More sorting! More profanity!
As self has already said, written in Dublin!
Thanks again to decomP for publishing this, 2016!
Now K making delicate noises over there on her side of the table.
“The fuck is this—?” I exclaim. My fingers are snagged on a Changeable. “How did these get in with the others?”
K stops. Looks guilty. Bends her head to have a closer look at what I have in my right hand. “Oh,” she says. And starts to hum. Even though her voice is low, I think I hear her say “lash” and “blood.” She swats the Changeables out of my hand, as if they were nothing. “Leave them,” she says. Against the white-tiled floor, they look dove-colored. “I’ll take care of them later.” She notices me gaping. “Seriously,” she says. “I’ll take care of them.”
I’m shaking. She isn’t afraid. Of him. She looks at me again. “I know, R. I know.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you—” I say.
“Come on,” she says. “I’m mad. Mum says I could drive anyone to…well, you know.”
K has very quick hands, I must say. I hate those slimy Changeables. They’re rascally, which means they’re quick to mutate, and almost impossible to spot. If only three or four of them had gotten through—oh, they come after ya.
My jaw starts to ache, as if the boss had just landed another good one. But now he never has to, and he knows it. Trembling at just the memory.
K nonchalantly scoops the Changeables up from the floor, with her bare hands. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. She really must be crazes.
Her fingers are an angry, violent red. They must hurt terribly. Either that, or something has killed off her nerve endings. Or she just wants to die.
She nudges the door to the ovens with her left boot. The door slides back with a rusty groan. The fire is hungry and seems to lap out at her.
“Watch out—” I say.
But by the time I get the words out, she’s dumped the Changeables into the oven and slammed the door shut again. This whole time, I’ve stood rooted to the same spot.
“Hello?” K says, snapping her fingers. Then points to the table. “Shouldn’t you be arranging those Poriales? Into brackets?” She adds, for good measure, “You lousy Common!”
I finally smile, though feels like my face is breaking.
Next post will be longer: I’ll post the whole second half of the story.
In the future, mankind is dying so reproduction is controlled by the State, and it’s very hierarchical: Earthstars mate with Silverleaf, Common with Common, etc.
Trigger Warnings: Under-Age, Non-Con