Here We Lie

A Story by DizzyLlama

Bleak begins to seep through my essence as yet another order is made. On today's menu we have a hot appetizer of "where would you like me to put this?" Our main course features our local bread tramp slave. It will be served to you on an already worn out matress laid out on a dank, dingy floor. For desert, it's of your own making sir. Thank you for dinning at Le W***e-Mason, we will see you tomorrow, and the day after, oh and the one after that as well...Suppose it's time to prepare dinner.

Incubated with fear and self-loathing my fake smile wares weak toward the third or fourth patient. That's what we are ordered to call them, the ones who come into your domain and make it their own. For I, along with many other poor, weak souls are forced to occupy and ran a fully functional w***e house. It's not your typical 1900's cat house where w****s work for a mistress. In this place we are all forced to entertain the rich folk. Men, women, even a few children. As unfortunate as it may sound, most have died, and i am relived for them. The exact reason into our forced occupancy is due to government ruling. Those unable to meet a set money quota are either killed, banned to a w***e house, or forced into a work camp.

My name is irrelevant. There is no saving us now. I am twenty-one years old, rather small in structure. Even smaller since the world went to hell. See the world was once normal, well as normal as it could have been. Riots over unlawful murders and political fraud sprouted from sea to shining sea. Officials needed to make it legal to control and exterminate the rioters. Figuring the major portion of the rioters consisted of lower class citizens the new law of dollar quota was instated. The Dollar Quota law reads, To remain a legal citizen of The United States of America, each and every citizen must pay a tax of $1,200 every month, $14,400 for the year. Those who cannot meet the Quota will be placed into a contained facility to better their needs. To refuse assistance will be dealt with as a terrorist.

Terrorists are not tolerated, they executed nearly instantly. My father was viewed as a terrorist, so was my mother. I was weak and wasn't ready to die. I say that ever so lightly. So as a n act of ultimate punishment I am sent to be a prostitute, to better my needs they say. Officials placed me here, and here I've been, almost six months now. Instead of filling up with rage I mostly feel shrouded by myself, and find comfort in the shadows. Sorrow dwells deep inside my essence the only emotion I can reveal is damaged.

© 2015 DizzyLlama

Author's Note

Be honest!!! Review please?

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Reviews

CLRose

The writing style here is really wordy. I would trim it down a bit. Also the tone of the narrator, the voice, doesn't seem to fit a twenty something that is involved with a prostitution ring in a post apocalyptic environment. For example, "Incubated with fear and self-loathing my fake smile wares weak toward the third or fourth patient." sounds a bit stilted. The first line of the story is confusing. I don't exactly know what you mean by it. Although the idea is not bad, I wish you had a full draft here. Take my comments with a grain of salt. I hope they help. Keep writing.

Posted 8 Years Ago

8 Years Ago

Thank ypu for your input on both stories! It always helps when I see how others view my work.

Jordan

I feel like you were going somewhere but then got lost. From the beginning it sounded like you were making interesting imagery out of a person's lack of respect. Then it went down the prostitute road. Finally a political spiral. And by the end what I thought was a creative approach to showing how someone doesn't have self respect became an "Edginess for the Edge Lord!" mess.

It seems to me that you had a good idea and went with it. Then had more ideas and thought you could connect them. But they just don't work. The "Dollar Quota" just doesn't fit with the beginning. Now if you made the entire thing based around the quota as a statement about how tough it is for some people to get by in the world and resort to prostitution then it works better.

In the beginning you started off light heartedly referring to a serious thing. But then you got serious about a serious thing. You can't start a biography about Anne Frank by making a holocaust joke. If you start serious, end serious. If you start light, end light. When you mix the two it doesn't fit.

I would suggest taking the two concepts you have going on here and separate them. Work each one into their own thing. But they just don't work together in this piece.