The City

I sound very interesting. Good style and description. It has a lot of good points Keep it up!

I managed to read it all, its good. I can't tell you much more as I am rubbish at giving critz as you know. I didn't like read READ it, I just skimmed through it. I can't edit long stories, as I need to reread it over and over again and I just don't have time.

Its good. Hurry up with the next part.

Okay-I have decided to cut out chapter one completely. This is the next chapter (newly chapter one..)

Chapter One:
Concerning the Introduction of our first two Pragmatists, and their initial Escape from the Academies, Whereupon they Congregate Underground

It is important to make known that, as they were of no particular parentage, the youth of the nation were given names by a computer name-generator. This was a complex sort of machine, as it was important not to give two people living within close proximity the same last name. Therefore the infant must be, before fully made, given a location. At each span of one hundred years (though that was changed later as life forms began to age more slowly) the name-generator would skip back to the beginning and recycle the names of the dead.
Each pragmatist is quite near the same age, a novelty in itself, and as another oddity they were all shipped to the same location, thus making their findings far more simplistic.
Elliot James Parker (the one hundred and ninety-second) was of the fragile age of sixteen. He was of even temperament, and a quiet sort. Inquisitive and interested, he was set apart from his class from the beginning; even the droning instructors seemed to take note of this. He had had perfectly cut black hair, parted slightly to the side, at one point, though after his escape from the academy he let it grow so that it was longish, greasy and fairly shaggy, constantly getting in front of his piercing brown, poetic sort of eyes. He was the average height for a male, being five feet and ten inches.
In overlarge black shoes and longish, rather baggy Jean pants (an extremely outdated material, characterizing the fact that Elliot was of little material wealth), and a short-sleeved, worn navy T-shirt, he strode with a quiet sort of confidence down one of the many untitled tunnels beneath the City.
When he first escaped from his academy (well nigh two years before), Elliot made his way carefully to a poorer area of the City, a place so violent regular surveillance mods hadn’t even been issued, as they were always destroyed, and spy mods took their place. On those streets, he heard of the Tunnels, where many people still lived. For, rather than die, the people of the earth built many interlocking tunnels, and underground cities. Over time, though, those who hadn’t died came to live in a city directly below the City, where it was easy to raid for supplies. Now completely cemented, with synthetic sunlight, and in the wealthier areas, a synthetic sky, it was something light being above ground, but safer.
Not completely safe, though. There was still the gang, the Raiders, to avoid and pay homage to, as Elliot soon learned.
Now all but one of them, he knew the tunnels and the Underground, as it was called. Hands in his pockets, he made his way through them to meet with one of his friends, Forest Oakwood, known as Palmer.
He was called Palmer because he was a thief. This young man had never even known an academy; he was dropped by accident when being transported from a nursery to an academy. On the streets for almost seven years, he had learned to make his way well, from the pockets of other people. Somehow, for all those years he had managed to survive both above and below ground. As a youngster, he had unknowingly made an attempt to pickpocket the Raider’s leader, Tony Sanatos. Known as Muscles (and for a very good reason), it was a wonder Palmer hadn’t been killed then and there. But, miraculously, Muscles had taken pity on the ten-year-old, and let Palmer into his good graces. Though not an official member, he too was on good grounds with the Raiders.
Five years after the incident, he would meet with Elliot, carefree and regardless as the wind that thrashed outside the Synthetic-Ozone’s barriers. The two were destined to be best friends, to use an old term.
Elliot jogged to their “home,” the underground equivalent of a shoddie. With four thick, off-white plastic walls, a cement floor and an open roof, shoddie’s were built to house the extremely poor. Elliot and Palmer considered themselves to be extremely lucky to get one; the shelter had been a gift to Palmer years before, and as long as the youth paid their annual homage to the gang, their shoddie was left alone during the underground raids and pillages.
The shoddie was within a vast interlocking mass of tunnels, where rows upon row of shoddies existed in somewhat peaceful harmony. Theirs was a ways down the line, at least a six-mile walk from the tunnel’s beginning, and indeed it was miles away from the City semi-hidden entrance.
Elliot jogged for a few miles, then walked the rest of the way. He pulled his key from the pocket of his well-worn jeans (an almost pointless act) and unlocked the plastic door. He locked it behind him.
Palmer was already inside, making dinner from some dry goods he had likely stolen.
“’Lo, Palmer. How’d it go?” Elliot asked, referring to the Surface-Raid that had taken place that day.
“’Lo,” Palmer replied. “Look for yourself,” he nodded towards his bed.
Elliot looked, there the goods were piled high. He smiled halfway, and said, “Good. Looks like we’re set for awhile.”
“Sure does,” Palmer said, sitting up from the plain wooden chair. “Here, you stir for awhile!” Palmer looked slightly disgusted at the gooey mush in the clasp-iron pot, but they had both had worse, and mush was a far cry better than nothing.
The interior of the shoddie was simplistic by nature. It was, like all shoddies, ten by ten. There was a small cot at one end, and its like at the other. Still another cot was at the North wall. Across from it was a small cupboard, a table with three chairs, and thereupon was their food for the evening.
“How’d your thing go?” Palmer wanted to know, sifting through his goods.
“Not so great,” Elliot turned around, still holding the stirring spoon. “I just know there are others like us, Palmer. Others aboveground! I’ll find one, someday,” he said earnestly, pointing the spoon at Palmer.
“Yeah, I believe you,” Palmer said irreverently. “And if that’s your little mission, go for it, El, I don’t care.”
Elliot sighed resolutely, and went back to stirring. When the mush was mixed, he pulled two much over-used bowls and spoons from the cupboard, and served it up.
With his in hand, he sat down on the cot next to Palmer, and looked at the loot.
“What’re you gonna give to the Raiders for us?” he asked, only vaguely interested.
“I don’t know I got some techies, for a start,” Palmer said, sifting a few out.
“Technicals are always welcome with the Raiders,” Elliot said, picking up a few of the high-tech gadgets. “It’d sure be nice to keep some, though,” he added wistfully, fingering a holographic projector, complete with a screen for entertainment purposes and an Over and Under web.
“Right. Muscles would love that,” Palmer murmured. “Then there’s all this food, I figure we can keep that.”
“Food is good,” Elliot thought to say.
“Yeah, righto. Then I just got some money, still a considerable amount even after detracting the Raider’s ten percent.”
“Great,” Elliot said, picking up some of the above ground money. The bills bore the faces of the council members, but the tokens were what interested Elliot. He had always found them to be amazing things, in themselves, with their strange markings. Not to mention they were shiny.
Palmer bit his lip, thinking. “Techies and two hundred counsuelos for the Raiders, everything else gets stashed for us.”
“Right,” Elliot agreed, laying his head down gingerly on the pillow. He was incredibly tired, the soft pillow (old and shabby as it truly was) felt kinder than life itself, and though he considered changing into his “pajamas” or combing his hair, or perhaps even sticking the mouth-modulator over his teeth, he was too tired. Within moments, he was sound asleep.

Chapter Three:
In which our other two Pragmatists are Introduced, and we Relate the Tale of Bookkeeper



Jordan Tyler-accidentally given a generally male name by the name generator- had always seen herself as something of a misfit. The size 6 ½ shoes that had fit every other fifteen-year-old in her year squished her feet. Her eyes weren’t the normal shade of amber-brown, but rather a striking sort of violet. And unlike most girls, her hair wasn’t that dull shade of brown, but a deep ebony.
Her “friends” (assigned by the academy’s staff) were rather mediocre and plain looking compared to her, with little in the ways of original thought. She hated the gray skirts they had to wear, though no one else seemed to mind, and found the academy textbooks to be extremely contradictory to real life, and exceedingly boring.
As a result of her outgoing personality and need to voice her opinions, she spent a considerable amount of time confined to her cubicle.
She didn’t mind that so much, as long as she could snake a good book inside from their infrequent outings. Few were made that actually interested her, but pre-war classics still existed that were vibrant in detail and story.
In her earlier years Jordan had thought something was wrong with her, as she was more outstanding than others in facial features and shoe-size (indeed she’d thought that being a size eight made her almost boyish). But as time passed she began to wonder why she was the only one who, well, wondered.
She wondered why everyone and every thing had to be tampered with, why everyone besides her didn’t notice. She had always been taught that the academy was the only way of life, but at one point, Jordan began to think, “what would happen if I left this place?”
From her studies in textbooks generally disallowed (and thus contrived from various [illegal] sources), Jordan knew there to be a great city underneath the City. A metropolitan area below the ground for the extremely poor. Generally made up of those not chosen to live in the Synthetic Ozone at the “end of the world”, raiders and street gangs, criminals and ragamuffins congregated there.
If she could only escape the red-brick borders of the school, couldn’t she be free?
The question of actually escaping was the issue. She hadn’t seen a door leading out since starting school at the age of ten. She scarcely even remembered coming.
Jordan remembered being lead away from the nursery somberly, dressed in a gray frock with a black overcoat and hood, severe black shoes and long, ugly knit stockings. Upon approaching the school, she had felt quite intimidated, as it was several stories high, made purely of red bricks. What frightened her most was that she hadn’t seen a window.
She’d approached the two small, gray cement steps, and entered the building by a small iron side-door.
Which side? She couldn’t remember. She believed it was concealed so none would consider leaving. Even on their extremely infrequent outings, they went through an odd way under the school; a trapdoor that was always triple-bolt locked besides all the modern day security contrivances.
The more she thought about it, the more Jordan wanted to leave. She considered repeatedly leaving at a group outing, but that would be too suspicious and they were so rarely left alone. Besides, the next outing wasn’t scheduled until the new year!
Jordan couldn’t possibly wait that long. In her spare time (which was rare) she began to search for the door, but couldn’t find it.
Finally, the girl contrived a plan. Like Juliet in the classic, age old play (now long banned, but she had her sources), she would fake her own death.
She couldn’t wait much longer.
Being of a mechanical mind, she knew how to shock herself with a certain set of chemicals she had thought of in her Chemistry class. All of the tools she would need were in the science room. She would make it that evening, and be at the morgue by the next day.
God hope they didn’t bury her before she awoke.

* * *

Sage Green wasn’t generally outspoken, but preferred to keep to himself. Even so, his temperament was extremely unpredictable; ranging from quietly amused to angry to depressed in a matter of moments. An exceptionally intellectual sort, he was prone to fits of rhapsodizing, and would sit quietly on his cot for hours on end while Elliot went about on his usual (asinine, in Sage’s mind) business, and Palmer raided for their food.
They were a bizarre group, to be sure. Elliot worked for the UnGov (the government that controlled the underground) to get their actual money (as raids were only once a month or less). His duties generally included sweeping sections of cement and sometimes tending to the feeble crops.
So rents and taxes were paid, and the Raiders were sufficed, and altogether the three worked as a team, (as Sage pulled his part by thieving and spying aboveground to see what the current happenings were) and they were all fairly happy.
But something was so obviously missing. They knew of the troubles in the City, in fact they were of the few that knew, for they had lived it. But they lived a fairly decent life hidden away from it.
It wasn’t hard to be admitted into the underground. The entrances to the place were widespread, but one had to have connection as they weren’t easy to find. Hidden in alleyways and deserted shoddies, and leading directly to Supermarket or other buildings, one had to know where they were.
The people of the underground often raided the City, but this was greatly discouraged by the council as the punishment for a raider was death or worse, and it could be extremely easy to catch one.
Palmer had to create a fake I.D. and obtain City clothes. Raiding was a careful, learned procedure, and it required an excellent actor. He had to wear the formal suits that the businessmen wore to the factories, and keep that guarded, almost vacated look on his face. Thievery wasn’t easy, either, as goods were so well-watched. But he would get in line as monthly rations were handed out to the company workers all around town. He would steal from supermarkets and Wal*Marts (though the security system was tight, one tunnel came straight from a hidden place in the Men’s room).
When Sage stole, he preferred to wear the worn outfits of a City worker, and lift fruits from the marketplace or accept the free donuts that people were always offering him. (The City had brainwashed people to take good care of its workers; City workers were treated with utmost respect.)
Elliot himself didn’t thieve at all, it wasn’t his line of work. He preferred to spend his days soaking up knowledge from the Black Library (a hidden place of literary treasures). The Black Library had been formed many thousands of years earlier, when an old man had insisted his collection of classic and informative literature not be surrendered to the government, but rather hidden in a secret cove beneath his mansion, for all who would seek knowledge.
Elliot had first heard of this place a year before his age was marked sixteen. He had thought it too good to be true, but a young girl underground, upon inquiry as to where she’d gotten her book, had insisted that it was true, and gave him the address of the Library.
Age old man (trustworthy, and most assuredly a Glitch) who was known only as Bookkeeper, first inquired to Elliot’s purpose. When certain the boy was safe, and making sure to close the curtains, he led Elliot to the secret entrance, a secret door beneath a false bookcase (filled with Government books, no doubt).
A long, winding wooden staircase, kept in excellent maintenance, led down to the Black Library. Therein, Elliot saw a world beyond his dreams.
It was an extraordinarily large room, with richly patterned carpet in shades of navy blue, gray and red. There were rows and rows of books; some obtaining classic works of literature dating as far back as the fourteenth century-and earlier! Still some contained autobiographies and biographies, some were factual and thick as textbooks, telling history of a place before the City, and a government before that.
Then there were books of prose and fancy, stuff of fantasy and fiction and plays. And truly, each volume was in pristine condition.
“What happens if you lose this?” Elliot asked worriedly, holding up an obviously old and cherished book entitled “Around the World in 80 days.”
“Hem,” Bookkeeper said, “Well, we have see this bookpress here so’s we can make as many books as we like. Got quite a few of each already.” He looked at Elliot sternly. “Still, we require all books be returned! Not safe havin’ them flyin’ around here, not safe a’tall.”
Bookkeeper was an old man, with a downy white beard and a receded hairline. He was tall but thin, and wore suspenders and pants and shirt of a new fabric called Leprin, made to be extremely comfortable but durable.
“How many can I take at once,” an enraptured Elliot had asked, touching the backs of the volumes on the shelf and gazing as if star-struck.
“Now see here, boy, how should I trust you?” Bookkeeper asked.
Elliot looked at him through wide, innocent, yet oddly weathered eyes, and blinked slightly. “I don’t know,” he replied, eyebrows knit. He looked worried. “What would you like me to do?”
Bookkeeper analyzed the boy, then finally replied, “Nothin’, nothin’. I see it in yer eyes, you’re a good boy. Look around, there’s ages of wonders in this room.”
Elliot did, too. He was thrilled to find new loose-leaf books that seemed to have been written recently, and even more so to find ancient things from when people hadn’t worried so about the ozone, and finding a place in the City, or tunnels or government.
Finally he chose three books, one of history, one modern, and one classic.
“Can I take these,” he asked Bookkeeper, a bit later.
Bookkeeper took the books and walked behind his desks. He took three pliable book covers with Government labels on them, and stretched them over the novels. Then he put a sealer on the books, and locked them with a key which he gave to Elliot. Finally he placed them within a loose backpack, also Government labeled.
“Bring ‘em back,” Bookkeeper chided, as though Elliot had a bad record with such things. He had led the boy up the stairs, and through the door, instructing him not to voice this to a soul.
He hadn’t, except for Palmer and Sage. Palmer didn’t care much but Sage was fascinated, and Bookkeeper wasn’t surprised when Elliot returned the next day with a friend.

Mattie wrote:It was Farenheit 451.

Definately intersting. Dusky.. Bradbury's fahrenheit 451? that and it sounded a bit like the start of Orwell's 1984.. at least to me.

Generally, the use of second person in prologues such as this is fine, but i see the word "you" a few too many times for my taste. if you revise some parts without that "you", it will provide some sentence structure variation.

Also.. you don't need to lay it in quick so thick that it's the truth. makes a reader wary (unless you wish to do have the reader mislead.. assuming of curse they're the analytical type and looking for things such as this. In other words, tone it down a bit and it will sound much better).

ugh. The academy was a dull, drab place to spend one’s childhood come now! you can do better. yes.. the school's drab, but how so? no torches? zombies, eh?

ok.. this sounds a bit like a lecture about govermental structure.. only not. so the question would be do you know what the govermental structure is, inside and out? if you do, then you can write about it with full authority, not needing to explain everything, just write as you go. actually.. a lecture in general. spice it up a tad! nto much, as it wouldn't fit the style you're writing in, but it doesn't have to be drab.

last part I like.

It was Farenheit 451. I remember reading it in...seventh grade? Anyways, this was quite good Misty Lynn. Not too much to read, but not as interesting as I would have thought. It's a good idea, but kind of over used since there's already a book basically about the same thing as yours. I'm hoping to read more of it, get into it more because all you gave us was information. (Maybe not information, but explaining? It's on the tip of my tounge...the way you wrote it...can't think of the word...) Don't get me wrong, information is good, you just don't give enough action to help the reader along. In some parts you get a little boring. Like I said, it was the amount of information you gave that weighed it down. Hopefully you'll have some actual characters later on. Great idea, Misty, you should take it and run with it. I would also give you more critique, but I'm in a sort of writing slump myself, therefore it's hard...you understand? Dusky gave you wonderful critique though, use it to your advantage.

P.S: I hope you get more critiques/comments on this story. It's interesting if only someone would give it a chance.