Dystopia

I really dislike dystopian fiction. It relies on the reader having a divergent system of moral beliefs from the society depicted in the work. It then assumes that this divergent moral code is objectively more correct than the dystopian society's. Also, if you just shot the main character, it would become a utopian fiction. There are some exceptions, like The Handmaid's Tale, written by Margaret Atwood. Unlike something like The Giver or Brave New World, the society depicted in THT shows, after the harmonious veneer is peeled away, cracks that can be exposed without the juxtaposition of the protagonist's alternative moral view.

100 Words a Day 142

The expansive house was filled with the odor of death. It didn’t make sense. There was only one body and it was in the refrigerator. It was fresh and shouldn’t be responsible for the overwhelming smell.

Simpsons made his way through the house, looking for the source of the odor. He stood in the foyer after having finished searching the house for a second time and finding nothing. On a hunch, he went to the hall closet. He tapped on the walls, listening. He went back through the house, exploring the closets. In the kitchen, he found a secret door.

100 Words a Day 141

It was hard to force himself to continue working. It was his last day and he couldn’t wait to leave. He took a deep breath, let it out, and continued putting data in the little columns. Less than four hours and he would never have to do this again.

His book had sold. The advance was enough to pay his rent and groceries for the next few months, which meant he had enough time to write another book.

The clock seemed to be going backwards. It was hard to not glance at it every few seconds, which made it worse.

100 Words a day 140

The diaphanous curtain was pulled open by a soft breeze, and she entered the room. Her dress was the colors of spring, rich greens, purples, and a striking blue. I watched her float across the floor; the soft material making no sound.

When she passed me, it was as though a cool breeze was caressing my cheek. I felt refreshed as she walked deeper into the house.

Her perfume lingered, the only sign of her passing. I couldn’t place any of the scents; their names danced on the tip of my tongue before being blown away by another cool breeze.

100 Words a Day 139

Jimmy laughed as he finished pouring the rest of the white crystals into the sugar bowl. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Sara’s face when she drank her coffee tomorrow after mixing it with two heaping tablespoons of salt. After topping of the bowl, he replaced it on the table and returned the salt to its space in the cupboard. He took one more look around to make sure no one had seen him; it was late at night, but why take the change. He saw no one and, subterfuge complete, slipped back to bed and fell asleep.

100 Words a Day 138

The Christmas presents were opened, the ham was eaten, and The Hobbit was seen. It was the end of Christmas Day. Bobby lay in bed, thinking about the great presents he’d received. He was almost as anxious to get up tomorrow to play with them as he had been to get up today to open them. He went over what he had received, checking things off the extensive mental Christmas list he kept.

He fell asleep with a full stomach, dreaming of Legos and Ninja Turtles, and all the other things of which boys drunk on the Christmas season dream.

100 Words a Day 137

The smoke from the barrel of the gun drifted upwards, the silent vestiges of the bullet recently fired, and was dissipated by the ceiling fan.

The hand, hidden by a black glove, replaced the revolver in the holster concealed by his jacket, it then went to a grey pants pocket, the same grey as the jacket, and withdrew a bronze key.

The other hand, similarly gloved, opened the door. Once outside, the hand holding the key locked the door, which bolted with a heavy clank, before returning the key to the pocket.

All that was left was to drive away.