Kindra
I remember it as a dream. Colors. They flowed so brightly and brilliantly before my eyes. Shades of green washed over my face like a fresh summer day, purples that tasted of grape, or a musical note, wild and convulsed with black and white.
“Gifted, that’s what you are,” Moma said once. “It’s like what your mama said before she took those pills.”
Right. Gifted. That’s what they think of me.
“Oh, Moma, the old times have ended now.”
The City of Garden Palace woke from its slumber on a Saturday morning. Doors began to open from various houses, and transport trucks rose to the expanded high ground. A blinding white light lit up the buildings, and any space below that wasn’t protected received a shocking dose of electric-magnetic light. However, the light reflecting off various structures did not recede into the atmosphere. This city was encased under a dome of glass.
The harsh, bright light peeked in from my shuttered-up window with the tape peeling off one side. Turning on my side, I buried my face into my pillow, only to shoot up a moment later from the icy cold feeling of my white pillow. Immediately, I felt my stomach begin to turn, and it worsened as I sat up further. The once familiar taste of green and red apple of my green and red wallpaper was faded and dull, making it taste like a washed-out combination of dish soap and concrete. It gave me a pounding headache, so I looked away. So, my name’s Belle, or “Kindra” if you wanna be technical and all that. I live in Apartment Nisan Number Four, on the second floor, with my Moma. In this place, we’re a group of race-ins, Americans with Chinese features, living in suite-like compartments. Moma lives here without anyone raising hell, somehow. She’s supposedly from the breed of mortem operaturs from the Undertaking Buildings. Yet I’ve never asked her, and I’m not sure I want her to leave, anyway. But I hate living here.
Getting up completely, I walked towards the kitchen. As I did so, I braced, preparing myself for the explosion of nauseating tastes. Instead of the usual oil and chemical flavors, there was an intense burst of warmth. The table was covered in Moma’s usual scatterings gathered throughout the night.
Speaking of her, I could barely hear her footsteps, scrambling about. When she slipped on something metal, it let off a sharp hiss. I flinched instinctively and covered my ears. Moma looked up instantly, and I immediately dropped my hands. But it was too late. My voice faltered as she made her way over to me.
“No, Moma, I’m fine,” I said. “I’m f-fine, I j-just-” I trailed off.
But to my surprise, she didn’t hug me or anything. Instead, my moma took me by the arm and led me to the kitchen table, where her Tarot cards lay.
Moma then faced me and said,-
“Kindra, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“What is it, Moma?”
The Worker
Parker rose from his bed slowly, feeling the familiar ache from his limbs from the night before. The harsh morning light streamed into his quarters at full force, but Parker didn’t care anymore.
Every day, he thought. Get up, work, sleep. Though Parker secretly wanted to stay in bed because his left leg ached, the inhuman part could not resist. I can’t resist. I can’t resist. Parker pulled on his work clothes and made his bed methodically as he did daily. I must provide. I must provide. Parker walked to his closet to gather his belongings for the working day.
Outside the city walls, there lay a hellish wasteland. Dark, ashy clouds completely covered the sky, and the ground lay in more than two feet of choking ash. The sound of crackling fire could be heard from a nearby ruined forest. There had been an explosion from the nearby mountain. The nearby houses and landscape were blown or melted away. Yet no one in the city was aware of this disaster.
Kindra
“Kindra, I did another reading last night. We’re in for trouble.”
I raised my eyebrows. I loved my Moma, but the one thing we disagreed on was religion. I was unsure and agnostic, and she was into spiritual things such as Tarot cards and something she called “voodoo.” I sighed and rubbed a hand over my face.
“Moma, you know I don’t believe in that.”
“But I’ve got something here! Listen, the spirits told me that-“
“Okay, I’m not doing this today,” I said, getting up. “I’m going to go read.”
I got up, ignoring the disappointed expression on her face as she talked again.
“What do you want for breakfast?”
I turned around for a moment, thinking. I don’t want to eat. I feel like shit. But if I don’t eat, Moma will worry, so I have to eat.
“I’ll just have whatever you want to make,” I said, with a fake smile.
Moma raised her eyebrows but shrugged.
The Worker
Parker walked on the long glass bridge leading towards the transport trucks from Undertaking Building #4, stretching 1000 feet across hot steel vats. There was no protection from the city’s blinding lights on the bridge, as the glass windows were transparent. However, Parker stared ahead, eyes unmoving as he walked towards his designated truck. As soon as he climbed in, a srotcudoncs forcibly and aggressively plugged a cord into Parker’s forehead after shoving him into a seat, connecting him to the transport truck.
“Can’t move now, can you?” The man sneered.
Parker did not answer. The man let out a cruel laugh, before he composed himself. However, Parker did not respond nor answer, angering the man further.
“Answer you piece of shi-“
“I am perfectly still, sir,” Parker stated crisply. “If I do not make it on time, I will shut down prematurely.”
“Heh, who gives a shit. No one even needs you.”
The raining ash from the choked sky continued to fall onto the city’s dome, and the fire from the ruined forest began to spread outward. The volcano was a former national park that was supposed to be dormant. A century ago, governments and scientists destroyed the possibility of it ever erupting. But two weeks ago, it exploded and destroyed everything in its path. The only cities to survive were encased in glass domes.
Kindra
I lay down on my bed, throwing my book aside. My stomach began to churn again, and I curled into a fetal position. Eventually, I was forced to stand up and go to the bathroom down the hall. Inside, I sat at the foot of the toilet seat, feeling the nausea worsen. I suddenly wanted to see my best friend who lived next to me. I knew Moma would say no. But I didn’t give a shit. I planned to visit my friend tonight without her permission.
The Worker
Parker stood up from the transport truck when it stopped at Worker Station #9. Rubbing his sore forehead, Parker stepped onto the steel platform. These worker stations were at the bottom of the otherwise magnificent city, choked by soot, the smell of steel, and typically 9,000 degrees Fahrenheit. Parker’s transport truck drove away on the air tracks, but not without the srotcudoncs throwing hot liquid on him and yelling some words.
“Hope you shut down, useless piece of shit!”
Parker ignored the comment, as he was used to hearing it. It didn’t affect him. It was just words to him now. Taking his supplies, Parker walked over to his designated station to mix steel and concrete for the city buildings to reinforce them. As he walked over, a fellow worker named P-023 walked over. Her black hair was tied up with a brown bow, but her once smooth, black skin was marred by scars on her face and hands. The same was true for Parker. His once-black hair was completely gone, and he too was marred with scars.
“Hello, P-410,” she said, robotically.
“Hello, P-023,” Parker retorted back. “Shall we work?”
“Yes,” P-410 said.
Sometime later, when they were sure no one was watching, P-410 and P-023 took hands for a rare moment, watching vaults of steel coast by.
“What if we could leave this place, Parker?” P-410 suddenly said.
“If that dome would break because of the volcano, Paige, we could.”
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