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Ration Chips

It's grocery day and I'm up at 4AM to get in line. Parliament's enacted some new rules and I want to make sure I don't break them. The newly codified law insures the citizens of this nation are always fed and never hungry.

I step into the queue and patiently wait my turn. It's early but there's probably fifty people ahead of me. There will probably be bean rations and turnip rations, but fifty people ahead… I might be too late to get a water ration. Good thing I saved some of yesterday's. I might have enough to boil today's meal and just maybe have a mug to drink afterwards.

The queue moves forward at a decent clip. Everyone seems to have their ration chips in order and the robot cops aren't causing trouble for anyone. More new rules from Parliament state that robot cops need to "find" three criminal acts a day or they get their own rations cut. This means that the less savoury members of the police force will sometimes "invent" crimes to ensure they meet their quota.

I snap back to reality when I realise I'm next in the queue. The automated walkway rattles as it slides me up to the rationmaster. "Please present your ration chips citizen." With a slight tremor in my hand I place down ration chips for one bean ration, one turnip ration, and one water ration. I smile a weak smile when the machine beeps three times. They have water. I might be able to bathe today.

I hurriedly bag my beans, turnip, and water pouch into my bag and move decidedly from the automated treadmill. As I turn the corner to walk home, I am stopped by one of the robot cops.

"Present your bag for inspection."

I start to shake as I stare up at the impassive metal "face" of the robot cop. He towers over me standing at - best estimate - 213cm tall. His uniform clad in blue and white armour, the hydraulics that power his limbs loudly expel steam as he moves.

I break my eye contact and pass him my bag of rations. Without even examining them he informs me that I have broken law "27BX Paragraph 7 Delta" and that my rations will be confiscated. This is a "minor infraction" and I am free to go, but I will not be getting my rations back.

Without making eye contact, and knowing full well that law "27BX Paragraph Whatever" doesn't really exist, I smile and nod and quickly step away.

As I walk home I ruminate on the meal and bath I will miss out on today. I still have a bit of water at home so I won't go thirsty at least.

When I get home I stare out the window of my 50th floor apartment. I cast my gaze over the rows and rows of dilapidated buildings to the faint glow on the horizon. A pale orange light that feels kilometres away. I wish I lived there. I wish I was one of those people. But unfortunately I am one of these people.

And I would damn every one of these people in order to be one of those people.

rachelwinters666

Catch Your Ghost

"I'll sleep when I'm dead" you say as you lay in your bed slowly dying. You still have a few months before death takes you and you are so so sick, but you still need to work and pay rent even though the cosmic door is about to close behind you.

But the latest in future technology is here. Worldwide Capital Networking Solutions PLC LLC has created the "Soul Box." The idea of a spirit has long been a fixture in religious texts, but what if capital backed science made it a reality. You'd never have to die no matter how sick you got. "The Box" would grasp onto whatever firing neurons or spacedust our "souls" are made of. They'd "Catch Your Ghost."

And everyone gets their own Soul Box. It's not expensive, but you'll get to pay it back in installments. Because you won't experience heaven after you die, your ghost will need to continue to work to earn money to pay for your utilities and rent. And it turns out your disembodied spirit, while it may be immortal, is not invincible. You're still likely to get sick and the need for healthcare is not very affordable for a ghost.

But you've mastered death itself. You're immortal. You'll be here forever. Clocking in. Working overtime. Paying rent. Breaking your back and breaking your neck to earn capital. Just a ghostly cog in the eternal machine of spiritual suppression.

Forever.

rachelwinters666

The Flesh Prison

She stood within a prison of flesh. All around her loomed pillars of meat and bone. For as long as she could remember this was her home. Her jail cell. Finite corridors of sinew and muscle pulsing with life. And while these halls of blood and meat were finite, they felt endless.

One weary step forward and the flesh prison shudders. Her limbs tremble as meat and blood shake all around her. A second weary step forward and the entirety of her world pulses like a straining heart. The din of blood pounding behind her eyes and inside of her ears. She traces bloody fingers across the aching meat walls. Veins pulsing taut and blue just beneath the translucent sheen of skin. Everything's sticky. A viscous glimmer of sweat dampens every corner of this jail. The sweet sour stench of muscle fibres twitch under her finger tips. The floor beneath her bare feet gently pulses. A heartbeat permeates this entire complex of skin and bone. It's a soft but persistent beating, blood being pumped to every surface of this place like a macabre rhythm. The unending beating of time, a drumming of flesh and gore under her. This place is claustrophobic. She feels the ruddy red ceiling pressing down on her. She is being crushed by sinuous fibres and clustered nerve ends. Hulking beef presses against her body. She can feel the firm muscled walls of this place push in against her naked frame. Still, she continues pressing forward. Each foot step upon bloody slabs of steak. Each breath twisted with the odours of blood and sweat. Every thought weighed down upon by wretched flesh.

A monstrous and heavy breath rattles across her spine. The hot wind of agoraphobic dread. She cannot escape. She will never be free of this flesh prison. This horrendous jail of insidious meat and bloody despair her eternal home. He sits up straight and cracks his knuckles. He stares down hopelessly at worn weathered hands. He leans back in his chair and stares into nothingness. He runs his gnarled fingers through his long grey beard. Before lowering his haggard face into his hands. “My flesh prison.”

crabanarchy

They say ooooh be a good boy for daddy and you'll get a reward. But then the reward is just gay sex. This is bullshit. I wanted a skateboard

crabanarchy

Then they say if you're a bad boy daddy will punish you. But what's the punishment? More gay sex! You can't escape it. This whole damn place is in the pocket of Big Sex