#FictionFriday: Looking for Point Fair

blog_logo_FictionFridaydSavannah note: I’ve been thinking awhile of publishing a series of my stories on Fridays, and calling it #FictionFriday (original, I know). {Upon reflection, I thought maybe I’d gotten it from award-winning writer and editor, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, but turns out her site offers Free Fiction Mondays. As well as really informative Business Musings for writers. So, I have no idea where I snagged that idea. Thank you to whoever it was.}

I have a TON of stories I’ve written, and I might as well do something with them. Yes, I should probably be polishing them up and submitting them to anthologies and contests, but some days (yay, #InvisibleIllness!) I just haven’t got the … wherewithall. And who knows? Maybe I’ll get inspired and start actually writing new stuff.

I’ve probably stated before that I work best with a deadline. So, I’m giving myself a weekly deadline to work on and post a story. Then I’ll take a page from my writer buddy Chad A. Clark‘s book, and publish them all in a collection. Mebbe.

In the meantime, enjoy the first edition of dSavannah’s #FictionFriday with a little sci-fi story, set in the not-too-distant future:

Looking Toward Point Fair

Times shore are hard, but I guess I cain’t reallys complains, likes somes o’ the girls round here can. I gots me a job goin to visit olduns, checks and makes sure they gots enuff vittles and water, checks the seals still be holdin, fuss round ’em, and makes ’em feels betters, get ’em to talk a little ’bout themselfs.

I has to walks most days, but I don’t mind much, unless I forgets my water coll’cter or my mask. The airs outsides ain’t none too cleans or good smellin’, but you betcher water that inside the olduns’ places, it be clean but smells ways worser.

The olduns cain’t hep it, o’ course – no ventilations in thems crappy boxes they lives in that gots thrown up years ago by… well, I don’t recken I know by who, but it don’t matter nuttin. Poor ole souls cain’t even see the sun frin theys rooms, they ain’t even gots winders. Guess whoevers made ’em thought it’d purtect them peoples betters, but it don’t. Not reallys. Not atalls.

At least I can sees the sun an’ dirt an’ skies an’ whatnot when I goes to checks on ’em. Not that it’s purty or nuttin, just somepen diffrent.

You might asks whys I don’t just takes one of ’em olduns outsides with me, what harm coold it do? A lots, that’s what. The poor souls would dies rite off. An’ it be my job to makes shore that don’t happen. At least, not until it be there times to dies. The nat’rul time. Ole Clemmy wouldn’t leaves his vigh-olyn anyways. And Miss Peerbird is afeared o’ seein the sky. She won’t tells me whys tho.

I cain’t blame her or any of thems, what with surviven world war, oh what number it t’was agin? Sixteens? Seventeens? I lost count. Dunno what we be up to eithers. Not that it matters none.

At least me, sometimes I can catch a rides with Preatcher Skinth when he’s gots to see bout one of ’em olduns that’s died. Then I get to set in the back o’ the pick’em’up truck, rattly ole thing, tho it do get me there fasters, and purtend that what’s brushing by is a – whad’they calls it? A breezind, I thinks, not just the pick’em hurtlin through the thick, moist, somewhat poisened airs.

Them days I betters wear my mask or I get awwful sicks – dunno whys ridin’ in the pick’em’up truckdoes that – and I cain’t go see my olduns and I lose my credits and I’m tryin to save ’em up, see, to goes and lives in Point Fair, that I hear is rite nice with reals fresh airs and no masks, and the sun is yeller, not that shade o’ green we sees here.

Plus, my olduns likes me best of their carers. They tells me so. An I likes ’em too. Ole Clemmy sez I remind him o’ his wife, but I know that cain’t be for true, cuz he gots her pitture rite on the box next to where he keeps all his sheets with weird markins that he sez is for his vigh-olyn, and she was what they used to calls an “attracti”. I def’inlys ain’t one of ’em. Hell, they ain’t hardly any attractis round no more, all the poisen havin killted off all the purty ones.

Mebbe the non-purty ones, likes me, knew hows to takes cares of ’emselfes, that’s whys. The purty ones made us takes cares of ’em, too. So, first signs o’ troobles, them attractis just drop off and dies.

Now Madamey Ohlive, she’s for a sure an sample o’ dis. Her sister, she tolds me once, was always ‘the bell o’ the ball’, which makes no senses, and I ain’t sures what a ‘bell’ be or how it relates to a ball, but I guess it means she big-time attracti, cuz her sister died rite off, and Madamey Ohlive, well, she’s still here. Even had three chillens after that war stopped.

Course, only one o’ them chillens lived, but stills, more ’an her sister had. Which was nuttin. Cuz she dead.

Lawksamercys, I sound, well, I dunno if a word even be for it. Miss Peerbird, she tells me I’s a ‘cheerfill one’, which I thinks is diffrent from hows I’s goin on now.

Anywaysit, ones by ones my olduns dies off. Is bound to happen, I su’pose. They’s in their thirtyeths years. I hear tells hows one ole lady lived to be fourtytwos, but I thinks is’a – wassa word? – untrue.

But is okay. I’s is still young – elevens – and likes I sez, soon I’ll have enuff credits to leaves. Preatcher Skinth, he sez he’s been to Point Fair, and he’ll drive me, tho t’will cost me dear. I don’t quite understands what he means, an plus he looks at me funnys when he sez that, likes up and down, his eyes kinda weirds and far off, likes he breathed too much airs without his mask.

He tells me when I’m twelves, I shoold be ready. That I’ll be ready for him, ready to leaves, and all my olduns gone.

He’s prolly rite. He’s been round longers than me – he’s nineteens. And he can get that pick’em’up truck to work when no one else can. That’s whys it’s his. Plus, I ain’t seen no twelves round here in a long times. So he prolly tooked thems.

I’m a tellin you dis at the end o’ visiting my olduns. Preatcher just dropped me off, and I walks into my room. I takes off my masks, checks the seals, pulls some jerkey Preatcher gived me out my bag (and I didn’t asks what kinds; prolly good idear, from what peoples sez bout him). I looks round my winderless space, and thinks ‘I’m home’.

‘Justs for now’.

© D. Savannah George 2016

I don’t really like “Point Fair” as the name of my ‘mythical’ town, but I can’t think of anything else. If any of my reader(s) have ideas for me, I’m willing to listen. :)

More ramblings / other posts you might want to read...


About dSavannah

~ #disabled #spoonie fighting numerous, chronic, painful #InvisibleIllnesses ~ also #wife #feminist #ally #advocate #papyrophiliac #DogCatTurtleWrangler
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8 Responses to #FictionFriday: Looking for Point Fair

  1. jlgentry says:

    What a great glimpse into this world. Hints of post-apocalyptic living and the inference of educational decline. You have a great imagination. Keep exploring this world, who knows what you’ll find. I will say that the accent was a bit difficult to read.

  2. Elaine LeDoux says:

    Whoa! I’d rather not be around for Point Fair…gives me the heebies!

  3. susankinney says:

    This is great! Can’t wait tills nex fridyy!

  4. mysoulstears says:

    That accent. Tough to write. But you handled it well. :) Lots of good ideas in this one.

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