Sometimes, when I was a child, I would walk along the land behind my house. I would look down and pretend the dirt beneath my shoes was not covered in the tracks of vehicles, or I would look up and pretend there weren’t power lines and housing developments a few hundred feet away. Thousands of people lived on each side, I knew, but I would pretend they all had a chance and a choice.
Occasionally, I wept. More often, I did not.
I still--
“Yes, yes, her nose looks just perfect, I am ready.” The lady came here often. I might recognize her if she didn’t look different every time.
“Ah, XX-12-301, belongs to building four. Medical information the same?”
“Yes.”
“Address the same?”
“Yes.”
“Employment changes?”
“No.”
“One moment.” I always give them time to think, to decide against their swap.
I still live in the sa--
The order finishes processing. “Place your thumb here and hold for three seconds.”
She presses her thumb to the screen for just over two seconds.
“Your order has been sent, you will be picked up for reassignment tomorrow after business hours.”
“Good day.”
“Good day.”
I still live in the same house, but not the same room. My room is larger and my significance is larger. My thoughts are still only thoughts, and have still changed nothing.
I don’t want--
“Sir, XY-43-27 is not available for reassignment to those holding positions lower than professors.”
“I’ve been saving tickets for months, now you’re telling me I can’t get those legs?”
“I’m sorry sir, hierarchy rules and all. Complaints can be filed to the City Council.” Nobody ever files complaints.
I don’t want to forget.
…
You go there quite often, the Barter’s place. After all, you’ve done a lot in your life as a politician, so you definitely deserve the fine swaps made available by your ticket income and the placeholder class. Business is often quick, though there’s always a few minutes of waiting. A woman just ahead of you orders a nose trade from a young, female placeholder, already looking dreadfully malformed. You can’t help but scoff at that; the rare placeholder that is born beautiful is destined to a life becoming more and more hideous.
Not that they don’t deserve it, though, you remind yourself as the line moves forward. Placeholders are lazy, jobless beings, so their purpose is assigned to them. Hard-working, employed people like yourself have earned this privilege of ousting their physical flaws.
You really want those blue eyes; the hazel ones have become a bit of a bore.
The order of the man in front of you is rejected by the Barter, on the terms that the man occupies a job with lesser value than that of a professor. You sigh, glancing at the watch wrapped around the beautiful brown skin you swapped for your own a couple years ago. Fortunately, the man does not look for satisfactory legs from a placeholder available to him, instead choosing to stomp away. Finally, it is your turn.
The Barter has always been a bit spacey, at least as long as you’ve lived in this area. You snap your fingers in front of the unfocused eyes in front of you, and the Barter looks up.
“I don’t want to forget.”
…
A letter rests high on a metal shelf in a dark storeroom located at the back of the Barter’s place of residence and work. The edges are turning yellow with mold, and the paper itself hasn’t been touched in decades. Dust covers it in a layer so thick that it is difficult to read the ink words gracing the note’s surface:
To my child,
The next time you see me, I will no longer be breathing.
You have asked me many questions, and I have answered few. However, I can tell you this:
Life goes in a cycle, and forever will. Death exists to regulate the amount of people existing at one point. Myself, and soon you, exist to keep the balance between deserving and undeserving people, the employed and the placeholders. There is no way for a person to change their position in this world, except for the two positions of living and dead.
This isn’t right.
While most things are hereditary, sometimes I think it doesn’t seem fair that people don’t get a choice in where they are born or what they do. For the past 51 years, I’ve been sending commands to change entire physical beings of ‘placeholders’ completely against their will.
Do they deserve it? The answer that I know is true escapes me more and more.
I am forgetting what I believe, and I can’t take it.
Don’t forget.
The name signed at the bottom is illegible.
In a while, the letter will still rest high on a metal shelf in a dark storeroom located at the back of the Barter’s place of residence and work. Almost the entire paper will be yellowed with mold, and it will not have been touched in decades. Dust will cover it, so thick that only a couple words are visible enough to read.
There will be a new Barter by then.
This Barter will not have anything to forget.
Occasionally, I wept. More often, I did not.
I still--
“Yes, yes, her nose looks just perfect, I am ready.” The lady came here often. I might recognize her if she didn’t look different every time.
“Ah, XX-12-301, belongs to building four. Medical information the same?”
“Yes.”
“Address the same?”
“Yes.”
“Employment changes?”
“No.”
“One moment.” I always give them time to think, to decide against their swap.
I still live in the sa--
The order finishes processing. “Place your thumb here and hold for three seconds.”
She presses her thumb to the screen for just over two seconds.
“Your order has been sent, you will be picked up for reassignment tomorrow after business hours.”
“Good day.”
“Good day.”
I still live in the same house, but not the same room. My room is larger and my significance is larger. My thoughts are still only thoughts, and have still changed nothing.
I don’t want--
“Sir, XY-43-27 is not available for reassignment to those holding positions lower than professors.”
“I’ve been saving tickets for months, now you’re telling me I can’t get those legs?”
“I’m sorry sir, hierarchy rules and all. Complaints can be filed to the City Council.” Nobody ever files complaints.
I don’t want to forget.
…
You go there quite often, the Barter’s place. After all, you’ve done a lot in your life as a politician, so you definitely deserve the fine swaps made available by your ticket income and the placeholder class. Business is often quick, though there’s always a few minutes of waiting. A woman just ahead of you orders a nose trade from a young, female placeholder, already looking dreadfully malformed. You can’t help but scoff at that; the rare placeholder that is born beautiful is destined to a life becoming more and more hideous.
Not that they don’t deserve it, though, you remind yourself as the line moves forward. Placeholders are lazy, jobless beings, so their purpose is assigned to them. Hard-working, employed people like yourself have earned this privilege of ousting their physical flaws.
You really want those blue eyes; the hazel ones have become a bit of a bore.
The order of the man in front of you is rejected by the Barter, on the terms that the man occupies a job with lesser value than that of a professor. You sigh, glancing at the watch wrapped around the beautiful brown skin you swapped for your own a couple years ago. Fortunately, the man does not look for satisfactory legs from a placeholder available to him, instead choosing to stomp away. Finally, it is your turn.
The Barter has always been a bit spacey, at least as long as you’ve lived in this area. You snap your fingers in front of the unfocused eyes in front of you, and the Barter looks up.
“I don’t want to forget.”
…
A letter rests high on a metal shelf in a dark storeroom located at the back of the Barter’s place of residence and work. The edges are turning yellow with mold, and the paper itself hasn’t been touched in decades. Dust covers it in a layer so thick that it is difficult to read the ink words gracing the note’s surface:
To my child,
The next time you see me, I will no longer be breathing.
You have asked me many questions, and I have answered few. However, I can tell you this:
Life goes in a cycle, and forever will. Death exists to regulate the amount of people existing at one point. Myself, and soon you, exist to keep the balance between deserving and undeserving people, the employed and the placeholders. There is no way for a person to change their position in this world, except for the two positions of living and dead.
This isn’t right.
While most things are hereditary, sometimes I think it doesn’t seem fair that people don’t get a choice in where they are born or what they do. For the past 51 years, I’ve been sending commands to change entire physical beings of ‘placeholders’ completely against their will.
Do they deserve it? The answer that I know is true escapes me more and more.
I am forgetting what I believe, and I can’t take it.
Don’t forget.
The name signed at the bottom is illegible.
In a while, the letter will still rest high on a metal shelf in a dark storeroom located at the back of the Barter’s place of residence and work. Almost the entire paper will be yellowed with mold, and it will not have been touched in decades. Dust will cover it, so thick that only a couple words are visible enough to read.
There will be a new Barter by then.
This Barter will not have anything to forget.
Emily Pottebaum says, "Barter describes a future civilization in which the employed can swap body parts with the unemployed as a reward for their work." Emily is a 12th grade student from Adel-DeSoto-Minburn High School.
Emily does a good job at creating a dystopian sci-fi world in which your status gives you the ability to trade physical features with another person. Editor Ranelle Irwin says, "Instead of a typical narrative, with a main character and a beginning, middle, and end, we have a series of three related pieces. The reader has to figure out how they go together. This was a bold move, and it made 'Barter' stand out from the other fiction pieces we received this year."
Emily does a good job at creating a dystopian sci-fi world in which your status gives you the ability to trade physical features with another person. Editor Ranelle Irwin says, "Instead of a typical narrative, with a main character and a beginning, middle, and end, we have a series of three related pieces. The reader has to figure out how they go together. This was a bold move, and it made 'Barter' stand out from the other fiction pieces we received this year."
