Forward

Chapter 3

If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

As the sun makes its way up and over the horizon, I rise from my bed, feeling the way the mattress gives into my weight slightly and the springs underneath moan in response. I stretch my arms high above my head, slowly bringing them down, taking in the pleasure of the silence and stillness that only occurs at rightrise, before the Lefts wake up.

The sight outside my window is breathtaking, as it is every morning. I have always preferred the sunrise, the dawn, the beginning of a new day. The pinks and oranges brightening the sky by the second warm me. Not even my brother, with his watercolors or acrylics or spray paint, could ever capture the simple brilliance of the sun as it wakes the world up. I'm overcome with a calming sensation as if there was nothing but peace.

"EVELYN!"

And just like that, the peace is broken.

"Evelyn!" Mom comes into my room, frowning slightly at me. "You know what day it is, don't you? If you don't finish your chores by allup, me and Mason will leave without you."

"Mason and I," I mutter under my breath, as I throw the covers off of me and swing my legs off the bed.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, nothing," I reply, putting on my boots right over my pajamas, not much caring if they get dirty along the way. As the inventor of the family, I have created various traps and snares to capture pests and critters that wander into our garden. One of my chores is to check and reset the traps every rightrise so that they will be ready to snag another hungry creature for the rest of the day. It's not the most glamorous of work, but the Rights grow as much of our own food as we can so that we don't have to buy from the egotistical Left marketers that sell meats and vegetables pumped full of hormones. The Rights work as a community to feed ourselves as well as any Left humble enough to realize that while it might be logical to have factories make their food, it's far more humane to grow it yourself.

I pop open the latch on one of my more elaborate traps, a pitfall disguised as an exposed patch of carrots, much easier to get to than the ones surrounded by wires. Inside, are two possums munching on the food scraps I left there yesterday. My dad could never live with himself if we killed an innocent creature that was just trying to survive. I used to complain because I was the one that had to gather up the wild animals and release them back to the forest. I haven't complained in a couple of revolutions.

I pull the fake ground floor of the pit up with a wheel I have set up for just that purpose. At the top, the possums only option of exit is into a glass box, which they easily step into. I have half a mind to think that these are the same possums that have been coming all week since they seem to know the drill. "Well," I tell them, as I lift the box off the floor, patting it, "As long as you're not getting any of our food."

I stroll past our garden, full of carrots and peppers, all the colors of the rainbow. I breathe in the earthy smells, slightly sweet because of the different kinds of leaves exhaling into it every day. The soil gives underneath my heavy boots; The possums scurry in the box I'm holding, shifting its weight ever so slightly.

I make it to the edge of the forest. Opening the box, I tip its live contents onto the floor, nudging them forward and back to their homes. "Same time tomorrow?" I call after them, as they scurry away. I chuckle to myself, as I reset the trap, throwing in the bits of yesterday's meals that we didn't eat and covering the top with the various tarps and leaves that make up the illusion. After quickly checking the rest of the traps and replenishing all of them with some spare food, I go back inside and grab a grocery list off the table.