Last night, I was trying to experiment with ground corn to make masa for tamales like the ones above. Well, as it turned out, Aaron accidentally drove off with the leaves (which were not plantain because I forgot to by them at the store. I was using corn husks just to test out the dough). I have used the masa buckets but don’t like having to remove the flaovr with boiled anise and tomatillo leaves. The powdered masa from the store is fine, but the buckets are better. Essentially, the closer you get to ground corn, the better.
I was gong to test ground corn.
When my husband got home, I already had my chicken all shredded with a thick red chili sauce, which was too hot, I might add. I have to discover which one of the pods was the culprit. Then, my wonderful daughter would not be placated no matter how long I nursed her, so that put a stop on the whole process.
I will see if the dough is good tonight, or else I will have to send my husband to get a bucket from the corner store.
I was thinking about this chain of events because most of our life runs smoothly, and when it doesn’t, we have to find a solution. Just like life, good conflicts make life exciting, well-crafted, believable conflicts make great plot lines. I was thinking about the main character, Ashley, and how easily her defect was fixed with the technology from the more affluent characters, and I don’t think it should be quite that easy.
She is also shaping up to be a little dishonest because she won’t admit that she cares for Alan and that she enjoys participating in the violence at school, which she is supposed to because that is what the girls are taught. Both of these internal struggles need to be fleshed out more.
Anyway, that is all the time I have because I want to drop off my kid at school this morning, and I have to think more.
Finally, if you would rather I post a *.pdf instead of this long text excerpts, let me know. I think the long chain of text is easy to read on the phone. (???)
Here’s to conflict + struggle = resolutions, no matter how annoying.
My mother hands me an old gallon container; this one is grey without a filter. I look out the window and see no Red Guards on the street. No Guards means no Harvest, most of the time.
“Now, Ashley,” says my mother, as if I haven’t been doing this run since I was six years old, “Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t stay out in the sun too long. If you hear the sirens, run to the old bunker. Just last week, Mrs. Lopez’s boy was harvested right before he got to his safe spot. You can’t hide here during harvest.” Her faded grey eyes are still beautiful, and Ashley wants to trace that deep indentation with her finger, but caring too much is a sign of weakness.
“Mom,” I sigh looking at her weary face. She is leaner than I remember with ever graying hair and perpetual orange stains on her hands and face from the processing plant. Her hair is a knot over her head with nothing holding it tight but a wispy strand of her own fading hair. I want to give her a biting remark, as really, I should outrank her because I am more productive now, but instead I smile and say, “Don’t worry Mom. I’m the fastest runner in my class and besides, there was just a harvest yesterday.”
Mom hesitates like she wants to tell me something, but even plant workers are not supposed to talk about their trade, and I am always suspicious of the packing plants.
“Just be careful,” she gives me an unusually long hug, “Remember-“
I clamp my hand over her mouth like I used to as a toddler and say in a robotic tone, “ ‘Be productive. Be accountable. Be safe.’” But safe doesn’t mean from the Harvest, but dangerous anti-government ideas. I take my hand off her worried face, “I got the red ribbon again this month. I will be safe.” It’s true. I have gotten the red ribbon award for being productive, accountable, and punishing those who are not true patriots. I am safe.
I step out into the harsh glaring sun wearing a large Panama hat. Panama was once a country, and that is all they tell us in school. I walk confidently because running is suspect, but I manage to walk 3.5 miles an hour like I have purpose, when my only purpose is to get clean water.
Half way down the street, my heart freezes. The sirens begin softly, like an old song you can’t forget, and then the sound rises to a near immobilizing pitch. I check to see if guards are around and run, making sure not to drop the gallon. I wonder where everyone is or if someone got an underground notice I didn’t. I crash hard into an old man. It’s the homeless man who has been avoiding harvest since I was a little girl: Old Hope, I call him. He’s too old to be processed, but I always wonder what they do with old spare meat or old people in general. I don’t ever want to find out.
For a moment, we both have the same impulse. Though I am only twelve, I am strong and lethal. I have learned fifteen ways of killing someone, two with my bare hands. I could maim him or at least stun him, so he will be left behind. But instead, we both get up and run in opposite directions. I guess we are not productive citizens after all. I head down Victory Road toward the retiree compound. She will be waiting for me, my old friend.
I look quickly to my right and see a red squad beating a young boy down. He is unusually fat for the neighborhood and is overburdened with water jugs. Water jugs! I only carry one, and although I can lift 40 pounds easily, the empty container seems to weigh more than anything. To my left a grey volunteer emerges out of nowhere and grabs for my arm, but I offer a swift punch to her throat and easily scamper away into Mrs. Jenkens’ apartment. Maybe she will get it, even though she volunteers. I despise volunteers. They are normal women who can’t afford genetic modifications, unfortunate women who couldn’t find a sponsor. Still, that doesn’t give them the right to harvest us. Especially not me.
I am a girl with high prospects.
I look for any squad member that might be lurking about. Hiding from the squads inside your own home if our are on the streets when the harvest starts is illegal; that tracking is possible because the census software at home tracks your arm-port; one must be accountable. Being hidden in others’ homes is frowned upon, but Mrs. Jenkens doesn’t care what the neighbors think. She doesn’t care if she gets sent to the processing plant because she too is too old to be productive anymore.
“Thought I was going to have to get out there with my shotgun,” chuckles the old woman. She sits by the window, unafraid of gunfire. I know she has been waiting for me because she is holding the old history book in her hand, the one with all the pages in it. There is the familiar smell of green tea and black market biscuits. I spy them on the table and besides the adrenaline rush, I feel a strong surge of hunger. I wonder how much they cost her; in the market, non-meat products run astronomically high. Last week, I traded a whole leg of dog and two bananas for mom’s sanitary products. Mom never said where she got the leg; dogs are also rare and bananas even more so. I give Mrs. Jenkens a sincere grin, and know better than to pester her for details.
“Oh please,” I answer catching my breath, “You wouldn’t last a millisecond. Out there,” I point, “With your broken hip,” I aim at her hip.
I try not to stare at the bright orange shawl she wears, it matchers her orange feline fur, “Or that ‘kill me’ flag you have on.” Only Mrs. Jenkens favors them over the military style uniform retirees wear. Today, the woman sports a knee-high pink dress which makes absolutely no sense and clashes against her intense blue eyes. Her cat like ears flicker back, although I know they are her playful ears.
“Hmmm,” I admonish with mock-disapproval, “Trying to get arrested with those clothes?”
Taking my gallon, she walks with the step of a young girl into the kitchen, despite her slight hobble “Bah, no one cares about a woman over fifty. I don’t taste good anyway.” She winks at me and swishes her tail. It is long and playful, like the tails on our neighborhood cats that run rampant.
“Don’t you mean sixty?” I say. A loud bang makes me head for the kitchen but not too quickly. After all, we are trained to be unafraid of death.
When I enter Mrs. Jenkens has the gallon filled to the brim. I never ask how, but she always has water. Always has enough, but then, she lives alone.
“Two liters, not worth the risk,” says the woman, “You should go out on Sundays and with your escort.”
I snort, “Mom sold it. Besides, she doesn’t have the money to have me engineered, again. Not that they’ll take me,” I pause and look over my should, “I still can’t eat government protein. I tried again this morning. Doc B says it’s the enzyme, but she hasn’t reported me. She can’t run the test to figure out what is wrong with me. It costs too much money, and mom is already so in-debt from the internal mods I have.” I stare at her, longing to have fur on my skin and some day, claws, “Mrs. J, are you sure the meat doesn’t come from the harvested? Is it human meat? Tell me, honestly.” I always ask her the same questions, and she always answers the same.
“No way, that’s just a rumor to keep people more afraid. People are harvested for organs and whatever the government needs. Most people are intact and become servants.”
I give her a skeptical look, “Right, Mrs. J. Intact.” Almost everyone I have seen harvested is bloody mess.
“Beatrice is a good woman,” she says switching the subject, “She was one of my students once, before all this—” she says, “You’re so tall.”
“What?” I ask.
“You’re so tall and smart. I’m worried someone will want to patron you, sooner than your finals” she looks out the small kitchen window, “Then, I won’t see you anymore.” That is rare; patronage starts when a girl is 16, usually, but some girls are more adept, and I have been hiding some of my skills.
I give her a knowing look, “No one will take me. You know that. It’s too expensive to feed someone who can’t eat government meat. Anyway.”
The sirens end and the announcer reports, “There will be no more gatherings for thirty six hours. Be productive. Be accountable. Be safe.”
“Liars. Liars. Liars,” I say in the same robotic voice, “This is the third harvest in two weeks. Do you think we are gong to war again?”
Mrs. Jenkins gives me a squeeze, “We’re always at war. Now, go take this to your mother and come back.” She hands me a small pouch, “Plant this in the rooftop like I taught you. Be sure no one sees.”
“Ah Mrs. J, everyone has a rooftop garden hidden under solar tarps—“
“Yeah, but not for girls. Now hurry along!” she yowls at me playfully.
I know she is right. The gardens are to grow food for boys, the lucky boys who have brave parents. My mother jokes that the extra food is to fatten them for the harvest, but she is bitter having lost two sons by the age of sixteen. I never got to meet them, so they don’t mean much to me, but she still mourns them, even though truly, she doesn’t know what became of them.
I walk nimbly, avoiding strangers. No telling who might steal my water or worse, says Mrs. J, but I am not sure what worse is, yet. I have seen young boys being raped in the alley and dead people starved or shot by regular citizens. Once, I saw a woman selling her male baby on the street corner, and I held my tears all the way home. We are not supposed to cry for boys.
“Hey,” says a raspy voice. It is Guadalupe Ramirez or as I like to call him Alan. Boys are given their mother or a matriarch’s name and father’s last name. It’s cute for most mothers to do that, but his mother hates him. That is part of the reason I call him Alan.
He is my age and in the same class. He has the most brilliant smile with strong white teeth. It’s the only thing that is strong in his body. His hair is cropped short with highlights from overexposure to the sun. Most boys in the neighborhood have dark skin and black eyes. He has unusually blue eyes, and I wonder if somewhere along the way, the gender got botched up. His smile warms me to the core, and for a moment, I forget the ugly harvest.
I wave, then think better of it and scowl, “Carry this for me, boy.”
Alan snorts and takes the jug, “Humbly, oh great one.”
We both giggle, and I pace two feet ahead of him, which isn’t hard because today he is wheezing so loudly, you can probably hear him way down at the processing plant, which is three miles away. He wears an ugly shirt with some red flowers and patched up blue jeans.
“Glad you weren’t harvested,” I say pointing at his shirt.
“You and me both; mom dressed me this morning, even though I could barely breath. When the sirens went off, I hid under the old resistance bunker. ”
I am instantly furious. Even if he is sickly, she has no right. Boys, especially lowborn boys, are not allowed to wear red. That is a color of honor, one I wear often but am not partial to. Everywhere you see red: red cameras, red advertisements, red screen ads. Red sidewalks.
“Next time, lose the shirt and say some girl tore it off your back,” I urge him.
“And get sun burned? Then, I’ll wear red all the time,” he hands me a jug, bows gracefully, and continues onto his flat.
“Hey, boy?!” I ask, “Where is your shit suit?” because I just noticed he has not protection. Most Girls’ skin is genetically modified to bear the sun’s deadly rays, but not boys, at least not boys in our neighborhood.
He shrugs his shoulder, “Mom sold it to buy lard.”
“See you at school,” I say. I turn back to look at him; he is walking with a limp on his left foot. I gaze upward and note how the hair on the back of his head is near white, bleached from the sun.
I hurry up to see my mother, “Mom you here, or food?”
“Not roast yet,” she jokes giving me a big hug. As a plant worker, I suspect she knows what happens when people get processed, but she has never talked about her job, and I wonder if she is conditioned not to say anything. She comes in to hug me but thinks better of it, and yanks my ear. “What have I told you? Do not consort with that boy.”
“Mom, he’s in my class, in my group,” I lie. All boys and girls are put into groups until grade nine; he is in my year, but not my group. I am glad, because after eighth grade the divisiveness starts. Boys become the focus of teachers’ scorn. They get segregated and made to be the practice targets of kicks and punches. Alan has been my best friend since we could walk; the truth is I have few friends that are girls because they are so competitive and would surely turn me in knowing about my defect. Luckily, I have always been a recluse, a sort of genius slotted to be patroned for engineering, so I can play the snob and be detached. Girls aren’t supposed to love boys anymore, but I care about him, a little.
“Too bad. You should be in a private school for girls,” my mother rubs her hands together, “Not going to school with that boy.”
“Awe, mom, it’s OK. Some day I’ll go work in the Center and buy you a new apartment where only women live.”
Mom laughs. Her parents refused to modify her, although she claims they had the money to do so, but that is a story all low class women tell.
I go into my room and hide the seeds behind her bedpost. There is a hole I carved there when I was five, where I used to hide small trinkets. I am not the only one with one of these, but people need some kind of escape, some way to feel they are not totally controlled by harvesting laws. I pull something out and hide it in an inner pocket. I look up to the ceiling. My dad inserted a panel in the below the grubby chandelier. For someone supposedly of average intelligence, he did a job even a Red Guard couldn’t see past. That is where I keep my book of short stories and gun, just in case. I run back to Mrs. Jenken’s street.
Up high on a reinforced communications poll hangs the body of someone who will never contribute again. That is the worst kind of punishment, someone who will never nourish society. I wonder what he did. He could have liberated some men or worse, killed a pregnant woman. But, that crime is rare, unless it’s harvest time. It’s not knowing, what people fear the most. No one knows what ever happens to those who are harvested. Some say it’s a gimmick to control population. Others that they are sent to war. Few that their meat is actually government protein, but I know eating human flesh has dire health consequences.
In fact, last a woman three blocks down actually ate her little boy. It made the national news, and as her punishment she was fed to the Pit. Even though human life has little worth in the slums, cannibalism is highly frowned upon.
My arm-port lights up and there is an advertisement for a new mod I can’t afford, “Tiger Teeth,” not the most creative ad. I shiver at what those teeth could do on the playground. It would be so easy to list who was harvested with our technology, but the government doesn’t share that list. Instead, it lists the names of all the girls being patroned that month. I hit “Like” on a few; two went to my school.
[ME1]Running notes: Have a scene where the boys are fighting each other pathetically.
Dr. Jesú Estrada,