Writers's Corner, June 2012 - Slave
Posted 07 June 2012 - 11:56 PM
1. In theory: entries should be one thousand words or less. In practice: whatever you like
2. The deadline for posting your stories and poems is the end of June.
3. The deadline for your votes is midnight on the fifth of July.
4. Criticisms are welcome, but please keep it in the nature of the corner.
5. Have a go; and have fun!
Posted 18 June 2012 - 09:03 AM
"So, just so I can be sure, yeah?" Brady scratched his third-day stubble, rasping the edge of his chin against the back of his hand. "These guys, have to just eat?"
"Eat and sleep. That’s it."
"Eat and sleep?" Brady looked confused, hell he was confused! When he’d first arrived he’d been amazed at the gloriousness of their creations, the fabulous architecture, the amazing natural parks, the playful guile of the people. The sexuality of it all, constant fucking everywhere, no shame at all. No kids either, but Brady just assumed he’d not been in a children’s area. Boy! Had he not been in a children’s area.
He looked around the swarming mass of glooping bodies. Legs and arms all tangled together in a sticky dark mass of gluttony. He was in, what he could only describe as mix between a gaol and a medical centre. The clinical cleanliness of it all was in direct opposition to the creatures that fought and writhed for every little scrap of nourishment, fed to them through giant leaves of tubes, pumping a pure honey-like viscous liquid into the room, leading to a free-for-all of slurping and fighting.
"Yeah, that’s it!" the diplomat smiled at Brady, seemingly unaware of the human’s sudden distaste.
"How, uh, long...." Brady wondered , as a thought sparkled into life behind his eyes, the kids were in this cell, being fed up, the adults seemed so playful, full of life, so quick to please and fuck. "How long have you been in the diplomatic service?"
"Me? Oh fourteen days!"
"Oh, so you are a new recruit then?"
"No, I am the senior manager."
Brady checked his translation device, surely it doesn’t mean days, must mean years or something. Although Hydradgeda had a day of only nineteen earth hours, so...
"Fourteen days? Don’t you mean years?"
The diplomat folder her wings around her shoulder and used a long finger to tap at her translation device.
"I’m not a child!" said the diplomat.
"No..." Brady pondered, wondering again about the germ of an idea he’d had. "No you’re not."
The mass of bodies stopped eating, the lights dimmed in the room and they all curled around each other, in a disarmingly repetitive pattern.
"We must leave, they sleep now," said the diplomat. Brady hesitated, watching the creatures settling into their sleeping routine. Comical snores arising from various points around the room.
As Brady fiddled with the anti-grav controls of his suit, the diplomat simply folded her exquisite wings and pushed upwards, flapping once to float gracefully through the exit door. Brady followed slowly, making sure his suit was recording all he saw.
"And they were adolescents, you say?"
"Yes, they are." The diplomat had landed on a pole sticking from one wall and beckoned Brady to sit next her. As soon as he had it started to move upwards at a steady pace. "We could fly," she said smiling, "but it’s nice to have a rest from time to time."
"What are their ages?"
"Oh, they range from thirty-seven to forty-eight years old."
Brady tried not to look too astonished. He quickly checked his onboard to see how long-lived the Hydradgedeans were. Sixty to seventy years old, they’d said when communications had first been opened.
Quite short-lived as far as humans were concerned, average life-span of whom had topped out at around one hundred and eighty two centuries ago.
"How long do the..." Brady paused, swirling the words around in his mind. "How long do the children stay in this facility."
"Strange word for a nursery," laughed the diplomat, "they are here for fifty-eight years."
"Fifty-eight...." Brady swallowed the spit that had suddenly flooded his mouth. "How old are you?"
"That’s kind of personal question," smiled the diplomat and fluttered her wings coquettishly, "how old are you?"
"I am ninety-seven earth years."
"How old have you been an adult for?"
Brady frowned at his translator, wondering if it was getting the words exactly right. "I have been an adult for around seventy-six years."
The diplomat’s nose wrinkled in a distinctly human gesture of distaste. "But, that would mean... how can you live so long as an adult?"
"How old are you?"
"I am very old, for us anyway, not so much for you, but for us, I am old. I am sixty-nine."
"So, you’ve been an adult for eleven years?"
"Yes, that’s correct."
"Do you have children?"
"Many hundreds!" she beamed at him, "I have had thirteen more birthed in the last month, which is just brilliant. My eldest are just eleven though, still little more than Smudges."
"Yes, I guess that’s what we would call them," she tittered and flapped her wings again. She tapped his knee with one shapely arm. "I wonder what would come from human and Hydradgedean coupling? I understand how to arouse you."
She rubbed his inner thigh and against his better judgement he allowed her to. Frankly he was amazed at the whole society. Hidden children kept as worker-prisoners for decades, short-lived adult hood that seemed so frantic and crazy; decadent. Mad (by human standards) levels of breeding, but parents who’d never know their children as they wouldn’t live that long. The diplomats fingers ticked at his crutch.
"Woooah there," he pushed the hand away. "I’ll just- uh- I don’t think that’d be a good idea, what would your other half say?"
"Your partner, do you have partners?"
"For, ummm, for well coupling?"
"Why would we do that?"
"I- well- indeed, why would you? I however have a partner, she is back on Earth currently, but I will return to her and my children in three months."
"Hmmm, you earthlings are so strange."
The elevator perch they were on broke through to the open air again. The light from Hydradgedean’s sun beamed at them in a spectacularly blue sky.
"Let’s get something eat" said the diplomat taking Brady’s arm in hers, "I know just the place."
The next day, back on his ship, Brady made his report.
"They are butterflies," he said simply-face reddening-"very glamouress and very persuasive, butterflies."
Posted 09 August 2012 - 12:46 PM
Posted 14 August 2012 - 04:25 PM
He’s close now. My heart skips a beat but I’m all too quickly reminded that it’s no cause for celebration. I’ll shout and scream for all I’m worth but he won’t hear me. I know by now that I’m just too far down.
I’ve been down here for a good while now. Don’t ask me how long exactly; I gave up on counting the days some time ago. The bleakness of the situation isn’t lost on me. I do what I can to stay positive, of course, but most of the time that’s easier said than done. The only reason I’ve managed to hold on this long is the knowledge that he’d keep on looking.
The rest of them wrote me off long ago but he was never one to bow to peer pressure. They fell by the wayside one by one but he continued to fight the good fight. If anybody could have found me it would have been him. But time will have its way and his hope will continue to fade away to nothingness.
It was always inevitable, not that it makes it any easier to take. He’s not to know that I’m still fighting down here. How could he when every piece of evidence points to the contrary? He believed it for the longest time but it’s clear he’s out here now thanks to habit more than hope.
We’ve been here before, of course. It’s a dance we’ve danced for the longest time, this most morbid game of hide and seek. He used to come looking for me every day. And I’m here. I’ve always been here. But I can’t be found and his resolve is breaking.
It wasn’t always this way. In the early days I told myself I’d fight my way back to the surface but I realise now that was always a pipe dream. The harder I tried the worse it would get. Every time I thought I had a foothold I’d inevitably come back down to Earth with a harder bump than before. Frustration set in and for every small piece of progress I managed to achieve a larger, morale-stifling setback was ready to strike.
I had no choice but to come here, way down here. And now there’s no going back; I just don’t have the strength any more.
Neither does he, it seems. The memory of the time we had together is what brings him back but with each unsuccessful trip his optimism fades. Sure, he still comes out here from time to time in search of the woman he loved but it’s only a matter of time before he gives up the ghost.
It’s not his fault. He tried as hard as he could but now I know he’s ready to let go. I can’t hold it against him; he doesn’t know that I’m still down here, waiting for him to rescue me.
I’m a slave to this vessel, this useless shell. What was once so vibrant now lies rotting. A body unresponsive despite my best efforts from here, deep down inside. The last shred of dignity a distant memory as a revolving cast of strangers feed me, clothe me, bathe me where I lay.
The choices we made. The future we saw. Up and gone, never to return. Years of happiness torn from us without a word of warning. Nothing can prepare you for that.
I’m still the same woman, deep down here and struggling to make it back to the surface. I’ve always been here. But I can’t be found and his resolve is breaking.
He used to come looking for me every day.
Posted 16 August 2012 - 12:23 PM
Well, I always said to myself I'd get involved with Writer's Corner and never managed to make it a prioirty. Shame on me. Still, it seems fitting to submit my first entry as its corpse lays twitching, so here goes. It's rough around the edges I'm afraid but if I don't post it now I never will.
Albeit I thought the corner had ended... and there has been low interest for a while now... I am getting withdrawls... Billy would you like to choose a word for the next two months?
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