I Hope
This does not describe a typical dystopia.
This piece of flash fiction does not describe a typical dystopia. I witness it every day. It's happening here and now and I willingly feed upon it.
I'll be submitting a shorter 300 word version into a competition next month. Meanwhile, I've been spending a good deal of time editing the first draft of my novel, in preparation for sending it out to literary agents. Fingers crossed for both.
My son was taken today, like his brothers before him. I watched with his sisters as he and the other lucky few were gathered up and herded onto the truck. My gaze didn’t leave his face until they rounded the corner.
I knew it was for the best, a chance denied to my daughters. But, as with my sons before, it still hurt. Pangs of absent longing; the ache of my breasts still full with milk.
A week later our winter supplies come to an end, curtailing the monotony of cold, dark days spent inside. We are sent into the surrounding fields to forage, the late spring sun warming our backs. Our children run around the wide, green spaces, relishing their newfound freedom. For some it’s their first time, for others it will be their last. It’s how it is, how it’s been. How it will always be. I hope.
We teach the newborns where the best food is and what to avoid. But some things can’t be avoided. Like the frequent visits of the Others to mark us. Like the flies attracted to our salty tears. But they aren’t the worst.
The memories of my son haven’t yet faded, but his here-today, gone-tomorrow father still comes sniffing round. Big-balled and small-brained, it’s clear why the Others chose him to stay, undeserving of the better place.
I try to remain immobile as he does his business, uncaring of who might see us. My two daughters watch. The eldest will soon be ready. Not with him. I hope.
The cries from a birthing mother woke me last night. This morning we greet the latest addition to our extended family, the remnants of their cord still attached. I nuzzle their softness and inhale them, wondering if they will stay, or be sent away; their coin already flipped when their father came.
The Others come soon after each birth, to check if the first milk has been suckled from the tired mother. To mark the new arrival as one of us.
The truck returns, bringing another buzz to the air. It’s filled up with other mothers’ fortunate sons and we watch it depart, their joy tinged with the familiar, parting sadness. I feel it too, growing inside me.
Summer comes, yellow and white peppering the rich, green grass. I continue to grow, not all of it from eating. The father has been ignoring me. He knows. I see him with hopeful daughters and sisters, competing for the same. Single-minded in his simple pursuit. Flipping his coin of opportunity for our children. Mine will be a son. I hope.
My belly grows rounder as the days become shorter. We are forced back inside when the leaves form a russet carpet and the ground is too sodden. The gate clangs shut behind us to mark the start of another winter. As always, the expectant mothers are separated for our confinement, including my daughter. She also carries a child. Her father’s. I saw them.
My sixth birth brings the joy of a boy. My daughter’s first is a girl. It’s the way of the world. She knows.
The truck arrives whilst my son is feeding from me. Not for him, not today. But soon. I hope.