Nonconformist.

Part I : wonderous, evil, The Government
The running for President of the World is now well under way. It seems Brentford is up on popularity by seventeen percent..."
My eldest brother, McFee, was riveted by this. I wondered, vaguely, what it was like when the world was separated and different. When the skies were viewed with different eyes. When everything was colorful and exotic, or dreary and cozy depending on where it is you are. My great grandmother was the only person I knew that could describe it. She said the world was violent, cold, and wonderful, at the same time. She told of fanciful creatures that barked, chirped, whistled, and purred. She described the odd and trendy fashions of the past, and the strange languages, mixed together, and apart. She used to be a writer. She let me read her book. It was a hardcover book with real paper. It was not like anything I'd ever read. There was a picture of a man in shinning steel upon a horse, a beautiful, fair with outrageously long hair girl cried silently out. The corner was burned and there was a flame peeking out on the cover. It was called "A fairy tale ending...in Hell." It's a nice title, no? It was sarcastic and witty and made me really think...it was more real then what was in our "flawless" zombie society. I kept thinking this as my brother kept his big eyes glued to the tele-screen. I sighed. Trying to talk to him was like trying to lead a horse to water, as my infamous great grandma says when she describes something nearly impossible. (She had a heck of a time trying to explain to me what a horse was, I'll tell you that.)

 

Thanks...I'm working on it 

 

I gave up on McFee. I decided trying my mother and father was completely pointless. They were zombies, in a sense, but my mother sometimes got a sparkle in her gray eyes as she gazed upon my promising brother and dulled with a faint resentment of me. A sharp ache bloomed in my chest for my great grandmother whom had died a year ago. I was alone except for the book. The book was what inspired me, inspired me to keep moving. To reattain the beauty and flaws of the old, culturally obsolete world I'd fallen in love with. My great grandmother was at fault. With every one of her wonderful, captivating webs of the past, I ached for creativity and color. In this world of awful grays, my great grandmother was the only one with brilliant, emerald eyes and rosy cheeks. She was the only one with a sign of age. Her eyes wrinkled when she smiled. She had lines on her face, flab on her arms, legs, and stomach, far too long, frizzy gray hair, and a welcoming air, accompanied by the sweet smell of cinnamon. She was cremated. Grandmother didn't want them, but I did. Mother said no though, so she was dumped out. My great grandmother always said "I love you, Paige." I never understood what it meant so I just nodded.

I wished then that I'd known.

 

I wondered around the house, having nothing in particular in mind. It was a standard house, big enough to avoid people if you tried. I managed to wander into the attic, thinking about great grandmother's story. The one I most enjoyed was that of Perry and Perri. My late great grandfather was named Perry. She told me that before she'd met him, she had a small creature she described as a "pet", and "dog", a small, lupine animal, with a long snout, short fur, ears that stood erect on his head, at full attention. Great grandfather was a pure Irishman. He was the more demure raven haired with gray-blue eyes, that sparkled with mischief as great grandmother said.
I didn't get past this part of the memory. The door swung open, a large figure lumbered in. My father. "It is time for stationary meal three." He stated in a robotic voice. I stood, making sure my back was straight, and nodded once. He flicked his hand for me to follow. My father was gray. His skin, eyes, and hair were all gray with exhaustion and plain abuse. Great grandmother had told me my father was like me when he was young. Bouncing and creative, with strawberry blond hair, big green eyes, and a passion to be the best at everything. I followed my father and my brother joined silently behind. My brother, much to my envy, had great grandmother's traits. Bright red hair, emerald green eyes, and the most charming of smiles. But no one was smiling here. Life was simply a boiling pot of nothing. You were assigned a partner and that was it. It did not matter if they liked each other. Their DNA was the most precious. Whomever is compatible with someone else is simply taken and given a stationary house with that person. They are expected to have one to two children, gender and time of birth, not a factor. Our 'advanced' society had nothing on the past.

 

Bump so is not all lost

 

Boop

 

On the small circular table was four places set. On each was a small Byzent glove with a name neatly printed on it. Beside it was a small gray package. I sat at my place. Right across from mother, brother on left, father on right.
"May we thank the Government."
My mother recited quickly. Everyone put their gloves on, starting at father, ending at me. I still fumbled with the clasp. Mine was creamy white and it was the oldest one. Great grandmother's glove. I refused to give it up. It was the only one with a manual clasp. Mother smirked at me. It seemed women had a greater emotional matrix then men. Father sat stonily. McFee fidgeted, though he really tried to act more zombie-like. When I was finished humiliating myself, mother placed her hand over her gray packet. It began to glow a white light. Then it was a white tablet with a perfectly sliced, perfectly seasoned roast, steamed, well-portioned vegetables ranging from peas to broccoli and a greenish-drink tastefully arranged to show the simple perfection of the meal. All of ours glowed and changed in the same manor. We ate in silence. It was perfect, as always, flawless down to the last morsel, the flavors blending in perfect harmony. Yet, under the perfection, it left a sour, rubbery taste in my mouth. I sighed inwardly, wishing I was not a Creative. Wishing that zombie ness was in my blood. McFee had a little. That's why he was in Standard Education. And not in Creative Future Planning.