Original Fiction; How Sweet and Decorous
Title: How Sweet and Decorous
Author: nieded
Word count: ~4,000
Summary: Only five today, he quoted. Qualified young adults are becoming increasingly difficult to find. Are you not proud to die for your country? Have I not fed you and clothed you? Are you so ungrateful as to not return the wondrous things I have done for you?
Notes: See end
How Sweet and Decorous
On the first Tuesday of November, Labrador received the letter in his mail at nine. The feather-light slip of paper fluttered through the deposit tube and landed with hardly a sound, folded in the standard thirds as requisitioned by the National Post Administration, and pressed with the official seal of the Fendermal National Party. Labrador would not open the tube for another three hours, preoccupied with his rationed breakfast and the morning announcements. He watched the screen implanted in his wall with fixated fascination as Fendermal - his primly parted comb-over and starch gray suit in place - recited the statistics of the most recent sacrifices held at dawn that morning.
Only five today, he quoted. Qualified young adults are becoming increasingly difficult to find. Are you not proud to die for your country? Have I not fed you and clothed you? Are you so ungrateful as to not return the wondrous things I have done for you?
He continued on and a pang filled Labrador’s gut. His spoon stopped mid-air on its journey to his mouth, soggy muesli and reconstituted milk sloshing over the edge and back into the bowl. He stared at the screen, transfixed by Fendermal’s smooth upper lip as he scolded his nation, the ever disappointed crease in his brow the only disfigurement on his otherwise unblemished, pale face.
All I ask is for your love to be returned. I would do anything for my nation, and yet you continue this abuse, he chastised.
It was an honor to be sacrificed in the name of Fendermal. Labrador kept his National Pride Guidebook next to a photo of his mother and the medal their family had been rewarded with after his brother Casidhe had been given. The possessions rested on sleek steel shelves near his door. Every morning, he thumbed the worn pages of the book, brushed a finger over the photograph, and traced his nails with admiration over the grooves of the medal, never forgetting the honor Casidhe brought their family. He could recite the contents of the guidebook front to back, per the demands of his adolescent education.
His eyes flickered between the medal and the slight twisted frown on Fendermal’s lips that caused Labrador’s gut to clench guiltily. An old flare of envy settled thick in his throat, knowing he had never been chosen, never good enough the way Casidhe had been. He set his bowl down with a clatter on the counter and slid nimbly off the stool to pad across the floors towards the screen, press his fingertips over Fendermal’s miniature hands as they gestured, just small jumpy flutters of light.
I should punish you, Fendermal sneered under the press of Labrador’s thumb. Until you step up, I will ration the manufacturing of white powder by half, and we will all be poorer for it. Your reluctance and lack of devotion will cause your entire nation to suffer. Can you bear to have that rest on your shoulders?
“No,” Labrador responded hoarsely, transfixed. “No,” he whispered, and then frantically, “I’m sorry.”
The sermon ended suddenly as the screen flickered dark. All that was left was Labrador’s ungainly reflection - his face twisted with sadness and a desperate hunger to please. When his eyes focused on the mirror image, he took note of his freckled skin and dull eyes and backed hastily away, stumbling over the mattress dumped unceremoniously on the floor, a pained and startled grunt escaping as he tumbled over.
There would be bruises, he knew immediately, even before his brain processed the dull throb in his back and the more insistent pain rampaging within his skull. Perhaps they would blossom on the shoulder or back where they could be covered with clothing now that white powder was to be rationed. But then a sharp stab made itself known in his palm, and he peered down at the slice in his skin welling with blood. An imperfection like a scab on the hand would be harder to conceal - a permanent raised scar would be worse. Labrador brought the wound to his mouth, suckling on the skin as he rose, careful not to bruise further though he stumbled into the bathroom.
He spent the next forty minutes scrounging around his bathroom, pulling out all the leftover cylinders stashed at the back of his medicine cabinet. He opened each one, scraped a finger along the bottom to get every last remnant of white powder out and into a new canister. He calculated how much he had for the rest of the month - enough to spare on a bruise? A scab or scar? Combined, he piled together less than one-quarter of a canister. He had one cylinder left unopened, a small clear container the size of a can of tuna. The seal had yet to be broken, the mark of Fendermal’s cosmetic company engraved on the steel cover, the fine particles inside swishing back and forth as he peered inside. It had to last him a month.
He fumbled open the medicine cabinet a second time, shoving aside its contents until his fingers wrapped around a second, smaller canister. It was clear like the ones before but about a quarter of the size, filled halfway and the seal unbroken. This container he promised not to use, not until that day he was chosen. This was the second of gifts Fendermal had given their family, a small portion of what Casidhe had contributed to.
He’d heard once that the portion of white powder given to the sacrificed citizen’s family - as compensation and reward for their devout loyalty to Fendermal and his company, his government - came from the left rib, the third one down. The rib that guarded the heart. He didn’t recall the source of that tiny detail but supposed it made no difference. It was a nice thought; that was all: a nice thought.
----
There were two different techniques regarding the application of white powder. It could be dusted on directly with a soft brush or else mixed into a paste and painted on. The second way lacked the delicate and refined look of the powder but lasted longer and used less. Gwen Phillips, Labrador’s neighbor, used a thickened paste to cover her brown skin, her dark irises a coveted stunning contrast to the paleness of her face. On the occasions when they walked down the streets together, people stopped to peer under their hooded eyes with envy at the ringlets of her brown curls, the jut of her chin as she held her head high, outshining Labrador’s hunched and wearied shoulders.
They had first met by accident when Labrador went to retrieve the post on the lower level of their shared apartment complex. Gwen lived a floor below him and had been dashing up the stairs as he stumbled down them mid-afternoon. They crashed together, a flurry of limbs and oofs and bruises as they tumbled until Labrador slammed his head against the landing and his sprawled body padded Gwen’s fall.
After the dizziness had ceded - after Labrador spared a moment to count the forming bruises and mourn his rations - he noticed Gwen tucked in the corner between the bottom step and the floor where she had crawled to, crying.
Labrador supposed some sort of concern and empathy was required even though the brunt of her fall was broken by his own chest. He reached out and tentatively patted her arm. “Um, are you all right?”
With her knees tucked tightly to her chest and one arm thrown over her forehead where she tucked her face into the crevice of her body, he could only make out the trace of white powder and the point of her widow’s peak. Her curls, pulled tightly back, wavered as she heaved. She flinched under the weight of his hand and continued her unrelenting sobs without looking up.
“I didn’t mean to run into you, yeah? I mean - I’m sorry, okay?” Crying girls made him nervous. His stomach tightened and the fingers resting on her forearm curled away from her to the safe place where he could tuck them close against his chest. He lacked the social ability his brother seemed to inherit to smooth talk his way out of any situation, to comfort and charm complete strangers. And, Labrador thought gruffly, it wasn’t like he intended to plow right into her.
He could leave. He could get up and continue downstairs to get the post and take the elevator back up to the sixth floor where he lived. She hadn’t even so much as looked at him properly yet, and perhaps if they ever crossed paths again she wouldn’t even recognize who Labrador was.
Where he crouched beside her, he pressed one hand against the wall, poised and ready to stand. But when he spared her one last glance he noticed the sheaf of paper clutched tightly in her grasp where her free arm pressed uselessly against her side. The paper rustled against her clothes from the tremors of her hand, the small red Fendermal seal crinkled under the weight of her fist.
And because Labrador could not let his curiosity go or his undefined, unnamable desire to see and know all things relating to their leader, he reached out tentatively and pried the crying girl’s fingers from around the crumpled letter, smoothing it out against his bent knee even despite her feeble protest.
He recognized the form letter immediately, knew it intimately even if the names and dates were different - incorrect. The picture of the man’s face printed besides his citizen identification number had a wide, round jaw, the weight of his skin sagging slightly off his chin from age and weariness. His eyes were open and luminous in a way Labrador would come to recognize in Gwen’s own brown eyes in the future. “It is the highest civilian honor to be selected by the government for sacrifice,” Labrador read off the page. “Thomas Phillips and his family will be awarded in recognition and recompense for his servitude to his nation. He shall report in one (1) week’s time at sunrise to the headquarters of Fendermal Inc. and the National Party.”
And this - this Labrador knew how to navigate. He’d seen the handshakes, the hearty backslaps, been on the receiving end of an arm squeeze from his school mates. In turn, he pressed a hand to the girl’s shoulder and felt the warmth bleed through the thin layer of cloth between them. “Congratulations,” he said. And then, “Who is he?”
Gwen, who Labrador mistook for remarkably young upon first consideration, lifted her head and quietly stole the official letter back, tracing a thumb around the grainy photo of the middle-aged man. In her silence she appeared much older, perhaps a year or two ahead of Labrador. “He’s my father,” she answered.
“You must be very proud.”
She wiped at her face, revealing her tanned skin underneath, revealing too much too intimately that Labrador found himself both appalled and yet in admiration. “Proud? No. But I suppose I am grateful. He works in the government factories and was fated to a much slower death.”
Despite the happy occasion, Labrador had understood Gwen’s tears. He had remembered how he stood outside in the parking lot on a chilled autumn day to watch Casidhe’s figure disappear through the large gates. He too had cried. The fierceness to Gwen’s eyes and the downward press of her lips had told Labrador that she would learn to turn this grief into honor, take it and know her father’s sacrifice helped - somehow - bring food to their tables and put clothes on their backs just the way Labrador and his mother and their neighbors had learned to do.
Afterward, Gwen and Labrador were hard-pressed to call one another friends, but sometimes they walked together to collect their rations or sit side-by-side on her couch to listen to Fendermal’s speeches, admire silently the ever-illuminated passion flickering across Fendermal’s face in apt wonderment.
It was fitting that Gwen was present when Labrador finally finished his careful application of white powder around his hairline and made the same stumbling route downwards to the post to collect his mail - the same path he had made the day they met one week before Thomas Phillips’ death. She arrived and opened her post tube just as Labrador’s hands ghosted over the cream colored letter in his own tube, over the Fendermal seal in bright red. It was unmistakable when he slid it out. His hands shook so fiercely that Gwen reached out and pulled the slip of paper from his grasp.
He could not look at her white face, her wide eyes, only at the letter in her hands. From his stomach churned a litany of want, want, want, channeling through his vessels and nerves so loudly that he did not feel her small hand solemnly squeeze his shoulder. He did not hear her quiet, “Congratulations.” Without opening the letter, he knew his grainy photograph had been printed next to the long stretch of his identification number.
Gwen’s hands carefully ripped open the envelope, preserving it perhaps so it might be filed away with the other notifications stashed in his mother’s lockbox for safekeeping.
“When?” he asked. “When?”
She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. When she withdrew it, her powder smeared at the corners of her lips, revealing the dark color underneath. “Tomorrow,” she said. “At sunrise.”
Later, he would not recall more of this moment beyond the feel of the floor connecting with his knees and the flood of finally, finally and yes.
----
It wasn’t until that night, Labrador’s limbs stretched out against the stifling press of sheets in the heat and a trickle of sweat running through his carefully maintained mask, did he remember that Casidhe had been the one who passed on the rumor about the rib. The night before he had reported to Fendermal’s headquarters, Casidhe had pressed a hand over the crown of Labrador’s head and smiled.
“They’ll give you my heart,” he promised. “-Or I suppose what protects it. That goes to you, not our mother or anyone else. Just you.”
Casidhe had been twenty-two, Labrador fifteen. In the doorway, their mother had wiped furiously at the tears streaming down her face. She had been so proud.
That night, with his head pressed heavily against the soft expanse of his pillow, Labrador could not recall much more of that day than Casidhe’s pale, powdered skin - its chalky scent that had masked the salty tang of his pride. They saw him only once more outside of the headquarters, crammed along with perhaps seventy other families that waited in line to be recognized for their contributions to their nation. Casidhe’s hands ghosted over their mother’s before he turned and broke from the crowd, his back straight and triumphant.
His mother had celebrated afterwards quietly by tacking the plaque they had received on the wall. She had invited other mothers over to sit on cushions with the heat of their knees bleeding into one another, their mouths pressed so tightly into happy smiles that even their lips were white.
Labrador thought of his mother’s mouth, the shape it would take when he called her in the morning to share the good news. He knew the grim line of pride well. The thought sparked a flare beneath his sternum, a crushing pressure that left him gasping in the night until he caved to his exhaustion.
----
In the morning, Labrador padded into the bathroom naked and carefully combed his fringe of hair away from his forehead. He twisted open his brother’s canister and it opened with a soft pop as the pressure released. He located the brush, dabbed it carefully into the white powder, and began applying it to his skin with broad strokes, being particular around the crevices of his nose and over a smattering of freckles. He applied extra on the smears of dark skin under his eyes, licked carefully at his lips.
He worked until his entire body was covered, and when he looked in the mirror, all he saw was a shock of brown hair, pale red-rimmed eyes, and his skin so white it outshone the grimy bathroom counters. Carefully, he put on his best suit - the same Casidhe had worn the day he was chosen - though it hung loosely off the shoulders and dangled over his wrists.
His hands shook, the letter clutched tightly in his hands rustling against the worn fabric of his suit pants when he arrived in front of Fendermal’s headquarters. The building stood tall, its appearance an elegant combination of cold metal and warm stone that fused a successful cosmetic corporation with royalty. The parking lot where he once stood in adolescence was empty.
Inside, the reception was furnished with stunningly white furniture. The curved front desk gleamed, and behind it stood a thin, sharp-angled woman with skin so naturally pale the veins beneath were visible. Waiting to one side were two other men. The receptionist buzzed the guard, and together the three of them were escorted through the sterile hallways by equally ethereal-looking guardsmen, their holsters swishing against the fabric of their black trousers with a shh, shh, shh as they marched toward a steel double door.
A sign had been posted over the blackout windows. It read: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and DO NOT ENTER WHEN RED LIGHT IS ON. To the left side was a small contraption that one guard pressed his right palm against while entering an activation code with his free hand. The door unlocked and the large red light switched on with a buzz. Labrador and the two other men were ushered inside.
They were escorted into a whitewashed room. Against the far wall stood a series of showers from the years before when scores of eager bodies pressed together under the antiseptic spray. Labrador could almost smell the sweat of them, those honorable, honorable men - his brother, he hulking body of Thomas Phillips - despite the sterility.
“Strip,” the guard to their left commanded. The other two men shifted uncomfortably, but without thought, Labrador’s fingers began ghosting over his lapels, unbuttoning his cufflinks as he simultaneously toed off his shoes. The floor’s coldness was sharp and the vents blew a chilly draft of, the hair on his arms rising to greet it, his abdomen tightening. Without looking, he heard the other men’s trousers drop, their feet shuffling out of the fabric; their shirts hitting the floor in neatly folded bundles. As if it matter now, Labrador thought.
What mattered was the power Labrador found in being able to serve. Years spent waiting ravenously cumulated in this single moment where he could finally lift his head up, feel the weight slide off his back under the welcomed spray of the shower. The astringent taste slipped inside his mouth and up his nose, made him gasp for breath. It scalded the skin, brightening their shoulders to a lobster red where the spigot struck full force. Swirls of white swished down the drain.
The guards pushed them out from under the showers with batons and back into the chilled air. Labrador found himself almost huddled against the others where they lined them up in front of another door with blackout windows, a red light. It became suddenly apparent then, as the first man in line was shoved forward, that he was crying, his back arched forward and his eyes red and blurry. He turned back in a moment of desperation with mucus dribbling from his nostrils and latched onto Labrador’s wrists.
Their subdued obedience suddenly shattered, one guard grabbed Labrador’s shoulders with gloved hands from behind and yanked him back as the other guard latched onto the crying man at the same time. The stranger’s grip was ruthless, nails digging into the soft flesh of his wrists, begging “Please, please. I have a wife. I have a daughter.”
Impatient, the guard took his baton and bludgeoned the man at the base of his neck. He dropped limply against the pristine white floors, and his heels bounced over the ridges of the tiles as he was dragged through the door. Labrador felt the gloved hands return, shoving forward into the dark room, not even the silhouette of the unconscious man’s body visible in the blackness. Behind him, the third civilian began to wail.
Labrador felt the pressure in his chest return, deepen and expand against his ribcage, into his stomach, into his pelvis and buttocks and thighs. He pushed back with all his weight against the guard’s hands, resisting for just one moment, one more breath.
“Wait, wait!” he gasped. He stumbled and the guard physically lifted him and threw him into the dark room. He felt his hip catch on the tiles. The floor felt wet and slippery, and as he scrambled upright, he knocked into the body. “My mother! I forgot to tell my mo-”
Something barreled into his stomach. It was the last man, thrown in by the guards on either side of him. His damp hair rubbed against Labrador’s torso where he did not even attempt to move away, just curl inwards.
“I forgot to tell my mother!” Labrador shouted, pushing against the man. The red light flickered on and the door sealed shut.
----
Labrador was five when the first animal genocides began four years into Fendermal’s reign. First, it only targeted big game, endangered game, with populations so low already that “their removal would benefit the human population more than it would engender suffering.” There had been grass still, though in later years Labrador would not be able to recall the plush feel of it between his toes, nor would he remember what fresh milk tasted like. He had never seen a buffalo or a whale before; therefore it could not be missed.
Then household pets were removed, slaughtered, and their bones crushed into white powder. Rat bones turned out less product but were plentiful, as well as chickens, because of their immense populations. Humans turned to sectioned off plantations for food and to the delicate skeletons of frogs and birds for beauty, until at last they turned to themselves.
But for a moment, Labrador was five in the yard, a stick in one hand and the lid of a garbage can in the other, fending off his territory comprised of the garden fence and the picnic table from Casidhe who had just begun his growth spurt but had yet to fill out. It was their father’s first week at his new job, working at Fendermal, Inc., leaving their mother alone with her two sons to glance out the windows with a warm feeling crushed against her sternum. They would have benefits now. The cost of their home would be covered. They had rations.
Casidhe proved to be wily and quick, confident as he quickly snatched the other end of his brother’s stick and wrenched it from his hands. Labrador lifted his shield above his head and screamed, “I am the emperor! I am the emperor!” in protest - too young and excited to know not to leave his torso uncovered. He felt Casidhe’s hair tickle his ribs when his brother leant over and threw him over his shoulder, and he squirmed for a brief moment before ceasing resist, his face pressed hotly into the back of Casidhe’s shoulder. Together they spun in circles, round and round and round, and Labrador curled tightly into the warmth of his brother’s chest.
That evening, after their mother had finished unpacking and preparing their daily rations, she called them in for dinner. Dinner meant Dad had arrived with a fresh supply of white powder tucked under one arm. The boys tripped over their feet to get to the house, the soles of their heels grinding into the dirt in search of purchase, tearing up the grass. They shoved at each other, pale arms grappling at their beat-up chests and hands, reaching to pull hair, feet connecting to shins, hollering all the way. “Mother! Mother!” they shouted accusingly.
As they tore in from the porch and through the house, their father would follow. Over the week, he had become grimmer, quieter, but fierce in his determination to make his family proud. He traipsed behind them, trying to quiet them as they stampeded through like bison. “Shh. Shh,” he’d whisper, holding out his hands. “Shh. Shh.”
Their feet never slowing, they got quieter and quieter in their competition against each other to see who could be the softest. By the time they tumbled to their destination, panting and exhilarated, they had been reduced to their nearly soundless whispers. Mother. Mother.
fin.
----
AUTHORS NOTES:
1. Written for my creative writing workshop, this was most definitely written on a deadline. I meant for it to be an exercise in creating a believable alternate universe. I'm not certain how much I have succeeded.
2. My character designs came chiefly from 3 sources. Fendermal I imagined looks much like Anderson Cooper, who in my mind is robotically attractive. Labrador is fashioned after this boy from a porno, and yes, Gwen is Guinevere from BBC's Merlin. Naturally, Gwen's father Tom is from the same source. Labrador and Casidhe were primarily named by my friend Sam in the most roundabout fashion ever imaginable. After listening to her discuss Canadian politics and their million different political parties, I went in search of a good name for my fictional government and researched the history of Canada's political parties to better get inspiration. Eventually I settled simply on the National Party -- in part because I'm lazy but also because it's deceptive. But I did decide to name the protagonist Labrador in honor of this story's vague Canadian influences. Casidhe is a favored name of Sam.
3. The original story concept came from a dream after reading and writing an essay on Wilfred Owen's "Dulce Et Decorum Est" -- his response to WWI propaganda. The title from this poem is taken from Horace's Odes, and the full line reads: "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," or, "How sweet and decorous it is to die for one's country" </source>. Initially the dream involved an all-male troupe of acrobats who performed naked for a futuristic king, and in their final pose, were murdered and their bodies formed into caste iron statues to forever remember their commemoration honoring their most valiant leader. Yes, thank you. I know I'm warped inside. After much consideration, the plot and characters were simplified. For better or for worse, I have no idea.
Author: nieded
Word count: ~4,000
Summary: Only five today, he quoted. Qualified young adults are becoming increasingly difficult to find. Are you not proud to die for your country? Have I not fed you and clothed you? Are you so ungrateful as to not return the wondrous things I have done for you?
Notes: See end
How Sweet and Decorous
On the first Tuesday of November, Labrador received the letter in his mail at nine. The feather-light slip of paper fluttered through the deposit tube and landed with hardly a sound, folded in the standard thirds as requisitioned by the National Post Administration, and pressed with the official seal of the Fendermal National Party. Labrador would not open the tube for another three hours, preoccupied with his rationed breakfast and the morning announcements. He watched the screen implanted in his wall with fixated fascination as Fendermal - his primly parted comb-over and starch gray suit in place - recited the statistics of the most recent sacrifices held at dawn that morning.
Only five today, he quoted. Qualified young adults are becoming increasingly difficult to find. Are you not proud to die for your country? Have I not fed you and clothed you? Are you so ungrateful as to not return the wondrous things I have done for you?
He continued on and a pang filled Labrador’s gut. His spoon stopped mid-air on its journey to his mouth, soggy muesli and reconstituted milk sloshing over the edge and back into the bowl. He stared at the screen, transfixed by Fendermal’s smooth upper lip as he scolded his nation, the ever disappointed crease in his brow the only disfigurement on his otherwise unblemished, pale face.
All I ask is for your love to be returned. I would do anything for my nation, and yet you continue this abuse, he chastised.
It was an honor to be sacrificed in the name of Fendermal. Labrador kept his National Pride Guidebook next to a photo of his mother and the medal their family had been rewarded with after his brother Casidhe had been given. The possessions rested on sleek steel shelves near his door. Every morning, he thumbed the worn pages of the book, brushed a finger over the photograph, and traced his nails with admiration over the grooves of the medal, never forgetting the honor Casidhe brought their family. He could recite the contents of the guidebook front to back, per the demands of his adolescent education.
His eyes flickered between the medal and the slight twisted frown on Fendermal’s lips that caused Labrador’s gut to clench guiltily. An old flare of envy settled thick in his throat, knowing he had never been chosen, never good enough the way Casidhe had been. He set his bowl down with a clatter on the counter and slid nimbly off the stool to pad across the floors towards the screen, press his fingertips over Fendermal’s miniature hands as they gestured, just small jumpy flutters of light.
I should punish you, Fendermal sneered under the press of Labrador’s thumb. Until you step up, I will ration the manufacturing of white powder by half, and we will all be poorer for it. Your reluctance and lack of devotion will cause your entire nation to suffer. Can you bear to have that rest on your shoulders?
“No,” Labrador responded hoarsely, transfixed. “No,” he whispered, and then frantically, “I’m sorry.”
The sermon ended suddenly as the screen flickered dark. All that was left was Labrador’s ungainly reflection - his face twisted with sadness and a desperate hunger to please. When his eyes focused on the mirror image, he took note of his freckled skin and dull eyes and backed hastily away, stumbling over the mattress dumped unceremoniously on the floor, a pained and startled grunt escaping as he tumbled over.
There would be bruises, he knew immediately, even before his brain processed the dull throb in his back and the more insistent pain rampaging within his skull. Perhaps they would blossom on the shoulder or back where they could be covered with clothing now that white powder was to be rationed. But then a sharp stab made itself known in his palm, and he peered down at the slice in his skin welling with blood. An imperfection like a scab on the hand would be harder to conceal - a permanent raised scar would be worse. Labrador brought the wound to his mouth, suckling on the skin as he rose, careful not to bruise further though he stumbled into the bathroom.
He spent the next forty minutes scrounging around his bathroom, pulling out all the leftover cylinders stashed at the back of his medicine cabinet. He opened each one, scraped a finger along the bottom to get every last remnant of white powder out and into a new canister. He calculated how much he had for the rest of the month - enough to spare on a bruise? A scab or scar? Combined, he piled together less than one-quarter of a canister. He had one cylinder left unopened, a small clear container the size of a can of tuna. The seal had yet to be broken, the mark of Fendermal’s cosmetic company engraved on the steel cover, the fine particles inside swishing back and forth as he peered inside. It had to last him a month.
He fumbled open the medicine cabinet a second time, shoving aside its contents until his fingers wrapped around a second, smaller canister. It was clear like the ones before but about a quarter of the size, filled halfway and the seal unbroken. This container he promised not to use, not until that day he was chosen. This was the second of gifts Fendermal had given their family, a small portion of what Casidhe had contributed to.
He’d heard once that the portion of white powder given to the sacrificed citizen’s family - as compensation and reward for their devout loyalty to Fendermal and his company, his government - came from the left rib, the third one down. The rib that guarded the heart. He didn’t recall the source of that tiny detail but supposed it made no difference. It was a nice thought; that was all: a nice thought.
----
There were two different techniques regarding the application of white powder. It could be dusted on directly with a soft brush or else mixed into a paste and painted on. The second way lacked the delicate and refined look of the powder but lasted longer and used less. Gwen Phillips, Labrador’s neighbor, used a thickened paste to cover her brown skin, her dark irises a coveted stunning contrast to the paleness of her face. On the occasions when they walked down the streets together, people stopped to peer under their hooded eyes with envy at the ringlets of her brown curls, the jut of her chin as she held her head high, outshining Labrador’s hunched and wearied shoulders.
They had first met by accident when Labrador went to retrieve the post on the lower level of their shared apartment complex. Gwen lived a floor below him and had been dashing up the stairs as he stumbled down them mid-afternoon. They crashed together, a flurry of limbs and oofs and bruises as they tumbled until Labrador slammed his head against the landing and his sprawled body padded Gwen’s fall.
After the dizziness had ceded - after Labrador spared a moment to count the forming bruises and mourn his rations - he noticed Gwen tucked in the corner between the bottom step and the floor where she had crawled to, crying.
Labrador supposed some sort of concern and empathy was required even though the brunt of her fall was broken by his own chest. He reached out and tentatively patted her arm. “Um, are you all right?”
With her knees tucked tightly to her chest and one arm thrown over her forehead where she tucked her face into the crevice of her body, he could only make out the trace of white powder and the point of her widow’s peak. Her curls, pulled tightly back, wavered as she heaved. She flinched under the weight of his hand and continued her unrelenting sobs without looking up.
“I didn’t mean to run into you, yeah? I mean - I’m sorry, okay?” Crying girls made him nervous. His stomach tightened and the fingers resting on her forearm curled away from her to the safe place where he could tuck them close against his chest. He lacked the social ability his brother seemed to inherit to smooth talk his way out of any situation, to comfort and charm complete strangers. And, Labrador thought gruffly, it wasn’t like he intended to plow right into her.
He could leave. He could get up and continue downstairs to get the post and take the elevator back up to the sixth floor where he lived. She hadn’t even so much as looked at him properly yet, and perhaps if they ever crossed paths again she wouldn’t even recognize who Labrador was.
Where he crouched beside her, he pressed one hand against the wall, poised and ready to stand. But when he spared her one last glance he noticed the sheaf of paper clutched tightly in her grasp where her free arm pressed uselessly against her side. The paper rustled against her clothes from the tremors of her hand, the small red Fendermal seal crinkled under the weight of her fist.
And because Labrador could not let his curiosity go or his undefined, unnamable desire to see and know all things relating to their leader, he reached out tentatively and pried the crying girl’s fingers from around the crumpled letter, smoothing it out against his bent knee even despite her feeble protest.
He recognized the form letter immediately, knew it intimately even if the names and dates were different - incorrect. The picture of the man’s face printed besides his citizen identification number had a wide, round jaw, the weight of his skin sagging slightly off his chin from age and weariness. His eyes were open and luminous in a way Labrador would come to recognize in Gwen’s own brown eyes in the future. “It is the highest civilian honor to be selected by the government for sacrifice,” Labrador read off the page. “Thomas Phillips and his family will be awarded in recognition and recompense for his servitude to his nation. He shall report in one (1) week’s time at sunrise to the headquarters of Fendermal Inc. and the National Party.”
And this - this Labrador knew how to navigate. He’d seen the handshakes, the hearty backslaps, been on the receiving end of an arm squeeze from his school mates. In turn, he pressed a hand to the girl’s shoulder and felt the warmth bleed through the thin layer of cloth between them. “Congratulations,” he said. And then, “Who is he?”
Gwen, who Labrador mistook for remarkably young upon first consideration, lifted her head and quietly stole the official letter back, tracing a thumb around the grainy photo of the middle-aged man. In her silence she appeared much older, perhaps a year or two ahead of Labrador. “He’s my father,” she answered.
“You must be very proud.”
She wiped at her face, revealing her tanned skin underneath, revealing too much too intimately that Labrador found himself both appalled and yet in admiration. “Proud? No. But I suppose I am grateful. He works in the government factories and was fated to a much slower death.”
Despite the happy occasion, Labrador had understood Gwen’s tears. He had remembered how he stood outside in the parking lot on a chilled autumn day to watch Casidhe’s figure disappear through the large gates. He too had cried. The fierceness to Gwen’s eyes and the downward press of her lips had told Labrador that she would learn to turn this grief into honor, take it and know her father’s sacrifice helped - somehow - bring food to their tables and put clothes on their backs just the way Labrador and his mother and their neighbors had learned to do.
Afterward, Gwen and Labrador were hard-pressed to call one another friends, but sometimes they walked together to collect their rations or sit side-by-side on her couch to listen to Fendermal’s speeches, admire silently the ever-illuminated passion flickering across Fendermal’s face in apt wonderment.
It was fitting that Gwen was present when Labrador finally finished his careful application of white powder around his hairline and made the same stumbling route downwards to the post to collect his mail - the same path he had made the day they met one week before Thomas Phillips’ death. She arrived and opened her post tube just as Labrador’s hands ghosted over the cream colored letter in his own tube, over the Fendermal seal in bright red. It was unmistakable when he slid it out. His hands shook so fiercely that Gwen reached out and pulled the slip of paper from his grasp.
He could not look at her white face, her wide eyes, only at the letter in her hands. From his stomach churned a litany of want, want, want, channeling through his vessels and nerves so loudly that he did not feel her small hand solemnly squeeze his shoulder. He did not hear her quiet, “Congratulations.” Without opening the letter, he knew his grainy photograph had been printed next to the long stretch of his identification number.
Gwen’s hands carefully ripped open the envelope, preserving it perhaps so it might be filed away with the other notifications stashed in his mother’s lockbox for safekeeping.
“When?” he asked. “When?”
She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. When she withdrew it, her powder smeared at the corners of her lips, revealing the dark color underneath. “Tomorrow,” she said. “At sunrise.”
Later, he would not recall more of this moment beyond the feel of the floor connecting with his knees and the flood of finally, finally and yes.
----
It wasn’t until that night, Labrador’s limbs stretched out against the stifling press of sheets in the heat and a trickle of sweat running through his carefully maintained mask, did he remember that Casidhe had been the one who passed on the rumor about the rib. The night before he had reported to Fendermal’s headquarters, Casidhe had pressed a hand over the crown of Labrador’s head and smiled.
“They’ll give you my heart,” he promised. “-Or I suppose what protects it. That goes to you, not our mother or anyone else. Just you.”
Casidhe had been twenty-two, Labrador fifteen. In the doorway, their mother had wiped furiously at the tears streaming down her face. She had been so proud.
That night, with his head pressed heavily against the soft expanse of his pillow, Labrador could not recall much more of that day than Casidhe’s pale, powdered skin - its chalky scent that had masked the salty tang of his pride. They saw him only once more outside of the headquarters, crammed along with perhaps seventy other families that waited in line to be recognized for their contributions to their nation. Casidhe’s hands ghosted over their mother’s before he turned and broke from the crowd, his back straight and triumphant.
His mother had celebrated afterwards quietly by tacking the plaque they had received on the wall. She had invited other mothers over to sit on cushions with the heat of their knees bleeding into one another, their mouths pressed so tightly into happy smiles that even their lips were white.
Labrador thought of his mother’s mouth, the shape it would take when he called her in the morning to share the good news. He knew the grim line of pride well. The thought sparked a flare beneath his sternum, a crushing pressure that left him gasping in the night until he caved to his exhaustion.
----
In the morning, Labrador padded into the bathroom naked and carefully combed his fringe of hair away from his forehead. He twisted open his brother’s canister and it opened with a soft pop as the pressure released. He located the brush, dabbed it carefully into the white powder, and began applying it to his skin with broad strokes, being particular around the crevices of his nose and over a smattering of freckles. He applied extra on the smears of dark skin under his eyes, licked carefully at his lips.
He worked until his entire body was covered, and when he looked in the mirror, all he saw was a shock of brown hair, pale red-rimmed eyes, and his skin so white it outshone the grimy bathroom counters. Carefully, he put on his best suit - the same Casidhe had worn the day he was chosen - though it hung loosely off the shoulders and dangled over his wrists.
His hands shook, the letter clutched tightly in his hands rustling against the worn fabric of his suit pants when he arrived in front of Fendermal’s headquarters. The building stood tall, its appearance an elegant combination of cold metal and warm stone that fused a successful cosmetic corporation with royalty. The parking lot where he once stood in adolescence was empty.
Inside, the reception was furnished with stunningly white furniture. The curved front desk gleamed, and behind it stood a thin, sharp-angled woman with skin so naturally pale the veins beneath were visible. Waiting to one side were two other men. The receptionist buzzed the guard, and together the three of them were escorted through the sterile hallways by equally ethereal-looking guardsmen, their holsters swishing against the fabric of their black trousers with a shh, shh, shh as they marched toward a steel double door.
A sign had been posted over the blackout windows. It read: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and DO NOT ENTER WHEN RED LIGHT IS ON. To the left side was a small contraption that one guard pressed his right palm against while entering an activation code with his free hand. The door unlocked and the large red light switched on with a buzz. Labrador and the two other men were ushered inside.
They were escorted into a whitewashed room. Against the far wall stood a series of showers from the years before when scores of eager bodies pressed together under the antiseptic spray. Labrador could almost smell the sweat of them, those honorable, honorable men - his brother, he hulking body of Thomas Phillips - despite the sterility.
“Strip,” the guard to their left commanded. The other two men shifted uncomfortably, but without thought, Labrador’s fingers began ghosting over his lapels, unbuttoning his cufflinks as he simultaneously toed off his shoes. The floor’s coldness was sharp and the vents blew a chilly draft of, the hair on his arms rising to greet it, his abdomen tightening. Without looking, he heard the other men’s trousers drop, their feet shuffling out of the fabric; their shirts hitting the floor in neatly folded bundles. As if it matter now, Labrador thought.
What mattered was the power Labrador found in being able to serve. Years spent waiting ravenously cumulated in this single moment where he could finally lift his head up, feel the weight slide off his back under the welcomed spray of the shower. The astringent taste slipped inside his mouth and up his nose, made him gasp for breath. It scalded the skin, brightening their shoulders to a lobster red where the spigot struck full force. Swirls of white swished down the drain.
The guards pushed them out from under the showers with batons and back into the chilled air. Labrador found himself almost huddled against the others where they lined them up in front of another door with blackout windows, a red light. It became suddenly apparent then, as the first man in line was shoved forward, that he was crying, his back arched forward and his eyes red and blurry. He turned back in a moment of desperation with mucus dribbling from his nostrils and latched onto Labrador’s wrists.
Their subdued obedience suddenly shattered, one guard grabbed Labrador’s shoulders with gloved hands from behind and yanked him back as the other guard latched onto the crying man at the same time. The stranger’s grip was ruthless, nails digging into the soft flesh of his wrists, begging “Please, please. I have a wife. I have a daughter.”
Impatient, the guard took his baton and bludgeoned the man at the base of his neck. He dropped limply against the pristine white floors, and his heels bounced over the ridges of the tiles as he was dragged through the door. Labrador felt the gloved hands return, shoving forward into the dark room, not even the silhouette of the unconscious man’s body visible in the blackness. Behind him, the third civilian began to wail.
Labrador felt the pressure in his chest return, deepen and expand against his ribcage, into his stomach, into his pelvis and buttocks and thighs. He pushed back with all his weight against the guard’s hands, resisting for just one moment, one more breath.
“Wait, wait!” he gasped. He stumbled and the guard physically lifted him and threw him into the dark room. He felt his hip catch on the tiles. The floor felt wet and slippery, and as he scrambled upright, he knocked into the body. “My mother! I forgot to tell my mo-”
Something barreled into his stomach. It was the last man, thrown in by the guards on either side of him. His damp hair rubbed against Labrador’s torso where he did not even attempt to move away, just curl inwards.
“I forgot to tell my mother!” Labrador shouted, pushing against the man. The red light flickered on and the door sealed shut.
----
Labrador was five when the first animal genocides began four years into Fendermal’s reign. First, it only targeted big game, endangered game, with populations so low already that “their removal would benefit the human population more than it would engender suffering.” There had been grass still, though in later years Labrador would not be able to recall the plush feel of it between his toes, nor would he remember what fresh milk tasted like. He had never seen a buffalo or a whale before; therefore it could not be missed.
Then household pets were removed, slaughtered, and their bones crushed into white powder. Rat bones turned out less product but were plentiful, as well as chickens, because of their immense populations. Humans turned to sectioned off plantations for food and to the delicate skeletons of frogs and birds for beauty, until at last they turned to themselves.
But for a moment, Labrador was five in the yard, a stick in one hand and the lid of a garbage can in the other, fending off his territory comprised of the garden fence and the picnic table from Casidhe who had just begun his growth spurt but had yet to fill out. It was their father’s first week at his new job, working at Fendermal, Inc., leaving their mother alone with her two sons to glance out the windows with a warm feeling crushed against her sternum. They would have benefits now. The cost of their home would be covered. They had rations.
Casidhe proved to be wily and quick, confident as he quickly snatched the other end of his brother’s stick and wrenched it from his hands. Labrador lifted his shield above his head and screamed, “I am the emperor! I am the emperor!” in protest - too young and excited to know not to leave his torso uncovered. He felt Casidhe’s hair tickle his ribs when his brother leant over and threw him over his shoulder, and he squirmed for a brief moment before ceasing resist, his face pressed hotly into the back of Casidhe’s shoulder. Together they spun in circles, round and round and round, and Labrador curled tightly into the warmth of his brother’s chest.
That evening, after their mother had finished unpacking and preparing their daily rations, she called them in for dinner. Dinner meant Dad had arrived with a fresh supply of white powder tucked under one arm. The boys tripped over their feet to get to the house, the soles of their heels grinding into the dirt in search of purchase, tearing up the grass. They shoved at each other, pale arms grappling at their beat-up chests and hands, reaching to pull hair, feet connecting to shins, hollering all the way. “Mother! Mother!” they shouted accusingly.
As they tore in from the porch and through the house, their father would follow. Over the week, he had become grimmer, quieter, but fierce in his determination to make his family proud. He traipsed behind them, trying to quiet them as they stampeded through like bison. “Shh. Shh,” he’d whisper, holding out his hands. “Shh. Shh.”
Their feet never slowing, they got quieter and quieter in their competition against each other to see who could be the softest. By the time they tumbled to their destination, panting and exhilarated, they had been reduced to their nearly soundless whispers. Mother. Mother.
fin.
----
AUTHORS NOTES:
1. Written for my creative writing workshop, this was most definitely written on a deadline. I meant for it to be an exercise in creating a believable alternate universe. I'm not certain how much I have succeeded.
2. My character designs came chiefly from 3 sources. Fendermal I imagined looks much like Anderson Cooper, who in my mind is robotically attractive. Labrador is fashioned after this boy from a porno, and yes, Gwen is Guinevere from BBC's Merlin. Naturally, Gwen's father Tom is from the same source. Labrador and Casidhe were primarily named by my friend Sam in the most roundabout fashion ever imaginable. After listening to her discuss Canadian politics and their million different political parties, I went in search of a good name for my fictional government and researched the history of Canada's political parties to better get inspiration. Eventually I settled simply on the National Party -- in part because I'm lazy but also because it's deceptive. But I did decide to name the protagonist Labrador in honor of this story's vague Canadian influences. Casidhe is a favored name of Sam.
3. The original story concept came from a dream after reading and writing an essay on Wilfred Owen's "Dulce Et Decorum Est" -- his response to WWI propaganda. The title from this poem is taken from Horace's Odes, and the full line reads: "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," or, "How sweet and decorous it is to die for one's country" </source>. Initially the dream involved an all-male troupe of acrobats who performed naked for a futuristic king, and in their final pose, were murdered and their bodies formed into caste iron statues to forever remember their commemoration honoring their most valiant leader. Yes, thank you. I know I'm warped inside. After much consideration, the plot and characters were simplified. For better or for worse, I have no idea.