Will to Live-The Utopia Chronicles Book 1

Chapter One

Ember
Early dawn. The sun is nothing more than a peachy orange line beneath a sea of silvery blue. A flock of birds soars over the city, their silhouettes black against the soft sky. Below, far, far below amidst the bustle of the wakening city- tramping feet, car engines, honking horns- Talon and I crouch beside the shop window.

We wait.

Presently an old woman comes out, white hair done up in a clumsy bun, apron slightly crumpled, holding a broom. She begins to sweep the dusty footpath.

Talon rises. "Hey Mrs Peterson!" He calls. "Wanna spare a coin for a starving child?"

Mrs Peterson folds her arms and scowls at his grinning face. "Starving child! More like thief!"

"I'm not a thief!" Talon cries, his smile fades, to be replaced by an indignant expression. The thin, white scar that disfigures his freckled face is twisted, making him look quite frightening. His red hair flops down his forehead.

Mrs Peterson places her hands on her hips. "What about the time you two stole the bread I set to cool on the shelf."

Talon grins guiltily. "Well, there was that."

"We were starving Mrs Peterson!" I cry, widening my brown eyes innocently.

The old woman snorts. "Many children in the world are 'starving'. They don't steal."

I scuff my bare foot along the ground. "Yeah," I spit, "those kids are dead."

There is a silence. Mrs Peterson purses her lips. "Then they died righteous." Talon and I scowl at her. "Look, I've nothing to spare. Now be off with you."

"But Mrs Peterson-"

"No buts! Out! Out!" She uses her broom to push us out of the shop and slams the door. Back onto the cold, empty streets.

Rush hour begins. People stream from the houses. However these people are not like the people who we see, dressed in fine clothes of bright colours, riding in fancy cars.

They are poor and shabbily dressed. Their clothes are torn and tattered. Their shoes are old and falling to bits. Even the houses they come from are small and sparsely furnished, nothing to the white stone mansions other people live in. But somehow the worst thing is their faces. Hollow. Eyes sunken. Faces lined from years of hard labour. Shoulders slumped. Depressed. Defeated. Defenceless.

Talon and I avoid their eyes, though I know from awful experience that in fact we are the ones more likely to be pitied.

The people stream past us like a muddy, brown creek. They cross the road, leaving this place behind them. This place of suffering. Escaping for a painful twelve hours, until the creek will stream back again, only to collapse into the hard beds and thin blankets, exhausted beyond recognition.

No one knows where they go. They are forbidden to speak of it. And most consider it a blessing. There is enough suffering here. After all, this Granger's Alley. And they are the Burdened.

"I'm so hungry." Talon groans as we walk back through the streets, quiet except for the cawing of crows and the laughter of little children.

Even in the most depressing places there is always a hint of happiness. I watch as two five year olds run through the muddy streets and leap into a brown puddle, emerging soaking wet and laughing. "Yeah."

"Wanna steal? We haven't robbed the Steiners in a while?"

"Yeah." But I am not listening. I watch the five year olds rise and jump into the puddle again, feeling an unexpected twinge of jealousy. Makes sense, I guess. They're not turning twelve tomorrow.