Reap What You Sew
By P. L. Riven
Blood blurs my vision, cakes my nails, and coats my tongue. Macabre work warrants a droning rhyme. “Pull my string, I unravel. Stitch my skin, pull me in.” Nimble fingers pull joints apart, sew holes closed, and package “products.”
“Attention. Arms required.”
“Pull my string, I unravel.”
I tug the cord holding a female Ingredient’s shoulder in place. It unwinds. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t scream. No Ingredient ever does. The socket releases its precious merchandise and shoots blood in my eyes. I stuff ice packs bearing the name Hornsby around her arm in a black box.
“Stitch my skin, pull me in.”
Without thought, my fingers sew the hole closed. I’ve no sooner freed the needle before the chant renews.
I yearn for each word to pierce my eardrums, to release my liquefied brain, to save me. Relief never comes. Words batter, harm, rally, and curse, but sadly lack physicality. I, like those sweating and hemorrhaging against me, have a destiny.
We are captives. Damned. Unaltered. I sleep and eat alongside my victims.
The Fountain of Youth’s billion-dollar secret isn’t its best-selling lipstick, “Ponce Pink,” or Percival Hornsby’s nefarious business savvy. Hidden deep inside the company barge, “Jacobin-Cradle,” Ingredients dismember bodies. Boxes of chilled eyes, hands, legs, hearts, livers, and kidneys are sent to the production department. There they are labeled, priced, and repackaged into brown paper covered boxes tied in pink ribbon.
“Unwrap your forever,” the motto says. Holding body parts in my hands, I’m reminded, immortality is available—for the right price.
My life before is all but erased. Has it been a month, a year, a decade, or a century since I joined these hapless half-people? All I know is my stomach turns as I breathe the container’s stench and I gag at the metallic taste of blood hanging in the air.
I wade through red-brown pools lumped with urine as the smell of infested latrines send waves of bile up my throat. Strip lights illuminate the steel tomb giving its ceiling the look of time-lapse highway photography. Small vents offer just enough ventilation to guarantee viable products. When The Fountain of Youth requires merchandise, our prison bathes in the Tube’s display--urgent messages on its digital black and red screen. An unnatural electronic voice reinforces each order.
Ingredients follow with robotic obedience.
Three stages exist: Work, Eat, and Sleep. And if Recruitment did its job, Ingredients are proper worker bees. They stop their grisly tasks only at the Tube’s behest when it directs them to “Keep Ingredients Growing” or to “Keep Ingredients Fresh.” Eat and Sleep respectively.
At night, we sleep—or maybe it’s midday. In my mind, it’s night. I picture a waning moon. I can’t remember its hue, so I paint it auburn. In the outside world, people said orange complimented my eyes. At least, I think they did. I’m uncertain what are true memories and what are imagined delirium. But I know I tire of thick red fountains pouring from chests and spurting from amputated limbs. My mind decays with thoughts. I don’t know why, but this rot must not seep into my actions, as the Tube hasn’t ordered my Disposal—yet.
“Pull my string, I unravel. Stitch my—”
Eyeballs dangle like stars from a mobile. One-legged Ingredients smash to the floor like felled trees. Unharvested organs spill from open abdominal cavities. A male Ingredient sprays the wall with rhythmic spurts from his arm stump, and having reached his body’s limit, bleeds out.
“Attention.” Fingers stop mid-stitch. Glazed eyes, attached or hanging, turn to the Tube. “Disposal required.”
Corroded gears click, revealing the concealed door. Sweet air floods the sweatshop. Ingredients stumble, blinded by day’s forgotten brightness. Two Ingredients tumble into the canal below. The fall doesn’t necessarily gift instant death. Those unlucky ones survive the experience of the water’s cleansing effects on their brains—their humanity returns. Gruesome memories of their actions as Ingredients drown exhausted minds until their malnourished bodies succumb.
“Disposal complete.” The door closes. “Attention. Hearts required,” the Tube says.
Without hesitation, the chant resumes. “Pull my…” Donors and Harvesters pair.
I have to find one! Panic-stricken, I search in vain, understanding what failure means.
The container echoes with cracking chests.
“…string.”
Donors convulse. Harvesters drip their counterparts’ blood, but the intoning stays steady. My sewing needle clinks on the floor.
I’m running out of time. I slip on warm syrup. Get up!
“I unravel.” The Harvesters seize beating hearts. I curl beneath a trembling body.
Just a little longer. I’ve almost made it.
Footsteps beat behind me. I wipe my face of emotion. It’s gone.
“…my skin,” Ingredients say.
Searing pain numbs me. My life force pours from the gaping hole exposing my butchered entrails.
“Pull me…”
I gasp. My lips form soundless words.
Gears groan. The metal door rolls on itself. Daylight illuminates not an Ingredient, but a man with hate-filled eyes.
My bowels snake into the brown paper box at his feet, striping it crimson. With a cynical laugh, the man ties a pink bow and attaches a heart-shaped tag reading “VIP.”
My body crumples under his steel-toed kick. I’m falling. I tread water and buoy myself with a floating leg. My victims’ body parts, bottles etched with my name, and boxes bearing my company’s logo orbit me. Polluted water overflows my screaming mouth. Hard swallows lump in my throat.
From above, the man spits in my direction and barks, “Disposal complete, Mr. Hornsby!”
I recognize my son. His voice croaks the way that all Hornsby men’s do. I remember my own old man’s deposition—he had slipped below the water with a plastered smile.
I smile now—I’m a proud father.
P. L. Riven is a contemporary fantasy author and historian with over 15 years of experience. With a mastery in deep characterization, snappy dialogue, and immersive storytelling, she is a force to be reckoned with in the world of fantasy literature.
Inspired by literary legends like Jane Austen and contemporary authors such as Neil Gaiman and V. E. Schwab, P. L. Riven's passion for storytelling has been fueled by a love for role-playing video games and her father's fascination with fantasy and sci-fi literature. Drawing inspiration from mythology, religion, and supernatural lore, P. L. creates dynamic secondary worlds that transport readers to new realms of imagination.
Her impressive writing skills have earned her first place in her category at the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge and ongoing success in NaNoWriMo since 2018. She's honed her craft through studies with industry professionals at UCLA Extension and the prestigious Futurescapes program. She is an active member of the Atlanta Writers Club. She's also been a featured guest on podcasts, YouTube interviews, Word Sleuth’s Word Improv, presented “Character as Setting” at the Imaginarium Convention. Additionally, she’s attended the invitational Furturescapes program multiple times.
She resides in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband and two children.
