Year 9 students Kimberly and Frederick have been writing Dystopian narratives using structural techniques that they have learned over the course of this LP by studying other Dystopian works by famous authors such as âRepent, Harlequin!â Said the Ticktockman by Harlan Ellison. AÂ dystopian narrativeÂ tells a story about an imaginary future that is an anti-utopia.
You can see the student’s work below:
– Alone by Kimberly
This place is a wasteland. A dump. A place where dreams come to die. Yet here I am, alone in a world that was destined to die long ago.
âIs this a blessing or a curse?â
That is the question I continue to ponder as I set up camp in a dilapidated church, the pew on which I am resting rotting beneath me. Is it a blessing or a curse that I continue to live on? Is it a blessing or a curse that I have to struggle for the bare necessities day after day? Is it a blessing or a curse that I was immune?
âAs of now, the virus known a âBlazeâ has become a worldwide epidemic. âBlazeâ is the most deadly virus in human history and will most likely be the most deadly virus we shall ever face. At this time, there is no cure for this virus and members of the public are advised to quarantine those diagnosed with âblazeâ
As my mother came into the room and turned off the T.V, I was left stunned, near catatonic at the news that had just been thrust upon my twelve year old self. That was the day my âoldâ life ended and my ânewâ life began.
In a matter of weeks, everybody I knew slowly faded away. First the insanity set in and then the paranoia and then the fits of murderous rage and then, finally, death. The âBlazeâ destroyed families and eventually nobody was left, nobody except me. So I ask you once again, is this a blessing or a curse?
I woke to an uncomfortable sensation on my cheek, almost as if something was dripping from the ceiling. I raised my hand to my face only to see that it had become slickened with blood. Drip. Drip. Drip. After composing myself, I gathered what little courage I had remaining and raised my head to see who or whatâs blood was now on my face. I reclined my neck and hanging from the cross on the ceiling, was a man. Crucified. Dead as the doornails connecting him to the wooden structure. Crows were at his feet, pecking at loose flesh and drawing blood from the dead soulâs corpse.
This was enough to encourage my stomach to eject what little contents it held.
âWell, Iâm never sleeping in a church again,â I declared to myself.
By the orange pattern on his neck that loosely resembled a crossword puzzle, I could tell that this man fell victim to the âBlazeâ. Stage three by the colour of the rash. See, each stage of âBlazeâ resulted in a different coloured rash. Stage one, insanity, left a rash that resembled pale scar tissue. Stage two, paranoia, came with a bright yellow rash. Stage three, murderous rage, is of course orange. Followed by stage four, death, accompanied by blood red line covering the deceasedâs body.
– Arthur by Frederick Starkey
Amidst the baron wasteland that infected the landscape, Arthur clutched the necklace in his left hand.
Oh wait, sorry. I forgot to tell you. Middle first. Beginning after. The end will end as it always does.
Arthur realised that in order to survive in this new unforgiving world, he had to find food and water swiftly. Are there any other people that have survived? I donât know. He doesnât know. You donât know. Nobody knows. All I know is that he survived.
With every step the next one got more difficult. All that was there was a land that was brown and yellow and green and everything that you can think of that is disgusting. He saw a green dot in the distance. Grass, perhaps? If thatâs so then that means water. The dry land cracked as Arthur paced through it going more than twice as high as he normally would every time he jumped, which confused him. However he didnât think about it because he needed water. Screams from the ground could be heard from miles away.
Then, he saw it.
One, lonely, blade of grass. It stood tall against the foreboding wasteland. He dug. Arthur clawed his way through the dehydrated crust. The arid air sucked water out of his skin like a vacuum. He put his ear above the ditch he made. There was nothing. Then he heard drip, drip, drip. He punched through the bedrock.
A hundred punches later, his arm plummeted through. It was too dark to see anything. Ignoring everything that was said about going down without seeing where you are going, he stood up and kicked so the hole would be big enough to go through.
It was quite deep, however; not deep enough for any injuries. He looked up. All he could see was the orange hole he came down from. He ran his dehydrated hands along the wet walls which made him jump. Without hesitating, he put his mouth against the walls and drained it of the life giving liquid. Blind to whatâs ahead of him, Arthur slowly and carefully crept forwards.
All he needs now is food. The only sense he can rely on now is hearing. A leaf waving, or an animal shrieking. Every five minutes, he would stop, not make a sound and listen. Just listen. Every time he hoped for something or someone would make a noise. He needed food.
Then, nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Arthur sat down in defeat, accepting his demise.
Now the beginning.
âArthur and Helen Michaels to Passport Inspection Twelve, please,â said the speaker. They werenât going anywhere. Well, they were. But not on a plane. They were going into a nuclear bunker, but that was all they knew.
Arthur grabbed Helenâs hands as the down-hill escalator slowly pulled them into a void. The pressure around them pushed through their ears, desperately trying to make equilibrium.
âALERT. ALERT. ALERT. ALERT.â Screams of ecstasy and fumble infected the densely populated yet lonely grey, concrete emptiness. The screams continued for what felt like years.
Silence. Then shaking.
Arthur shook on the ground. It must have been a magnitude ten strength earthquake. Dust rained down from above, as if the concrete was crying. All that could be seen was the blood-red coloured alert lights and the frantic people below.
Police commanded everyone to get in their cryo-pods. âNumber fifty-seven and fifty-eight. Fifty-seven and Fifty-eight!â Arthur and Helen perilously clambered, counting the numbers of each cryo-pod as they went by. They found their numbers. They each got into their cryo-pods.
At least, they tried to.
Arthurâs opened easily, and he got in, and had already set everything up. The doors of the pod locked air-tight shut. Nothing was getting in, nothing was getting out.
âCryo-freezing activating in T- thirty seconds.â
âArthur, are you prepared to be asleep for three hundred years?â
âYesâ, Arthur confidently and happily said.
âT- fifteen seconds.â
Arthur finally saw that Helen couldnât open hers. Knowing it was too late, he looked on in sorrow and regret.
In defeat and with tears rolling down her face, she walked over to Arthurâs pod. Arthur was screaming but she couldnât hear him. She mouthed âI love youâ to him and then a scorching blaze came crashing through the bunker.
Just before she vaporised, Arthur went into hibernation. One last tear fell down his cheek then crystallised, being frozen in the same place for three hundred years.
Steps could heard above as drops of water mauled Arthurâs face.
Arthur could hear faint voices from above. He screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
âDo you hear that?â said the unknown people.
He screamed again.
âLetâs check it out.â
They noticed the hole that Arthur made hours before. Footsteps grew louder and louder until they found him.
âAre you ok?â said one of the men.
âFood. I needâŠ.food.â Arthur begged desperately.
Arthur ripped off the flesh like a rabid dog. Saliva drooled from his lips. The men guided him back out the cave, helping him out as he was pulled up by men that stayed at the top.
âWhatâs your name?â
âWell, Arthur, would you like to come with us to our base?â
âIf I donât, I die. If I do, I still die, but Iâll last a little longer at least.â
âYouâre not wrong there!â