

     ...Right?

I want a Vlog.

On Youtube.

About YA books.

     It would be a much less formal, more entertaining version of my book reviews, where I can really dish my opinions, emotionally rather than professionally, as I do on my book blog now.
   
     However, it would require a lot of diligence...and wigs...and props...and film editing capabilities that may or may not be beyond my skill level...

...and friends (to play other parts for me/film scenes for me/do my general bidding--maybe this is why I don't have friends).

     I think it would be reasonably funny, but more likely than not, it wouldn't take off, especially because every other person and their great-uncle has a vlog on Youtube, and not everyone knows books as well as, say--movies, celebrities, and whatever else people vlog about.

Still.

The idea entices me.

Maybe that's a project for this summer.

We'll see...

I'm on break...

...so I have a little time to blog, and I figured if I wanted to start promoting my personal blog again, I should stop using it to complain about people. Thus, here is my latest post.

     My creative thoughts are all scrambled again, which means I'm having a hard time focusing on anything, much less writing anything down. I'm running between several threads of ideas, none of which I can commit to--I'm not sure why. Maybe it's just my problem with commitment.

     First of all, my new story idea is really taking off...in my head, of course. I really like it, and I think I might want to make it my next novel project. Having said that, I'm not sure if I want to start now or if I want to save it for Camp NaNoWriMo. Still, that's at least six months away, and I don't know if I can keep this idea fresh for that long.

     Speaking of which, I have to edit/finish my Kennedy story, the draft of which I wrote for NaNoWriMo. I know I have to do some major restructuring of the characters' backstories, which I actually changed to accommodate for the story idea above (they were too similar). I also need to finish it, considering I hit 50k at the climax and didn't keep writing. However, the task is daunting, and without any writing software on my new laptop (Christmas gift--thank you, Mom and Dad!), it would be difficult. The most I can do right now is start printing out the draft and making notes and grammatical edits by hand. I'm also not sure whether I want to hold onto the manuscript and keep editing for a few years like I had been planning, or to go ahead and edit it enough to get the five free proof copies NaNoWriMo is offering this year to their winners. My parents want me to do it, but I'm not sure I want anyone to read it. I know my lack of research, lack of experience, and general naivety make the story sub-quality, and I really don't want to embarrass myself by having friends and family read it. Still, five proof copies is a lot, and they would be nice keepsakes. Who knows--if I were to become a famous author (doubtful), they could be worth something someday. I'm just not sure what I want to do.

     I won't take much time to say I'm still doing everything in my willpower to keep myself from writing any Hunger Games fan fiction. All I want to do is write a backstory for Finnick and Annie, but I know that it would be a long, time-consuming process that will result in nothing more than one in a million other posts about the subject on Fanfiction.net. Sure, maybe I could get my classmates to read it, what with everyone reading the Hunger Games, but I don't want to push it anyways. Still, I can't deny that it's rattling around in my brain.

    I've been trying to solve the problem to my Shakespeare story. I've decided that there really does need to be one more female protagonist to even out the characters, but I'm unfamiliar with any of Shakespeare's other plays, which means I'm sure my readers will be as well, and I want the main characters to be at least somewhat familiar to the audience. Bother. So, I've been "shopping" on Wikipedia for candidates, none of which particularly inspire me thus far. I'm also still trying to decide how the story should end, what should happen to whom, etc.

     In addition to these ideas, I'm supposed to be writing a short story for my school's, and ultimately for ACSI's, creative writing contest. But, to be honest, I'm completely uninspired. Last year I sent in what I considered a good, solid short story (confirmed by my teacher), and the ACSI judges utterly destroyed it. Apparently, they're looking for a little Karen Kingsbury, which I refuse to become, even for the sake of pleasing them. At first, I wanted to be sure to do something controversial, just for the fun of it, but I don't even see the point in that anymore. Then, I was thinking of just submitting the editorial that I wasn't allowed to publish in the school magazine (for said controversies), but the insipid guidelines for the contest stipulate, at its core, a five paragraph essay, which my editorial is not, nor will it be enhanced by such. I might submit it anyway, as well as use it for the school (and ultimately ACSI) speech competition (which we students, for some godforsaken reason, are all forced to participate in), but I'm not sure if my teachers will allow that. We'll have to see. Needless to say, I'm not looking forward to going back to school.

     Last but not least, I've got about a dozen review that I should write, though some of the books I haven't read since the summer. I think my friend and I have decided to take a more popcorn-style approach to the book blog, which will, hopefully, result in more reviews over time. Still, it would be wise to stock up before school gets back in, just in case. However, writing a minimum of 300 words about how you feel about a book, in a certain format, is not as easy as it sounds.

So, as you can see, my brain is a little tangled right now. I'm sure it will sort itself out once school starts up--nothing is a better stimulus for creativity than procrastination.