The Gardener

A flower unfurled, spread wide for the sun

Freely giving the gift of its beauty to any and all

Plucked so suddenly from the field

How many will never see its gentle way

Be comforted by its sweet scent 

Feel the caress of its soft petals

I mourn the Gardener’s bouquet 

His many blossoms so carefully cultivated

The Writers

Clank stomp clank stomp

The continuous rhythm of the Under Pod beat in her ears as she lay in her bed. Staring at the ceiling like she did every night, she thought of home. Five years. Five years she had been here, away from it all. She had one more year till she was free. She would be home, with the sky above her and the earth below. Even though she longed for home she couldn't help but feel the trepidation. She had heard the stories of what happens after The Pod and she had seen some first hand. After all, like most people here, her family was first generation Podies. All the teens knew what happened when you turned 18. You finally became an adult and began your new life. You would leave The Pod and go fulfill your mission.

The Pod was training, they say. Training for what you will find above. When you leave The Pod you will be “equipped” for your life above. If you were a Reader, like she was, your eyes would be reconstructed. If you were a Runner, your legs would be implanted. If you were a Digger, your body would become new. Leaving The Pod meant changing yourself. A new step, a new you, the posters said.

One of the things she feared most about leaving was the implant. She had heard rumors of the pain she would feel but that wasn't what she was worried about. When she really thought about it, the pain was the least of her concerns. What she worried about was the other rumors, the ones that traveled in the deepest part of The Pod. The ones that no one would speak out loud in the light but were shared through whispers in dark times when people slept. These rumors were worse than any other. Failure they said, failure is not an option. There are those that go into the reconstruction and never come out.

Every person in The Pod was required to go through a series of tests before they could pass to the next world. No one knew what these tests were but they knew that failing them was not an option. She had heard once from her bunk neighbor #409, that they tested for writers. Writers, the very word was a forbidden one, and after hearing #409 say it, she immediately retreated to her bed and pretended to sleep. Writer was an old word, one that very few people knew the meaning of now. But she knew it. Her grandfather had been a writer and her father had as well before they had equipped him for reading. She could remember stories that her father used to tell her at night about writers. He said they weaved stories, stories about things new and old, things real and unreal. They were powerful.

Writers could change people’s views; they could make new worlds with the flick of their fingers and cause the downfall of nations with a bat of their eyes. Her father used to tell her stories, ones he had written of before they were banned. She didn't remember all of them but there were bits and pieces. Things about knights and wars and revolution. The government had deemed writers dangerous and gotten rid of them.

During the first Reconstruction and Equipment crusade, they had wiped them out. No one could train to be a writer, even if you paid. Many people often wondered what the Readers read if no one wrote for them. The answer was a lot, where it came from, no one bothered to ask. Official documents, historical papers, declarations and decrees, all these things the Readers read and all these things they understand. Readers hold an honored position and a difficult one. Readers can also be Speakers because they have to tell other people about what they read. No one else can read, so Readers have to dictate everything.

Secretly, she had always wanted to be a writer. She knew they were the ones that put the words on the pages she read. In private, she had tried to copy those words and shapes. Her writing never seemed to look as good as the ones she read and it was never quite right but she did it anyway. She wrote stories of her own, about her experiences and places she imagined. These works were the things she locked up deep inside. They were her secret and her deadly sin. That was why she was worried about the tests for her equipping. Her sin, if found, would be her downfall. A shrill noise broke through the rhythm in the background of her mind and woke her from her thoughts. It was time to work. She dragged herself from the bed and plopped down onto the floor.

“Watch it,” her bunkmate #556 said as she barely missed her head. “You’re not some freaking Killer you know.” Killers, now that was a job. They were even rarer and more revered than Readers. They trained day and night, harder than the Runners and Throwers and Players. Their job was a shady one and not many people knew what they did but there was one thing everyone knew. Killers were scary. They were as graceful as cats and as quiet as mice. They could take out a person in under a second.

She dragged herself along the room, grabbing her grey sweatpants and baggy worn t-shirt. She followed the crowd towards the showers. It was always the same day and night; nothing ever changed. As the group passed by sector 99, she lingered behind. Sector 99 was where the Killers trained. It was no secret that she had always wanted to be a Killer as well. This was a declaration she could and would often proclaim to the world. Next to a Writer, she saw it as one of the best jobs. She wasn't alone in this thought. Many people longed to be a Killer and they treated those who were with great respect. As she passed 99, she watched the trainees from afar, admiring their grace and strength. In reality, she never wanted to kill anyone but she did want to be a Killer. Killers had a different attitude than anyone in The Pod. There was something about the way they walked and talked that suggested that they knew more and had seen more than anyone else, even the Readers. She noticed she was lagging behind the group and with a sigh, turned to join the crowd again.

It was then she heard it. A giant crash emanated from 99. She turned and watched in awe as a door fell down, dust and debris flying in its wake. From behind the door and dust rushed a boy. From the look of him, he was no older than her. His body was well-built, like any other Killer, and his hair was a light blond, lighter than any blond she had ever seen. She didn't know what it was but there was something different about the boy. He seemed brighter than the others. His very presence seemed to bring light to The Pod. So much so that she didn't notice how dark it had been until she saw him.

            The boy looked around the clearing, his eyes blazing. They searched the crowd and seemed to stop when he spotted her. A commotion could be heard from within the building behind him and the boy turned to look back. The crowd had stopped now, their daily routine interrupted by the strange events. In one swift movement that almost seemed like a blur, the boy was running towards the crowd, towards her. The people around her screeched and darted around but she didn't move. The boy drew closer and in seconds he was on her. She felt something brush against her hand and caught three words whispered in her ear, sending shivers down her spine before he was forcefully dragged away by The Patrol.

"Keep this safe." The words rang in her ears as she stood in a daze watching him as he was taken away by The Patrol. It wasn't until they had dragged him back into the building unconscious and tied and The Patrol was ushering the crowd on their way that she registered the feeling of the paper in her hand. She had always been a rule follower. She knew she had never disobeyed other than her writing but for some reason when The Patrol passed by, she shoved the paper into her pants and continued following the crowd. She couldn't take a shower; she knew that. Once she stripped, the paper would be found and she would be punished. She had mere minutes to come up with an excuse. By the time she arrived at the wash house, she had her escape planned.

"Move along," ordered the gruff voice of a Patrol as he stood above them, taking the normal spot of the soft-spoken women that usually guarded the wash house. Relief flooded her when she saw him. Her old plan was gone and a new one formed. She stopped at the door and veered right instead of left. Right before she passed through the doors, a calloused hand caught her arm.

"Where do you think you are going?" The Patrol demanded, glaring down at her.

"Sir?" she asked him, playing coy.

"The wash house and showers are through that door," the man said. She faked an embarrassed expression looking down at her feet.

"I know sir, but I am not allowed in the wash-house at this time," she replied.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. Keeping up her act, she pointed to the sign above the door. The man looked up, seeing the sign for the first time, she could see the blush on his face. "Oh carry on," he said, letting her go. She smiled to herself as she passed through the door. This section of the wash-house was made especially for those who were experiencing their monthly cycle. The man was so flustered that she knew he wouldn't check to see if she was even supposed to be there. Since it was required that they time in, there was a chance she would get in trouble. luckily she was the only one in the room for now. She stripped quickly, hiding the paper in her clean clothes.

When she was done and dressed, she joined the crowd exiting the wash-house, heading off to work. The crowd thinned as she headed to sector 100 and soon it was just her and the ten other Readers. She knew some of them well and would even under torture, call them friends. One of these friends, # 770, waved to her as she passed and she nodded to him. Once inside building 100, she split off from the group, heading to her perspective room. The best thing about being a Reader was the privacy. The officers left them alone in their rooms to read. Their freedom came with trust, trust that the Readers would finish their work and not complain. Trust that no funny business or problems would arise from them. Not that they would ever slack off. Every Reader liked their job and wanted to keep it.

She shut the doors behind her and quickly rushed to her table. She was the fastest Reader in history and always had free time when she was done with her work. It was one of the reasons she had the biggest room and a personal library. So when she picked up her work and went through it in record time, she didn't even notice. The piece of paper in her pants burned a hole in her skin and she quickly pulled it out as she shoved her work aside. As she inspected the paper, she noticed it was not one but many pieces folded and stuck together. Slowly she unfolded them, careful not to rip them, treating them like treasured gold. Once they were unfolded, she separated the pieces and laid them out on the table around her.

She stopped to stare at the strange thing below her. She recognized the words but was puzzled by them. They were scrawled on the paper in an uneven form, some letters bigger than others, some more slanted or smudged. They were unlike other words she had read. Those words were clean, crisp, and straight. For some reason, the rough font in front of her was more interesting and exciting than her usual work. In a way, they reminded her of her own works but they were messier as if done by an unpracticed and unsteady hand. Slowly and carefully, she began to read.

Soon, she was caught up in the work. There were words in the story that she did not know. Words like war, hate, death, and sadness. She had heard of some of them before. They had been part of old stories told in the night, ones that people used to scare the young ones into bed. Words that her father had thrown about before the Reconstruction. But she had never known their meaning. Finally, her eyes fell on the last page and her face creased even more in confusion than before. As she read the last sentence, her heart stopped. A knock at the door made her jump.

"Hey there. It's me, #809. I was wondering if you want to go to dinner with me during free time," called a voice from the other side of the door.

She took a breath, her heart still beating fast. #809 was a good friend of hers who shared the room nearby. He was handsome or at least that's what everyone said and he had often came to her for advice and a good conversation. #300 had once told her that #809 and many of the Readers liked her.  She hadn't believed her until #809 had started to come to her, going out of his way to find her. #809 was a nice guy but she had never had true feelings for him. It was out of respect that she answered his advances with a yes. She was about to tell him to wait at the doors like he always did when she stopped. For some reason, the bright blond headed boy from this morning popped into her head and she couldn't bring herself to speak the words.

"You know, 809, I'm not feeling well today. I think I will turn in early. Thank you for asking," she replied trying to keep her voice even.

"Oh that's alright," he said and she caught the disappointment in his voice. "I'll see you tomorrow, 666." And with that, he left.

666. The number made her heart skip a beat as she looked back at her desk and the paper that laid there. The last section seemed to pop off the page, taunting her. She stared at it again, her mind trying to form the meaning behind it. It struck a nerve in her and she knew it was important but she couldn't figure out why. Finally, with a sigh, she grabbed the papers and shoved them in her desk drawer where she hid all the stories she had illegally written and locked the drawer behind her. As she left building 100 and headed home, the words continued to ring in her ears.

"666, with the numbers of the devil, the righteous shall be set free and the blind will see. By her words, she will lead them. The revolution shall begin."