The year is 2045 and man has made some amazing discoveries. In 2015 a new planet appeared, or at least what man thought was a new planet. It seemed to come out of nowhere. NASA was quick to send up a space shuttle, only to discover that this new 'planet' was really a large ship. The ship was inhabited by an entire race of people, what mankind mistakenly considered barbarians. They were rough around the edges, seemed uneducated. They still relied on medieval methods of construction and farming. So men from Earth brought some of these aliens home. They sought to teach them, only to find out that the people they'd found were in fact much more advanced than they had seemed.
These people, in the course of a year, had completely invaded the Earth. They had mechanisms to destroy electric systems and shoved mankind back into a later age. Over the next decade, mankind learned to coincide in some sort of compromise with the alien race. However, the peoples of Earth had one things they did not...they had women. As the stronger of the two races, they simply took the women they wanted to repopulate their own dying race. The people of Earth protected their women as best they could. They hid their daughters in cellars and attics. They dressed them as boys. They married them off at young ages.
The following are journal entries from the female lead. I will still be looking for a partner. I'd consider playing either the female, or the male 'barbarian'. There are many ways this story could go and I'm up for discussing it.
October 30, 2045
I turned twenty today, and have filled three of these little blank books with my meaningless words and drawings. It’s 10:00 am. I know it, because the sun is shining at just the right angle to slip through the cracks in the boards and let a little light slip in. Mya is up and dancing in the rays, absorbing every drop of sunlight. Her tiny fingers are outstretched to catch the shifting dust motes, and I have about an hour and a half to write before the darkness comes back.
I can count on one hand the number of times, in twenty years, I have been outdoors. The memories of it flood me and I scribble the grass and the trees as best as I can remember. The black and white sketches capture the fading, dusty visions.
I wait for my family to come in from the fields. My brothers may come down, mud streaking their cheeks and dirt under their nails. They’ll stay in the darkness with us for a while and complain about the heat of the sun, the hard, tough soil, the rain and the wind.
Not that I don’t enjoy the moments of conversation with them. Conversation I can’t quite achieve with little Mya. Still, I wait for my mother. She’ll be down soon after the boys, warm food in her hands and a lantern slung around her wrist. The soft light brings everything into a sharper focus, and Mya’s red hair shows a dull shine. For a bit of water and soap, a handful more sunshine, and it would glimmer and glow like a flame. Mother says my hair is the same, but I don’t know.
I’m twenty today, and I’ve never looked in a mirror. I’ve never seen my red hair, or my porcelain white skin in a mirror’s reflection. I’ve never seen the color of my eyes, or what my smile looks like.
I wait for my mother to come down to us. She’ll eat with us and tell us stories. Not tales of the field or the hard work that leaves her bent like a cane. No, her stories are of the before. Before men, and their superior thinking took on the cosmos in search of other life. Before they found it and brought it home with them. Before the war, and destruction. Before girls were hidden in cellars. Before the dark.
November 3, 2045
I haven’t written for a few days. Mother has me teaching Mya to read and write. We practice her letters on scraps of paper, and I draw pictures with words beneath them. Mya has little interest in any of this, and even when I try to make it a game, she would rather me just tell her the stories.
Oh those stories. I don’t have any of my own, so I take them from mother, and tell them again and again to Mya. She’s heard them since she was born, and still, she isn’t bored by them. It would amaze me I suppose if I didn’t feel the same way.
I told her today about the space ship. I told her how it took off in a fiery blast to outer space, with a handful of men aboard. They were on a mission to check out a new planet, one never seen before. It was almost as if this huge place had just appeared out of thin air. I told her how the ship landed there, and found out it wasn’t a planet, but in fact, was a much, much larger ship than our own. I told her about the men they met there, and how they called them “barbarians”.
Oh of course Mya asked the same question she always does. “What are barbarians?”
I still don’t know how to answer her. I could tell her we thought they were uneducated, ignorant, almost-human-like people. I could tell her we brought them back here to teach them, educate them, make them more like us. I could tell her we completely underestimated them.
None of those make a good end to the story, so I ignore her until she gets fed up asking and moves on to her pillow pile in the corner with her dolls and bears and other such stuffy creatures.
November 4, 2045
I remember hearing footsteps bang across the floor. It was the middle of the day, not long after the sun had passed by its point of allowing us some light. So, I shouldn’t have heard steps, nevertheless, running steps. The cellar door creaked open and in the flash of light I could barely see the outline of my brother’s head.
He whispered in between gasping in great lung-fulls of air. We were to be silent, there was company.
With his message delivered the door slipped back into place. I knew from up there, the kitchen, the door was invisible. A rug covered most of it, but the rest looked just like the slats of wood that made up the rest of the floor. No one coming in would just spot it and say, “A-ha, so that is where you are hiding them!” No, the issue lay with Mya.
Keeping myself quiet was no big issue, but keeping a bouncing five year old silent is another story all together. Especially, when I had no idea how long I would have to keep her quiet for. So I told her it was time for our quiet game, and we cuddled on her pillow pile and pretended to be princesses hiding from the evil dragon.
Heavy boots clomped across the kitchen floor, making dust sift down onto us.
The dragon was at the door to its cave, and we were hiding in the back of it.
I heard chairs scrape as they were pulled out and weight shift on them as people sat down. Glasses clinked and my mother’s voice could be heard as a soft hum of noise.
Smoke curled through the cave as the heavy breathing of the dragon blew past us, and we sat there silently, waiting for it to pass by.
It seemed forever that we were there, and I was thankful that in waiting for the “dragon” to leave, Mya had fallen asleep. I didn’t dare move, and my arm was asleep under her. My own eyes closed and I fought to keep them open until at last the room above us emptied and my mother slipped down into our “cave”.
She told us it was safe again, and when I asked her who it was she ignored me. “They asked a lot of questions, but it’s fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.” That’s what she said. Fine. Three times fine. Everything’s fine, and so she was back out the door and I suppose out to the fields while I sat in the dark and thought about my mother’s lies.
November 6, 2045
There are soldiers in our home. Their tents are in our fields. Their boots stomp across the floor above us and send down showers of dirt and dust. I am forced to keep quiet at all times, to keep Mya quiet as well.
A scrap of paper fell through the crack in the floor yesterday and I had to wait until this morning to read it. My mother says she will get us food and water as soon as she can. Our stomachs growl and protest and Mya is restless. Hell, I’m restless.
I hear the rumbling voices of the men above me, in a language I wouldn’t understand even if there were not thick wooden boards between us.
We have enough water left for tomorrow at least, but it is stale and dusty. I’ve covered the bucket with a blanket, but it was probably too late. The bottom of the bucket is surely nothing but mud now.
I can’t drink mud. Neither can Mya.
November 7, 2045
There are no more notes from my mother. No food, no water. Mya spiked a fever last evening and she still lays there tossing and turning in her pillow pile. I cover her mouth with my hand when she moans or cries out, her fevered dreams tormenting her. I have given her the last of the good water, and used the undrinkable to keep her cool.
I wish my mother were here. I don’t know what to do.
November 8, 2045
The men are still here and Mya is worse. I keep watching the stairs and thinking that all I need to do is walk up there and get my mother. Mother can help. She’ll know how to make Mya better.
I have to make a decision, and I’m not good at decisions. I don’t know what I’m about to do.