Write Like a Spider

Chapter One

Poems remind me of a spider's web. Each word is like a thread that ties everything together. One mistake and the whole thing falls apart. One mistake and no one finds beauty in it. Poetry is an art for geniuses, and I count myself in that category. Only geniuses know how to stitch a poem together like a spider.

And so I have begun to learn. In a world of birds and spiders, I am still in my egg. The surface is smooth. Perfect. Untouched. I know that one day it will crack. Until then, I wait.

And I wait.

And wait.

"Magnolia Onnete?" The teacher calls.

"Here," I say, sounding absolutely dead. What's the point in pretending to be excited? No one is. Especially not me.

The material we go over that day is boring beyond belief. I already know all of it. We all do. Even those who are less fit for education.

We will spend the year researching a career field in our section of the planet. They don't tell us, but if we want to do something in another sector, we can either give up and deal with a career in this one, or go beg the Nobleman or woman of that sector to accept us. Most who choose that method don't return.

This is because our sector works with farms and factories. Dreadful work. We all die young. Our nearest other sector is ruled by a stuck up excuse for a man. He kills whoever comes over there begging and feeds the body to his dogs. Well that's what the stories say, anyway.

My luck is fantastic, and the other sector to involve themselves with writing and literature is the one ruled by Dog Feeder.

I smile to myself thinking about that name.

I have been preparing a speech since I have found out the rule of careers. I thought it was near perfection until I went with my older sister to watch her ask Dog Feeder to let her live in his sector. She is asked to follow a servant and I am escorted back to my own sector. They told me the scream was that of a refusing servant.

I wish I could've believed them.

I shook my head sadly to dismiss my thoughts and looked up at the faint letters inscribed in the air. The teacher was writing out potential careers with the appointed pen. It wasn't really her writing them. They were just preset words in her handwriting. That's what I hate about the pens. There's no room for creativity. It drives me mad.

Today was simply explanation. Tomorrow the real struggle would begin.

The bell went off in a few slow chimes and everyone stirred at their desks. I reach for my bag and pull it over my shoulders. Every student pushes in their chairs and we all make for the door. Most of the student body goes to the changing pods to get into work clothes, but I have learned to just go home.

The hover trolley waits patiently outside of the school and I sit in my assigned seat. Row 3, Seat 2. I dig through my bag and pull out a well-worn book on famous poets of the old age.

It is incredible to read about them. All of them.

Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman Edgar Allan Poe...

The list goes on.

I hope someone writes about me in a dusty old book someday. Though I don't want it dusty right away. I want it to be new for just a little while.

What more could I ask for?