Cindy Mezni's Blog: My Imaginary World(s) - Posts Tagged "ya"

The New Messenger (a Poisoned Iris short story)


It was just a picture and a few words painted in large letters on a building’s façade and signed “The She-Messenger.” Most people had probably ignored them. Maybe because they didn’t understand what was written—few people were able to read nowadays, whether it was English, the common language, or Greek. Or maybe they simply had more important things to do than ponder over the words of an idealist.

Something more important such as trying to survive in the hell that was Tartaros.

But Karl couldn’t ignore this woman’s work since he’d discovered the existence of two sentences: “Indifference and passivity are cancers that are spreading. Fight them before humanity is incurable.”

Given the content of this creation—the armed child, the devastated man holding ashes in his hands (possibly those of his house or someone of his family), and the famished-looking girl lost in a crowd disinterested in the fate of these people—the one who’d created this had surely done it well before the planet descended into chaos. She probably did it to denounce what was happening around the world and try to get a reaction out of at least one of Athens’ citizens or one of the many tourists coming from around the world to visit the cradle of civilization.

So The She-Messenger never had the Red Plague or the bloody war between the Infecteds, the Non-Infecteds, and the Soon-Infecteds in mind when she’d painted this. Yet this cry of distress was more than ever topical in this city filled with poverty, hatred, selfishness, violence, and death.

The woman hidden behind those words was certainly no longer alive, so she couldn’t try to raise awareness in Tartaros.

But Karl was there, and he was taking the helm.
Oh, he was a realist, of course. What he would do wasn’t much; maybe it would never touch anyone.

But if someone, just one person, got his message, then he’d have succeeded in his mission.

And after all, doing something was always better than doing nothing at all.

Standing on a roof facing the upper part of a building visible to all of the surrounding blocks, Karl stepped back a little to contemplate the huge painting he’d just finished.

With a sense of accomplishment, he put the finishing touches on his work by signing it with an “M” and an arrow-brush crossing the letter diagonally.

Today, The Messenger was born, and his first missive had just been delivered.

Everyone’s Fault (a Poisoned Iris short story)


His tailing had led him to a roof, where his target was staring at a huge painting depicting the face of a man half-gang member, half-Ravisher. Or maybe it was a Spotter. Stelios didn’t know.

What he did know, however, was that he hadn’t expected the kid who’d stolen the few tartars Demi had given him to be living on the top of a building with just a blanket, a bag, and a big picture painted on the facade of the building across the street as his only company. He’d been certain it was a Pilferer, a child either sold by his or her family or a runaway that the gangs used as a pickpocket, informer, or both. It turned out that this child was actually a Shadow, one of the young orphans who populated the streets. Maybe he hadn’t eaten for a while and this stolen money probably was his only hope to finally have something in his stomach... but Stelios had no choice. Demi, the old woman from the Refuge, counted on him to bring the drugs needed for some kids who were victims of the flu epidemic that was running rampant.

In addition to the fact that lives were at stake, he couldn’t disappoint the only woman, no, the only person who’d helped him without asking for anything in exchange.

“You gotta give back what you took,” Stelios finally said in a firm voice.

The child jumped before standing up hastily and turning around. The boy—who was actually a girl in spite of her dirty and very short blond hair—looked at him with big, frightened blue eyes.

“How—” the child stammered, looking bewildered.

She surely wasn’t used to finding herself face to face with one of her victims. Most probably realized the wrongdoing far too late. Shadows were known to be quick, skillful, and discreet, hence their name.

“I was a Pilferer. Among thieves, we recognize each other.”

The kid cast a quick glance toward the big picture, and when her face snapped back to his, her expression had gone from fear to rage.

“I am not like those of the gangs!” she said, offended.

It was Stelios’ turn to feel irritation surging through him.

“Really? The Pilferers steal, Shadows too, where’s the difference?”

“I—Gang people—they are...”

“Bad?” he suggested, guessing where she was going with it.

She nodded. Annoyed by this little thief, who claimed that all those who were in gangs were bad just because it was written on a wall with words and signs of the Street Dialect that Tartaros was hell because of them, Stelios approached her until there were just a couple of inches between them. Without a word, he held out his hand, palm open. She gave him his money back without giving him a hard time, rightly judging that she wasn’t a match for him.

“Gang people, as you say, aren’t any worse than all the others. They’re just people trying to survive like you. And contrary to what your damn drawing says, if this city is as it is, it’s everyone’s fault. Those who do nothing to stop those who do bad things are just as guilty as them.”

The kid looked at him, her face unreadable. Considering that their conversation was over and he got his tartars back, Stelios turned around and headed for the door leading to the inside of the building.

The door barely closed behind him before he froze, his last words echoing in his head. What a hypocrite he was. He preached great moral lessons but stood there, leaving behind a starving girl who was living in the street.

Sighing, he went back on the roof.

“Have you ever heard of the Refuge?” he said to her.

Difference Is Not a Crime (a Poisoned Iris short story)


Five words above a painting. Nothing more, nothing less. It shouldn’t have that much impact on my life, yet this sentence had been in the back of my head since the first time I’d seen it in my fourteenth year. That was the day I finally had been brave enough to go on our building’s roof, which my brother had made me discover on my birthday several weeks earlier.

“Welcome to our little corner of freedom, lil’ sister,” Memphis had told me before laughing, as he rarely did, when he’d seen my more than enthusiastic reaction.

I’d believed with all my heart that it was true while we were lying down and enjoying the sun before the sky had gotten cloudy and it’d begun to rain.

Even though this place was always synonymous with freedom, something inside me had changed after discovering these words on a Penia 37 building, written in red capitals by one person, then barred in black by another.

“Difference is not a crime.”

A statement. A cry in the world. A truth.

A lie to me. Because I’d realized at this very moment that, in reality, although our apartment and this roof had no bars, if I were in theory free to leave whenever I wanted, I was indeed in a prison and sentenced to stay in it until the end of my life.

Because I was different from those who lived outdoors, and this difference would get me executed if anyone saw me outside.

It was as if I’d committed the most abominable acts when I’d never asked to be born as I was. When I’d never asked to be born on this side of the Styx Sea, far from the city of Elysion where the Non-Infecteds like me were living. When I’d never asked for skin that wasn’t like the Infecteds of Tartaros.

I might not know who the person hidden behind those words was, if they’d lived before or after mankind had entered in this new era, if that sentence had been inspired by their color, their religion, their origin, their sexual orientation, or even because they were born without the Red Plague, like me, but I knew they were wrong.

Because difference should never be a crime. But sadly, it was one.

For those of you who didn't know yet, my YA dystopia "Poisoned Iris" is out!

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...

https://www.amazon.com/Poisoned-Iris-...