Little
lil trash-heaping goblin
Hello there!
I'm ecstatic to be posting a short story here, but please take note that I am constantly rewriting, editing and adding on to the story, as it is still in the makes and a work in progress. I will try to post new content to the story every week, hopefully, during the weekend. So, check back every now and then to see what I've added/edited! I will have a small Updates section to let you guys know what I changed, and such.
Any constructive criticism, suggestions and comments are more than welcome! I really would appreciate criticism, as I am seeking to both improve my writing and story.
Thank you, and enjoy the little intro to the story for now!
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Marcus grumbled incoherently under his breath, rolling onto his side in a fit of irritation before, finally, giving up and instead sitting upright. There wasn’t any possible way to get comfortable on a concrete floor, anyway. Now slumped in defeat against the back wall, he pulled his legs so they were nearly grazing his chest and watched as his sigh formed in the cold, stale air. His eyes burned into the wall across from him, willing for daylight to seep through sooner--not that he’d actually be able to witness the daylight seeping through, since there weren’t any windows in the cells. Marcus wanted morning to arrive simply because it meant it would be a Meal Day at last, the only day anyone looked forward to anymore. The inmates only got fed one meal every three days, as the facility neither had the proper funding provided by a government for the luxury of daily meal courses, nor a government to provide said funding. The very concept of the facility was illegal--and nonexistent, as far as anyone knew.
The rest of the night slipped without any further incident, and before he knew it, Marcus found himself standing rigidly in the middle of the grey courtyard, surrounded by grey towers with grey guards residing in them. Four walls enveloped them, reaching high enough so that all anyone could see was the sky stretching overhead, and a few clouds if they were lucky. The prisoners, commonly referred to as (insert clever nickname) by the majority of the guards and even staff members, were standing upright in their individual rows and columns, eyes trained ahead of them in accordance to the warden’s wishes of no eye contact unless spoken to. Marcus, still standing statically, slumped his shoulders, sucked in a large breath so he looked thinner, and waited. During rollcall, twenty inmates were selected--entirely based on appearance and posture--to be Drained. And again at lunch, and lastly at dinner. Sixty a day went to bed looking thinner and paler than they had that morning. Marcus planned to not be one of them.
Briskly glancing at his number patched onto his grey-blue jumpsuit, the guard swiftly checked the box marking his presence on the list, and moved forward. He almost released the breath he had been holding out of relief. Almost, had it not been for the Hawk going up and down the rows of prisoners. Sergeant Laski--called “The Hawk” behind his back by guards, staff members and inmates alike--was undoubtedly the most sinister, sociopathic man to ever have roamed the facility. Marcus, fortunately, never had to personally come into contact with Sgt. Laski, but like most, he’s heard stories. Stories of whole nights spent in the Pit, whole weeks spent in the Chamber. Most didn’t live long enough to tell the story, but those that did never ceased to strike fear in its purest form into the minds and hearts of the inmates. Untold accounts of relentless torture, over-Draining, and even straight-up murder have been tabbed under Laski’s belt and reputation. No one makes eye contact with the Hawk, regardless if it be an order from the warden--for the warden himself didn’t look the man in the eye. As far as Marcus could tell, the man indeed lived up to the name--for his eyes scanned, lingered on every single individual until his mind was made.
“Two eleven,” the Hawk called nonchalantly, uninterested as if he were merely ordering coffee.
“One ninety two” he continued, followed by a despaired, desperate cry from subject 192 as he was dragged off.
“One-oh-four.” The woman being hauled away didn’t so much as peep. He suspected she was too weak to do so, even if she wanted to.
There was a pause, and Marcus felt his stomach churn. The last subject to be selected always got his hands sweating, heart pounding.
I'm ecstatic to be posting a short story here, but please take note that I am constantly rewriting, editing and adding on to the story, as it is still in the makes and a work in progress. I will try to post new content to the story every week, hopefully, during the weekend. So, check back every now and then to see what I've added/edited! I will have a small Updates section to let you guys know what I changed, and such.
Any constructive criticism, suggestions and comments are more than welcome! I really would appreciate criticism, as I am seeking to both improve my writing and story.
Thank you, and enjoy the little intro to the story for now!
------------
Marcus grumbled incoherently under his breath, rolling onto his side in a fit of irritation before, finally, giving up and instead sitting upright. There wasn’t any possible way to get comfortable on a concrete floor, anyway. Now slumped in defeat against the back wall, he pulled his legs so they were nearly grazing his chest and watched as his sigh formed in the cold, stale air. His eyes burned into the wall across from him, willing for daylight to seep through sooner--not that he’d actually be able to witness the daylight seeping through, since there weren’t any windows in the cells. Marcus wanted morning to arrive simply because it meant it would be a Meal Day at last, the only day anyone looked forward to anymore. The inmates only got fed one meal every three days, as the facility neither had the proper funding provided by a government for the luxury of daily meal courses, nor a government to provide said funding. The very concept of the facility was illegal--and nonexistent, as far as anyone knew.
The rest of the night slipped without any further incident, and before he knew it, Marcus found himself standing rigidly in the middle of the grey courtyard, surrounded by grey towers with grey guards residing in them. Four walls enveloped them, reaching high enough so that all anyone could see was the sky stretching overhead, and a few clouds if they were lucky. The prisoners, commonly referred to as (insert clever nickname) by the majority of the guards and even staff members, were standing upright in their individual rows and columns, eyes trained ahead of them in accordance to the warden’s wishes of no eye contact unless spoken to. Marcus, still standing statically, slumped his shoulders, sucked in a large breath so he looked thinner, and waited. During rollcall, twenty inmates were selected--entirely based on appearance and posture--to be Drained. And again at lunch, and lastly at dinner. Sixty a day went to bed looking thinner and paler than they had that morning. Marcus planned to not be one of them.
Briskly glancing at his number patched onto his grey-blue jumpsuit, the guard swiftly checked the box marking his presence on the list, and moved forward. He almost released the breath he had been holding out of relief. Almost, had it not been for the Hawk going up and down the rows of prisoners. Sergeant Laski--called “The Hawk” behind his back by guards, staff members and inmates alike--was undoubtedly the most sinister, sociopathic man to ever have roamed the facility. Marcus, fortunately, never had to personally come into contact with Sgt. Laski, but like most, he’s heard stories. Stories of whole nights spent in the Pit, whole weeks spent in the Chamber. Most didn’t live long enough to tell the story, but those that did never ceased to strike fear in its purest form into the minds and hearts of the inmates. Untold accounts of relentless torture, over-Draining, and even straight-up murder have been tabbed under Laski’s belt and reputation. No one makes eye contact with the Hawk, regardless if it be an order from the warden--for the warden himself didn’t look the man in the eye. As far as Marcus could tell, the man indeed lived up to the name--for his eyes scanned, lingered on every single individual until his mind was made.
“Two eleven,” the Hawk called nonchalantly, uninterested as if he were merely ordering coffee.
“One ninety two” he continued, followed by a despaired, desperate cry from subject 192 as he was dragged off.
“One-oh-four.” The woman being hauled away didn’t so much as peep. He suspected she was too weak to do so, even if she wanted to.
There was a pause, and Marcus felt his stomach churn. The last subject to be selected always got his hands sweating, heart pounding.
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