BellaStarr
New member
Here's an excerpt from the rough draft of the first chapter of a story I've had in mind for several years. All thoughts appreciated.
The TV was blaring. Music was blaring from a sleek black music pod. In the street below a car horn was blaring its repetitive, screaming alarm. Everything blared. Everything disrupted Katrian’s life, or at least it should have. Katrian Nixx stood precariously balanced on the thin wrought iron rail of her 20th story balcony. No one noticed her standing on the ledge, and even if they had they wouldn’t have tried to stop her from jumping; suicides were so common then that the government had opened up three more mass graves. Names were read off in a monotonous, uncaring voice by America’s favorite newscaster, Wendy Bliss, at the end of every Sunday broadcast. But Katrian had stopped listening to the Sunday Suicide broadcast six weeks ago when over the hiss of her all-but-obsolete teapot she head two names: Brinna and Kinder Nixx, Katrian’s parents. Katrian knew that her parents had been living in squalor, leading small rebellions against the local government, but they had taken it one step too far. They had gathered at least 100 people in their county and raided the water towers, but after they were dragged in to Lockdown for insubordination, Brinna made her 1 minute and 30 second broadcast and made the announcement that would spark rebellions in twelve neighboring counties.
She stood unmoving in front of the camera, preparing to address her entire Sector, 21 counties in total. Normally the broadcast was used as a plea, a chance for prisoners to beg the more prominent members of the Sector to bail them out, but Brinna used it to inspire an uprising, or at least try to. She smoothed back her tangled chestnut hair and pointed at an openly bleeding gash across her cheek.
“This is from Deputy Lark, county 6.”
She tilted her chin up and pointed at a black bruise blossoming on her collarbone.
“This is from Deputy Lark’s husband, Lieutenant Brash. They sent Condas up the water tower to constrict us until we passed out and fell over 300 feet to the ground where they handcuffed us to the back of their squad car and dragged us back to the station. Many of you grew up with Lark and Brash and you know that they would never do this to their friends. I beg you all, stand up for Lark and Brash, and for myself and Kinder. The government can no longer brainwash our friends and family. Stand up for us. And stand up for my baby. If Kinder and I survive long enough to see her born, we will name her Hope. I think you can figure out why.”
That had been the last straw for the Nixxes. Within the hour they were both shot in the stomach and left to bleed to death. Hope was never born, and Brinna and Kinder were written off as suicides, tossed into a mass grave with hundreds of other government-slaughtered, innocent people. And the next day, Sunday, was the day that Katrian had stopped caring.
The TV was blaring. Music was blaring from a sleek black music pod. In the street below a car horn was blaring its repetitive, screaming alarm. Everything blared. Everything disrupted Katrian’s life, or at least it should have. Katrian Nixx stood precariously balanced on the thin wrought iron rail of her 20th story balcony. No one noticed her standing on the ledge, and even if they had they wouldn’t have tried to stop her from jumping; suicides were so common then that the government had opened up three more mass graves. Names were read off in a monotonous, uncaring voice by America’s favorite newscaster, Wendy Bliss, at the end of every Sunday broadcast. But Katrian had stopped listening to the Sunday Suicide broadcast six weeks ago when over the hiss of her all-but-obsolete teapot she head two names: Brinna and Kinder Nixx, Katrian’s parents. Katrian knew that her parents had been living in squalor, leading small rebellions against the local government, but they had taken it one step too far. They had gathered at least 100 people in their county and raided the water towers, but after they were dragged in to Lockdown for insubordination, Brinna made her 1 minute and 30 second broadcast and made the announcement that would spark rebellions in twelve neighboring counties.
She stood unmoving in front of the camera, preparing to address her entire Sector, 21 counties in total. Normally the broadcast was used as a plea, a chance for prisoners to beg the more prominent members of the Sector to bail them out, but Brinna used it to inspire an uprising, or at least try to. She smoothed back her tangled chestnut hair and pointed at an openly bleeding gash across her cheek.
“This is from Deputy Lark, county 6.”
She tilted her chin up and pointed at a black bruise blossoming on her collarbone.
“This is from Deputy Lark’s husband, Lieutenant Brash. They sent Condas up the water tower to constrict us until we passed out and fell over 300 feet to the ground where they handcuffed us to the back of their squad car and dragged us back to the station. Many of you grew up with Lark and Brash and you know that they would never do this to their friends. I beg you all, stand up for Lark and Brash, and for myself and Kinder. The government can no longer brainwash our friends and family. Stand up for us. And stand up for my baby. If Kinder and I survive long enough to see her born, we will name her Hope. I think you can figure out why.”
That had been the last straw for the Nixxes. Within the hour they were both shot in the stomach and left to bleed to death. Hope was never born, and Brinna and Kinder were written off as suicides, tossed into a mass grave with hundreds of other government-slaughtered, innocent people. And the next day, Sunday, was the day that Katrian had stopped caring.