#collaborativefiction

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Darkness, Year 12

You know that saying? Something about a tree falling in a forest? Well, I'm that tree. We all are, really. Every member of Emora.

It's night here, now. Has been for years. We make jokes about how it will never end -- the darkness. Sometimes, they aren't that funny. And most days, I can't even remember the sky being light.

But that's neither here, nor there. Emorans are known for their adaptability. It's how we've survived for so long, after we were lost.

The planet has adapted, too. I can't help but smile as I look out at the luminous plants and animals; even we have developed glowing tattoos, enhancing our body with light. My mother says it reminds her of a rave, neon colors swirling, like magic. I've never been to a rave, but I like the way the light meets the dark. It looks like hope.

Not that I would ever say that aloud. Hope is a fleeting feeling here. We used to have lots of hope, before the dark years. Before we were lost. But now...we don't have time for those kinds of emotions. Our time is spent adapting, surviving.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me sad, to see so many people afraid. Afraid to have fun, or feel joy...afraid to really live.

So yes, Emorans are survivors. But that doesn't make us brave.

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“Aurora!” The sound bounded through the forest, startling the girl as she capped her pen. Her mother wouldn’t wait much longer before serving dinner.

She jumped up, journal in hand and bounded down the hill. She’d grown accustomed to the darkness, moving swiftly through it with skilled expertise. If she was honest, some days it was even a comfort to her.

She barreled into the house, kicking off her shoes and tossing the notebook to the side. She slid into the kitchen with seconds to spare, as her mother began distributing the meal.

Clambering into her seat, Aurora waited patiently for the slop her mother had stewed over all evening.

“Thank you, momma,” she said, as her mother spooned some of the grey goo onto her plate. Her mother grunted, moving to the next plate.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you sneak in at the last minute, Aurora,” she said, finally scraping the rest of the food -- a meager portion -- onto her plate. “What were you doing out at this time?”

Aurora sighed, spooning the grey slop around on her plate. It wasn’t pretty, or tasty, but it kept them alive. “Just writing,” Aurora said, looking down.

Her mother’s weary eyes looked at her sadly. “All you do is write,” she said, slowly picking up her spoon. “Writing is a convenience we can’t afford, Aurora. As soon as you’re old enough, you’ll have to get a real job.”

Aurora knew this was her mother’s desire for her, it always had been. It was the rite of passage for any Emoran, at age sixteen you get a job and help to provide. Being 15 and half, every day felt like one step closer to a noose around her neck.

But she couldn’t say any of this to her mother, with her bad back and hands worn to the bone. All she did was work hard to give them a good life. Aurora couldn’t disappoint her.

She stood, handing half of her slop to her mother. “I’m not very hungry,” she said, with a small smile.

Her mother’s eyes were too soft, too kind, as she reluctantly spooned the remainder onto her plate. “Can’t let it go to waste,” she said quietly.

Aurora pretended not to see the tears in her eyes. “Yea,” she said, her tone clipped, feigning teenage angst. “I’m going to go to my room.”

Her mother nodded and she began to leave the room, a few of her brothers pushing past her. How she managed to be the only girl in a house full of boys, she’d never understand.

Aurora darted to her room, closing the door quickly so that she could have a little privacy. One advantage of being the only girl -- she had the room to herself.