Clara

Hello internet,

So I've been working on a short story that I just submitted to my university zine in hopes of it being published in the next issue. This being a contest, I'm sure there will be many amazing entries, and I'm not sure if anything will happen, but I'm proud of the story I wrote. Which is what it's all about, isn't it?

This is the second time that I've submitted a story for publication. The first time, I lost and got my first rejection letter. It felt ... like a rite of passage. Does that make sense? In Stephen King's On Writing, he talks about his first rejection letter and how he felt happy that someone at least responded back to him.

I've decided to post my new short story, entitled Clara. Enjoy, and let me know what you think:

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The windows around them were plastered in posters of ad’s displaying the new rules, the new laws, and the new punishments. Karen’s eyes scanned the windows frantically, and she suddenly realized they had left the city and were traveling along a barren wasteland shadowed by black skies.

Louis tightened his grip on her arm and dragged her down the corridor, the train rattling forward on the rusted track beneath them.

’Keep moving,’ he said.

‘They’re stronger now,’ Karen groaned, barely able to breathe. Her knees were buckling, and she was sweating, hunched over. The pain was surmounting and she struggled to stay on her feet.

‘A little further,’ Louis urged.

At the next compartment, he started knocking on the blind-drawn window. Then he started banging.

Karen leaned against the window; she was feeling dizzy and started to slip, but Louis caught her arm.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked, his eyes nervously searching her face.

‘I can’t,’ Karen whispered. They were moving fast down the train, and this was the last carriage before there would be nowhere left to go.

Louis steadied his wife. Full of consternation, he started to kick the door. Finally there was shouting, and then someone unlocked it. When the door opened a small man popped out.

‘What?!’ he barked.

‘Please,’ begged Louis. ‘We need your help, my wife can’t go on.’

The man peered around the doorway and saw Karen against the window, clutching her stomach.

‘Get out of here,’ he snarled, shutting the door. But Louis stuck his foot in the way.

‘I have money,’ he bartered, stuffing his hand into his pocket. But the man shook his head and started slamming the door against Louis’s foot.

‘Please,’ Louis pleaded – behind him Karen gasped and fell to the floor.

‘You’re a fool,’ said the man, closing the door. The lock turned and Louis knew it was over as he knelt down beside his wife.

‘Make it stop,’ Karen begged. ‘Make it stop, Louis!’ She opened her mouth and started to scream.

Louis’s face was full of horror as he bent to kiss her, suffocating the noise. He took off his jacket and placed it under her head. He started breathing slowly, heavily. He tried to steady his shaking hands. He knew it was time.

‘Breathe,’ said Louis. ‘You have to breathe, Karen. We’ve read all about this. We know what to do. Remember those books on the bedside table? Keep breathing!’

‘I’m scared,’ she cried. ‘We can’t do this here.’ She glanced up and down the corridor. ‘They’ll find us!’

‘We have no choice, love,’ Louis whispered, staring at her. He smoothed the hair back from her face. ‘Push, Karen!’

*

Louis ran as fast as he could back up the narrow corridor, panic stricken. Nearly at the sliding door between carriages, he stopped as it started to open. Six armed men and women in orange gear raised their weapons. Louis’s eyes widened.
He turned and started to run back to Karen. One of the guards fired their weapon; the bullet pierced Louis’s leg and he dropped to the floor. He was crawling forward when he was seized and lifted.

Karen stared up at the approaching army, her pale face matted in sweat. In her arms, a tiny baby was crying. She held onto the small bundle as tightly as she could.

The guards tossed Louis next to his family while one of the female officers spoke into her walkie-talkie: ‘We’ve got them,’ she said. Then she nodded to the guard next to her who stepped forward and seized the baby. Karen was too weak; her grip failed her and the baby was forced from her arms. Louis tried to fight but was pinned to the floor. The guard handed the infant to the female officer who looked at it with disgust. She threw the tiny body to the floor and shot it through the heart.

‘Karen Phillips,’ said the officer calmly, ‘you are hereby terminated under PC article 1.’ She lifted her gun and put a bullet through Karen’s head. Blood sprayed onto Louis’s face, and his eyes lost their colour.

‘Louis Phillips,’ she continued, ‘you are hereby sentenced under high treason against your country, for which you will be tried and punished by court of law.’ She raised her chin.

Two guards assented and grabbed Louis. As he was dragged up the corridor, he watched the remains of his wife and daughter bleed out on the rug.

‘… Clara …’ he whispered.

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