This is the first of three pastels I entered in my county fair this year.(If you missed part one, scroll down to Wednesday’s post.)
MONDAY-MORNING-ITIS
by Grace Bridges
That evening, Mario took a walk around one of Building 17’s courtyards. Coloured lights swung on strings above eating-places where hundreds of people in workers’ grey buzzed with everyday conversations. He passed a vid-hall and paused to peruse the posters for movies. Great. Yet another History of Monday flick.
Everyone knew the history of Monday back to front and inside out. But the powers-that-be were always funding new movies, each cheesier than the last. They couldn’t change the facts. The recitation from a children’s vid-show began to play through Mario’s absent mind.
We have all come from a place called Earth. After the First Travellers discovered our planet on a day they called Monday, and discovered our people could live here, the people of Earth clamoured to be brought to this place. There was great poverty on Earth, and many people lacked food and shelter. One man listened to the voice of the poor. That man was Maxwell Baxter. He built a large space-vessel and loaded it with all kinds of supplies and machinery, then invited any who wished to travel with him to a new home. Many thousands bravely accepted. After a long journey, we landed here. Contact with Earth was no longer possible at this distance. The First Generation fought to establish the
Mario spat in a corner. He’d actually heard that crap so often that it was stuck inside his brain, for better or for worse. It even survived the mindwipes, although he suspected that was deliberate. The Baxters lived in the fortified and heavily guarded Baxter Region, and wore no emo-readers, if you believed what people said. […if rumors were true.] [I don’t know if the use of second person in this way is only my personal dislike, or if it’s something an editor wouldn’t like. I suspect it should only be seen in dialog.]
A scream reached his ears from the other end of the courtyard. He turned and saw the workers from the surrounding tables rushing to get away to a safe distance. [That’s wordier than needed: “scrambling away.”] The unfortunate woman’s emo-reader was beeping the signal for eighty percent of critical level, and everyone knew that eighty almost always became a hundred due to fear alone. The chip’s beeping grew louder still, sealing the fate of its wearer. Then a deadly silence fell.
Mario froze and watched in morbid fascination as the courtyard’s transport tube detached itself from the wall and moved to hang its mouth over the hapless worker’s head. She stared up at it wide-eyed for just an instant. Then came a sucking sound, and she was gone.
The people in the courtyard breathed again, collectively, and returned one by one to their meals and conversations. A small figure sat on a bench next to where the vanished woman had been, hands covering her face. Mario recognised the girl he had worked next to today [that day], and wondered if she had been friends with the other woman.
The smell of roasting chicken pierced his senses and he remembered his hunger [I don’t care for “he remembered” lines. Say his stomach rumbled or something.]. Walking up to the food-stall, he joined the back of the line and shuffled forward with the others. He gazed at the ground, willing himself to think of nothing. A pair of boots came into view and he looked up, surprised that someone would come up so close to him.
The pale face and blonde dreadlocks registered in his belaboured memory once more, and he smiled.
“I saw you in the field, right?”
The girl’s face fell, but she held her steady gaze. “Oh, Mario, don’t you know me anymore?”
He grimaced, rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger, and looked up to find her still waiting. “No, I, uh… I guess not. I think they mindwiped me last night.”
Shock, then sympathy chased across the features before him. “I’m so sorry. Then you won’t know anyone from before.” Inspecting the palms of her hands, she apparently found them lacking in cleanliness, and gave them a quick rub on the lower back of her grey sweatshirt. Then she stuck out a hand in greeting. “I’m Caitlin, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mario, although I’m sure we’ve been through this a hundred times.”
Mario shook her hand slowly, shaking his head. She knows something I don’t. [Trust your reader—that thought is obvious already.]
“Next, please!” called the man behind the stall, and Mario’s head jerked around. He reached the counter in one long stride.
“Two, please.”
The server handed him the two birds, and he turned back to look for… what was her name again? There she is. Caitlin. She accepted a chicken and they found an empty table nearby, under a tree imprisoned by paving stones. Mario gave way to his hunger and tore great hunks of meat from the fowl’s carcass. Caitlin picked at her food, but still managed to eat nearly half of her chicken before Mario finished his.
Questions began to form in his mind, and he picked the simplest to begin. “Was that a friend of yours who just got taken?”
Caitlin nodded. “Irina.” She dipped her head and stared into the skeleton of the chicken before her. [I was waiting for the line, “She was your friend, too.” Move the next sentence down one line, because it’s Mario’s action, not Caitlin’s.] Mario licked his fingers, but they were still sticky. He drummed them on the table.
“So, Caitlin… you know me, don’t you?”
She twisted one side of her mouth into a smile, turned serious again, and gazed about at the courtyard filled with diners and dotted with paved-in trees. He saw something in her eyes, and wished he knew what it was. Finally, she spoke.
“Mario, you’re impossible. I don’t know how you manage to keep any friends at all.”
His brow creased. Do I even have any friends? I can’t remember. [I’d rather see him ask a wry question here. “I have friends?”]
She sighed. “Okay, okay. I know this isn’t easy for you. Let me put it this way. You have a high propensity for overtaxing your emo-reader.”
Mario’s jaw dropped open. “You mean last night wasn’t my only mindwipe?” [consistency—when he knew he’d been mindwiped, he said “again”. You established that he knows it wasn’t his first time.]
Caitlin shook her head. “You were doing quite well before that. The last one was at least twenty days ago. Well, you’re lengthening your stamina, so I guess that’s good.”
He buried his face in his hands, remembering at the last second that his hands were full of chicken grease. Too late. His head snapped back up, but he could feel the oily sheen on his cheeks. Caitlin laughed, and pulled a wet-wipe from the dispenser at the end of the table. He scrubbed at his hands and face, and dropped the wadded paper on the smooth surface.
“Let me get this straight. You know me – uh, quite well?”
She nodded.
“And you say I’ve been mindwiped more often than most?”
Caitlin pursed her lips before answering. “I don’t know about more often than most, but certainly more often than me.”
“You’ve been mindwiped as well?”
“Sure. Sixty-three days ago, to be precise. You were doing well at the time, and you filled me in on what I needed to know.”
Mario sat silently. Information overload. But I have to know. “And do you know why you were mindwiped?”
A haunted look crossed her face. “You told me I’d been really down lately. Apparently I was unsatisfied with my life, and upset because my friends kept getting mindwipes and forgetting me. It was so hard to start all over again, and it happened so often.”
And it’s happening again right now. He saw her suddenly in a different light. This is a strong woman. [Making that a direct thought oversimplifies it. Almost like you’re dumbing it down for your reader, but I know that isn’t your intention. Instead, have him see the strength—something in her eyes, the set of her jaw.]
“But you’re doing better now, right? Sixty-three days is way better than my record!”
“I suppose. I’ve been suppressing all those feelings, and it works.”
Another thought came to Mario, and he spoke it. “What about me? Why do I get mindwiped so often?”
Caitlin glanced to both sides. The nearest tables were still empty. She leaned forward on her elbows. “You keep falling in love.”
“With- with who?” Mario’s voice trembled.
Caitlin looked down.
[Keep her dialog on the same line with her action.] “Mostly with me. But I wish you wouldn’t.”
[Mario straightened from his slump in an instant, shock and fear written across his face. He leapt up, nearly tripped over the bench seat, and ran for his dorm entry as fast as his legs would carry him.
Caitlin stood then, triggering the table’s waste disposal unit to open its dark mouth. It ground the chicken bones to grit, and she stared after Mario as he vanished. He never looked back.] [You head jumped. We’ve been in Mario’s POV the whole time, so you can’t switch to Caitlin without warning. And this brief time in Caitlin’s head doesn’t tell us anything, so it’s not necessary.]
***
Mario pounded down the hall to his room, and sighed with relief as the door swished shut. Now that he was inside, it would not reopen until the morning, and that was at least eighteen hours away. The vid-screen flickered and the image of the blue-green ocean filled the wall. The sound of the water was calming. No doubt that’s why I chose this as my basic vid-feed. He leaned against the inside of the door, closed his eyes and listened to the waves. Finally his emo-reader gave double instead of triple beeps, and as his breathing settled down, even the single ten-percent beeps gave way to blessed silence.
He breathed deeply and peeled off his clothes, stained with the dust of the earth and the grease of the chicken. The tracksuit dumped into the laundry chute by the door, he stepped into the shower to get cleaned and dried. [Your trying to avoid starting every sentence with “He”, but the phrasing is a little awkward in that last sentence. Almost like the tracksuit is dumping itself.]
With difficulty, he managed to pull a nightshirt over his head, then he sat on the edge of the bed and browsed through the menu offered by the vid-wall system. Is there anything more calming than ocean? Ah, yes. Fish.
Colourful goldfish and angelfish appeared larger-than-life on the screen and swam around aimlessly in a forest of gently-swaying waterweed. He sat and watched them for a while, equally aimlessly, but it felt good. Are they real, or computer-generated? I can’t tell, but you know, I don’t think I care. After a while, he lay back on the bed with a mindless grin. Once again, the dangerous emotions were banished, and he dozed off contentedly. [Get rid of what’s in the italics here. Not important.]
Mario dreamed, but there was nothing to see; only a voice speaking to him. It spoke the same words again and again, starting over when it got to the end. The effect was incredibly soothing, and yet as it repeated, Mario found himself feeling more and more awake. Soon he discovered he was not sleeping at all, and opened his eyes. The giant fish still swam aimlessly on the vid-wall, the dark night reigned outside his window, and it was nowhere near morning. But the Voice still spoke, and now he listened to it and understood the words for the first time.
Listen to me – I must be first. Do not confuse me with another, and do not speak carelessly of me. Be still and listen, and I will speak. Obey what I ask, and the Guides I will send you. Treat life in a manner worthy of me. Esteem loyalty and do not give in to bent desires. Respect what belongs to another. Speak the truth at all times, and do not wish for anything I do not give you, for I will give everything you need.
Mario listened a while longer. Strange words. He had never heard anything like them before. Who would say such things? Though unfamiliar, their beauty enthralled him.
After many repetitions, he began to say the words along with the mysterious Voice. A freshness flowed through his aching bones, and he swung himself up to a sitting position. Some time later, the Voice stopped speaking, but Mario found that he knew the words by heart. He spoke them once more, alone this time, then fell silent. The back of his neck was prickling, and he expected the emo-reader to beep any second now, but time ticked on, and the quiet continued. Mario had the strange sensation that someone was waiting for him. The feeling did not subside, so he spoke.
“Who are you?” For an instant he waited.
I am the Voice of one who calls you. Will you do as I say?
“Why?”
I can help you resist the mindwipes. You never have to forget again.
“You expect me to believe that? Hey, how are you speaking to me anyway? What is this?”
I will explain soon, as you grow more able to understand. Believe, for you have felt how my Words have calmed you.
True enough, thought Mario. “What do you want me to do?”
Repeat my Words as often as you desire. They will make you strong. Speak them to others if you wish. I will help you escape from the mindwiping. Only believe, and journey on.
Apparently, the conversation was over. Mario whispered the Words over again, then a second time, and a third, before he fell into a deep and calming sleep.
I wanted to keep reading. You’ve created a dilemma for Mario—he’s in love and the mindwipes can’t quite erase what’s in his heart.
I’d like to see the first conversation between Mario and Caitlin play out a little differently. For more emotional impact. When he says, “I saw you in the field, right?” and she realizes he doesn’t know her any more, she shouldn’t say much more than, “Oh, Mario.” He can see her crushed expression just before she flees. (Grace accidentally sent me more that she intended, so I saw in the next scene she tries to avoid him because it hurts too much to keep losing friends.)
This will give Mario a more active role in the beginning—a goal—as he pursues Caitlin to find out what she is to him, and why he was mindwiped. And it will sustain the mystery just a bit longer. Do you agree, readers?
Dang. It’s morning again. Monday morning. The old joke was anything but funny. On Planet Monday, every day was the same. He threw back the thick rough-woven blanket and heaved himself upright with an effort. [To me, heaved already implies an effort.]
What was I up to last night? he wondered as he lurched into the plastic wet-cell that towered beside his bed. I sure don’t feel like I’ve been sleeping nineteen hours. He slid the pane across the entry opening, and the shock of the cold water made him flinch. After thirty seconds it switched off automatically and he stood still as the airdryers around the cell’s base kicked in. The air wasn’t really much warmer than the water, but it felt good.
Stepping dry out of the cell into the two-by-four floor space of his living quarters, he opened the long drawer built under the bed and pulled out a grey tracksuit, standard issue. Some things never change. He chased the thought across his consciousness. That’s significant. But why? To be honest, nothing ever changed. [This one’s just personal taste. I’d prefer it without “to be honest.”]
Unless… He peered out the tiny window above the bed. Square grey buildings met his gaze, and above hung the eternal grey clouds. Unless I’ve been mindwiped.
He groaned and let himself sink onto the brown bedcover. Not again! Looking up at the transport tube access in the ceiling just above head height, he examined its round rim. Just as I thought. No dust. That meant the tube had been used recently. Monday planet all but consisted of dust, and it gathered again within hours of cleaning. Slits around the edges of the floor kept it mainly dust-free by regular suction, but the transport tubes had no such devices and were usually quite bearded. That is, if they hadn’t been used in a few days.
He sat blinking and shivering as he stared unseeing at the vid-wall’s moving feed of Ocean region. Last night, I was sucked up that tube. And they wiped my memory again. Partially, at least. It was a technique used to remove extreme emotions among the workers – a technique no one remembered going through, funnily enough. But everyone knew it happened, since afterwards only facts remained – gone were feelings, memories of friends, dreams and aspirations. [You’re explaining what the mindwipes do, which the reader needs to know, eventually. But if all feelings and memories of friends are gone, at this point how does Mario know they’re gone? Could this explanation come from another character later?] Did I fall in love, or what? Mario scratched his head, put on his boots, then the second bell sounded. He rose and moved to the door as it swished open simultaneously with all the other doors up and down the hallway.
[Nice set-up of the world. Grey clothes, grey buildings, grey sky. How dreary!]
The 200 inhabitants of the third floor stepped out of their quarters as one. To be precise, the third floor of Wing B, Building 17, Area X9, Foodstuffs Region, Planet Monday. The doors swished closed again and the workers turned to march towards 17’s Central. Mario strode over the hallway’s threshold to the third-floor lobby and accepted a breakfast pack from the dispenser in the doorway. Biting off the cap, he began squeezing the warm coffee-flavoured sludge into his gullet and continued towards the mass transport tube. He joined the queue in front of Wing B’s accessway and guzzled the rest of his breakfast while he waited.
Monday-morning-itis. The clown who named this planet deserved to be assigned to Sewage region. Just because they discovered it on a Monday… since when do you have Mondays in space, anyhow?
He chucked the empty plastic foodsack in a waste unit to the left of the accessway, and stepped into the blackness. The familiar whooshing sound of the surrounding air calmed him somehow, which was a bonus for the emo-reader inside the chip implanted in his neck. If they don’t detect strong emotions, they won’t send me to be mindwiped. But I guess it’s too late for that. Again.
The chip in his neck beeped, warning him to prepare for landing. He bent his knees to take the impact, and shot out of the tube feet-first to land at the edge of a vast field of oats. Mario flexed his elbows and knees, noting new bruises on his wrist, shoulder and lower leg, as well as the usual ankle stress from landing. As far as he knew, the transport tubes had never killed anyone, although they sure did dole out a beating-up to those who used them. But he’d come off lightly today.
[You admit that these tubes are hard on people. Too hard, I’d think. I don’t believe the human body could hold up to it day after day.]
To his left and right, other morning-dazed workers slowly righted themselves and faced the day’s task. X9 was Monday’s oat capital. Their harvest was used mainly for the breakfast porridge served by dispensers in every part of the planet. [So that coffee-flavored sludge in a tube was oat-based?]
Nineteen hours, and counting. Yes, the days were long here, but then, so were the nights. [The length of their days is too long to allow me to suspend my disbelief. Could you cut it back to say a 30-hour day? You'd still have the dreary feel of a long day, but it would be something I can believe humans can endure. But working 19 hours every day of the week--you'd have short worker lifespans.] The line of workers moved forward, picking the oats and releasing the stalks to be sucked into the transport tubes that filled the grey sky with their spidery network. [Another good description—spidery network.] No longer set to suck human bodies, they now gently removed the harvest for processing in X9’s huge barns some miles away to the east. To the west, the first of the dormitories was barely visible on the horizon. Ahead, to the north, grew oats and oats and oats, fading into the skyline where they met the cold whiteness of the clouds.
Mario paused to pull up his jacket’s hood and tighten its edge around his face. Monday had no weather to speak of, just night and day, but it sure was cold. [This makes me wonder—if he was born here and knows nothing else, how does he know about other weather?] As he threw himself into the rhythm of the work, he pondered again.
What happened yesterday? What did I do to deserve this mindwipe? As he struggled to remember, he caught sight of dark-blonde dreadlocks peeking out under the hood of the worker to his right. A sudden shock of delight went through his heart, and his chip gave a single low beep. 10% of critical emo-level has been reached. Adrenaline pumped though him.
Ten percent wasn’t really dangerous, but it could get that way [Maybe “become so”? I don’t want to step on author voice, or character voice, but that sentence could use a little more sophistication.]. He worked a little faster so as to get ahead of his neighbour, then he quickly cast a glance back. The lumpy dreadlocks framed a pale and petite face, with brown eyes that gazed steadily back into his own. His heart began to hammer, and two beeps sounded. Twenty percent. Calm down, kid.
A girl! Maybe I really did fall in love! I want to remember!
Peeking at her again a few minutes later, he decided she didn’t look old enough to have been to Reproduction already.
At six thousand days of age, and again at seven, a woman would be transported to the somewhat notorious Repro region to do her duty keeping the planet’s population constant. Those whose offspring showed the best genes could even be called back a third time to balance out any losses.
As for the other part of the equation… Mario didn’t like to think about it much. Young men who worked exceptionally hard or fast were selected to spend “holidays” of varying lengths in Repro region [These sound like proper names, so both words should be capitalized: Ocean Region, Repro Region.], in exchange for doing their “duty”. The thought sent prickles down Mario’s back. There’s something wrong with that system. He didn’t know what. But as he had never been anything more than an average worker, he was not likely to be offered this “privilege”.
He had, however, participated in a work exchange that took him to Edu region for a week, where the offspring were cared for until they were old enough to work. Now that was fun. Amidst the laughter of the children, it was easier to imagine that maybe, just maybe, life didn’t have to be like this. Nineteen hours of daylight and work, followed by nineteen hours of darkness and rest.
He ignored the ten-percent beep provoked by the memory, and concentrated on his work, thinking about all the breakfasts these oats would soon provide.
Hours passed, and the transport tubes stopped sucking up oats long enough to deliver a mid-morning meal to each worker’s feet. Along the line, people sat in the dirt to consume wholemeal jam sandwiches, an apple, and the contents of a vitamin drink-pack. Mario stretched out his legs on the ground as he chewed. It sure is hard not to think about that girl. [I don’t care for that thought. I’d rather see him look around for the girl, then check himself.] But there was no other way to avoid the beeping emo-reader and preserve whatever was left of himself after so many mindwipes. He looked up at the opaque sky above the transport tubes.
There must be Something… Beyond.
***
You've created an interesting world. When you fix those couple of minor things, you'll have a world that works and is believable.
My only other complaints is too many italicized thoughts. The standard for books being published these days is to use italics only when absolutely necessary. A thought is italicized only for emphasis. The rest of a character’s thoughts should blend right in with the narrative. If you’re going to have a direct, italicized thought, it should be especially important.
Be sure to come back Friday for part 2.
