Hopelessness and Tomorrow

Solaria was beautiful. Shining. Bountiful. For those who were citizens. Reymi unfortunately was not a citizen. He was a child slave caught up in the middle of the summer solstice celebration.

Laughter and idle chatter drifted through the brightly-lit, pastel-coloured room. Classical music played in the background. Symphonic, lilting. The walls were painted with bright flowers, petals encrusted with jewels. Numerous paintings delicately hung from the walls, bright colours and soft brush strokes and shimmering frames. The air smelled like lavender and fake pine needles. Warm yellow light glittered through the crystal chandelier. 

Reymi's vision was on the verge of swimming but he held it still with sheer terror. He was hungry. Starving. It clawed at his gut and his chest and his arms and his legs. Constant. Inescapable. With every breath his lungs felt weak and empty. The back of his throat turned with nausea and he felt light and off-kilter. And he was miserable. Scared and trapped and like his insides were being wrung out. He was too miserable to even cry, and too terrified as well. Storms were battering at every part of his soul. He felt like all he could hear inside himself was vast, all-consuming thunder, and screaming. He felt like all the tears he longed to cry but couldn't were distilling into crystals of pure poison and settling in his throat and chest. 

But he had to keep working. It wasn't an option not to, no matter how much his body and mind ached for him to stop. His senses were screaming at him as he took rushed steps on his almost-trembling legs into the brightness of the large dining room. The world around him was both blurry and in focus at the same time. Both overly-sharp and completely faded all at once. He was focused on balancing the white gold tray that was piled high with lemon finger cakes. This act carried so much anxiety with it because he had to be efficient and precise and perfect, absolutely perfect. He wasn't likely to fall. If and only if he kept all his concentration. He wanted to collapse. Collapse and die. But that didn't matter. 

His silent, ghostlike steps reached the large, carved mahogany table that shone a dull red, and he quietly set the food down before turning back to the kitchen, the one place in this overly-large house that was sparse, cold, and completely utilitarian. 

Karria's eyes flicked over to Reymi for a moment. He was such a loyal and hardworking young thing, she thought, lucky we were able to find one like him. It's so incredibly difficult to get good help these days.

She turned her mind back to the lively conversation that was happening around the dinner table. Which contestant on Moonlight Dance Night Solaria was the best. Before that they had been talking about bars. And before that about how well their dear sweet genius children were doing in school. She turned the music up a little. 

Reymi was in the kitchen pushing his tears down. He was succeeding. The twelve-year-old boy hadn't cried in years. It was far too dangerous to. He had no time though. He had to keep on working. His reached out and took a serrated-edged knife into his hands, and a block of thick dark chocolate onto the cutting board. He got dizzy for a moment, grasping the edge of the metal counter for balance. Wait, s**t was it time to get the drinks actually. He opened the door to the 5 degree fridge, and reached in for the multicoloured crystal tray filled with elegant curved glasses. He knew he had to be careful with this. His heart pounded in his chest but it always did that, this was nothing new. 

He set it on the counter and then he closed the fridge door gently. Walking into the dining room again, he made effort to be as quiet and invisible as possible. If nobody noticed him nobody could yell at him. Thankfully nobody even looked at him once. That was good. He was used to being a shadow. He hated it. It tore at him from the inside. But it was better than getting yelled at. 

He walked back in complete silence to the kitchen. He didn't remember if he had spoken at all that week, besides of course the constant yes ma'am and yes sirs that littered his life. He wanted a person to hear him. He had so much to say. He wanted a person to listen to and care about his thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams and experiences and fears and jokes. He would listen to theirs back. He wouldn't be like Missus Karria who made him listen to her long rants while only giving him a chance to nod his head. He'd be a good friend. If he had someone to be friends with.

He had to stay focused, working, staying on top of things. That didn't mean he felt his grief less strongly. Just that it was also mingled in with panic and strain. 

His body was ready to die, so it felt. Either way, the chocolate took precedence over him and he had to prepare it. He cut it into fine pieces, tossed it into the pot to boil. He had the recepie memorized by now he didn't really need reference. He poured in heavy cream, letting himself lean against the counter. He sprinkled in a cup of coffee powder, ignoring the way the counter dug into his hip. He didn't have the energy to stand. He added a few cups of sugar, and a pinch of salt to even it out. His throat and mouth felt like a poison mesh where all the tears he wanted to cry and all the words he wanted to say caught and festered and corroded at him. He used a cheese grater to sprinkle a few sticks of cinnamon in, and he threw in some cadmium. Throwing in some caramel and some peanut butter, he started stirring the contents. He honestly didn't have much time. He hoped he wouldn't be late. 

Finally though everything settled into a thick, flowing homogenous liquid. He put the heat to low and then checked the timer in the oven. The velvet cheesecake wasn't done yet. He had a moment. It was a small mercy. 

He leaned against the counter. Let his mind and body both collapse against it for a moment. Sheer exhaustion. Everything blacked out, and he let himself fall into it. But then he pulled himself back into the world of the living, internally screaming. He couldn't go yet. Even if he wanted to. 

He pulled out a heavy, intricately-carved bowl from the cupboard. A few matching bowls. A silver, green, and blue circular tray with a similar colour scheme, and the matching plates for that. A large bowl with frilled edges and smaller ones. That should be enough. 

His bones and muscles protested, everything in his mind wanted to rest, wanted to sleep, wanted to run away, wanted somewhere soft to fall into and a kind smile and loving arms to be in. He wanted to die. To not have been born. To have a friend. He wanted so much and he could get none of it. Either way, the table needed clearing. 

He rolled a large metal tray towards the incredibly long table, and set about taking off all the plates and glasses and rolling them back to the kitchen. He had no idea how he could keep going on but he thought maybe he could. 

He didn't know why he wasn't strong enough to just give up already. To just end his useless life already. He didn't want to keep living. He was just too much of a coward not to. 

Back in the kitchen, he set everything on the counter. There were left over bites of food he could eat, plates he could lick. It wouldn't be much at all but it would be so much better than nothing. Added onto the stuff from dinner and lunch and breakfast, it would almost be a full meal. But he didn't have any time at all to eat now. He had to keep working. 

He poured the chocolate into the large bowl, placing it onto the tray. He placed all the smaller cutlery neatly piled onto each other on the tray. His pace was dizzying for his worn-out mind. It would be dizzying for any mind. He took the cheesecake out of the oven, wincing as he burned his finger. It wasn't the worst he's faced. He transferred it, oh so carefully, to the glass tray. And finally he got some ice cream from the -10 degree fridge. 

He kept telling himself, he just had to get this over with and then he could come back and lick all the plates. He could rest. He could talk. He could eat. He could be left alone for a bit. He just had to set this table and then he'd be home free. Home free with icing and gravy and turkey bones and dressing an ends of vegetables and peace and quiet, until it was time to clear everything up and wash the dishes. 

He kept that thought in the back of his mind as he carefully set the table with desert, proper desert. Glasses were already on the table, along with the large bottle of champagne that has been there the whole night and was running low. He supposed he should get another one. Sigh. 

He wheeled back into the kitchen, and then carried in another bottle of champagne in his aching hands. 

He turned to leave. 

"Reymi!" The voice was cold and hard and full of hatred and contempt and disgust. It was the only way anyone ever said his name. Swallowing down the desire to cry, the desire to run, he turned and faced the owner of the voice. 

"Yes?" His voice was small and he could almost hide the grief within it. 

"You need to clean up a spill in the sitting room!" He didn't know why there was always so much venom in her voice for him and only him.

"Yes ma'am." Honestly, some variation or another of yes ma'am was all he ever said to other human beings it seemed. Anyways he got some rags from the supply closet at the end of the hall and marched into the sitting room. The speakers were blasting. The television that took up half of the vast, stretching wall was playing something he didn't have time to look at. Something 3D if everybody's dark glasses were anything to go off of. 

There was some dark cocktail spilled out across one of the glass coffee tables. Thankfully none was on the thick, soft carpet. That would've been a nightmare to get out. 

As much as he didn't want to, he heard snippets of the television program. It seems like some high-faluting political types are giving speeches. 

"The threat these crazed lunatics posed on the well-being of our glorious nation is no more." 

Who? Whatever. He sprayed down the table a little bit to get rid of the last sticky bits. 

"Haynenne Drayle and Azera Hermann are in a top security prison. The two women will be publicly hanged tomorrow at sundown." 

Oh. Them. 

Reymi finished up and headed back. 

In the soft dull light of the kitchen he took some time to scarf down leftovers and lick plates like a crazed beast. For the past few days all he'd had to eat was what he could salvage from what everyone else didn't eat. It was the summer solstice, a national two-week holiday. Days of all-day parties meant that money was tight and they didn't want to spend money on him. Whatever bits he could sneak from ingredients or leftovers was all he had and it wasn't enough. 

But still, he got to rest right now, to eat right now. This was usually the best part of the night for him.

But despite all this, for the first time in many years, Reymi was crying. 

He knew about Haynenne and Azera. He's been able to read a bit of a newspaper article about them once, during a stolen bit of precious downtime. Nobody knew that he could read. Haynenne Drayle and Azera Hermann were respectively three and four years older than him. They were in love. Azera worked at a school, Haynenne in an orchard. They'd taught themselves how to read and write, much like his mother had taught him when he was still young. Haynenne was sold to a man miles away from her beloved. Azera carefully stole and forged papers, at great personal risk. But she was able to use them to run away. She found Haynenne and together they burned down the house of the man who had her trapped there. And they escaped into the night. 

Reymi has felt a spark of hope, a drift of cold, fresh air, on hearing their story. Maybe it's possible to win against Solaria after all. But apparently not. Love, defiance, cleverness, rage, hope, nothing was enough against Solaria's wealth and military strength and power. 

Solaria was everything. Solarians were everything. Haynenne and Azera were powerless. His mother and father were powerless. His people were powerless. He was powerless. 

Whatever was keeping him clinging to life fell away. 

He got a knife. A short one with razor edges. He held it up to his neck. And pulled. One quick movement and he was fine. It burned. But he felt himself gratefully sinking into the afterlife. 

Karria call for him in a few dozen minutes. And threaten to kill him when he didn't answer. She wouldn't know how useless a threat that was. How he'd never have to answer to her again. She'd walk in to see blood everywhere, and the soulless body of a twelve-year-old lying across the floor. She'd scream. More because she didn't like seeing blood and less because she cared about the fate of the boy. She'd rant about how she'd have to find a replacement right in the middle of solstice season and she did not have the time. She'd rage about the huge mess that was all over the kitchen, how it couldn't just sit there and fester all night. 

She'd have to clean up the mess herself though. 

And Reymi would be in a Green Place where everyone was equal and no child was ripped from their family. He'd be welcomed by Azera and Haynenne. And the trillions of others whose lives were cruelly cut short. And together they would train. They would forge themselves into an army and they'd would kill whatever twisted god allowed Solaria. 

�"�"�"

If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is [email protected] and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment. 

Reviews

[Spamalot]

Since you’re not getting the response to your work that you might hope for, and the problem is fixable, I thought you might want to know the how of that — especially as it’s caused by things that are invisible to you until pointed out.

The first problem is that you’re editing from the chair of the author, and so, begin reading already possessing an image of the scene in your mind. You already know the characters in the scene, their backstory, desires, and resources. And, you know what’s about to happen, so you have intent for how the words are to be taken.

The reader? Not a clue. For that reader to have context that will make the words meaningful, you must address where we are, what’s going on, and, whose skin we wear, as, or before, each line is read. So, exchange seats with the reader for a moment, and look at the opening through THEIR eyes:

• Laughter and idle chatter drifted through the brightly-lit, pastel-coloured room.

For you, this line calls up the situation, the place, and an image. But...

1. Why do we care that an unknown room — one that could be a ballroom or someone’s living room — is painted in an unknown shade of paint? Can the reader see it? No. Would the story change in the slightest way were it not pastel? If not, the line provides nothing useful to a reader. And any line that doesn’t move the plot, MEANINGFULLY set the scene, or develop character, needs to be cut because all it does is slow the pace of the action. In this case the first scene doesn't open till the second paragraph.
2. If we don’t know where and when we are, and why, this has no relevance. So, let your protagonist notice, and react to what matters to THEM. You’re not in the story or on the scene. So, when you talk TO the reader about the scene, it’s "heard" in the words of a dispassionate external observer — facts, not action. Readers can't know the emotion you’d place into the words were you reading it to them.

The first paragraph is a description of what a room, one that no one is studying, looks like. And it's given for no purpose that the reader is aware of. You, though, who are literally visualizing the setting, and the people in it, can feel the ambiance of the room, so it works.

• Reymi's vision was on the verge of swimming but he held it still with sheer terror.

Not knowing who Reymi is, so far as location, age, situation, reason for being there, and his short-term scene-goal, this line is meaningless. How can his vision “swim?” And how does terror stop it? You know. He may know. But the reader? They don’t know even what planet they’re on. To them, someone unknown, in an unknown location, in an unknown year, is afraid for unknown reasons, and, in some unknown way, that's helping their vision not “swim.”

See how vastly different the reader’s perceptions are from what you intended them to get? Will reading onward clarify? No, because people won’t. A confused reader is one who is turning away.

My point? Had you known the three issues we must address quickly on entering a scene; had you known the importance of the short-term scene-goal; had you known the structure of a scene, your approach to presenting the scene would have been VERY different.

Like most who turn to writing fiction your focus is on reporting — the approach we learned in school. It’s fact-based and author-centric, which makes the story as exciting as a history book. Fiction, on the other hand, is emotion-based,and character-centric, which is a methodology not even mentioned in school, where the goal was teaching us skills that employers find useful.

The skills of Commercial Fiction Writing, like those of all professions, are acquired in addition to those general skills we're given in school. Using those nonfiction skills we would tell the reader that our protagonist feels sorrow. But using the skills of fiction, we would make the reader weep. And, they would thank us for doing it.

Given that they’ve been refining the skills of fiction for centuries, a bit of time spent acquiring those skills makes a lot of sense.

And to do that, some suggestions:

First, I’m vain enough to believe that my own articles and YouTube videos may be helpful as an overview of the major differences between fiction and nonfiction. (links at the bottom)

Next, Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict is an excellent first book on the basics of adding wings to your words:

https://archive.org/details/goal.motivation.conflictdebradixon/page/n5/mode/2up

So try a chapter or two for fit, I think you’ll be amazed at the number of things that are obvious once pointed out, but invisible till then.

So...I’m sorry my news isn’t better. But bear in mind that nothing I’ve said is related to talent, only missing knowledge. So, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
Articles: https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/
Videos: https://www.youtube.com/@jaygreenstein3334

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“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”
~ Mark Twain

[Davidgeo]

Calm down Jay... no need to get all worked up about things my son.

[JayG]

SparksInTheNight :

This is the perfect example of what I was talking about. He's someone who has spent a long time trying to write poetry with his schoolday writing skills and failed.

For example, all his work is him talking TO the reader about what matters to him, so, without knowing the emotion to place into the reading, it's lifeless.

He's also so furious at me for having critiqued one of his poems, that he follows me around, invading other people's post threads, trying to make me angry.

I could block him and he'd vanish as far as I'm concerned, but I find it funny that he's trying so hard, without getting no one who's thread he invades to agree with him.

And of course, his work acts as an example of why you need to dig into the skills that the pros take for granted if you want to write like one.

As Wilson Mizner puts it, “If you steal from one author it’s plagiarism; if you steal from many it’s research.”

[Davidgeo]

You're an embarrassment to cluster b personality disorder Jay. Oblivious, cringe and pathetic all at the same time... man... can't wait for that dementia to finish settling in. Your sundowning phase is akin to an angry teen trapped in an adults body.

[JayG]

Awww...Poor baby is in a snit.

Hey kid. This is not your thread. So while you're nothing me but a convenient bad example, you're acting like an a*****e to the OP.

[Davidgeo]

You're trolling yourself man. People just laugh at you now.

[JayG]

Laugh at me? No kid, you're alone here, disrespecting the OP, and as always, displaying your ignorance in someone else's thread.
--------------------
To: SparksInTheNight:

You have my apologies. The puppy dog yapping at my heels is trying to get attention He's too lazy to study the skills of the profession but wants to be treated as a poetry god.

[Davidgeo]

Yes, you are what is known as an LOL cow. Keep 'em comin' cowboy.