This is a new book I'm writing. It's really crude and violent, but it is a verson of what the future may look like. It starts off with a boy named Ross and his friends Benji and Carol. Please leave comments to help me write it!
~1~
It's said when you look at a man's eyes, you can see through his bluff. When you watch someone raise, people around him start to fidget. A man called Jack London once said, "Life is not always a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well." Before you run off to play with your buddies, drinking, eating, and ruining your mom's old couch in the basement of her house; hear me out first. Everything you see may not be real; don't look for the clues that everyone has seen already and walked all over. It may not always be the cards, watch out for the players.
Everyday at exactly seven o'clock in the morning, we raise for roll call. Everyone here knows not to complain anymore. When we had stepped through to gate of this camp, our lives as children were over. Children are no longer are weak. Teach them young, to save the old is the slogan here. Complaining would send you to the workstations. Painful things. Days in the cold and when you leave you may not come back. The dead burn every night, and the smell is bitter and full of hopeless dreams that will never come true.
The younger children are called Geeks or Nerds. The age ranges from three to nine. They are easy to bully into getting you things. Then at ten to thirteen, you are called a Rebel. Nasty little buggers. Few of them are easy to rely on; they run to the men in charge for exchange of food and blankets. Not going to blame them, I once did that. At the depressing age of fourteen to seventeen, we are Jocks. Seniors at the gates of hell. You get out then, released into a world of ruthless killing and ruining families as a living. Just to be paired up with the opposite sex and produce children at the young age of twenty-five. Eight years of fighting to give up your children, for the process to start again. Because that is how the world runs. Everything is but a game.
Last night, a little Geek was hung. A little boy at the shy age of five. The overseers lined us up, and forced us to watch the boy turn blue and purple. Struggling to breath and twitching, until his last breath. He stole a loaf of bread. Stealing is not tolerated, in extreme cases the crime is punishable by death.
Sometimes this happens. Geeks usually hide with Jocks, who teach them the ropes. My little Geek is called Benji. He's no older than six, I wasn't going to pick him. The night he first got there, he was the only kid not crying. Then he called me brother. I couldn't leave him and that was my first mistake. The Geek has brown hair and brown eyes; boring, but it allows him to blend in. He goes out in the night, after curfew. One sharp whistle and I call him home, two and I tell him to go farther. He doesn't complain because in the night he's allowed to sneak into my bed if he's cold or in the morning, I give him the rest of my soup. All I want him to do is search for is a tiny route out.
It would be stupid of course, to try to go through it to escape though. Where would I go? Children caught outside the gates are shot on the spot. Who would hide me? No one, if you are caught harboring a child you are killed, and the child is taken far away. They test them, with test tubes and syringes. That doesn't sound too nice if you ask me. No, I smuggle things outside. Sometimes people, but we see their bodies carried back in and tossed into a fire. If you are lucky, they'll shoot you through your heart, head or any other fetal spot. If not, they shoot your legs so you can't run. You can hear the screams of the almost dead as they burn in a ditch. Kids crawl from the fire. Their skin melts into a black tar and eyes turn white to black and pop out of the skull. Fingernails are left in the ground: bloody from trying to climb up the side of the wall.
They are trying to make soldiers, but we are turning into monsters.
