Here's the beginnings of a short story I have flitting around in my head:
(Burlap, tourniquet, Cyan, Wistful, Immigrate)
Today the process of my deportation begins. It was inevitable, but still it seems shocking. The notification from the World Immigration Office came early this morning on my personal communication device. I was sipping coffee and listening to the news before leaving for the Artisan’s Guild when the buzz notified me I had a message. Lydia Thomas, your Time of Days has ended and your Life Work Visa has expired. This communication serves as official notice of your pending Deportation in three months. Please begin to prepare immediately for your exit.
Even though I knew the answer I couldn't help but run across the room to check the door. Pushing down the panic rising from the pit of my stomach into my throat, I twisted the handle. It was locked. As I sank to the floor I allowed myself one small moan, a singular protest, a minuscule whimper of sorrow. But that was all, and I am proud of my control. I had heard rumors of neighbors flailing and screaming as clerks dragged them from their apartments to waiting Immigration cars. I am determined to keep my self-respect.
I knew I should have about an hour before anyone arrived so I began to pack. Wistfully, I grabbed a drawing pad, a few brushes, and a small assortment of paints – yellow ochre, cadmium red, light cyan – from my workbench. I don’t think I will be allowed to keep these, but still I want to try. I picked up a picture of Peter in an antique frame bought during an excursion to the lowland markets right after we had met. Pausing to touch his young face through the glass, I considered taking it along with me. If only he were here, I thought. But I had twisted a tourniquet tightly around my heart all those many years ago, and I wasn’t about to loosen it now. I put the frame gently back in its place.
There was no need to pack clothes. I knew I would be given a standard issue uniform to wear during my processing period: a gray tunic made out of rough burlap-like material and ugly black bulky sandals. And of course I would be provided food. There wasn’t much to pack, really.
A very young clerk arrived at my pod shortly after the morning bells rang. I wondered if the Immigration Office purposefully waited until most people had left for work just in case I fell into hysterics. I was sitting in a chair in the foyer as he unlocked the door and entered. The poor boy seemed relieved when I stood and placidly followed him to the car.
Now I sit with him as we travel into the countryside to the Age House. He has brown bovine eyes and glances sadly at me, but doesn't speak. I can’t help but feeling vaguely ashamed.
(Burlap, tourniquet, Cyan, Wistful, Immigrate)
Today the process of my deportation begins. It was inevitable, but still it seems shocking. The notification from the World Immigration Office came early this morning on my personal communication device. I was sipping coffee and listening to the news before leaving for the Artisan’s Guild when the buzz notified me I had a message. Lydia Thomas, your Time of Days has ended and your Life Work Visa has expired. This communication serves as official notice of your pending Deportation in three months. Please begin to prepare immediately for your exit.
Even though I knew the answer I couldn't help but run across the room to check the door. Pushing down the panic rising from the pit of my stomach into my throat, I twisted the handle. It was locked. As I sank to the floor I allowed myself one small moan, a singular protest, a minuscule whimper of sorrow. But that was all, and I am proud of my control. I had heard rumors of neighbors flailing and screaming as clerks dragged them from their apartments to waiting Immigration cars. I am determined to keep my self-respect.
I knew I should have about an hour before anyone arrived so I began to pack. Wistfully, I grabbed a drawing pad, a few brushes, and a small assortment of paints – yellow ochre, cadmium red, light cyan – from my workbench. I don’t think I will be allowed to keep these, but still I want to try. I picked up a picture of Peter in an antique frame bought during an excursion to the lowland markets right after we had met. Pausing to touch his young face through the glass, I considered taking it along with me. If only he were here, I thought. But I had twisted a tourniquet tightly around my heart all those many years ago, and I wasn’t about to loosen it now. I put the frame gently back in its place.
There was no need to pack clothes. I knew I would be given a standard issue uniform to wear during my processing period: a gray tunic made out of rough burlap-like material and ugly black bulky sandals. And of course I would be provided food. There wasn’t much to pack, really.
A very young clerk arrived at my pod shortly after the morning bells rang. I wondered if the Immigration Office purposefully waited until most people had left for work just in case I fell into hysterics. I was sitting in a chair in the foyer as he unlocked the door and entered. The poor boy seemed relieved when I stood and placidly followed him to the car.
Now I sit with him as we travel into the countryside to the Age House. He has brown bovine eyes and glances sadly at me, but doesn't speak. I can’t help but feeling vaguely ashamed.
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1 comment:
uh....the rest. Reminiscent of The Seer! Good job :)
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