Outer Zone |September 7, 2113
I have not named you yet, because I do not know if you are a boy-child or girl. I left that life behind when I escaped the towers of Big City for my simple life with your father, my love: Samuel.
I do no t know what will happen in the months to come. We are Outcast and the Oligarch’s forces draw ever nearer, rounding up those who would spread the hearsay of the time Before.
This micro-reader, my one luxury from my old life in Big City, the one thing your father could not deny me, will tell the story of the world we have created here in the Outer Zone. If we are not here to guide you, it will tell of the world we created away from the glittering technorati of Big City, away from the drudgery of the drones. I pray that it will give you hope, and guide you to us once more.
Here, in the Outer Zone, we have few luxuries, but it is not drudgery. There is no plumbing beyond what the community well can provide. Fetching water is a social activity, and I’ve never seen your father move so fast as when he’s trying to get into the tub for his bath before the water cools. We dare to sully our hands and grow our food, and raise it. Your father is a bard and a craftsman and his skills are always in demand. It is a good life.
You may wonder what brought us to this life. The stories differ, but this is how I understand it.
Many years before my birth, Man had brought himself to the brink of destruction. Earthquakes, fires, drought and flood blighted the planet for nearly fifty years. Millions died in either the disasters, or the famine and sickness that spread after.
Then the Greys came. Some said the little men from beyond the stars came in peace, others said they meant to mop up the last of humanity and help the earth start fresh. Your father claimed the world’s armies never gave them the chance to do either. The armies shot the Greys out of the sky and were rewarded with the alien’s technology, which they called cold fusion. The people rejoiced; it seemed that the world would enter a new dawn of innovation and harmony with the earth.
Instead, the destructive cycle began anew. Big City was an old refugee camp that had become the center of the new world. Those that could afford the new technologies lived high. Energy was free, cheap and easy but they kept it for themselves. The rest of Big City still held tight to its refugee roots. The drones are chipped, afforded meager rations and watched. Always watched.
Your father is neither drone, nor oligarch’s son. Samuel came to me – serenaded me – with songs from the outside. He had been born there, in a place beyond Big City, beyond the Outer Zone. His tales of it are mysterious, bittersweet and strange, and it is to this place we hope one day to return.
I tire now, and your father insists that I rest. If you are reading this without me, I bid you to rest too, my dearest little one. Though we may be parted, know that we will find you, and bring you home.
All my love . . .
For Day 24 of the Creative Writing Challenge: Write a story set 100 years in the future.