Disius 9: 365-Day Novel

Lavender and gray skies streaked with wisps of thin clouds played as a backdrop to miles and miles of black rock mountains. Fields of ombridge root showed themselves ripe for harvest by the white cottony flowers that sprouted from their stems and danced in a breeze that promised a silt storm was about to roll over the mountains.  Silvery rivers snaked through ocher and white soil feeding rows of sickle trees. The rough conical plants looked like needles spiking out of the earth from where he stood so high up.

Disius 9 still seemed so wild and hopeless from certain vantage points. From seventy stories high walking down a mile long stretch of hallway in the upper rooms of Congress, things seemed nothing short of hopeless for Denim. He encouraged himself that he would get through this. He was a survivor after all.

~    ~    ~

It took Denim less than the planned twenty minutes to reach his destination. Closing his eyes, settling his breath, he entered his father’s conference room. Ten faces, a mixed number of men and woman, rounded an oval table. All of their eyes fell upon him the moment he’d entered. The room that had been abuzz with light chatter fell coldly silent the moment he made his presence known.

Many of the Governors gave disapproving looks at the shabby appearance of the Congressman’s son. Some covered their noses at the offensive scent of fertilizer that plagued his skin, while others stifled appalled gasps.

Denim chewed his lips to keep from smiling, his obsidian eyes meeting each of theirs. They’d all known he was suspended from RRS and sent to the farms. They had not known that he had shrugged the ‘punishment’ of being a supervisor aside and took to being an actual farming hand as Charis Joba was. Part of him had done so out of rebellion, his heart had moved him more than anything. His being punished to supervise farming would have caused a domino effect of demotion, something far too careless for him to participate in.

Standing in full farmer dress he knew he was a sight, his pride at being called to congress a second time had kept him from bathing, that and the simple fact he resented his father’s treatment of him. So, three-hundred rations had been stolen. That was less than what one of the Governors wasted in a three cycle span. The loss only meant they would have to take better care in how they played with their food.