Thank you for reading and sharing my daily #Storygram short stories! Be sure to subscribe to the Newsletter and check out my film Portfolio!

The Story:

Slave. That’s what I am now. No one calls us that, of course. Even the lowest scum of humanity hesitate to say they own slaves. So, we are prisoners, or the more proper term to use would be “Essentials.”

Somehow, the few elites of society to survive the wars managed to form an alliance, even hire guards and hunters. The hunters track down the free and imprison us. The guards keep us in the prison camps, slaving away, or rather, allowing us the “opportunity” to be essential, at gathering supplies, growing food, and building things for the elite.

Like I said, slaves.

They caught me fishing. When you’re in the middle of a small river and two people appear on the banks on either side of you, it really limits your escape options. I tried to run with the current, but they were prepared for that with a third hunter downstream. I witnessed the capture of another and the murder of a resistor on the way here to the camp.

When I enter the camp, they will assess me for skills and train me for a job. Then, I’ll be sent out on work crews with guards assigned to us. That’s all I really know about being an essential, other than having to live the rest of my life in a prison camp.

The hunters walk me up to a gate. I see them collect their fees for me as I’m ushered into my new life. The first person I speak to inside the fence is a grey-headed woman who appears to be a fellow prisoner. She’s sitting at a foldaway table.

“I’m sorry, doll.”

I nod a thank you to her, appreciating her condolence.

“I have to ask you a few questions.”
“Okay.”

She turns the page of a notepad and begins writing.

“Do you have any family?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Know your blood type?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
“Around 19, I think.”
“Any skills?”
“Fishing. And I know a little about circuitry.”
“That’s unusual. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Sky Lanley.”

She stops writing and raises an eyebrow at me. It’s more than a curiosity. Why should anyone recognize my name?

She breaks her stare and hands me a card.

“Bunk 203, Miss… Porter.”
“No, it’s…”
“Sky Porter. I know.”

Why has she changed my name?

 

Think this story should become a book or a short film? Let me know in the comments below!

Pin It on Pinterest

Share This