A short story I wrote for one of my uni subjects last semester.
The Trader from Oyorra
The heat burned down. I drew the sweat off my brow with my hand. Exhaustion. Hard labour, day after day. First day for the rest of my life. Living in fear of the ‘devil’, as the tribals called him, with the pump load shotgun. This is what it was to be a slave.
Year 2241, 25 July
Just two weeks had passed since that fateful day. My trading caravan was ambushed five miles southwest of my home, the sleeping village of Oyorra, nestled on the mountains edge. A group of men came in a truck, rolling along the barren ridges of the land, swirling clouds of dust in their wake. My companion and I were captured, though one escaped. We were the newest members of the Slaver’s Guild. They called their home ‘the Den’, a pitiful city rife with madness, depravity, and gang violence. We were given a cell in the prison there, our wares taken. Most of our fellow prisoners were primitive tribals, rounded up like cattle.
One day one of them approached me, a world-wearied old woman. At the time I was in the mess hall of the prison, working on this diary, which I kept hidden in small crevice in my cell. She asked me, ‘can you describe this?’ Looking on me desolately, with a glint of fire in her eyes. I said, ‘yes, yes I can’.
28 July
Oyorra was a city founded by a man of legend, who had travelled far and wide. He taught the tribesmen of the region many things, and over time the city grew to be a prosperous, yet isolated rural community. However, a long drought brought the village to near extinction. The elder prophets spoke of a chosen one, the direct descendant of the traveller, who had recently passed the trials of the temple. It was in this young man that our hopes were placed; given the task of finding the mythical device called Eden, which could save our people from certain death. He was a great friend of mine, and he is still out there. Diving from our caravan into a nearby hedge of scrubs, the slavers missed our friend, and we were the necessary sacrifice. I live with strength knowing he will one day return to us. And we will be at peace, and he will usher in a new beginning, a new perfect village. The coming of our saviour, and destruction of our captors, is surely imminent.
15 September
Almost two months have now passed. The labour is back-breaking, endless toil in the burning wasteland camps. But now a flame aids me, my lighter procured, as I write in the blackness of night, in this cold space. It is night in the Den. The wails and shrieks from outside faintly enter my walls. I can see it now. Addicts and drunkards flop around on the streets, devoid of any sense. Aimless wandering, their brains anaesthetized. Prostitutes wait in the darkness like vampires. Derelicts huddle in refuse piles, their bloodshot eyes begging for something. What they want is Jag, a genius drug that assures 100% addiction rate. Let them rot in the streets. They can do nothing but die. No one else matters except my companion. Once my friend returns with the device, he will destroy the devils that have enslaved us, and we will begin anew.
17 September
There is a guard high on Jag rambling something in the corridor. He is blathering obscenities about the guild master. But now something, strange – something about an experiment, a virus, airborne…
Mutants, their DNA, radiated, birds, a solution, saved, safe…
the Order, they are coming
18 September
The words of the ecstatic guard still ringing in my head. Time was running out, but had to remain faith in his return, and build up my companion with encouragement. Today in the fields was like always. Blasting, white hot heat scaling my back, drinking my own sweat. There was a public display. That addict slaver was made to kneel on the ground before us, his body bound and chafed. A show of power, three bullets in the back of his head. Forced to watch. The blood seeped into the sandy, endless wasteland, a cool breeze served as his pathway from this world. Desolate, unforgiving, barren sand plains stretched endlessly in the distance. This labour camp was one insignificant speck over the hazardous reality that was USA 2241.
30 September
I look down on the primitives, my fellows with the yellow tags. They draw pictures in the sand, conversing of things alien and familiar. Where are they going after this place. How different are they from me? I listen to their whispers of stories and read the images. One image proves most attractive to my senses. There are people, hanging, menacing outlines. Death may come like a thief in the night. One of them looks familiar. And a new horizon follows. A group of followers, one stands atop a hillside. The group seems to be dancing.
7 October
Some of the slaves seem more tense and fidgety today. Yet, some seem oddly cheery. Something is happening, there is a distant hum on the air. I can hear some movement between the guards. A ring of conversation begins to grip the slaves as the guards attend to matters. Faces of anxiety and of hope. We are enveloped by shadows as the chopping sound grows very loud.
I look through the hole in my wall. Big, black birds descend around the complex, wings from heaven. In the distance the faint figure of the guild master is discernible. A flash of light, and a rattle of gunfire pierces the dusty air. The master falls. Others rush out to attack the dark figures emerging. They are brushed aside by the now armoured black humanoids. The fighting is in the corridor. I hear the wailing and singing of the primitives, dancing amid chaos.
A slave woman runs screaming past outside – a series of blasts ends her voice. The slayer now becomes visible, a hugely armoured soldier, a helmet shielding the outside air. This is my friend from Oyorra? The chosen one, it must be. I can hear him outside. Light is filtering in. I smile as I stand to embrace my saviour.
The Trader from Oyorra
The heat burned down. I drew the sweat off my brow with my hand. Exhaustion. Hard labour, day after day. First day for the rest of my life. Living in fear of the ‘devil’, as the tribals called him, with the pump load shotgun. This is what it was to be a slave.
Year 2241, 25 July
Just two weeks had passed since that fateful day. My trading caravan was ambushed five miles southwest of my home, the sleeping village of Oyorra, nestled on the mountains edge. A group of men came in a truck, rolling along the barren ridges of the land, swirling clouds of dust in their wake. My companion and I were captured, though one escaped. We were the newest members of the Slaver’s Guild. They called their home ‘the Den’, a pitiful city rife with madness, depravity, and gang violence. We were given a cell in the prison there, our wares taken. Most of our fellow prisoners were primitive tribals, rounded up like cattle.
One day one of them approached me, a world-wearied old woman. At the time I was in the mess hall of the prison, working on this diary, which I kept hidden in small crevice in my cell. She asked me, ‘can you describe this?’ Looking on me desolately, with a glint of fire in her eyes. I said, ‘yes, yes I can’.
28 July
Oyorra was a city founded by a man of legend, who had travelled far and wide. He taught the tribesmen of the region many things, and over time the city grew to be a prosperous, yet isolated rural community. However, a long drought brought the village to near extinction. The elder prophets spoke of a chosen one, the direct descendant of the traveller, who had recently passed the trials of the temple. It was in this young man that our hopes were placed; given the task of finding the mythical device called Eden, which could save our people from certain death. He was a great friend of mine, and he is still out there. Diving from our caravan into a nearby hedge of scrubs, the slavers missed our friend, and we were the necessary sacrifice. I live with strength knowing he will one day return to us. And we will be at peace, and he will usher in a new beginning, a new perfect village. The coming of our saviour, and destruction of our captors, is surely imminent.
15 September
Almost two months have now passed. The labour is back-breaking, endless toil in the burning wasteland camps. But now a flame aids me, my lighter procured, as I write in the blackness of night, in this cold space. It is night in the Den. The wails and shrieks from outside faintly enter my walls. I can see it now. Addicts and drunkards flop around on the streets, devoid of any sense. Aimless wandering, their brains anaesthetized. Prostitutes wait in the darkness like vampires. Derelicts huddle in refuse piles, their bloodshot eyes begging for something. What they want is Jag, a genius drug that assures 100% addiction rate. Let them rot in the streets. They can do nothing but die. No one else matters except my companion. Once my friend returns with the device, he will destroy the devils that have enslaved us, and we will begin anew.
17 September
There is a guard high on Jag rambling something in the corridor. He is blathering obscenities about the guild master. But now something, strange – something about an experiment, a virus, airborne…
Mutants, their DNA, radiated, birds, a solution, saved, safe…
the Order, they are coming
18 September
The words of the ecstatic guard still ringing in my head. Time was running out, but had to remain faith in his return, and build up my companion with encouragement. Today in the fields was like always. Blasting, white hot heat scaling my back, drinking my own sweat. There was a public display. That addict slaver was made to kneel on the ground before us, his body bound and chafed. A show of power, three bullets in the back of his head. Forced to watch. The blood seeped into the sandy, endless wasteland, a cool breeze served as his pathway from this world. Desolate, unforgiving, barren sand plains stretched endlessly in the distance. This labour camp was one insignificant speck over the hazardous reality that was USA 2241.
30 September
I look down on the primitives, my fellows with the yellow tags. They draw pictures in the sand, conversing of things alien and familiar. Where are they going after this place. How different are they from me? I listen to their whispers of stories and read the images. One image proves most attractive to my senses. There are people, hanging, menacing outlines. Death may come like a thief in the night. One of them looks familiar. And a new horizon follows. A group of followers, one stands atop a hillside. The group seems to be dancing.
7 October
Some of the slaves seem more tense and fidgety today. Yet, some seem oddly cheery. Something is happening, there is a distant hum on the air. I can hear some movement between the guards. A ring of conversation begins to grip the slaves as the guards attend to matters. Faces of anxiety and of hope. We are enveloped by shadows as the chopping sound grows very loud.
I look through the hole in my wall. Big, black birds descend around the complex, wings from heaven. In the distance the faint figure of the guild master is discernible. A flash of light, and a rattle of gunfire pierces the dusty air. The master falls. Others rush out to attack the dark figures emerging. They are brushed aside by the now armoured black humanoids. The fighting is in the corridor. I hear the wailing and singing of the primitives, dancing amid chaos.
A slave woman runs screaming past outside – a series of blasts ends her voice. The slayer now becomes visible, a hugely armoured soldier, a helmet shielding the outside air. This is my friend from Oyorra? The chosen one, it must be. I can hear him outside. Light is filtering in. I smile as I stand to embrace my saviour.