Fortnightly Writing Competition: Scarcity (WINNER!)

[Mandle]

In Name Only

I pulled my car up to the pumps at the gas stand on the outskirts of the city. Moths battered themselves onto my windscreen, leaving their dusty kisses on the glass. I glanced at the attendant as walked by. He had a jagged line running from his jawline up to his temple on the right side of his face. When he smiled and handed me my change the old wound puckered up like the crow's feet around an old man's eyes.

I drove out of the stand and, as I turned onto the highway, my headlights swept briefly across the "city limits" sign:

"Siccatrikks -- Pop: 325,000"

My foreboding for the city only increased when, upon checking into a seamy hotel, I caught a glimpse of a recently healed cut diving down under the front clerk's collar at a dangerous angle. It looked like he had barely escaped death by exsanguination on that one. When he caught my eyes fixed upon the evidence of his near-death experience I could only stammer an apology and glance awkwardly away. He only grunted, or was it a muffled chuckle?

After a restless night in the hot and humid closet they called a "room", I ventured out onto the streets of the city, only to find that every person: man, woman, or child, that I passed by had some kind of disfiguring mark of past violence or misfortune somewhere on their visible flesh.

It was from that moment on that my interior voice started calling this place not by its real name, but by a more sinister one:

Spoiler

"Scar City"

[close]

[WHAM]

“Eden”

The boldfaced letters surrounded by vivid imagery of exotic plants and clear blue skies painted a biblical picture of a paradise. A pristine sanctuary, a gift from God, a safe haven shielded from the outside world. Dust swirled in the air around the sign as a low-flying helicopter whooshed past it at high speed.

Edwin looked out of the helicopter windows, his eyes scanning the rapidly shifting landscape below. The flare up of global conflict in 2022 that had seen the east and the west reliving their cold war -era power fantasies all across eurasia had broken the planet, cracked it's surface wide open and the resultant atmospheric annihilation had eventually cast all of the earth into a toxic haze. Plantlife petered out, atmospheric oxygen levels collapsed as the fires burned and soon something that had seemed so certain and safe was the scarcest resource on offer: oxygen.

Edwin's eyes spotted the miles and miles of highways, cars stalled atop the asphalt as far as the eye could see, the drivers slumped over their steering wheels, some collapsed between or atop the vehicles as the poor souls has struggled for one last gasp of air. Further beyond were the buildings, hollow and lifeless and dark, tombs of glass and steel and reinforced concrete. Where in the past the winds had carried fresh air, they now had a tendency to carry walls of co2, every pleasant breeze a potential carrier of silent death for the unprepared. Edwin took a deep breath, the interior of the helicopter pressurized and rich with the artificially sweetened scent of air, and smiled to himself.

The Eden project had been initiated as soon as the harsh reality of humanity's future has become clear. A great domed city, one of several such projects in the world, that would house a sanctuary of plants and systems designed to maintain a bubble of atmosphere, shielded and secure. Tickets to enter the dome were inhibitively expensive and available in small numbers. It would be the privilege of the rich and influential, of high-level politicians and those few fortunate minds sponsored by the aforementioned, who would be allowed in. Edwin reached into his coat pocket for the sixth or seventh time today and touched on the thick plastic card, it's microchip-laden weight and smooth surface comforting to him.

“Sir! You... you might want to see this shit!” -came the voice of the pilot over the intercom. Edwin frowned, turning in his seat and nodding to his pregnant wife to provide encouragement, then peering into the cockpit to see what was happening ahead. The pilot gestured into the distance, at the base of the great reinforced dome.
“That's a shitload o' people down there! All over the landing pads!” -the pilot shouted over the engine noise. Indeed, a throng of people had gathered near the entrance. The site of construction had seen it's share of violence over the last six months, and hundreds had already died, mostly shot by security as they had tried to attack the work crews and the cargo deliveries. The side of Edwin's mouth curled downward in distaste. He found himself wishing that a foul wind would sweep across the area soon so this disturbance could be dealt with naturally and he could get on with his day.

The helicopter swooped low, over the top of the people pushing towards the door, then landed in an empty spot on the unused road that lead up to the entrance.

At the base of the dome, around the gilded gates that led into Eden, the people shouted and screamed and coughed and gasped, demanding to be let in, fearful for their lives. But it was not the common folk who stood there, clawing at the gates. Not this time. The people pressing in on the massive doors wore fine suits and held aloft wads of money and tickets just like the one Edwin carried in his pocket. There was no-one out there checking tickets with a scanner, and no sign of the recently established and handsomely paid Eden security force. Edwin stepped across the trampled body of an old man, his spectacles stomped into his crushed eye sockets and his pristine white coat covered in bootprints painted with his own blood.

“What the hell is going on in there!?” -he demanded of a man who wore a military uniform and a thick black moustache. The military man turned to face him, pale of face and eyes wide, a spent oxygen mask clutched in his hand, his lips slowly adopting a blueish hue as he spoke: “They shut the doors.” -he stated in a hushed tone that was nearly drowned out by the voices of the rich and the famous beyond. “They shut the doors on us.” -he repeated, dumbstruck, panic seeping into his shuddering voice.

Edwin stepped back, leaving the military man gasping for air as he slowly sank to his knees. Once he reached a suitable distance he stood on his toes and craned his neck to see over the people's heads, but all he could see were waving hands and the backs of a thousand heads. Above them he could see people standing on the concourses that lined up the edges of the dome city, bodies and faces peering out through the heavily reinforced glass designed to shrug off a missile, parting the lush green leaves of the plants that had been planted there. The people inside were of all sorts. Some wore Eden security uniforms and carried firearms, others wore overalls or collared shirts of technical staff. More still were children or teenagers or just regular people in clothes that wouldn't have looked out of place in the streets and thoroughfares of small town America just a decade ago. They were the people who had build Eden for a high price, labouring for months to build a miracle city they would never live in, and once they had finished their work they had secreted in their families and shut the doors.

Edwin turned around and caught a glimpse of his wife and the pilot. His sweet Carolyn had sunk to her knees, hands wrapped around her belly to protect the child within, gasping desperately for air while the pilot looked on, featureless and emotionless, his mask still attached to his face and connected to his flight suit's air supply.
“Give her the air!” -Edwin shouted, gesturing furiously, his voice hoarse all of a sudden. The pilot shrugged at him and turned away, not wasting his breath to utter a single word of defiance as he stepped into the helicopter and shut the door behind him. As the door slammed shut with a dull metallic thud followed by the rattling of the locking mechanism, Edwin had barely managed three steps.

Edwin froze, his feet suddenly stiff and his mind blank with fear. There was a shrill sound as the loudspeakers situated atop Eden's gates came to life, a frail female voice echoing into the thin air:

“H-Hello? P-Please disperse. The door to Eden has been sealed and will not open. We are...” -there was a pause as the woman on the loudspeaker struggled for words. The people outside had fallen dead silent.

“We are sorry...”

The loudspeakers went dead. The rich and the famous, the influential and the powerful, simply stood there. For a time there was a confused silence. Then came the whispers, followed by grumbling and crying. Then they screamed and shouted, lashing out and clawing at one another like wild animals. The people inside the dome watched, mothers covering the eyes of their children, and turned away in disgust.

[Ponch]

More entries! MOAR!

[Baron]

There appears to be a scarcity of entries lately....

[Ponch]

If only we could scrounge up another writer or two. But who would volunteer for such a thing in these hard times? WHO, I SAY???

[KyriakosCH]

Well, you already banished my excellent work, so you only have yourself to blame

[Ponch]

True, but there's still time to write something new for the contest.

[KyriakosCH]

I will try..

[Baron]

There was a scarcity of warnings that there were only 24 hours left.  Any chance of a short extension while I polish my monocle put the finishing touches on my entry?

[Ponch]

There will be a slight extension for any hobos out there who are in between towns, riding the rails, looking for free wifi to upload the stories they've written. Contest closes Friday night.

[Baron]

Wow!  Such largess in these trying times!   All's I needed was just one day:

The Value of Nothing

   Milos planned his ascent carefully, climbing the sharp rocks up the steep sea-cliffs.  His stomach churned with the risk-aversion of an actuarian, but his accountant's mind was already totting up the rewards this risky venture would yield.  His guts protested, like a biological altimeter about to turn inside-out at height, but his tongue was already salivating over the warm meal his boldness would earn him.  Daring venture or fool's errand?  His naked body was obviously split on the matter, but sheer desperation tipped the scales in favour of derring-do.  Desperate times, after all, called for desperate measures.

   And there was nothing if not desperation on this floating prison in the middle of the ocean.  Sure, they weren't behind bars and the weather was blessedly clement, but there the luxury stopped.  Food was scarce but for the occasional drone drop - quickly acquired by the upper echelons of the inmate hierarchy â€" and whatever could be gleaned from the scrubby brush onshore and the shallow lagoon off-shore.  Clothes were unknown, metal tools were unknown; medicine, books, and technology were unknown.  All they had was what could be fashioned from crude stone tools or woven grasses, sea shells, and the plastic debris of civilization that occasionally washed up on shore. 

   But material goods, though scant, were not even the worst of their woes.  There was a fundamental lack of security in an unpoliced penal colony.  Yes, the men of Seven (as the floating island was demarcated) had their own rough code of honour and justice, but it was scant comfort to the vast majority who lacked the hierarchical connections or rare skills to stay easily on the right side of it.  For most inmates daily life was a constant struggle to provide for the now and pay off the debts of poor-providence past.  On the life-ledger of supply and demand, poor Milos the accountant found himself rather sadly in the camp of over-supplied mouths to feed and with a skill set for which there was virtually no demand.

   And so he was left to scavenge.  The rough terrain of the island itself was carved up informally by various groups and gangs, with the best fruit and nut trees jealously guarded.  For anyone without connections that left the narrow band of lagoon under which a shelf of the floating island stretched out toward an artificial reef about half a mile from shore.  But even this over-fished and over-harvested band of sand and coral had its own territorial claims, especially in the more accessible areas.  So the weakest and the lowliest were compelled either to pay extortionate tribute on their meagre gleanings, or were forced to the remotest and most marginal waters.  This was Milos, first the former and now, in hungry and naked desperation, the latter.

   Today the left side of the island was leeward and holding, for which he was grateful, as the gusts and spray coming off the surf during windward days made climbing the rocks slippery and treacherous.  The island had a left side, right side, front and back since it spun depending on the currents, making cardinal directions fluid.  Milos had heard that an ex-astronomer had worked out from the stars that the island and its neighbours traced a slow circle of empty ocean, probably by means of giant rudders working the natural currents, but it was all just hearsay as far as he was concerned.  Who had time to sit around and chart the stars, anyway?

   Milos heaved himself up a particularly steep bit of rock, briefly cursing the weight of the successful foray strapped to his back with grass-rope.  He had found a large bed of clams in the middle of the lagoon, and a good haul of hard plastic as well: he had found less in a whole week sometimes.  The clams would feed him well for a couple days, provided he could sneak them past any tribute-seeking toughs, while the plastics would fetch him a good price at market.  It was hard in a world without money to precisely calculate the value of his haul, but it was probably worth about four days' worth of subsistence labour, or most of the remaining value of the debt he'd racked up to the Benneton Boys back when he'd fell ill with jungle fever.

   Milos smiled at the prospect of finally paying off the debt.  Perhaps he could now accumulate a small surplus and get into the lending business himself?  He was at home in the world of lending rates and fractional banking, after all.  Accumulate enough of other people's debt and one could live off the interest.  And that was the high life no matter how complex one's society.  Fortune always shined on men who already had fortune to lend.  Wealth begat ever greater wealth: it was a sad universal truth.  Soon it would be his turn to bask in Fortune's glow.

   And then the rock under Milos' right food suddenly gave way, and he sliced his shin on the exposed edge.  Milos grunted at the pain, but dared not assess how badly he was cut.  Not yet.  Now only one thing mattered: holding on.  He waited, motionless, fearing for the stability of the rock around him.  Three seconds, four seconds, five seconds.  Was he really that high already?  Then there was a great thunderous splash, visible no doubt to anyone in the vicinity.  So much for secrecy.

   Milos waited a bit longer, wondering if the warm feeling down his leg was blood or just him pissing himself at height.  Wondering how he'd finance a proper salve to stop the jungle bacteria from infecting the wound.  Wondering how a single rock had made so much of a splash.  It was that last thought that finally had him glance down, and to his surprise he saw beyond his gashed leg a newly exposed ledge on which to rest.  Carefully he lowered himself down, tentatively testing the new surface with his weight until he was sure it was stable.  With relief he set down his haul for the day and perched himself carefully away from the edge.

   His leg didn't look too bad: it was a long cut, yes, but shallow.  He gazed out over the lagoon to the circular reef surrounding the island and the open ocean beyond.  In the distance he could make out the peaks of similar islands, ten or more miles away as far as anyone could reckon.  Eerily similar, in shape and distribution.  So much so that he could imagine a desperate fellow similar to himself perched on a similar cliff gazing back across the impassible currents towards him, perhaps with a similar bundle of clams and recycling.  Maybe the guy had also been busted for tax fraud or some equally victimless crime.  Or maybe it was a woman on that cliff, desperately seeking a nice predictable bean-counter in this penal world of murderers and gang-bangers?  He'd heard the rumours that some of the islands were populated exclusively by women, but as no one had ever verifiably survived the crossing he supposed it was just so much fanciful musing.  Milos caught the glint of sun off a patrol drone skimming the waves about two miles off-shore and instinctively recoiled into the nook of rock like a hunted spider.

   They were watching.  Always.  He had to remember that.  How many rafts had he seen torpedoed out of the water?  How many swimmers' corpses washed up on the outer reef?  The other islands in the distance were just mirages in the desert of their desperation.  And dreams of fancy were a dangerous intoxicant on this inside-out hell-hole.  It was best to stay sober and labour carefully towards a substantive goal than to risk all for some fanciful big score.

   He steadied himself with his hand and that's when he felt it.  Not the sharp, rough rock but a smooth, cold surface.  Metal.  It was some sort of vent cover that had previously been concealed beneath the rock, probably with a small, natural looking cave as an outlet.  It was circular, less than a metre in diameter, punctuated by broad slats on which was written some identification number.  Milos felt around the perimeter of the vent cap and was amazed to find a simple latch.  In disbelief he popped it open, and the whole cover swung open on noiseless hinges.

   Now this was trouble.  Who knows what he could salvage from the belly of the beast?  But he had to weigh the possibilities against the danger of being caught.  He'd seen the drone strikes when his fellow prisoners started digging near the crater in a vain attempt to access a maintenance hatch.  But how much surveillance would there be on a simple vent shaft?  Milos studied his pathetic bundle of clams and refuse, trying to balance it on the scale in his mind with the scrap metal or even tools he might find up the shaft.  Metal!  This was a rare opportunity, to clear his debts and build up a favour-bank in one fell swoop.  The prospect was intoxicating.  He didn't have to think long: in moments he was crawling up the metal shaft.

   The interior of the shaft was smooth and polished.  It would be difficult to climb if it were not so narrow, allowing him to press against all sides at once with the friction of naked skin.  It was cool inside, at first uncomfortably so but soon he was grateful as the effort of climbing would otherwise have made him sweat and slip.  There was a noise streaming down the shaft, like the static reception of a nearing waterfall, or maybe the screaming of air forced through a tight gap or around a fast moving surface. 

   Suddenly his accountant's instincts wrenched his guts, and before he could even process the reasoning in his mind he was sliding full-speed back down the chute, the screaming air not receding but growing louder as he shot towards the light of the vent opening.  And then he was flying through the light a hundred feet in the air, just as the missile flashed by and sealed the shaft in a deafening explosion.  He was buffeted mid-air by the shock-wave, and he was struck in the shoulder and leg by small bullet-sized stones shot out by the impact.  But he would survive.  At least until the impact with the water below broke his bones and tried its best to drown him.  Desperation begat ever greater desperation: it was a sad universal truth.

[KyriakosCH]

I might still try, although news of the british ode to a grecian urn (brexit) controls the mood of the day... And i suppose it is a catalyst for change (which in my case can only be good...).

[Baron]

I vote for Ponch, best gosh dang contest administrator ever.

[Ponch]

Oh hush, Baron. As an official of the FWC, I've been very busy doing offically official stuff. My insight and judgement is in demand in these trying times. This whole Brexit thing has had my phone ringing off the hook!

Anyhoo, it's time to vote!

The contestants are, in order of entry:

Sinitrena - "A Paper. A Pen."
Mandle - "In Name Only"
WHAM - "Eden"
Baron - "The Value of Nothing"

Times are tough, and everyone is tightening their belt to get by with less. So please cast your ONE VOTE with care. It's the only one you've got, so spend it wisely. I'll close voting in a couple of days, and we'll see how everyone did.

Let the hobo boxing voting begin!

[KyriakosCH]

Times are hard so I'd like to keep my 1 vote for a rainier day...

[Ponch]

Times are hard so I'd like to keep my 1 vote for a rainier day...

I understand. You're hoping it will only appreciate in value if you don't spend it. Smart man. That's the same reason I've never opened my vintage Chuck Norris action figure.



Sure, I got it in the dollar bin at the Toys R' Us way back when and it's worthless now, but one day it will somehow be worth a fortune, I'm sure of it, and I'll be able to retire rich. Here's to us, KyriakosCH, and our long-term plans!

[Baron]

Since we're pinching pennies with only one buck, are we allowed to spend a few cents here and a few cents there?

[Ponch]

Since we're pinching pennies with only one buck, are we allowed to spend a few cents here and a few cents there?

Does this joint look like the sort of place that takes wooden nickels, pal?

I know you've gotten used to spending your big stack of votes like the good times were going to last forever, Baron, but those salad days are over (at least until the next FWC), and you've got to get by on what you've got. Sad to say it, big spender, but you're down to just one vote. So dig deep in your pocket, take out that wrinkled ballot, and cast it for the one story that really spoke to you. The other stories will understand. They're going through tough times too. Heck, we all are.

[WHAM]

Mine poor ol' vote is cast: BARON!

[JudasFm]

I vote for WHAM!