Once Upon A Dystopia: An Anthology of Twisted Fairy Tales and Fractured Folklore

by Heather Carson

  “And now you’re asking me to let you do this?” he cut in sharply.

  She didn’t reply, she simply waited, knowing there was nothing she could say to make this better. Hunt stared down, his intense gaze taking in the angles of her face.

  It had been so long since he was able to look at her. She looked older but still exuded the gentle innocence that had captivated him from the moment he kidnapped her and brought her to the prison camps.

  The thought of that day still haunted him. He had done as much damage to her as her mother had. Maybe more.

  He moved forward, suddenly wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her tight against his body. She tensed, fighting to maintain her strength, but as the seconds clicked by he could feel her beginning to relax into him.

  They stood like this for several moments, neither of them speaking or making a move to separate.

  Finally, Eve pushed away from his body and backed up. As she did, she dug into the front pocket of her black jeans. She pulled a tiny bag from her pocket and held it up. Inside two red pills sat within the confines of the plastic.

  His stomach clenched as she pulled out the red pills that had been given to him years before. The ones he had not been able to use on her.

  She slowly opened the bag and dropped the contents into her small hand. There was fear pulsing through her. He could feel it flowing from her as if it were his own. there was something else as well. Strength.

  She made her way over to the black couch in the far corner of the room and sat on the edge of a cushion balancing the pills in her hand. She glanced towards his desk, her eyes settling on the bottle of liquor.

  Understanding, he moved to the desk and filled the heavy crystal glass before carrying it back over to the couch. He took a sip and placed it next to her on the table.

  Without warning she popped the pills in her mouth and reached for the glass, emptying its contents in one large gulp. The liquid burned as it went down, warming her from the inside.

  When she finished, she placed the glass back on the table and turned to face Hunt. She moved into him, wrapping one of her arms across his chest and placed her head against his shoulder.

  “Thank you for saving me,” her soft voice cracked as she spoke.

  “I was the only reason you ended up in that prison,” he said staring up at the ceiling.

  She looked up, his eyes coming to rest on her face. She couldn’t help but see the man that rescued her.

  “You are the only reason I escaped.”

  A heavy lump sat in his throat, as he tried to speak but stopped.

  “Bring my body to the committee. They’ll hold true to her promise about bringing in the rebel leader.” Her voice grew soft. “With Vie dead you will be made Chancellor. You were her most trusted advisor. Nobody is going to forget that.”

  “Okay,” he said through a constricted throat.

  The pills were already taking effect. She could feel it. Unable to keep her eyes open any longer she slowly let her lids fall.

  She relaxed into Hunt’s warmth, his hand making slow lazy trails up and down her arm. She breathed deep, inhaling the intoxicating mixture of aftershave and soap. The scent calmed her. It was the same smell she had noticed when he had rescued her. When she had been “saved.”

  Eve finally opened her eyes as warm beams of light touched her face. Inside a feeling of peace moved through her, a feeling she had not known since childhood. As she looked around, she noticed a brilliant glow that seemed to flow out of everything. Like a thin gold coating from Midas himself.

  In the distance a small grouping of deer grazed, while two young fawns pranced playfully about. As she watched the beauty of the scene unfold, her mind drifted back to her friends at the camp, to Hunt, their true leader, and to the future she knew he would build.

  L. B. Winters grew up in a small town in upstate New York where she spent the majority of her early days reading, writing and exploring the beautiful forests surrounding her home. After living in NYC for a couple of years she moved back to the country, a place she still loves to explore. Laura currently works as a registered nurse and spends her free time running her book blog “Balancing Books and Bottles” and pursuing her lifelong dream of becoming a full-time author. You can find her on Instagram at www.instagram.com/ellebwinters

  HETEROCHROMIA

  By Mikhaeyla Kopievsky

  Ella shoved her fists into her pockets, fighting the itch to claw out the coloured contact lens that felt like sandpaper against her right eye. Her blue eye; the one that marked her as Primi. As hunted.

  The streets of Anders weren’t crowded, the deep snow drifts and biting cold enough to keep most people home, but the EyeSpy drones still hovered overhead, so she endured the discomfort and kept walking. In the early evening light, with the sky a swathe of grey and purple, the city seemed softer. Gentler. Like a muted, slumbering beast hulking down against the snow and easing into hibernation.

  A deep, low rumbling grew too close. Ella looked over her shoulder as a dark truck sped along the road, skidding over the ice and splashing freezing water over her uniform. Curses sprung to her lips, but died on her tongue—the truck was long gone and she was as much to blame for her icy, muddy clothes as the idiotic driver. Civi ears would have picked up the sound of the truck advancing much earlier, Civi reflexes would have been quicker to jump out of the way, Civi disposition would be more resilient against such a minor inconvenience. And maybe, for a Civi, it would be a minor inconvenience—their engineered biomechanics designed to be invulnerable to changes in temperature and minor injuries. But to Ella, it felt as though dead, cold hands gripped her calves and talons of ice dug into her skin.

  She rushed the rest of the way home, past the empty concrete playgrounds and utilitarian brick buildings plastered with posters of Civi soldiers and their 231 insignias, no longer caring that the snow sploshed around her ankles and further drenched her pants. She was miserably cold already, the only thing that would help would be the rickety old oil heater that Papa turned on as her shift ended—enough time to make their apartment toasty without wasting precious fuel.

  “You’re early,” he exclaimed as she entered the apartment and banged the door shut. “And wet.”

  “Has it arrived yet?” she asked, ignoring his fussing, and heading to their small laundry. She stripped off her uniform and threw it into the sink. The artificial lens scraped along her eyeball as she plucked it out, her fingertip appearing brown under its flimsy polymer, before she deposited it into the compact of saline solution. Out in the living area, Papa had turned on the radio and the sound of old-time waltzes floated through the flimsy walls.

  Washing her face in the small porcelain sink, she turned away from her reflection in the cracked mirror, from the defect that would always put her and Papa at risk. Her faded blue jeans and soft, cotton pullover were already stacked on the benchtop, warmed by the hot water bottle Papa had hidden underneath. She dressed quickly, her skin tingling at the warmth and the smell of spiced oranges and chlorine.

  “It’s too soon for a reply,” Papa said, handing her a mug of steaming kaf as she stepped into the kitchen. “Our last communication was only a week ago. Things take time. And we need to be careful.”

  She took a sip of the kaf and sat down at the table. The hot liquid was sweeter than the sludge they served at the factory; Papa always made it with extra milk. That was the difference when you were more than just a number to someone—they spent more than they could afford on you; time, effort, money. Spent more. Risked more.

  “We’re running out of time,” she said quietly, not bothering to voice what they both already knew—the last artificial lens was rapidly losing its integrity and once it failed, there would be no hiding her true nature, or hiding from the execution chamber. “Why do we have to wait? Why can’t we just go to them?”

  “Because we don’t know who they are anymore. Or where they are.” He was more patient than she. Always so much calmer. Maybe it was
his Civi nature. “Jonas will contact us when it’s safe. For now, we must wait.”

  ***

  The concrete slab of the factory floor pushed the chill through Ella’s boots and up her calves. Her fingers, stiff and sore, struggled to manipulate the steel screw into place. Surreptitiously, she rubbed her hand on the stiff cotton of her uniform, trying to warm it and restore enough dexterity to get through the rest of her shift.

  “Worker 43,” her supervisor yelled across the factory floor. Quickly, she dropped her hands back to the bench. “Your output is slipping.”

  Ella turned and looked up at the small monitor above her workspace, her output number flashing angry and red in a sea of green around her. Carver would think she was being lazy or insubordinate. She was neither of those things, she just lacked the fine-tuned capabilities of her Civi colleagues, with their bodies engineered to optimal effectiveness.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, pushing her numb fingers to work faster.

  “Sorry does not erase the past four incidences of sub-optimal performance,” he said, scribbling away in his notebook. “This is your last warning.”

  The threat of performance management would be uncomfortable for anyone, but for Ella it was a fire brand to her chest. “Yes, sir,” she stuttered, eyes cast down and finger painfully threading bolts onto screws. Carver nodded, returning the notebook and pen to his shirt pocket and walking away.

  Around her, the factory continued humming along in its regular rhythm of activity. Massive conveyor belts pushed steel behemoths from one end of the floor to the other, grey-clad workers hauling oversized gears and plates to the assembly line, golden sparks flying where metal clashed with metal. The war effort on the northern front showed no signs of slowing down; for decades it had proven itself a titan with an insatiable appetite—for resources, for bodies, and for perfection.

  The cramps in Ella’s hands intensified, pulsing like the lights in her and Papa’s apartment when the electricity supply became patchy. She ignored them, and the cold, and the deadened muscles in her legs from standing too long. Pin, fasten, screw, tighten, push. Pin, fasten, screw, tighten, push.

  The blades of the fan shone bright under the factory lights. Wicked things with sharpened edges to cut through the metal of the enemy’s artillery. Until the enemy’s technology evolved again, and the factories stepped up production of the next defence system.

  An unexpected sensation of warmth at her fingers sharpened her attention. She stared at the blood dripping onto the metal blade, and then at the index finger on her right hand where the tip had been sheared off.

  “Medic,” the worker next to her yelled.

  Carver looked over, his eyes widening at the blood still dripping to the fan and workbench. “Medic to section 4,” he patched into the transmitter at his shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “It’s—” The pain hit like a suckerpunch. Her knees threatened to buckle and she grabbed the bench to steady herself. The pain flashed bright and hot, stealing her breath and clouding her sight with ink stains. Pressure was building in her ears, a low whistle growing more shrill.

  Stay upright. Stay upright. Stay up—

  ***

  Bright light broke through the darkness, like pins pressing into her brain. Ella blinked open her eyes, squinting against the harsh whiteness.

  Someone hovered nearby, their footfalls lost amongst the beeping and whirring of strange machines.

  She blinked again, bringing the room into focus. The infirmary was a small space; barely large enough for the three beds pushed up against one side and a long white credenza awkwardly positioned against the opposite wall and cluttered with medical supplies.

  Belatedly, she looked down at her hand, a thick wad of gauze in the place where her fingertip used to be, a catheter jutting from her wrist and leading to a thin, clear tube.

  “Don’t pull at it.” A nurse stepped into view, his white uniform as bright and clean as everything else in the room. The machine beeped as he pressed buttons and flicked tubes. “The doctor is on his way now to assess you.” The machine beeped again. “If I could just get this stupid machine to work,” he muttered.

  Ella laid very still. It wasn’t the machine that wasn’t working properly.

  “The doctor is on his way now?”

  The nurse mumbled something, fixated on the diagnostic machine.

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” she said louder. “I think I’m going to vomit.”

  “Here.” He grabbed a metal bedpan and handed it to her.

  The machine continued to beep. Ella, light-headed and queasy, flitted her gaze from the pan to the nurse to the door. There were no good options, but some were better than others.

  Gripping the pan in her hands, she brought it up closer as if she were about to heave, and then smashed it into the side of the nurse’s head. He stumbled a little and she struck again, wincing at the blood that spurted from his nose. There was a brief sting as Ella pulled the catheter from her wrist and leapt from the bed. The nurse stared up at her in horror, his hands dripping blood as he tried to staunch the flow from his busted nose and lip.

  The bed pan, still gripped tightly, hung heavy in her hands. She should hit him again—it would give her more time—but her gut twisted with guilt. With his hands still up around his head, his keys and transmitter dangled in full view at his waist. Indecision was not a luxury she could afford. She advanced quickly with the bed pan and yanked at his belt, the transmitter dislodging easily, but the keys stubbornly resisting her grip, snagged on something she couldn’t see. Swearing, she dropped the bed pan, and ran.

  The space outside the infirmary was empty. Ella switched off the transmitter and tossed it in the nearest bin. She could hear the nurse begin to yell, his hoarse shouts warped and mangled. Ignoring the hammering of her heart, she raced to the fire exit and pushed open the heavy door gummed closed by years of grime and inactivity.

  Her hand was throbbing as she exited the building two flights down. The fire escape had led her to the back of the factory, away from the street. She used it to her advantage, avoiding the drones and darting across the car lots of adjacent residential buildings with her hand stuffed into her uniform to avoid leaving a trail of blood in the snow.

  ***

  “Early again?” Papa exclaimed as she barged into their cold apartment. The little heater sat silent and frigid in the corner. His eyes dropped to the growing dark patch at her midsection, where her injured hand lay hidden, and his calm demeanour finally slipped.

  “Ella!” He rushed to her, his fingers gentle as he unbuttoned the shirt and pulled her arm free.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “Papa, I’m okay—just a flesh wound. But they know something is wrong with me, and they’ll be looking for me.”

  He nodded sadly and peered deep into her eyes. With a gentle press of his lips against her forehead, he slowly lowered her hand to her side. “We must hurry, then.”

  It took them not more than ten minutes to get what they needed; Papa grabbed their meagre savings from the air vent, a few handfuls of dirty notes and the gold chains left behind after his mama had passed. Not that she had been his biological mama—like all Civis, he had grown up with guardians, not parents. Not like she had.

  The money and jewellery he stuffed into a secret pocket of his briefcase, her Civi papers and a change of clothes for the two of them placed neatly in the main compartment. Ella changed quickly, her jeans and pullover from yesterday still clean. Papa wrapped her hand more tightly with a strip of cotton towel and gave her an analgesic to help with the pain.

  “Jonas will help us find the surgeon,” Papa whispered as he ushered her out of the apartment. “Everything will be alright.”

  ***

  The car rattled along the backwater streets, the snow chain clinking loudly as the car hit uneven patches of road and struck debris lurking under finer layers of snow. The air conditioner and radio stayed switched to their off positions to conserve fuel, so the tw
o of them shivered in silence as the icy wind snuck through the vents.

  “I wish we would have had more time to prepare,” Papa murmured.

  “We have what we need.”

  “I wanted to stockpile more painkillers for you. And now with your hand…”

  “It will be fine, Papa.”

  “Perhaps the surgeon will have something, to stave off any infection. Perhaps even something that can serve as a prosthetic…”

  She stayed silent. Her father was a smart man; he knew that the cornea transplant was not a guaranteed success and was always cautioning her of the same thing. He would know that even a successful transplant would not be a reset button. There could be no return to the little apartment; no going back to the factory, no living the simple dreams of just surviving as part of the war machine so she could go home to her Papa and the small comforts of warm clothes and spicy-sweet kaf.

  She stayed silent as a small mercy.

  Let him have his hopes. They will be dashed soon enough.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. If she had been more careful, more focused…

  “No, Ella,” he said vehemently, shaking his head. “This is not your fault.”

  “I was too distracted, too clumsy, too reckless.” Too Primi.

  “It is not your fault.” He rested a hand on her knee and patted it, smiling sadly. “It is mine. And your mother’s. We were the reckless ones.”

  Ella startled. It had been years since Papa had spoken of her mother; some cuts stayed deep no matter how much time passed.

  “But,” he said firmly, “I would not change it. Not for anything—not the promise of one more day, not for anything.”

  He turned back to the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Eventually he sighed, and his body seemed to slump about him, as if the icy coil of stress inside had collapsed into a pool of melted snow. “You see, you were our act of defiance and rebellion.”

  “When I was little,” he said, “younger than you are now, the war was only a decade old and the idea of a Civi-only generation was, for many people, unthinkable. Before then, Civis like me were something to prop up the natural population, foisted upon good patriots like my guardians to raise. We were meant to supplement Primis, not replace them. When the Government floated the idea of a sterilisation program, it almost divided the nation.”