Short Stories

Quota

You're late.

It's 9:43, and the agency closes at 10 pm sharp. They always have, they always will, and tonight isn't going to be their only exception.

And if you don't get that letter, who knows what will happen? Punishment for sure, but you definitely don't want to run the risk of being Exiled.

You sprint onto the street, not bothering to look around for incoming cars.They never stop for me, you think, so why should I wait for them?

Besides, if you waited, you'd be even more late.

You start to think about what'll be on that letter. You hope desperately that you'll be allocated enough to live comfortably.

That's what the Quota Letters are for; every 16-year-old gets one which details how much provisions they're allowed in their lifetime.

Milk and flour, sugar and clean water, electricity and clothing. The list of simple things covers a page created by the Ministry exactly for you. Some people get more, and some people get less. That's just the way it is; no one knows how the Ministry divides it up. But they certainly don't do it equally, and there's nothing you can do to get your name placed in their good books.

You skid to a stop in the middle of the road as a blue car speeds past, its wheels spinning over the cobblestones. Then it starts to rain.

Every night at 9:45 pm, it begins to rain. Always. The Ministry creates the rain to remind everyone of the 10:30 curfew, so they have enough time to get home before the Officers make their rounds.You don't care.

They won't come here, you think, until at least midnight. And it's true; this part of the city was bustling only this morning, but now it's almost deserted, save for the few cars darting by and the unlucky, who shelter themselves from the rain in any way that they can.

You know that the residents of this part of town always remember the rules and get inside on time. It's gotten to a point where the Officers barely care about this district.

And that's how you get away with staying out fairly late.

You know what goes on at night that the Ministry and its Officers don't want anyone to see.

You know the secret that could bring down this city, and the Ministry along with it.

Because, frankly, it's time for a change. During the Rebuilding, the newly-formed Ministry set out to create a utopia, a paradise where the survivors could live their lives in luxury and abundance.A laugh escapes your chapped lips. So much for that!  You think to yourself.

This city is more like a prison. No one's ever been outside the perimeter. They exile criminals, troublemakers and people who misbehave. And last time you checked, no one was living in luxury.

You know what the Ministry is hiding.

And they don't know that you know their secret.

Pushing that thought out of your mind temporarily, you refocus on your Quota Letter.

A dimly lit window appears behind a passing car. You run towards it, warily watching for any more vehicles. Eye on your watch, you reach the doorstep and try the handle of the old door. It's locked, even though it's only 9:47. You can still see the silhouette of a moving figure inside, and so you pound relentlessly on the door.

You need that letter.

Why didn't I come earlier today?  You chastise yourself. I could have woken up earlier, before work, and saved myself all this stress.

"Hey!" Yelling, you still bang on the door. "It's not ten o'clock yet! Let me in! I need my letter!"An elderly lady opens the door, slowly. "Hush, child."

You wince internally and take a deep breath, trying to ignore her misinterpretation of your age and instead, focus on the matter at hand.

"I need the letter." you state plainly.

"Calm down," she shakes her head, waving you inside. "The table's back there."

Entering the small agency's office, you notice the wooden table at the back of the room. There are a few brown envelopes lying on it still, ones whose owners weren't able to pick them up today. You rush over, and begin to sift through the small pile, throwing aside any which don't bear your name in cursive on the front.

"Why didn't you come earlier today? A child like you shouldn't be out this late," the woman calls from behind her desk.

Anger bubbles up inside of you, but you manage to hold it in as you reply, "I didn't have any time this morning, and I had to work an extra shift."

Finally, you find your letter. You allow yourself one sentimental glance at the handwriting on the front. As soon as you open the letter, you are no longer cared for by the Ministry. As soon as you open the letter, your Quotas begin.

"Can't believe your parents would let you stay out this late," the lady mutters.

That's it.

The red-hot anger overflows inside of you, bubbling and boiling and fueling your words. "I don't have parents," you bellow, tearing open the letter in disgust. "I'm sixteen, and I'm an orphan."

Somehow, that doesn't seem to shut her up.

"What happened to them?" the nosy woman presses.

You ignore her, concentrating on the open letter in your hands. You skim over the totals of food, water, clothing, and electricity.

They're all normal. Luckily, you've been allocated a good amount of each.

"What happened to them?" the lady repeats, louder this time.

Seething, you yell, "They were killed in-"

You clap your hand over your mouth in shock, breaking off mid-sentence.

It hits you as hard as a slap to the face: The Ministry knew all along, and now they're about to take away one of the only things I have left in this city.

For there, on the smooth white paper, written in dark black ink, are the words:

Lifetime Quota of Words (spoken aloud) - 1,723

__________________________________________________________________________

Author's Note: So, just wanted to let you guys know that I did some research and found out that the average woman speaks 20,000 words per day. So, the lifetime quota is WAY LESS than the total of words spoken per day. And that has to last a whole lifetime. Just thought you might be wondering! Thanks for reading :)