Cygnet
By J. L. Young Morning number two. The door on my pod dropped violently, issuing a clang that resonated throughout my body. I slid to out and down the ladder to the cold floor and opened my locker. There, I found my issued gear. The room was slowly filling with inmates. Each of them climbed down from their designated pods to begin their day. The inmates were a mix of people from various ethnicities and genders who emerged from their pods. I stayed silent, not wanting to draw attention. One of them hovered over me. He made a popping sound with his lips. “Ooh, someone smells oh, so fresh. It appears they caught another and dropped them in our bucket.” “Flappy! Leave her alone. Get your gear.” A woman pushed him aside. “Just getting acquainted, Cygnet. Gotta polish the rock.” “I don’t know what crime I committed and they won’t tell me,” I asserted. “No one does. We had to call it something, so we agreed on ‘hangover.’ We have our mental capacity, but who we are escapes us. All we have are our numbers.” I glanced at her forearm. This woman, Cygnet, as she was called, is compassionate and motherly, though she has a sentence of 197 years. “Does that bother you?” “My sentence? It used to. Perhaps they’ll reanimate my corpse to keep me working.” She took my boots from my locker and placed them at my feet. “This is a prison. Where are the guards?” “So many questions. Answers, there are plenty. Does anyone know? Here, we are devoid of answers. So much that has made us human has been taken away or suppressed.”
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May 2024
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