NaNoWriMo Story: Jubilee (Chapter 13 posted)

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Hi!
National Novel Writing Month started November 1st! I thought that I could not only back up the file on my computer, but I could also share my personal thirty days and nights of literary abandon with you all.

The Object of NaNoWriMo is to write 50,000 words of a novel in the thirty days of November (That amounts to 1667 words a day). The quality of said novel can range from, to quote a video, "An Epic Drama to one large run-on sentence stretching from our offices in <insert city who's name I forget but was definitely American> to Bangkok.

"And Back again."

So here's mine:

[i]Jubilee[/i]


[spoiler=Chapter One: 17D9MJ A New Life]
It was not uncommon for a girl to be born in the ninth month of Jubilee. In fact, it was almost expected of each and every hopeful parent to wait until that fateful year to begin procreation. There was no such thing as patience in High Pope Urban XI’s rule, as each person had but a scant fifteen years to do pretty much anything.

Because in fifteen years was another Jubilee. The year when High Pope Urban XI declared all things to be returned to their material owners. People normally had a lot they wanted to do in those short years between Jubilee to Jubilee. They had businesses to form, things to create, and for some people, including this baby girls parents, they had to have sex at least once in this period.
Following this birth was the stamping, and this was a highly sought after position. Stampers were always sought after in the nine months post Jubilee, and were always regarded as the highest non-High Pope position afterwards. This young girl’s parents were one of the few to splurge and found a man named John Paul, someone who was treated after previous Jubilees as a master-quality stamper. It was he that continuously claimed to have stamped the High Pope himself.

That, of course, was a lie.

The High Pope descended from God. He was the living incarnation of what people used to call the Holy Spirit. The only thing that kept people from immediately making Armageddon posters, treating this as the second coming was the fact that each High Pope claimed to be the representation of God’s Holy Ghost. The second coming, claimed the High Pope, was for another leader to step up.

And because the High Pope was never born, John Paul could never have stamped him. They looked about equal age, if the High Pope had any age. Again, John Paul told people an outright lie to gain popularity, and he probably mumbled to himself later about this in confession period.

Sinful or not, John Paul was considered to be in the highest rank of stampers, the kind that required a lot of money to be paid. And this little girl was given the best because of her father’s sore back. Her father, who had worked sixteen hours a day and slept seven. Her father, who shoveled in the pits because he was labeled as “without finesse.” Her father made the money to get John Paul to stamp their daughter, and now was broke, yet again. It wasn’t as if the world was out to get him, he just knew that with his wife pregnant, he had to make the best of all his money. All that money that he earned was now in the greasy palms of John Paul.
If you looked at John Paul, without knowing that he was a master quality stamper, you might think he was a pariah. He at least looked the part, the only thing separating his appearance and his status was a badge on his constantly dirty suit. He was thin, he was constantly sweating, and his demeanor in general was as if he could not care less about the world.

He probably could not. He was a stamper, the highest mortal position in the known world.

The process of stamping was a long and difficult process for an inexperienced stamper. It involved rituals. Rituals with the parents. Rituals with the child. Rituals with the stamp. All three required contorting each body into difficult shapes. The ritual with the parents was particularly difficult, involving each body being formed into a circle. John Paul, who was built like the paintbrush he was using to color the stamp, had no trouble. The father, who was built like a mountain man, had difficulty. The mother, who was five days off of birth, had the worst trouble. The only thing that finally got her into the required shape was John Paul reminding her of his lack of refunds.

Her husband, who was already straining as his muscles began to seize up, joined in the encouragement with fervor. He was completely committed to having his daughter stamped by this man, and thus was willing to ignore the pain. The mother had no such commitment. It was an honor to have John Paul walk in and stamp their baby, and nothing more. She was the one struggling since dawn of 13D9MJ, and a mere three days later, it was her in more of an ellipse than the round circle. John Paul, was willing to accept this effort. It was the effort, he claimed, that did the will of God, not the shape.
The process of the Ritual with the Child was even worse for the mother, as it involved taking the child’s body, and shaping it into the exact same shape as the parents, all accompanied by chanting in what John Paul called tongues. This eventually involved the little girl screaming, as John Paul was forced to join the baby’s hands and feet to create the circle. To counter this, John Paul’s chanting got louder and louder.

The two parents were overwhelmed by noise, and sore from their part of the ritual. They could not leave the ritual, though. They had to watch. It was tradition. And, to quote the father on the day of his marriage, damn them if they went against tradition.
The cacophony stopped. The Ritual with the Child was over. Last was the ritual with the stamp. To begin, he produced three items, a stamp, an object that could be mistaken for one used by a librarian, a brush, thin, with just enough hair on one end to carry paint and/or ink from point A to point B, and a bottle. The bottle was a black one, opaque and unlabeled, but both the parents and John Paul knew what was inside it.

To be a stamper, one had to obviously have ink for the stamp. And to be a high quality stamper like John Paul, one had to have ink personally blessed by High Pope Urban XI. He knew that liquid was in the bottle, and the parents had to assume as much.
Using these three objects, along with some incense that was also blessed by the High Pope, something that could be bought at markets right next to valuables like jewelry, things also supposedly blessed by the High Pope Urban XI, John Paul began to dance.
He danced in flowing motions, his rigid suit probably wishing that it was a flowing gown. Each motion of his arm was accompanied by a return to his chest, refilling his brush with ink, before extending his arms once again. The ink flew off of the brush with each movement, landing on the solid concrete below. The father would clean it up later. It was expected of him, an expectation dictated by tradition.

Now was the stamping. John Paul dipped his brush into the ink one last time, and painted the stamp. He painted the border surrounding the stamp. He painted the text that would be stamped on to the child. The entire bottom of the stamp covered in ink, John Paul examined it. The stamp passing his undoubtedly high standards, he took the small child, and stamped her back. Violently.
It had to be done violently. It was traditional.

The result of the stamping was a small black rectangle that neatly went down the child’s back, on top of the spinal cord. John Paul then revealed why one part of his shirt was a little bit blacker than the others. His sharp eye saw the imprint in the girl’s skin and, with his sleeve, he wiped off the extra ink, leaving the text:

[b]14D9MJ[/b]

Born on Day 14 of the ninth month of a Jubilee.

This was important information, of course. If High Pope Urban XI wanted to take one of his many censuses, then the birth date would be required. And who had any idea after sixteen years or so when someone was born without the esteemed stampers? John Paul knew the importance of his job, and so did the known world.

***

It was only seven days until the next census. The little girl’s mother and father gave the officials their names (Peter and Agnes Dágo), age (twenty eight and twenty seven), and occupation (Gravedigger and Housewife). They then had to present any children they might have at the moment, so they presented the unnamed little girl. Age: ten days. Occupation: Birth
Birth, according to High Pope Urban XI, meant that the girl was less than eleven days old. Because on a child’s eleventh day of being alive, there was the naming ceremony.

Namers were in short supply these days. Every time some sort of prodigy stepped up as a namer, inevitably they became versed in the ways of a Stamper, and left the occupation. Thus, all remaining namers charged high prices to get one’s child named. Those in the business, or those who had been in the business, sometimes called it the “So I do not go and become like John Paul” tax. They never said that to your face, if they were polite enough.

If Peter had spent a lot of money getting his daughter stamped, he spent very little getting her named. The namer came in the next day, with this arrogant air. It was an “I am better than you so watch your mouth” kind of air. The kind of air that, if this man were in any other position, he would be fired for having such an air.

His name was Benedict, and apart from the cloud of arrogance surrounding him, he looked perfectly normal. Brown hair, eyes, average height. It was only this improper attitude that set this Benedict person different from everyone else. His clothes were a contrast to John Paul’s, specifically, they were clean. His palms were dry, another contrast to John Paul. In fact, if John Paul were not regarded across the land as a master of the stamp, one might say that this Namer was better suited to John Paul’s job than he was.

But no. This man was no John Paul. He was an arrogant snob that used his position to extort money from people who could not afford better.

“To give your child a proper name, I must actually examine her.”

Agnes knew the general procedure from all her gossipy friends. She had the eleven-day child in her hands, and it almost immediately went from her soft hands to Benedict and his dry ones. He went immediately through his routine. Check the gender, then the stamp, then finally the hair growth.

Afterwards, Benedict handed the child back, satisfied with his chosen name, “Mary.”

It was a curt visit. To be fair, his arrogance practically required it. Both he and the Dágos knew that a gravedigger was lower a lower status than a namer.

Benedict had left. “Mary is a nice name…” Agnes was trying to relearn herself. She was no longer a housewife in the eyes of the census takers. She was a mother. Next census, she would be registered as a Mother of Mary Dágo.
[/spoiler]


[spoiler=Chapter Two: 14D9MP Student]
Each child has one year to be an “Unemployed” in the eyes of the census, before becoming a Student. Such a change, like all occupation changes for the better, required a celebration.

Peter had spent all of his money getting Mary stamped and named the previous year, and had to regain all of his assets. It was actually quite impressive given the time span. Now, he wanted to spend it all again. He wanted the best for his daughter. It was understandable. The only thing that kept him from following through was Agnes.

Agnes understood that sometimes money just burnt a hole in Peter’s pocket. She did not want his impulses ruining her daughter’s life. Even if he believed it would be for the better. And it probably would enrich their daughter’s experiences as a child, but Agnes knew that Peter would once again be broke. Tithing day was coming up, and it was things like this that reduced one’s tithing to not the bells and whistles attached to pieces of paper, but actual assets. Peter might have to tithe part of his land, or part of the house.

The problem with Peter possibly having to tithe the house was that he did not decide which part of the house to tithe. He could not just give them the squeaky chair that he hated. He had to give them what they deemed fit as a tithe. Such a tithe could range from the entire house (“Because you still have the land, and the land is valuable”), to, again, the squeaky chair that Peter loathed.

None of that mattered right now, though. Because today, the fourteenth day of the ninth month of a Preparation year, was Mary Dágo’s first birthday. Her transition from Unemployed to Student. From here on in, everything would be sunshine and roses and happiness.

The next day certainly did not seem like sunshine and roses and happiness to Agnes Dágo. It, in fact, seemed like the opposite. For today was tithing day, a new declaration by High Pope Urban XI. And while both Agnes and Peter could understand the reasoning behind this announcement, they were still a little angry by it.

See, the problem, like a lot of problems, was that no two people always had the same religion. Some people, publicly or not, tended to practice Buddhism or worship pagan statuettes or something to that extent. The government, as being both a Catholic church and the world’s rule of law, could not easily collect taxes from these people, as they normally relied on tithing. Then people who were Jewish or some other religion would not be giving a tenth of whatever they earned to the government. Understandably, the government, to make people actually pay them, used taxes.
This tax was not particularly well hidden, either. Tithing and taxing to a lot of people meant the same thing anyways, Peter and Agnes included.
So the taxmen came around with a big sack of money. It was pretty obvious they were faking their bag being full of money, too. A propaganda trick. Agnes had heard about these. All they did was try to make you believe you were one whole unit within your neighborhood. To the foolish, it worked.

Peter, despite his money still attempting to leap out of his pocket, was still not foolish. He paid his minimum amount, and watched the taxmen leave. As they left, they must have noticed the only average house that the Dágos lived in. It had one story, was squarish, bulging at the bottom due to age. Not particularly exiting. In fact, the only reason the taxmen had any reason to notice it at all was that it was their next assignment to collect.

They also might have noticed Peter paying the minimum tithe. Sure, that was expected from a less pious man, but gossip got around fast, and the local taxmen must have noticed John Paul entering and exiting the Dágo’s house. They must have assumed that Peter and Agnes were the new rich kids on the block, and would tithe more than enough to pay their tax.

The taxmen could not do a thing about it, though. They were taxmen. Almost on the same social tier as the gravediggers that the Dágo family was a part of.

Peter closed the door, and exhaled. The party the previous day was exhausting, and it was obviously taking its toll on both of Mary’s parents. It involved the kind of partying that would involve their one-year-old daughter. So it was both exhausting and boring. But not boring in the traditional sense. It was more boring because all the other parents dropped off their children and left. No one to talk to but themselves. They could have spoken to the small children that occupied their house during that time, but these small children, like a lot of small children, had a limited vocabulary. It would be extremely difficult to have conversations with the Unemployed and new Students.

The third day after an Unemployed became a Student, they began going to class. For new students, this class essentially became their entire lives. They would wake up with their parents, eat with their parents, go to school with their parents, and then their world would change. There were things to be done, like build a block tower taller than the students themselves were. Or read a book. Or possibly even, if they were lucky, solve a jigsaw puzzle. Mary loved the jigsaw puzzles. Unfortunately, so did everyone else. And since only two people could work on the jigsaw puzzle at a time, there was always a huge rush to the table every time someone got bored and left the table.

Sometimes, though, Mary would be so engrossed in a book that she did not notice when someone left the puzzle table. Those would not be memories to remember in the future. That space was reserved for a time when she and a friend took a one thousand piece puzzle and spent the entire day solving it. They were so intensely focused that they even missed the call for lunch multiple times. The teacher, who was named Ms. Green, later remarked that “They could have foregone lunch altogether, if it were not the school policy that ‘Each student will be provided with a lunch from half past eleven to twelve of the clock noon. The cost for this meal is included in tuition.’”

Mary was a decent student the next year as well. She was engaged with whatever she did, and with a little help, was talking fluently at age two.
Either fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how one looks at it, once one speaks English fluently under the rule of High Pope Urban XI, they are immediately moved from Student to Exemplar Student or High Student, depending on the age of the Student. Because Mary was early, she was immediately given the title of Exemplar Student Mary.

Almost immediately after Mary arrived home the day of being promoted, there was a knock at the door. This was a strange oddity, as Mary could normally see people coming to her house, especially if they were right behind her. Nevertheless, she answered the door.

Behind the door was two men, both of about equal proportion. They both looked essentially an average of John Paul the Stamper and Benedict the Namer. They had the rugged clothes, and their hands appeared dry. If Mary had to guess, she would have guessed that these two men were both a hundred feet tall (Estimation was not Mary’s forté). She was off by a factor of two thousand percent. These two men, whose names were Pius and Saul, began their speech in unison.

“The High Pope Urban XI has ordered a census to be taken of all the families located in this area.” The talking was obviously rehearsed to perfection.

Mary had been instructed by her father how to answer this, “My father is Peter Dágo. He is a thirty year old gravedigger. My mother is Agnes Dágo. She is a twenty nine years old, and her only occupation is being the mother of me: Mary Dágo. I am two years old, occupation: Ex-” Mary inhaled, “-emplar Student.”

“That was… pretty impressive” Pius was talking now. Saul was scribbling down notes on his handy dandy census notebook.

“Yes, yes it was.” Saul had finished scribbling, but looked a little lost. “Could you repeat that last bit? The part about you.”

Mary, a little annoyed, repeated her lines. Notably, she did finish in one breath. Saul finished writing down his notes, and the two walked away from the house.

As they were crossing the property line, Mary could still hear the pair as they walked away, “You know, she could make a brilliant namer, or even a stamper…”

Upon hearing this, Mary had a little smile. It was here that she resolved that on each census, she would be a little bit higher up in the world.
[/spoiler]


[spoiler=Chapter Three: 21D5MG From Exemplar to Graduate]
Of course, Mary could not keep the promise she made when she was two years old. To do that would require being what some people might call a “wunderkind.” Mary did not know that, of course. She just knew that it had taken two years to go from birth to Exemplar Student, and at age two, all Mary had was that knowledge, and basic pattern recognition skills.

Mary still tried for the next five years, though. She always tried to better herself and her parents. Unfortunately, some of those ideas just never worked out. For example, at one point, Mary was asked to design something for a school assignment. It could have been anything. She chose a new lighting system for her house. This was all fine and dandy, and she even passed the project with ease. The problem arose when Mary took it upon herself to try and implement this new lighting system in her own home. Fortunately, her mother was home to stop her. That was her job, after all.

Other incidents came to mind. Like that time where she tried to coax a small animal to come home with them, not realizing that while the white foam in the animal’s mouth could mean it was hungry, it probably would be the wrong type of hungry. Or the time when she took an old sock, and nearly ate it because her father jokingly suggested that she do so.

Her mother had replied to that in a not nearly as joking tone, “You, Peter, are going to kill her someday.” If there was anything that Mary would remember now that it was Graduation year, it would be those words.

But right now was a happy occasion. The day was approaching this month that Mary would be promoted from Exemplar Student to Graduate Student.

There were multiple procedures that had to be done when being promoted to Graduate Student. The most important one was the speech. The dreaded speech. Each Exemplar Student was required to compose a speech. A speech that Mary had put off until only just recently.

High Pope Urban XI specifically stated once that procrastination was the greatest weapon of Satan, and should be purged from all of society. In Mary’s case, Satan was winning. It was not even a lot of her fault, she reasoned. She just had writer’s block every time that she decided to fight back. This was another such instance.

Mary sat down at her desk, when she realized that there was a song that was stuck in her head. It played and played, and Mary was trying to resist the urge to sing along. She made it to the end of the first verse.

“Birds are singing, bees are buzzing, the sun shines overhead…” That was when she got her idea. It would involve the perfect day, and it would continue into a perfect world. And it would all be because of the help of her elders.

No, she did not really think this to be true. In fact, she knew it to be true. The only problem was that she also knew that if she did not get this speech ready for the big day, then things would go horribly wrong.

***

The days had gone by so quickly, Mary hardly noticed that it was the day for her speech. When she realized it, she became very, very stressed. With five minutes before hers, she had to use the restroom. Not for the general uses of a restroom, but to almost throw up. If she had counted, she would have gagged about five times. Each time, she felt as if she were about to die.

Time was called. Mary had to go out and speak to the audience.

Coming out of the restroom, Mary made her way from the green room to the stage. Then from the stage there was the podium. Ten steps. Ten simple steps. Mary was woozy. She looked at the pages of writing. They were the only clear words she could imagine. All the other ones had some combination of “fsdiz” or “quoling.” Neither of those were true words. Mary could only focus on the introduction to her speech.

Mary reached the podium, and began speaking, “Today…” Her voice was trancelike. Of course she did not notice this. A lot of people did, though. In the audience. They did not care. “Today is a perfect day,” an oblivious Mary began. “Today is the day that men become men. Women become women. This is a graduation year. In fact, it is THE graduation year. The year that I, Mary Dágo, become a Graduation Student.

“I would like to think that the perfection of this day was all my doing, but instead, it must go to my elders…” Again, she did not notice when her voice went from trancelike, to dead monotone. At this point, the audience, a social engineer would later note, suffered from what is called “Bystander Syndrome.” A doctor later noted that the signs that Mary was exhibiting showed that she was going to faint.

And inside her head, she did. Inside that tiny little head of hers, Mary could not see a thing, or at least interpret it into people staring at her. But her mouth and vocal chords kept moving and vibrating respectively. She continued her speech, “My elders, yes, who have done everything for me. They supported me when I began talking. They supported me every single time that I tried to tear out the walls to build a new door.

“And that is how life should be. Life is just supposed to be a perfect world, with perfect people, and a glorious leader that is God. My elders, like Ms. Green, understood that. Ms. Green, who was the first one to teach me consequences when I took water paint and painted all over a table. Ms. Green was the one that taught me patience, an undervalued quality, when I was waiting for someone else to finish [b]MY[/b] favorite activity.” The way she said the word “my” was nothing like how she had written it. If Mary were practicing in front of a mirror, she would be sure to emphasize that word in that specific context. Here, she did the opposite. It seemed as if her voice began to taper off.

When questioned about this later, an audience member said, “At least it was better than the monotone.”

The same member also declined to comment on failing to help wake Mary from her stupor.

Mary continued “Even people who I did not know, and do not remember. John Paul stamped me, or so my father tells me. Or Benedict, the man who named me. I might have been named differently if my father had not gotten Benedict to name me.” She lost volume again on saying the name Benedict. Her voice was barely a whisper now. Only the microphone kept her audience from not hearing at all.

“I owe my entire existence to these elders of mine. Every single little event in my life, improbable or not, helped shape who I am. Even you, my audience, could have decided to not show up. That may have seriously affected my life.

“This world is perf-” Mary never finished her sentence. If she did, no one heard. Eagle-eyed audience members throughout the theater announced that since her mouth was no longer moving, the speech must be over.

Others suggested that they applaud to try and rouse her out of her trance. This seemed like a good idea at the time, and the whole audience began an applause as if the High Pope himself stepped out onto the stage.

This did nothing positive. In fact, the only thing that changed about the six year old on stage was that she was now lying on the ground, as if struck by a bullet. At last, the paramedics were called. They came in short order and took her away.
Mary awoke on a hospital bed. She was wearing the same clothes as the day of her speech, and she felt like she had just come back exhausted from her big day, collapsed on her bed, and had fallen unconscious. That could not be what happed, though. She was on a hospital bed.

Looking around the room, took little energy, and it spoke volumes. It was nighttime outside. The hospital walls were white. The time was seven o’clock post meridian. Her bed was metallic. The digital calendar stated that the date was 27D6MG.
Mary had been unconscious for over a month.

“You should be dead. Did you know that?”

The loud beeping of a nearby heart rate monitor almost kept Mary from hearing the question. She turned quickly. In front of her was a nurse. Female, red hair tied back in a bun, green eyes, and according to her nametag, her name was Joan.

“It was not a rhetorical question. Did you know that you, Mary Dágo, are supposed to be bereft of life?” The look on Mary’s face almost definitely showed that the definition of a word (probably “bereft”), so Joan tried again, “Are you aware that you should be with God right now?”

Mary knew what that meant. Since she could understand what language was and how to understand it, she knew what that meant. She shook her head.

Joan was unimpressed “That was a pretty decent speech you had. I know you could do better than to give me a shake of your head.”

Mary opened her mouth, and then closed it, unsure of what to say. When she opened it, the words came out wrong, “N-no, I did n-n-n-not kn-know that.” She tried again, but it was even worse the second time, “N-n-n-n-n-n…” Mary took a breath and closed her eyes, worried with what was happening, “No. I. Did. Not. Kn-know that.”

Almost immediately, Joan had a clipboard and pen in hand, saying what she wrote as she wrote it, “Permanent Conditions: Stuttering.”
[/spoiler]


[spoiler=Chapter Four: 16D1MCs Confession]
Mary’s first Confession year so far was not a good one. It involved her not getting her way for multiple reasons. The most obvious one was her stutter, which led to people understanding her. Whenever she thought of her stutter, she thought of this exchange a month ago with her mother.

“M-m-mom c-can I g-g-go p-p-p-play with s-some f-f-f-f…” If Mary knew any way to curse, she would have done so here. No matter how free flowing or tact her speech was, her mind always seemed to get the talking wrong.

“What was that dearie?” Agnes had decided almost immediately to be oblivious to Mary’s obvious problem.

“Can. I. Go. Play. With. Some. Fr-r-r-riends.” Mary had her eyes closed this time, obviously concentrating on each syllable. When she began stuttering again, there was this look of defeat on her face that said so much about either her, or her little struggle against her vocal chords.

“Playing with friends? That sounds fun. Who are you going with?” Mary thought that this was an unnecessary question. Her mother knew who her friends were, and given the small amount of people still willing to be her friend, it would probably be easier for both of them if Agnes had just decided to guess. She could not be that oblivious all the time.

Mary hesitated answering the question, and in return got a prompt from her father who had just walked into the room. “I am going with…”

Instead of repeating after her father like she was undoubtedly supposed to do, she instead finished her father’s statement, “An-n-nna and G-g-g-george.” This did not pass Peter’s standards for coherency, and he made her repeat the entire sentence. “I. Am. Goin-ng. Wi-with. Ann-na and G-geor-rge.”

“Better” was the only response from her father. Her mother, only a little bit less curt said, “Yes, you can go play with them.”

Ever since her incident, she had trouble. Any time she was looking at someone, or felt like she was being watched, the words came out wrong. And Mary felt like she was being observed all the time. She “saw” hidden cameras everywhere. Nurse Joan even had written “Extreme Paranoia” right next to “Stuttering” on her “Permanent Conditions” clipboard.

***

Confessions day was today, and the ten year old was not exited. As her family traveled to the Confession area, she was completely silent. Understandable, given how embarrassed she was about her stutter, but she had always been at least a little bit interested in trying new things.

This time, it was like she wanted to be invisible to the world. Inside that head of hers, she was dreading this. From what she had gathered from her parents, it was mandatory to speak to the Confessionist. By order of High Pope Urban XI.
It also was traditional. And everyone knows that you cannot mess with tradition.

Getting to the Confessionist’s office was easier than Mary had expected. Or at least what she had hoped. She had hoped that it would be really hard to get to the office, and they would get lost, and be stuck scavenging for food in the wilds outside the mapped world. She would not have to speak to wolves or bears or anyone else.

But no. Mary was fantasizing about this when they stepped in line for check-in. It took her almost bumping into the person in front of her to get her to realize that she was not actually outside mapped areas. She was not crawling around in the dirt with wolves. She was actually going to have to be audible to someone, even if the person she was talking to was behind a big black screen.
The line got shorter, and Mary started panicking. It was an interesting sort of panicking, as if someone were strangling themselves through the force of some otherworldly power, and they could not get their body to take a breath.

Even shorter. At this point, Mary’s gags went from barely audible to completely inaudible. If there was any chance that her parents, in front of her in the long line to the receptionist desk, could hear her, it was gone at that moment.

She was in front of the line, still panicking. Somehow, she had taken a breath between these gags, because she was not unconscious. The receptionist looked at her, made a note on a slip of paper, and said, “You must be Mary. Yes, my parents told me that you might be like this. Anyway, you should head into the first door on the left.” She motioned to a hallway.

Mary did not respond. She was still half-choking. She did not move from her space, much less move towards the hallway as ordered. This forced the receptionist to take drastic measures.

“OI!” was the receptionists call. Mary snapped to attention, forgetting all about panicking, and instead on focusing on the now angry receptionist in front of her. “You can take the first door on the left.” The receptionist motioned to the hallway as she had before.
As Mary was walking down to the hallway, she mentally estimated the number of steps between her and the door she was required to enter.

Ten.

Oh, that brought back memories. Fuzzy memories, involving her mouth moving to prescribed words on a page, but nothing after that.

Six steps to the door. Mary’s life was flashing before her eyes. It was a pretty short life, to be honest. Ten years was really pretty short. But she kept walking out of fear of the receptionist.

She was at the door now. Glancing back at the receptionist, she missed her parents exiting rooms across the hallway. She looked back It was a white door, which matched the palette of the main room. Mary looked up. This was room number two. At least it was not the number ten.

Mary cracked open the door and saw absolutely nothing but blackness. The light from the main room only revealed a small part of the room. This did not scare Mary. She had spent an entire month in blackness. She still felt weird when she tried to open the door, and found that she could only open it enough to slip inside. She found the second part out the hard way when the door closed silently behind her, only making an audible click that signaled that the door was locked behind her.

There was no instruction on what to do at this point. All that Mary could assume was that this was a confession chamber. Not knowing what to do, she started confessing. As the words flowed out of her mouth, it felt as if she was letting go of everything behind her.

Then she started listening to what she was saying.

She was talking. Nothing of that stuttering business that had been going on for the past three and a half years. Tears started flowing down her face as she realized the implications of this.

The Confessionist was listening. She did not know who the Confessionist was, whether they were male or female, whether they had children or not. She did not even know if they were married! For all she knew, she could be talking to a criminal who was forced to listen to people confess things that may or may not be worse than the things that he or she had commited.

Mary was still crying. She had forgotten how great it was to be talking. It was amazing. At one point, she even brought her hand to her throat to feel her vocal chords vibrate, creating the sound waves that allowed her to speak clearly.

Mary continued confessing for a while. At one point, she even repeated some transgressions that she had made, only to hear her voice continue to speak clearly. Eventually, she had to finish up confessing, but before she left, she searched the room for the Confessionist to thank them. She did not find anyone there. That was fine, they were probably using speakers to get her confessions. Mary started searching the walls and floor for speakers, and jumping upwards feeling for infrared cameras. Nothing. “Hmm…” That was Mary’s last word before searching for the way out. Finding it, forcing the door open, and slipping out, Mary went back to her parents with a smile on her face.

“Well, it looks like someone had fun!” Agnes was apparently waiting patiently for her daughter, and by the look on her face, was not expecting to see said daughter to come out of her room smiling.

Most children, when confronted with the darkness of their room, began to scream and whisper “I’m sorry” over and over. Or at least, that was the rumor that she had picked up. The rooms were soundproof, lightproof, and otherwise completely excluded from the outside elements. The sense of being truly alone got to a lot of people.

Mary was ecstatic when she tried to answer “It-t was g-gg-reat!”

No. Not now. She was back to stuttering. Things dropped back down into hell in Mary’s world. For the second time today, she started to cry. This time, it was the bad kind of crying.

Agnes was a little overwhelmed. Her daughter had just stated that speaking to the Confessionist was great, and then broke down and started crying. All she could do was kneel down with her and give her a hug. The kind of hug that only mothers can give. All she could say was “there, there…” As if conditions were going to get any better for her daughter. As if there was some possible way that she could remove from her daughter what was showing to be a devastating affliction.
[/spoiler]


[spoiler=Chapter Five: 16D1MPe Penance]
According to a random poll taken during random censuses, the Penance year is the least anticipated year out of the group, blowing all other years out of the water. The closest year, with ten percent of the population agreeing, is the Application year. Apparently, people do not like work without pay, and they do not like filling out large pieces of paper to get smaller greener ones.

Peter and Agnes were both part of the eighty nine percent majority that made up those that disliked the Penance year. They knew why it was necessary, but they also knew the things that people had to do for Penance. Agnes, the gossip hoard that she was, had heard people whipping themselves in the back to make up for fifteen years of sins. But not with whips. They took flails and swung them over their head and onto their spinal cord.

At least, that was the rumor.

Peter had heard his own rumors while digging. He sometimes heard the postmortem and was more than a little intrigued by what happened during Penance year. There was at least one time where someone had buried themselves alive to repent, and instead of burying them, Peter had to unbury them, confirm that they were still dead, and rebury them. It was all very interesting, and backbreaking at the same time.

To Peter and Agnes Dágo, the Penance Slips were not unfamiliar. To Mary, these slips were something completely out of the blue. She knew that this was a thing, a Penance year and all, but these slips that defined what one had to do during the remainder of the year. That was a new thing.

Looking at her slip of paper, Mary began to read.

[b]BY THE ORDER OF HIGH POPE URBAN XI[/b]

ALL OCCUPANTS OF KNOWN TERRITORY MUST BEGIN PENANCE ON THE DAY OF READING THIS PAMPHLET. FAILURE TO DO SO WILL RESULT IN PUNISHMENT BY THE STATE, COMMUNITY, AND OUR BELOVED SOCIETY.

If Mary could speak clearly, she might say “What a waste of paper.” But she could not speak clearly. The ink was probably personally blessed by High Pope Urban XI, too, which was even more of a waste. Why use a perfectly good blessing on a perfectly normal piece of white paper?

Even worse, if they did have to waste ink and paper, Mary could see so many redundancies. It was given that if you disobeyed an order of High Pope Urban XI, you would be alienated from society. As punishment. Or, as the paper put it, PUNISHMENT. Apparently, putting something in all capital letters meant it was REALLY IMPORTANT. Also, why would you mention being punished by “THE STATE, COMMUNITY, AND ‘OUR BELOVED SOCIETY?’” They were all treated as the same entity, so putting in “OR” instead of “AND” may have made more sense. That is how Mary understood grammar, though. She could be wrong.

Ignoring the entire thing about grammar and redundancy, Mary understood what it said. It said to her that her stutter was entirely based on some sort of sin that she had committed. And so, if she repented well enough, and did not talk, she would be rewarded for it with the gift of proper speech.

Throughout the next few months, she did as much, punishing herself and not speaking. She did not go as far as to whip herself, but she did fast, avoid sleep, and even at one point systematically pinch every single part of her body.

The only problems happened during the censuses. Every time Pius and Saul came to the Dágo’s door, they eventually asked Mary how she was doing. And as much as Mary wanted to complain about the universe and how it was out to get her, she also remembered her vow of silence, shook her head to all questions, and watched Pius and Saul walk away with what had to be a disappointed face.

Mary was confused as to why they were disappointed. They knew that things were hard on her right now, especially with the penance that she was attempting to do. To be fair, all her parents knew is that she was taking a vow of silence. They did not know about her fasting mainly because she was not telling them anything. They just thought that she was developing some sort of eating disorder. Why they did not take her to some sort of doctor at any point amazed Mary. “Sometimes,” the young girl thought, “grown-ups can be so stupid.”

***

No, her parents were not stupid. It just took a week before a scheduled appointment came around. A secret scheduled appointment that only her parents knew about, apparently, because when they walked through the door and into the receptionist area, even the lady behind the counter looked shocked.

Everyone looked shocked to see Mary, actually. Apparently, seeing some downfallen prodigy was surprising. Mary did not know what to say to any of this, even when she permitted herself to speak due to a lack of a vow of silence. She thought she knew what these people were thinking, but she could not find the right words to say it. Stuttering did not help at all.

The receptionist, getting over this brief moment of shock, filled out a little piece of paper for Peter and Agnes to sign, before permitting Mary to enter, and Mary only. “I’m sorry.” she told Peter and Agnes when questioned about this, “But you made an appointment for your daughter Mary, not yourselves. Apparently this was enough to settle their concerns, as when Mary looked behind her before closing the door, she saw her parents sitting down in some chairs and began patiently twiddling their thumbs.
“Come on in, Mary.” The doctor’s name was Francis, not the most uncommon name in the world, but common nonetheless. “So, I assume you know why you are here, and your parents know why you are here. But miraculously, I only know partly why you are here. Would you like to tell me?”

Mary shook her head. She had a vow of silence to fulfill.

Apparently, Francis understood. “Alright Mary, you do not want to tell me. How about you write it down on this piece of paper?” Mary complied. “Ah. You are one of those fasters. This makes sense. See, when your parents called me, they thought you had an eating disorder. They forgot to take into account that this is Penance year, where more than half the population has ‘eating disorders’ like yours.”

Mary shrugged. She knew that this was Penance year. The doctor knew that she was smart. Why was this doctor, whom she had never seen before in her life, giving her information that he would probably think she already knew?

She decided it was a doctor thing. Doctors had to assume you were stupid so they could describe processes to you. It was nothing personal. They just encountered a lot of idiots that broke their arms playing chess or some other stupid instance.

“Alright, Mary, I am going to have to keep you in here a little bit longer.” Again, he was stating the obvious. She knew that doctors took forever, whether they wanted to or not. “I just want to talk to you about what happens after your fast.”

Doctors talking about the future past the stereotypical “Call me in the morning” statement. This was a new thing to Mary. Maybe Francis was some part of sub-cult of doctors that believed the future was well worth looking to. Mary had not heard of this type of cult before. Curious about what this type of cult needed, she nodded her head, symbolizing her saying “Ok.”

“You see, Mary, your stomach is not going to be able to handle a lot of food. You should start by adding nuts to your water and eating rice. Then continue through your proteins. Only when you feel you are ready should you try to eat something sugary like a pomegranate.” Francis then noticed Mary’s nodding, as if she was dozing off but did not want Francis to know. “Mary, just because you are nodding does not mean that you are paying attention. Did you hear anything I just said?”

Mary continued nodding. That was a weighted question. Francis knew she could not speak. If she shook her head no, then it would be obvious the consequences. If she nodded like she was doing right now, then Francis would probably give her a notepad to have her rewrite what he had just said.

And he did. He even commented on how he realized how unfair that question was and how he hated asking it. Still, he had to know because otherwise she would be throwing up all over the place. Mary nodded apparently understanding that, and wrote down the following:

Add nuts to water to reintroduce food to stomach. Eat rice. Continue with proteins. When ready eat pomegranate.

Francis read the note over. Apparently, it passed his standards as he handed the note back to Mary and continued talking.
The rest of the time was spent talking about vegetables and when she should reintroduce those. It ended with some small talk about life, which was nice. The entire appointment, Mary noted when she exited the office, lasted a total of twenty minutes.

“How was it? Did Doctor Francis figure out what was wrong with you?” Peter’s question was aggressive and to the point. To be fair, he had just spent the last twenty minutes skimming dated magazines. He had a right to be impatient.

Mary presented the note she had written, to be read over by an adult for the second time this hour. Her father, unlike Doctor Francis, did not approve. “This only says how to fix it. What is wrong with your dietary habits?”

Mary took the paper out of her father’s hands, and took a pen from the counter of the receptionist’s desk. Flipping the paper over, she wrote down “Just a generic eating disorder. Should be fixed simply by following backside instructions.” Her father reread the paper, and at the instruction of his eleven year old daughter, flipped it over to read what she had just written.

“Alright then. Let us get started home.”

Mary did not feel bad about lying to her parents. There were no consequences that she could see. Her parents would try to get her started on a diet, and eventually the year of Penance would be over and she could comply with the diet Doctor Francis had given her.
[/spoiler]


[spoiler=Chapter Six: 10D8MPe The Story of Stories]
It was dinnertime at the Dágo family. Peter and Agnes were having some sort of bean paste on rice, along with spinach, while Mary was still on rice. This was where she went through her routine for dinner. She would spread her food around to make it look like she had eaten some, and then excused herself from the table.

This was where she ran to her bed and pulled her favorite book off of the bookshelf. [i]The Story of Stories[/i]. Ironically, it was a pretty short story for such an extravagant title. Mary did not care. Reading was one of the few escapes she had from society. When one could not speak properly, reading was really the only escape left. This must have been the two hundredth time she was reading this book, but when she lay down on her bed and opened to the front page, it felt once again like she was reading this book for the first time once again.

[i]I was once traveling down the road when I met a man blocking the path. Not wanting to go around the man the man and offend his honor, I asked him, “Sir, why do you block this path?”[/i]

[i]“I am a toll man.” He replied “In exchange for ten coin, I let people continue on their way.”[/i]

[i]“I have no money, good sir. But I must continue on this path.” I had not expected the toll man to be here. I must have traveled this road hundreds of times. There never was a toll man here. If I had known, I would have saved ten coin.[/i]

[i]“That is a shame, for you seem to be a merchant. A merchant without coin is hardly a merchant at all. For how can he expect to make change to his customers?” A fair question, but I had a ready response for such a question.[/i]

[i]“I am a merchant of stories, my friend. People pay me coin, and in exchange, I tell them a story that could, depending on the request, uplift or depress one’s spirits.” This seemed to interest the man, as he raised a single eyebrow to the level of his forehead. He was either, I determined, suspicious that I was going to con him out of his money, or interested in hearing one of my many stories.[/i]

[i]“How much would such a story cost, friend?” He was regarding me with the same title that I had used for him. This was a good sign. But there were more important matters at hand. Such as coming up with a price for what is priceless. I had to continue on this path, and so I replied that one story was ten coin.[/i]

[i]“Then I think we can make a bargain for you, O storyteller.” He paused for more than a moment, leading me to inquire what kind of bargain he may be offering. “I am often a lonely man waiting out on this path. If you would tell me a story of love, a story that would remind me what I have left behind, I will let you pass my tollbooth.”[/i]

[i]“This sounds like a fair deal.” I decided; glad that I could pass this toll man without resorting to some sort of trickery. Picking a story from memory, I closed my eyes and began my tale.[/i]

[b][i]Long ago, there was a girl who lived in a town not far from here. This girl’s name was Margaret. Now Margaret was a perfectly average girl, she was neither fair nor ugly, neither rich nor poor, and never seemed to care what really was going on in the world outside her little town.[/i][/b]

[b][i]In this same town, there was a pariah named Thomas, who was constantly trying to win Margaret’s heart, and consistently succeeded before society caught up with the two and split them, beating Thomas and berating Margaret. Eventually, the two wizened up, and began trying to meet in secret.[/i][/b]

[b][i]The process went like this: Thomas would throw a stone at Margaret’s bedroom window if the next night she were to fake an illness the next night. Thomas would disguise himself as a doctor from the town over, and would “take care” of Margaret. They found it foolproof.[/i][/b]
[b][i]And for a while, it was foolproof. Until one day, Margaret came down with a true illness. The townsfolk, knowing how much she preferred the doctor Thomas disguised himself as, sent word to the next town requesting the nonexistent doctor’s presence. A brutal twenty four hours followed, where there was no word from the next town over, and Margaret’s condition grew worse and worse.[/i][/b]

[b][i]Then the word came from the next town that there was no such doctor with the name given. The townspeople of Margaret’s town questioned her on this, and she told all. She revealed the procedure that they had used, the disease list that she had generated, she told them everything that they wanted to know.[/i][/b]

[b][i]The townsfolk were disappointed in Mary. No one had counted, but it must have been thousands of times that they warned Mary that seeing a pariah would amount to nothing.[/i][/b]

[b][i]At least, some townsfolk were disappointed. The others were aggressive. They went out and found the pariah Thomas, and they began to beat him for this transgression yet again. It was around nine of the clock at night when they started, and when they had finished, it was three of the clock in the morning. When they started, Thomas was moving, screaming, trying to escape his attackers.[/i][/b]

[b][i]When they finished, Thomas was still, silent, and let the beatings come. His eyes were glazed over, his body only reacting to each kick and hit with a stick with some sort of convulsion that seemed flat in comparison to what had happened six hours ago. Because the truth was, when they finally left Thomas’ body by the side of the road, he had been dead for a full three hours.[/i][/b]

[b][i]Margaret was unaware of this because she was going through her own problems. Her illness had put her body temperature at one hundred and ten degrees, and she was either having a nightmare, or a stroke. Either way, the symptoms were the same. The townspeople tried to calm her fever down with each wet towel draped over her head. At one point, they stripped her and gave her an entire cold, wet, blanket in the hopes that her fever might subside. But it grew all the higher, and at last, she joined her lover in heaven.[/i][/b]

[i]I had ended my tale. When I opened my eyes, I saw no toll man. What I did see were hurried footprints away from the path and leading to a tree I could see off in the distance. Following the footsteps up to this tree, I eventually spotted the toll man, kneeling in front of the tree, sobbing. I inquired as to why he picked this particular tree to begin crying and he replied as follows:[/i]

[i]“I lost my wife to such a disease. It was a terrible sight to behold as we kept administering medicine and applying wet sheets, only to see the mercury in our thermometer continue to rise. Your story reminded me of what I have lost, and I thank you for that experience. You may continue down the road.”[/i]

[i]Thanking the toll man for letting me pass, as well as giving him welcome for my story, I followed the footsteps back to the road and went on my way.[/i]

[i]It was some time before I had to take the same road again, and remembering the toll man. I prepared both my story and an extra twenty coin, just in case. It took longer than I remembered to reach the toll man, and when I did, I saw that it was a different toll man than last time. This did not surprise me, as I had heard once that toll men often switched places with each other to ease up the monotony of standing in one spot for fifteen hours.[/i]

[i]When I told this toll man what trade I had made with the previous one, he was skeptical. He asked to hear this story, if only to judge the quality of it. Obediently, I repeated my tale that I had recited so long ago. I recited it to the exact letter, even going as far as to close my eyes as I did so.[/i]
[i]This time, when I opened them I found my pockets a little bit lighter. The man I was storytelling to had gotten off with all of my coin. And he had taken the road as well, making his footsteps indistinguishable from the rest of them. The only set of footsteps that I recognized as new was a second that led to the same tree off in the distance. Following these, seeing if anything new had happened at the tree, I began to see the outline of a body seemingly levitating off of the ground.[/i]

[i]Suddenly I realized what had happened. I began sprinting, simultaneously not wanting to confirm my worst suspicions, but also wanting to sate my curiosity.[/i]

[i]And there it was. A rope tied to the tree, as well as tied in a noose around the previous toll man’s neck. Nearby, there was a stool, presumably used to steady the man as he put the noose over his head. To kill himself, he stepped off.[/i]

[i]I felt terrible. A story I had told this man had led him to his suicide. It was like I had killed a man.[/i]

[i]I knew I had to repent. My shaking hands picked up the stool and placed it in front of the man I had just killed. Stepping up on it, I lifted the man’s corpse with one hand and loosened the noose with another. With one solid motion, I removed the man’s entire body from the rope that he had used to kill himself. Placing the man down on the ground, arranging his limbs into a formal position, I returned to the rope.[/i]

[i]What followed was swift. I stepped on the stool, put the noose around my head, and-[/i]

“Mary?” It was Peter, apparently done with dinner. When he stepped through the door into her room, he looked immediately at the book she still had in her hands. “Are you reading that book again?” Noticing her enthusiastic nod, he continued “You should try reading something new.” And with that, along with four quick steps across the room, he snatched the book away from her, and left the room.

That was alright with Mary. Those countless readings had her eventually commit the book to memory. Silently, she retold the ending to herself.

[i]Stepped forwards.[/i]

This meant a lot to a near-speechless Mary. It meant that speech was not always the best thing to have. With that, she looked out of her window towards a full moon.

There was hope for the future.
[/spoiler]


[spoiler=Chapter Seven: 1D1MJ Jubilee]
Today was the start of a new cycle. Jubilee. Mary did not know what to think of this year, it had been almost a full fifteen years since the last one, and on this day fifteen years ago, she was not even in her mother’s womb yet. Or so she heard.

On a Jubilee year, people tended to have parties on very special days. Today, for example, was the New Year. At least one person in Mary’s neighborhood would be having a party. Today’s party, she later learned, would be hosted by some people she did not know.

Joy. Another excuse from her parents to get her to speak publicly. It was not going to work. She seldom did it privately, preferring to write down what she wanted to say on a piece of paper, just like what Doctor Francis had done with her.

With her luck, the party would probably be some sort of dinner between the two families, almost forcing Mary to speak at least once.
It was her lucky day, though. This family, which Mary learned possessed the surname “Dale” had a large house, and thus by default, a large party. Mary did not have to speak, and no one would notice if she did and stuttered as a result. Because of this, she managed to have a little bit of fun. She had found a small corner where she could dance to herself, and did so, enjoying the moment. Until the party ended, at which point she went back to her quiet, rebellious fifteen year old self. Today was her birthday according to previous orders of the High Pope, after all.

Each time the year cycle rolled over from the thirty first day of the twelfth month to the first day of the first month, everyone’s age increased by one. No one really cared. They still kept their basic traditional birthdays, as well as special birthdays, like the birthday of the Lord Jesus Christ. It was not complicated. Not anymore.

On the way home, Mary began scribbling on her notepaper. She was only writing a sentence, but she wanted it to be just right. When she finally presented it to her parents, she had reduced it to a mere three words. “I had fun.”

“Curt, but cute” her mother remarked. “It reminds me of all those times I was with your father at parties and he would not say a word until we left. I remember one time where-”

“Let us not dwell on the past during the first day of Jubilee, Agnes dear.” Peter was obviously keen on avoiding the subject. Mary noted that this was probably the first time that she had seen her father interrupt her mother mid-sentence. It did not surprise her, though. She knew what her father’s personality was like, and it was definitely not all sunshine and roses and happiness.
In fact, it was quite the opposite.

The problem was, Peter had already experienced things happening on his first Jubilee. He had seen his father, Mary’s grandfather, essentially get shut down due to what happened during his first year of Jubilee. Of course, Mary had no way of knowing this, so she still was more than a little cheery after having what amounted to so much fun.

What a great way to bring in the New Year!

***

The next day, the beginning of the real effects concerning Jubilee began to take place. Mary’s entire family was hand delivered notices that stated

[b]According to the Official Calendar of High Pope Urban XI, today is 2D1MJ.[/b]

[b]By official decree of our beloved and feared High Pope Urban XI, all debts must be forgiven on this day. All property must be returned to its deserving owner.[/b]

[b]Furthermore, our High Pope has issued another decree concerning the conditions of Jubilee. As of this year, all working occupations short of High Pope, Collective, Stamper, and Namer, are to be forfeited. Those wishing to retain their current occupation must reapply to the Occupation Assignment Office post-haste.[/b]

Mary read hers quickly, and looked up to see her father turn almost white. Her mother reacted less so, but she appeared to understand the consequences of it.

Later that night, Mary could hear her father and mother talking alongside the crackling of a fire.

“I have been a Gravedigger all my life. I know it is at the higher end of the totem pole, but still. It is all I know to do.” Peter was talking right now. He was using correct pagan terminology, knowing that the “Higher end of the totem pole” was carved by apprentices, leaving the master to carve the lower end. This surprised Mary, but she remained silent and listened.

“I cannot imagine someone taking my position, and I cannot imagine moving to anywhere else. Do not just nod as if you are sympathetic to my plight, Agnes.” I could even end up with some odd position such as toll man! Do you know what I would do if I had to stand in place for up to sixteen hours every day? I think I would kill myself!”

Mary could believe that. Her father was a man of action. Standing in place would be not only a severe detriment to his pride, but also be worse for her family. Gravedigger had paid poorly enough, and only by saving and being stingy with what they did save could Agnes remain a housewife for so long. If her father were, in essence, “demoted,” Agnes would have to apply later than what was going to be normal, probably sticking her with Census taker. She would be in the same boat as Pius and Saul, only getting paid at the whim of High Pope Urban XI. Sure, they were well dressed, but that was because their outfits were issued to them by the state.
“Both of us. We will apply tomorrow. At the very least, we must get Mary to the year of Applications. Even if she has a stutter, she will still be able to fund us, find a nice boy, and settle down.”

Aw, her father really did love her. Mary was impressed. She had always assumed her father to have a “live without a tomorrow” attitude. Here, he was looking to the future. He wanted Mary to get as far as she could with her…

She did not want to call it a disability. It did not get her any sympathy from anyone. Disabilities tended to do that. But what did one call such a thing that both was both detrimental to the person, yet attracted no sympathy?

Debility. That was a nice word. It was relatively uncommon, yet matched Mary’s situation almost perfectly. She tries to list other words: Encumbrance was a pretty good one. She was going to list off more when she heard her mother begin to speak.

“Alright dear. It seems like we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. We should get some rest.” Agnes sounded tired. Whether it was tired of the world, tired of her husband and his continued ranting, or tired because it was late was a mystery to Mary.

The next thing Mary heard was the extinguishing of the fire, followed by movement in the general direction of her room. Mary knew what was coming next. Her parents would enter her room with the expectation that she would be asleep. They would lay their hands on her, and leave the room, heading to their room where they would go to sleep.

Mary had done this multiple times before. Because of this, she had trained herself to lower her breathing rate to a minimum, about
equal to the frequency of breathing while sleeping, and the only thing that was left was closing her eyes.

Her parents filed into her room as expected, and went about their routine. They placed their hands on Mary’s head, and said a prayer. When they left the room, Agnes made sure to close the door behind her, in an attempt to block sound waves.
Immediately after this had taken place, Mary opened her eyes and accelerated her breathing rate to the normal level. She was not going to sleep a lot tonight.

She had to ponder the events that had just taken place outside her bedroom door.
[/spoiler]


[spoiler=Chapter Eight: 5D1MJ Consequences]
The fifth day of the first month was a special day for those who were experiencing their first Jubilee. This was the day that their stamp became permanent. Each person aged at least ten and experiencing a jubilee had to have a tattoo to replace their temporary stamp they received as a “birth.”

For Mary, it was a painful process. She imagined that it was a painful experience for other people too, but she could not be sure. One thing she did know, as she was warned by her mother, “Do not scream out in pain, as it will send people away from the office, and thus people will be left unstamped for censuses. And that would be against society’s will. You do not want to against society, do you?” Mary could not remember how she had reacted to these words of wisdom, besides that she had nodded her head in a very teenager way. The kind of nod that meant that she wanted her mother to go away.

In retrospect, there were probably a lot of things that her mother had said that she did not listen to. Most times, she wished she had. She hated it when her mother was right.

When she arrived home, her parents had received their occupation assignment letters. Her mother’s was left carelessly on the table.

[b]By Order of our Beloved High Pope Urban XI[/b]

[b]Agnes Dágo is hereby assigned to the occupation of Printer[/b]
[b]She shall report to her post at her local Printing company at 9 on the clock.[/b]

This piece of paper was the first time Mary had seen the State use sheets that were not standard issue. It must be a coincidence.
“I do not believe that paper is your business, Mary.” A voice came from behind her. She did not need to turn around to know it was her fathers. She turned around anyway to be respectful. It was a difficult time for him. She could tell by the tone of his voice.
When she saw her father, it looked like he had been thrown into a laundry basket. The clothes on his back were wrinkled, and almost dirty, as if he had experienced a particularly bad day at the cemetery. But Mary knew he was not at the cemetery at any point during the day. He had been waiting for his application results to come back in.

Her father’s mood matched the appearance of his clothes. From the head down, he looked disheveled, as if he had just spent the night sleeping at someone else’s house. Then something white in her father’s hand caught Mary’s eye. It was a crumpled up piece of paper. Mary could guess what it was. If her mother’s piece of paper were lying on the table, than that slip of paper all crumpled up in her father’s hand must be his assignment.

“T-t-toll m-m-m-m…” Even when she tried in front of her father, she could not get the last word out.
“Mary, this may be the one time I am ever going to tell you to not talk.” Her father’s voice sounded like it was about to crack. It was if he had been somewhere ranting. Knowing her father, it would probably be something to the extent of going specifically down to city hall to complain about his job assignment. And because he had essentially told his daughter to shut up, he was probably given the position of toll man.

That night, Mary lay awake, trying to hear her father and mother discussing the future. “Yes, you got Printer, which means that at least Mary will make it to the year of Application, but where am I now? The position of a Toll Man! Just a few days ago I had openly complained about the position!”

“Dearest, you should take this as a new experience. It’s not like you were registered as an unemployed.” Agnes’ voice was soft, almost inaudible behind the plaster that separated Mary and her parents.

“No, I suppose you are right. I could have been registered as unemployed, or worse, inexperienced. I just do not understand the state’s decision to give me the position of a [i]toll man[/i].” At the mention of his assigned occupation, Peter’s voice became sharp, almost annoyed. He did have a right to be.

Agnes apparently knew better than to argue any further, and they became silent, with the cracking of yet another fire still in the background. Without a word, they began approaching Mary’s bedroom. Also without a word, Mary repeated her process of slowing down her heart rate and breathing, and her parents entered the room to find her sleeping soundly.

The next day had a completely different tone. Agnes headed off to the Printers, while her father went off to a random point in the middle of a road to collect tolls. There were few words exchanged between Mary’s parents, and there were even fewer words exchanged between her parents and herself. It was like there were unspoken contracts between her parents designed to not speak to the debilitated girl, and not to speak to each other.

Even at school there was an entirely different tone. Teachers fit just under the group of people that did not have to change their job, and so the newest semester began with completely new teachers, with completely new personalities and lesson plans.
The first day of the semester invariably had teachers go on a set schedule, as if there were some agreement that this would happen on the first day. First, the teacher would introduce themselves, title followed by a surname. Then they would ask the class to introduce themselves. Name, age, and something intriguing about themselves. This was all fine and good except for one teacher that Mary later decided she would have to do something about.

Mary, given her debilitation, was exempt from being audible during this time during most of her classes. She would simply write her name, age and interesting fact (something she invariably listed as “I speak with a stutter.”), return to her seat, and class could continue. This one teacher, who asked to be called Mrs. Spring, forced everyone to be audible and speak clearly during these introductions.

This was hard enough for the kind of people who sat at the back of the room. They were already hardly audible, and the fact that they had to speak clearly meant that although each one of them would try and push the limits on what was audible and what was not, Mrs. Spring would call them out by saying “I am very old, speak up!”

Of course this would be a problem for Mary. When she was called up to publicly humiliate herself, she began strong, pausing after each syllable. “My. Name. Is. Ma. Ry…” and so on.

Mrs. Spring was not convinced. She made Mary speak flowingly. “Like this:” she Mrs. Spring said, “My name is Mrs. Spring. I am fifty four years old, and I am a stickler when it comes to the pronunciation of words.” Now you try, using yourself.
Mary hesitated. She had known that Mrs. Spring was a stickler of words, but the fact that she openly admitted it was a little bit more intimidating. Still, there did not seem to be any way out of this besides hoping that one of her classmates would speak up and point out her debility.

This was a class of people aged fifteen. There was no one in this class that Mary trusted to speak up in her defense. So she began, and for once, she began strong. “My name is Mary, I am fifteen years old, and-” Here, Mary became too confident. She knew that there was still an entire clause to go, but it seemed to Mary like she was really close to the ending. She sped up a little bit, which turned out to be her downfall. “-an intriguing thing about me is th-that I s-s-s-s-t-t-tutter.”

It was an embarrassing way to go out. Fortunately, a class of people all aged fifteen had some benefits, too. They all knew that if they laughed, and they were the only one that laughed, they would be singled out and possibly punished. So they did not laugh as a collective. Even Mrs. Spring seemed to feel the pressure of not reacting, so merely said something that amounted to “Better,” and moved on to the next person.

Mary was at home again, working on schoolwork. Mrs. Spring had specifically given Mary this work, which was supposed to help her with her diction. All it meant was reciting a tongue twister over and over until she could pronounce it with speed and regularity. She had only a weekend to pull this off, according to Mrs. Spring, and Mary was right now failing at even grasping the first line.

“All I w-w-want is a p-proper c-c-c-c-c-cup of c-c-c-c-coffee m-m-m-m-m-m-maDARN.” This had to be the fiftieth time that she was trying to pull this off. And it is very hard to pull something off when one’s subconscious is fighting to avoid such things happening.
At the sound of her daughter being frustrated, Agnes stepped into Mary’s bedroom with a compassionate face as if she was just begging to say “What’s wrong, dearie?”

Mary showed her the sheet containing the words that Mrs. Spring was making her recite. Agnes was more than a little surprised, and it showed on her face. “Lines? Let us see them.”

Agnes began, reading it slowly “All I want is a proper cup of coff-” Before she even finished the sentence, she lit up “Oh! I know this rhyme!” Giving Mary her piece of paper back and closing her eyes, she recited,

“All I want is a proper cup of coffee, made in a proper copper coffee pot.
“I may be off my dot, but I want a proper coffee in a proper copper pot.
“Iron coffee pots and tin coffee pots, they are no use to me.
“If I can’t have a proper cup of coffee in a proper copper pot, then I’ll have a cup of tea!”

She opened her eyes to see Mary showing her the door, a little annoyed. That was fair. Agnes walked up to Mary gave her the “I think it is time for bed” line, and left the room.

Going to bed was perfectly fine with Mary. It meant that she could lie awake listening to her parents discuss the day.

“Agnes, you do not know how lucky you are getting a job as a printer. I think my legs seized up from standing still for too long.” Peter was audibly frustrated. He had a right to be. Just because he did his job, and did his job possibly pretty well, did not mean that he had to take it without an entire cup of salt.

“Well, remember, you have to do this for another seven years before Mary officially applies, so you will have to get used to it.” Agnes was trying to lead Peter away from the fact that printing was actually an entertaining job.

It did not work. “How was printing by the way? I hope it was not as gut wrenchingly boring as toll man was.”

“It was okay.” Agnes was still trying to avoid the subject, but she could not help adding a little bit of extra information. “I am mostly assigned to arrange the letters for the Machine, and replace them when necessary.”

“But it was less boring than standing in one place all day, was it not?” Peter had to get verbal confirmation, apparently.

“No, Peter, I guess it was not.” She gave in, something that was followed by awkward silence. And there was no white noise from a fire to drown out this silence, so it lingered.

“We should get to bed.”

“Yes, we should.” Both parents headed to Mary’s room for their little prayer ritual, and Mary, out of habit, lowered her breathing rate.

Both parents came in and said their prayer, but Peter added an extra message after their collective “Amen.”

“Mary Dágo. I hope that you are worth it.”
[/spoiler]


[spoiler=Chapter Nine: 7D1MA Application, Assignment and Onwards]
There was a reason that people voted Application Year as the second least popular year in the calendar. To quote one random passerby, the Application Year was horrible because people just did not like filling out white pieces of paper. The size or importance of said white pieces of paper did not matter.

This condition started at an early age, with tests. Continuing further down the line, there existed speeches, which were essentially an essay question concerning their life. Finally, at what was hopefully the end of the road, there were these forms that had to be filled out to get a job.

Mary had particular trouble once again. Actually, there were two parts that gave her trouble. The first was that she had to list a teacher the government could get a recommendation from. Mary blanked on all of her current teacher names except one. Mrs. Spring. After handing in her slip she realized how terrible she would rate Mary, and how Mary could not pronounce anything and Mary this, and Mary that…

She tried to take back her paper. “No.” said the lady at the desk “You will not be needing this.” That was life.

The second problem was the oral interview, which was rife with the interviewer (who Mary later found out was named Linus) asking questions concerning clarification, or the ever popular “Could you speak clearly, please?”

The questionnaire began easy. Mary was asked her name. It was one of the few things that in the intervening years between Mrs. Spring and the present that she was able to say. Unfortunately for Mary, this is where the easiness ended. She was attacked with questions that she could not easily answer, up to and including the first thing she felt when she was conceived.

Not the easiest question to answer even if she was not afflicted with her debility. Mary answered the questions, as best she could, except for one.

“In your own opinion, how would you describe your family’s social status?”

Mary barely even heard the question. She was busy focusing on how ugly Linus looked. Sure, he was wearing yet another suit and tie, but it was a horrible fit, with the shoulders almost at his collarbone, and undershirt just barely tucking in his pants, which were of similar proportion to the rest of his body. She could honestly not take him seriously in that getup.

“Mary, I asked you a question.” Linus sounded impatient. And why would he not be? He was in a suit that was noticeably too small, and was trying to interview someone who was quite possibly the least competent public speaker in the known world.

“S-s-sorry.” To herself, Mary thought she sounded nervous. And why should she not be? She was being interviewed by someone who was wearing a suit tailored for a child, who acted as if he were king of the world, only because he had the authority to. “What w-w-was the question ag-g-g-g-gain?”

“I asked you, in your own opinion, how your family’s social status was.”

Mary mulled over her options. She could either answer, or not answer. Those were pretty polarized options. She mulled over it some more. She seriously considered not answering, until she remembered her father’s words from the fifth day of her first Jubilee.

“Mary Dágo, you had better be worth it.”

Mary decided to answer. It would be better for her father in the long run. “W-w-well...”

Looking back, that night, Mary had decided that the interview had gone pretty terribly. Everything that could have gone wrong during the application process in general had pretty much gone wrong. She did not feel confident in her chances to get something highly esteemed like Namer.

Quickly, Mary ran through all the favorable occupations she knew of. Stamper: Unlikely. People normally took night classes to become a stamper, John Paul was probably the only one in recent history that bypassed the night classes and went straight into the occupation.

Namer: Also unlikely, given that it required speaking. Mary was notoriously poor at speaking, with all kinds of people now knowing about her debility.

Teacher: One of the most talkative occupations, if not the most talkative. Mary felt against this position anyways. She always felt that she was never a very good teacher.

Lawyer: People hardly ever needed Lawyers, but they were still well accepted into society. Mary would be okay with this position if it were not on the speaking end of the talking/not talking scale.

Doctor: Perfectly fine. People could never correct a doctor as far as she knew because they always possessed some sort of authority against such notions. Mary felt she would function well as a doctor.

Businessperson: Held the authority to keep people from talking if she were lucky. This authority would be limited if she were to not end up a business owner.

Mary conceded the point to herself. She was not going to get a decent occupation unless a miracle happened. As she went to sleep, the twenty two year old listened to the fireplace outside her room. It was silent. There were no parents discussing anything in the living room, and especially no fire.

“Mary?” It was her mother, probably asking where she was. This was one of the few questions from her parents that could evoke a verbal response from the girl.

“In h-here, m-m-mother!” The sound came from her bedroom. Mary was currently lying down on her bed, looking up at her blank white ceiling, pondering.

Such was the state Mary was in when her mother crossed the threshold from the hallway to Mary’s bedroom. When Agnes did so, the younger of the two turned her head ninety degrees to the left to look at her, out of respect. Not enough respect yet, however, to sit upright.

“This letter came for you in the mail. It was addressed from the State, so I opened it for you.” Agnes extended her arm containing the letter. Mary sat upright at this, the letter was almost definitely her assignment.

Standing up and taking it from her mother, she took out the eight and a half by eleven piece of paper and read to herself. Agnes, out of curiosity, started reading over her shoulder.

[b]BY ORDER OF OUR BELOVED HIGH POPE URBAN XI[/b]

[b]Mary Dágo is hereby assigned to the glorious occupation of Businessperson. She is to report to the Occupation College tomorrow at 9 on the clock.[/b]

Mary was ecstatic on the inside, and incredulous on the outside. She was still trying to figure out what possibly went right during any point in her application process. It was Mrs. Spring, she decided. She somehow had been a student so well that, even though her teacher hated her, she still gave a good recommendation.

That was amazing. Mary had half a mind to send her a thank you letter. But she did not, out of fear that it was not actually her teacher. For all she knew, Mrs. Spring had hired someone else to write the recommendation, and let herself get on with her life.
The paranoia was ignorable, though. Mary had just been chosen to be a businesswoman. All that was left was schooling for the next seven years before going out into the world as Mary, Businesswoman.

That night, her parents were at it again. Mary was so tired at the day’s proceedings that she did not hear all of her parents’ conversation. It mostly involved “Businesswoman?” in a surprised tone, followed by that same word in a neutral tone. Anything else that might have been said was probably done already, just in front of her face. She was twenty two, after all.

She decided that she could live that.
[/spoiler]


[spoiler=Chapter Ten: 7D8M3U Bad thing happening]
Uneventful years were perfectly fine with the public. These years meant a time of study and reflection for the devout, and what can be essentially called “free time” for those that are not. This year, as the Third Uneventful year was the least popular of the three, because it was just plain boring for a lot of people who did not know what to do with any extra time that they might have.

To Mary, this “third uneventful was time for school. She had been studying for an entire year on how to be a good business person, and she was, in her mind, succeeding. She had decent scores in most of her classes, and if her Theology professor would just finish grading her paper, she would have decent scores in all of them. Mary made a mental note to remind her about that. Odds are, she would still forget, but it was nice to make commitments now.

It turns out, she would not forget to remind her, because she got back to her house to find a letter waiting for her, addressed to her from her theology teacher. Odd. Teachers normally just gave back assignments. She opened it to find her ten page paper stuffed into the standard sized envelope. Messily. This was not different from the norm at all. There were multiple lectures where her professor was hurriedly jumping from one point to the other. It seemed that she did the same thing here, hastily putting the paper into the envelope, licking it, and sealing it.

Mary unfolded the report with what she only could assume was the about same speed. Tucked in her paper was a small handwritten note. Mary had almost forgotten what these looked like, being used to the all bolded letters font that the State used in their addresses to the public. This piece of paper actually had thin lines that held vowels!

It read, “Mary, you did a decent job on this paper. I am sorry if this did not get to you in a timely manner. I had to pay for the State’s delivery service, and you know how that can go.

Why was it that delivery services, actually anything run by the state but especially delivery services, were so slow? Mary had heard jokes that if something owned by the state became under private ownership, everything involved with that would experience increases in both speed and quality of service.

Mary had decent grades in all of her classes now. That was nice. It meant that later in life she would not be judged as a poor quality student, which people might extrapolate into a poorly skilled business woman.

Mary lay awake that night, thinking about all the different things that had happened that day. Besides receiving the letter from her theology teacher, not much out of the ordinary had happened.

Since she had time, Mary recounted the story that had remained her favorite all these years. [i]The Story of Stories[/i]. She did not have the book itself, but she felt confident that she could tell it to herself just like she had while reading the book and holding the pages.
She got as far as the end of the storyteller’s story. For some reason, all she could remember after that was the last two words.

[i]Stepped forwards[/i].

This caused a little bit of a minor panic in Mary. She really wanted to keep this story with her for the rest of her life. It was such a good story to her. She was going to miss it terribly.

Then even more panic hit her. She had forgotten the lesson that she had learned from the book. She probably knew it subconsciously, but to herself, she could not remember anything consciously about the moral of the story.

Fortunately, these bouts of panic could easily be remedied. She would just go out and by a new copy. Tomorrow, Mary would go to a children’s book store, and get a copy of [i]The Story of Stories[/i]. If asked, she could tell a white lie and say she had a child that she thought might like.

Satisfied with this solution, Mary went to sleep.

***

Today was Saturday, and Saturday meant no classes for Mary. Today also meant that she would be getting herself a copy of [i]The Story of Stories[/i]. Walking into the bookstore feigning confidence, she asked the person at the front desk, “Where would one find a book called [i]The Story of Stories[/i]?” She felt relieved after she had said this. She had practiced that specific phrase all morning trying to avoid revealing her debility to complete strangers.

“You did not hear the news from, like, fifty years ago?” Mary had been trying so hard to feign confidence that she did not notice that the person at the counter was younger than she was, and used what apparently was the latest mid-sentence slang. “[i]The Story of Stories[/i] was banned, by order of the High Pope Urban XI. I’m pretty sure it actually was fifty years ago.”

Mary was shocked for two reasons. One, she looked like she would know information from previous Jubilee cycles past one previous, and two, her parents were in knowing possession of an illegal book. “Y-you m-m-must h-have some s-s-s-s-s-” Mary took a breath. She was letting her stutter through. This was not going well for three reasons now. “You m-must have some s-s-sort of f-f-f-f-f-formal an-n-nouncement. C-could I see it?”

“If we still have it…” The teenager dropped the casual tic, apparently catching on to how important this could be. She began looking. While waiting, Mary browsed what was apparently legal children’s reading material, finding things like [i]the story of the little boy[/i]. This one seemed interesting. Opening it, she found that there was one word printed on each page, while the rest was completely white.
Reading aloud was easier than most books, given that each word was printed per page, she could read it like she normally spoke when she did not have any preparation and was thinking about it enough. “there. once. was. a. little. boy. and. everything. turned. out. right.”

A waste of space, Mary decided. There was enough junk for kids to read, and this one did not even have capital letters! When she looked up, she saw where all the capital letters had gone. She saw the words

BEST SELLERS

“Oh, were you looking at that?” The girl at the front desk was back, clutching a piece of paper looked similar to the ones that the state normally used. “Amazing how well that one has sold. Apparently, that is by the same author that wrote the teen classic autobiography “Meta.”

“How d-d-d-d-does that one g-g-g-go?” Mary was worried, and it showed in her voice.

“I’m So Meta, Even This Acronym” was the reply. “It uses a lot of capital letters.”

“…” Mary was a stunned. The government was taking classics, or classics in her opinion, and replacing them with… whatever this was. They were six to eleven word shorts that just happened to be formed into a coherent sentence.

“Anyway, I got that State Announcement that you wanted.” Mary took it, and saw the familiar opening text and font. Reading to herself, Mary saw:

[b]BY THE ORDER OF HIGH POPE URBAN XI[/b]

[b]The book entitled [i]The Story of Stories[/i] is hereby banned from all people’s possession for reasons below. Any copies still remaining shall be stored in the Vault of the Banned.[/b]
[b]Reasoning: [i]The Story of Stories[/i] is highly infectious in its delivering of mindset, demonstrating at the end of the book how to kill oneself, including pictures. Suicide is a sin, and demonstrating how to commit suicide is grounds for Banning.[/b]

Mary reread the story, a little unsure of what she had just read. It was detailed enough, and she understood it enough, but there was still that mingling feeling of loss for words.

“Do you know someone who is still in possession of this book?” The girl behind the counter was reading over her shoulder, a common occurrence, apparently, when it came to Mary.

“M-m-m-maybe. I would h-h-have to ch-check.” As soon as she said that, she realized what she was doing. She was turning in her parents for what amounted to treason against the state. She was in a moral dilemma.

“If you give me their name, I can get the State to check for you.” The teenage girl appeared excited about this new development. She must have a boring job, Mary decided.

“N-n-no, I think I would rather check for myself.” Mary was still in a dilemma. Would she really turn in her parents over a book that she loved dearly? She was still conflicted, so she felt like mulling it over. If that meant checking to see if her father still had the book in question, then so be it.

“Alright then…” The girl behind the counter pulled out a business card from one of the table’s many drawers, “Call this number if you find that they do, in fact, possess the book [i]The Story of Stories[/i]. Ask for Teresa when they ask, and I will be able to help you.”
Mary obediently took the card, said what amounted to a word of thanks, and left the building.

Mary spent the rest of the day locked up in her house, wondering whether she should turn in her parents or not. Most of that time was spent praying. Praying to God that she could make the right decision.

The rest of the time was spent eating. Ramen noodles from a package were not the best thing to be eating, but it was the only thing available for her budget. Mary had splurged on her house, and now she was paying the price.

Mary was lying in her bed now. It was nighttime. “Dear God, I pray that no matter which commandment you have me break, whether it be lying or honoring my father and mother, you will accept my confession in advance.”
Mary was asleep before she had realized what she had just accomplished.

She had just spoken an entire sentence without a single stutter.
[/spoiler]


[spoiler=Chapter Eleven: 19D8M3U The Decision]
Any time someone has to make an decision when they would rather not show preference for either one choice or the other, there was some sort of legal code that defined what random chance generator determined the correct decision. The third uneventful year was thus deemed a bad time to make decisions as not a lot of people had access to a three sided die. People did not have access to a one sided die for the First uneventful year either, but people tended not to make important decisions three years into the cycle.

Mary was searching everywhere for a three sided die. She really needed to make this decision on whether or not she would turn her parents in. She had even looked up the tables for making such a decision just before her “great dice search” as her friends were calling it.

There were not a lot of people existing in the world that Mary could call friends. Anyone who could be defined as one of Mary’s friends was either similarly debilitated, or was really understanding of someone who was.

Three sided dice existed, according to Mary’s friends. Essentially, they were triangular prisms without bases, and all one had to do was roll it so that it would never land on a base. Creating such a thing was easy, but because it was only going to be used in one year out of fifteen, the supply was never high, and because of this, people often thought “Why bother?” and waited until the end of the year. Mary had no such extra time to wait. She had to do this.

Then she had an idea. Today was Saturday, and her parents and their house were very near to her own. She could pay them a visit, and she could check for herself before reporting them to authorities.

Accepting this as her plan, Mary made the call.

The first thing that she heard from her mother was “Mary! What a pleasant surprise!” Hearing this was no surprise to Mary. It came with the slight undertone that there was something wrong with her even leaving. Mary had suspected that her mother, no matter how happy she was on the outside, was more than a little disappointed that her daughter had to leave her. Something about “Empty Nest Syndrome.”

Her father’s first word when he saw her home were “Hello.” A pretty common first word, admittedly. It was the next few words that surprised Mary. “Welcome Home.”

Sure, she had been living here for over twenty two years now, but her father was a pretty stoic person when it came to Mary. The only person that Mary had seen Peter open up to was his wife Agnes, and even then at night when he was almost sure that no one else was listening. Peter actually opening up to his daughter after twenty two years was a little bit more than heartwarming.

“Than-nk you f-f-f-for having me.” Mary was stuttering again. Such was life.

“Say that again, Mary.” Her father’s third sentence after seeing Mary. Well, some things never did change. He was always the one that corrected Mary for pronunciation. He probably had more of an influence on her tact than Mrs. Spring had, if only because he had been around her longer.

“Thank. You. For. Hav. Ing. M-me.” Slipping on the last syllable. Not classy. Even to her parents it was not classy.

“One more time, and more fluid.” Her father was adamant on this. Mary had noted while she was still ten years old that this was one of the only things that Agnes would not interfere. Whether this was because she was scared or that she believed that this was good for Mary, she guessed that she would probably never know.

“Thank you for having m-me.” Again with the slip on the last syllable! It was as if her mind and her mouth were not cooperating.

“Better. Keep working on that. You will need it for when you become a business woman for real, not just one of these students.” Ah, so that was the reason. The ability to speak well was directly tied to the ability to do business. That was why Peter was drilling her, and that’s why Agnes was not interfering, no matter how obviously pained it made her.

It was kind of an obvious reason, actually. A person with a nice tact would probably be able to close a lot of deals. That was just how it was, apparently. The entire world was against Mary.

But Mary did not go to her parent’s house to practice elocution. She was on a mission to retrieve information. And at dinnertime, immediately after saying grace, Mary pressed her parents, specifically Peter.

“So, father…” She had prepared this entire line coming up. Not only was her father going to be impressed after what had just happened with the welcoming in scenario, but he was also going to provide Mary with the answers that she wanted.

“Yes, Mary?” Her father was already eating his soup. Agnes, wishing that Mary had given her more time to prepare, had simply whipped up some split pea soup. The thick kind.

“I was just wondering what you had done with that book [i]The Story of Stories[/i]. I am merely asking.” Redundancy. Whether that would help her father take her seriously or not was explained by her father’s response.

“That is a redundant statement, Mary.” Drat, it did not help. Of course her father was going to notice the lack of correct grammar. He was, in Mary’s own words, and undoubtedly multiple other people’s, the leader of the imaginary Grammar Police. He was the master of catching things such as this.

“May I try again?” Mary quickly said those four words. She noticed that she did not stutter, which was good when talking to her father.

“Yes, you may.” If Peter noticed the lack of a stammer, it was not alluded to in his voice.

Alright then. Mary had to cut the offending clause from her request. She only had one chance at this. “I was wondering what you had done with the book [i]The Story of Stories[/i].”

“I threw it away.” It was so blunt of a statement that Mary almost did not catch it. She wanted to ask if he would repeat his answer, but she knew what her father would say. Something about if one asks a question, they better be ready for the answer.

Mary took the other option. Say “what,” but in the sense of the shocked “I heard you, but I cannot believe that you just said that.”

“If someone asks a question, they better be ready to answer.” A less mature Mary would have mentally said [i]Called it![/i] to herself, but this was a mature people time.

“N-n-n-n-n-no, I mean-nt with that w-w…”

Agnes cleared her throat, prompting Mary to stop talking. “I think her ‘what’ was more of an ‘I heard you, but I cannot believe that you just said that’ kind of what. It is context, dearie.”

Blessing her mother and her quick wits before Mary dug herself in another hole, Mary listened to her father carefully as he continued the conversation.

“I threw it away.”

“You already said that, dear.” It seemed like Agnes was commandeering the conversation in Mary’s favor. It made sense. The matriarch was supposed to be the more nurturing one of the family. They would stand up for their children if things went wrong.

“And then she said ‘what’ so I repeated my answer. It is common courtesy, I thought you might know that.” Her father and mother were diluting the previously important question and answer session with their opinions, and it was hard to dissect the actual answer to her question, besides what her father had said.

[i]I threw it away[/i].

How could he do that? She loved that book! It was one of the only things that kept her going during her first Penance year. In a way, though, this was a good thing. It meant that she did not have to turn in her parents for possessing a banned book. That was always a good thing.

Thanking her parents for the lovely soup, she headed home. Sure, she was a little shell shocked from what had happened over dinner, and she was glad that she got her parents to stop arguing over trivial things like grammar.

Lying in bed that night, Mary thought about the day’s events. She had searched for a three sided die, but when it really mattered,
she would not have been able to do anything about that.

Before she closed her eyes, she said a prayer.

“Hi, God. It is me again, Mary Dágo. I need your help for the rest of my life. Is there any way to get that? Like put you on permanent reserve or something? Because I really need that.

“I stutter a lot. I know that. And the reason I am not stuttering right now is because I have practiced these lines over and over. I bet you never had to do these. My theology teacher is nuts.

“Look, I am really tired, so I hope you are listening. I really wish I had that book [i]The Story of Stories[/i] back. This is probably such a mundane thing to be asking for, but as you probably know, it was important to me as a child, and I would like to keep one, at least for the memories.”

Mary was almost done with her prayer, but she felt like something was missing. Not knowing what else to fill it in with, she prayed:

“Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Give us not into temptation, and deliver us from evil. Amen.”

Theology was good for one thing. Learning how to say that one single prayer. Everything else? Filler.
[/spoiler]


[spoiler=Chapter Twelve: 3D1MJ Jubilee Two]
Mary’s second Jubilee was not unlike the first. There were still big parties going on that Mary semi-loathed. There was still the application process, something Mary had to go through for the second time. It was not much different, although Mary had to list a different teacher for recommendation. She picked her Theology teacher.

She even got Linus as her interviewer for the second time. He was dresses in a properly sized suit this time, which was a refreshing change from eight years ago. The questions were the same too, which let to Mary questioning whether they actually needed to go through this a second time.

“Of course we have to do this over and over again. People change a lot in fifteen years.” This was an acceptable response from Linus, Mary decided.

After the interview, and a draining remainder of half the day, Mary recollected her thoughts. She had done better, she felt, but she still had no idea what occupation she was getting. She hoped that at this point, it she was assigned to Business person. She had been training for it for the past seven or eight years.

***

[b]By the order of our beloved High Pope Urban XI[/b]

[b]Mary Dágo is hereby assigned to the adored occupation of Business person. We, as the State congratulate her on this assignment and wish her the best in her endeavors.[/b]

Mary would have been ecstatic reading this letter, had she actually known what she was going to do with her life at this point in time. She was going to open a business, she knew that much. She just did not know what niche she was going to fit in. Yet.

***

Life was boring Mary. She was trying to find a niche still to sell some sort of product to the general public, and she had creator’s block. When she tried to look for something to sell, she found nothing, and she got bored.

One of those ways to avoid boredom, according to her friend Catherine, was to go to the circus. It was apparently a good way to forget about deadlines (things that Mary did not have yet, given that she did not have anything in general yet), and a surprisingly good way to come up with innovative ideas. Mary, trusting Catherine, accepted.

While at the circus, Mary observed the performers demonstrate the same tricks over and over, each time someone else doing it. Often, the first person would do the trick in an unmemorable way, and by the end, the most skilled person would perform it perfectly, and the audience would cheer. They had just been impressed to their “maximum capacity” as Mary started calling it by the end of the show.

Mary thought about this during the intermission. In a way, it was kind of like a business. One does something, and someone then does it better. Eventually someone does it in the best way possible given technologies limitations, and people have to move on to the next innovation.

This gave Mary ideas, but none of those ideas she thought of made any sense. There was already a well-developed market for all the things that Mary felt that she enjoyed, and all the rest of the show she thought of things like this. She even thought of things that she hated, but did not see herself working in the business aspect of any of those fields.

Such was life. There were multiple ways that Mary could go with this, and Mary was simply overwhelmed. When she thought of things, she immediately felt like shooting them down.

Advertising was something she hated, and was a well-developed field.

Books were something she loved, but given the way that the business was going, Mary did not see herself going into it. She could innovate, but that sounded like a bad idea when so many people read the stuff that she thought was crap every day.

Mary even thought about going into the business of innovation. She had heard somewhere that that had worked at one point, but it had failed after one Jubilee cycle, and she did not feel like failure. Failure for Mary was not on the agenda.

Stock Marketing was… an interesting decision. It always reset after each Jubilee, which led to less repetition, thus less boredom, and there was always the chance that she could get a big break and rise to fame and all that.

When she had left the circus, Mary had decided. She was going into the stocks and bonds business.

***

Capitalism was not a big thing in the State. Therefore, there were not a lot of people in the stock market. There were people, intellectuals mostly, that just dotted off and on something like the stock market. Mary walked into the Trade Center, and found herself to be the only one there. For a moment, Mary wondered why the State kept this thing up. It was basically an expense that was outside what was legally tithing code. The State probably had to spend at least twenty thousand each month for upkeep purposes, which was probably an expense that they could not continuously pay.

So why was this building here?

Then Mary became enthralled with the technology. There was a giant ticker of all the different businesses in the known world, there was different machines that allowed you to purchase stocks. There was everything that Mary felt she needed.

There was a noise behind her. When she turned around to see who it was, she saw someone who was dressed as a Janitor. “Who are you?” they both asked simultaneously, one with a stutter, and the other without.

There was an awkward silence that followed.

“You first.” Again, there was an awkward silence as each said the phrase again.

“My name is…” Both parties again were a mirror of each other in terms of dialogue, but this time, only Mary stopped talking at this point. The Janitor continued “Steven Matthews. I was recently assigned to this janitorial position. And you are?”

“M-m-m-mary Dágo. I was given B-b-b-b-business person and I d-d-d-decided to try my luck at St-t-t-tocks.” Stuttering. Of course she was stuttering. What else would she do in front of a complete stranger that she was trying to make a good impression out of.

“Eh?” Steven cocked his head to one side put on a face that seemed to reduce his age about ten years, from what appeared to be forty all the way down to the healthy age of thirty.

Mary repeated herself. She was used to that at least. This time, she made sure to pause after each word, observing Steven take it all in.

“Ah. One of those stuttering people eh? See, if I keep asking you to repeat yourself it is because I am a little hard of hearing.” This was one of those “good revelations” that Mary liked. The only problem that Mary had heard a lot of bad ones, so she always acted a bit out of character any time that she heard a good one.

This was even one of those weird ones that was only good for her. Steven was a little hard of hearing. This was probably bad for a lot of people as he had to ask “Could you repeat that, please?” or, at the very least “Eh?”

Come to think of it, Steven was a lot like her. Both had a problem that resulted in people getting annoyed with a second party. And now, the two had met face to face. This was a good thing. They could help each other out in some way. They could tell each other how to cope with their separate debilities, and the other person could try and apply them to their own social life.

And that is almost precisely what happened over the next few days. The only two people who made their living at the Trade Center discussed things as they went about their separate businesses. Steven would do his cleaning, and Mary would analyze and trade parts of companies.

Steven at one point mentioned that he, in his own words “think that if we had not met each other, maintaining this place would be a whole lot harder. With you here, it gives me a purpose. I need to keep machine A running, in case you might need it later on in your occupation. I need to keep the floors clean so you do not drag dirt all over the place, leaving it even worse than before. You drive me forward.”

Mary noted the same thing about Steven, but in her stuttering dialogue, it was a little harder to understand. What she said in her mind was that without Steven keeping up the place, she would not see the point in even coming, and could probably analyze movements at home. Without Steven, she might even have quit the business due to sheer boredom. Analyzing stocks and bonds over multiple days was not easy.

To this, Steven cocked his head and said his trademark “Eh?” followed by an “I do not understand this stuff, but whatever floats your boat.”

That was an odd phrase. Mary had not heard that phrase in a while until just now. It must be an old person thing, although Steven was only ten years older than her. A male thing, most likely. It was only people she knew when she was eight that said that phrase before this.

She decided to ask. “Where d-d-d-did that phrase come from?”

“I think it comes from the…” Steven was deep in thought. When he came back up again, he merely replied that he did not know where it came from, but knew what it meant, and went about his business.
[/spoiler]


[spoiler=Chapter Thirteen: 3D4MC The Story of Steven]
The Conclusion year was an interesting year any time. Any party that happened during Jubilee was counteracted in the Conclusion year, with people usually balancing the party time by punishing themselves. Mary, who made a point of not even attending a single party, avoided this punishment.

She did not want to go through fasting again.

Mary was not the only person at the Trade Center. Steven was there, still cleaning machines and mopping the floors. At one point, when Mary was patiently waiting for Steven to finish mopping a particular section of floor so she could cross it, she broke the silence by asking a question.

“Steven?” Mary had gotten better at saying his name in a year.

“Eh?” Some things did not change, though. Like Steven still being hard of hearing. Or his “catchphrase” as Mary called it. Not to his face, of course.

“I was wond-d-dering what-t your-r s-s-story was. How d-did you g-get here?”

Steven paused mid-mop. “I suppose that you want to hear the whole thing, do you not?” Seeing Mary’s nod, he began.

[i]I was born in the Third Uneventful year. Being born in such an odd year, I was often ridiculed by my friends. When I was a little kid, I even often contemplated killing myself. There were two reasons why I did not. The first was the simple fact that I did not have the means to do so. My parents were particularly strict. I could not take medicine or hang myself or anything because anything that I could use to do so was locked by a key that I could not find.[/i]

[i]The second reason that I never killed myself was my local Priest. I was always adored my Priest, whose name was conveniently the same as mine. Priest Steven taught me that killing myself, no matter what happened, was essentially murder. Murder was against God’s Ten Commandments. Because I had not experienced a Confession year, I would be sent to Hell. That was what he told me, anyway.[/i]

[i]After my first confession, I asked him whether I could kill myself now. It was a playful joke, but he was horrified that I would even suggest such a thing and told my parents that I was in need of a psychiatrist. They confirmed their suspicions that they had, and also claimed that they had thought the same thing, but were too nervous to send me without official recommendation.[/i]

[i]My first trip to the psychiatrist was terrible. They put me into the zone of “depression” and nothing more. The problem was their attempts to cure me. I was at least thirteen years old at the time. I was pretty sure what they were doing was more in the realm of psychology. They were trying to convince me that life was worth living, and trying mental exercises and all that. I was almost positive that psychiatrists were the people that simply said “You, good sir, are mentally ill, and you should take some medicine and give me some money.”[/i]

[i]The next few trips were just as bad. Whether it was someone poking me with a needle, seeing if some revolutionary new treatment was going to work, or it was someone who verbally encouraged me to break free from my little prison of depression, they tried continuously. My parents just started accepting these trips to the psychiatrists a part of both their and my life, and little by little, increased the frequency of these trips to the point where I was actually [/i]skipping school[i] to go to these visits.[/i]

[i]I did not mind at the time. The skipping school part. Admittedly, I would probably have taken school over these visits, but I also kind of loathed my classmates. My peers were a year older than me, and ridiculed me only because I was born in a certain year. I remain to this day certain that if I had been born in a Jubilee year like you have, Mary, and they had been born in an Anticipation year, things would have been a little bit different. I do not think that I would have been accepted, but things might have gone differently in my favor.[/i]

[i]Anyway.[/i]

[i]When I got to my first application year, I was more than a little bit worried. By no fault of my own I was so far behind on school, both work and attendance. I felt stupid. I had to do it, though. The State required it.[/i]

[i]A few days after my Application, I got a letter which I can still quote word-for-word.[/i]

[b][i]By the Order of our Beloved High Pope Urban XI[/i][/b]
[b][i]Steven Barun is hereby given the occupation of Laborer. We, as the State, wish him well in this newly established position.[/i][/b]

[i]I was unskilled, and uneducated, so they put me into a job for the unskilled and uneducated. I was so special a case, apparently, that they had even created a new occupation, just for me. I wanted to appeal this, but knew I could not. In my head, I knew that there was no other position that would fit me. My only true hope was possibly Stamper, an occupation where people accepted have to go through an entirely different learning session to actually become one. I had a feeling, though that the State did not want someone who contemplated killing themselves at such a high position. It was just extra incentive to create this new position that I was also uneducated.[/i]

[i]I lived a hard life after that. I made a decent amount of money, by scrimping and saving, but that just left a worse budget for me and living.[/i]

[i]I have cleaned many floors, and dusted many walls. I was only recently assigned here, if a year still counts as recent, and that is where I am today.[/i]

Steven opened his eyes, noticed that he still had a pathway to mop, and began to finish the job he was assigned to do.
“That w-w-was an interesting st-t-tory, Steven.” Mary was unsure about talking to someone who contemplated killing themselves, but one of the few good things about having a stutter was that even if you sounded nervous, your stutter gave you an excuse to be so.
Why was she so nervous about this, anyways? Mary had known this man for over a year now. She had never seen him contemplate suicide these days, so why was she persecuting him for something he only considered doing over thirty years ago?

Mary decided to ask if he still contemplated suicide. If he did, she had a legitimate reason to be more than a little bit worried.

“Oh, occasionally, when I think about how terrible my life is going. But then I remember my old town’s local Priest. Even if in the end, I never saw him again because I was at the psychiatry office all the time.” Steven sounded blunt with this statement. This brought back Mary’s worries.

If someone was legitimately considering killing someone, even if it was themselves, it was probably not a good idea to be associated with them. If they eventually followed through, it was even worse street cred.

“Besides, I have you now, do I not? You keep me going.” Steven still sounded blunt, but it was a little bit less blunt this time, as if he was opening up. How sweet. He even admitted that Mary kept him going. That was nice of him.

The only problem is that Mary did not know whether to say “Thank you” or “You are welcome.” She knew how to properly say both phrases, but was unsure which was correct.

“…So thank you.” Steven answered that conundrum pretty quickly. Knowing that it was not okay to respond with “Thank you” in this situation, Mary used her other known phrase.

“You are very welcome.” Mary was nervous about this, and was surprised that she did not slip up in panic. That would not have been embarrassing to Steven who knew her so well, but Mary would have noted her slip up to herself.

It was nighttime, and Mary was thinking about Steven’s story. He had a harsh life, even from her standpoint of going through life virtually mute.

“Dear God, p-p-please keep me from ending up l-l-like Steven. He is a great person to be with, b-b-b-but I do not to be that p-person that ends their life with the Laborer or T-t-t-toll woman. I want to remain in this position. I l-like it here.” Noticeably, Mary had trouble with this prayer. Speaking at least.

She also felt like she was having trouble saying it in general. There was a similar prayer in the Bible that Mary knew ended with the person saying this prayer ending up lower in the eyes of God than a nearby taxman. She would have to keep note of this for Confession year.

That was coming up quickly. Confession was only a short nine years away. She would have a lot to confess yet again. That tended to happen with fifteen year periods. There was a lot to confess because of how few and far between the periods were where it was socially acceptable to do so.

Mary’s thoughts drifted to Steven. She was tired, so she was thinking about a lot of things really quickly, but thinking about Steven seemed to stick in her brain. Maybe it was because she was just kind of tired and she needed to lull herself to sleep over it. That was always a good thing. It was like counting sheep.

What if Steven was about to kill himself right now? That would be really bad, and Mary would be powerless to stop him from doing so.

Mary was finally ready to go to sleep when she remembered Steven’s words on the matter.

“Sure, I think about it. But you keep me going.”

Okay, that was not how he said it. But Mary could pretend that he did, and go straight to sleep.
[/spoiler]

[Dr. Cakey]

Good grammar, punctuation, and spelling, okay...

Not a GX fanfic, okay...

I'm sorry, I'd love to mock you, but you exceed my quality standards.

However!!!!

You're not off the hook. Since you exceed minimum standards for quality, that means I can talk about important things. So far, nothing much exciting has happened - all we have is a precocious toddler living in a world that makes medieval Europe look like an atheist convention. Whoo, cool, anything could happen, but in terms of plot, all we have is potential.

On another note, I'm getting a bit of a Book of Revelation vibe from all this stamping; am I right, or is that coincidence?

[radio414]

WHAT? NO MOCKING?

Joking aside, yes, I have realized that the pacing is really r e a l l y slow, and with the way I like to write, it's either that or blazing from one plot point to the next. Since NaNoWriMo is based on quantity of words instead of quality, this is something that I can live with.

Also, I wasn't getting a Book of Revelation vibe when I wrote it, but rereading it, I can see where one might reach that conclusion.

[Dr. Cakey]

It's been five chapters, and - in reference to the plot - nothing has happened yet. Her unconsciousness and stutter looked like they might have been an inciting incident, but apparently it's more backstory. Hm...

EDIT: On an unrelated note, my subconscious has been working overtime trying to determine if

[spoiler='Why I am a Christian']Atheism

The belief that there was nothing and nothing happened to nothing and then nothing magically exploded for no reason, creating everything and then a bunch of everything magically rearranged itself for no reason what so ever into self-replicating bits which then turned into dinosaurs.


Makes perfect sense.[/spoiler]
is ironic or not.

[radio414]

Ok, you caught me. I am deliberately slowing down the story. This is all backstory for things to come. I hope.

P.S. It is not ironic. I am a confirmed Lutheran.

[Dr. Cakey]

[quote name='radio414' timestamp='1320625479' post='5622623']
P.S. It is not ironic. I am a confirmed Lutheran.
[/quote]
What you quoted is actually a parody of what a creationist would say when trying to summarize [s]the currently accepted models of the origin of the universe, planetary accretion, and speciation[/s] atheism.

Therefore, it would be logical to assume that you, or someone else, might use the classic Why I am a Christian/Proud to be a Christian and then insert that quote to explain why said person was [i]not[/i] a Christian.

[acronym='All parody, no matter how absurd, is indistinguishable from the object of parody.']Poe's Law[/acronym] just out-meta'd you.

[radio414]

[quote name='Dr. Cakey-chan' timestamp='1320628200' post='5622754']
What you quoted is actually a parody of what a creationist would say when trying to summarize [s]the currently accepted models of the origin of the universe, planetary accretion, and speciation[/s] atheism.

Therefore, it would be logical to assume that you, or someone else, might use the classic Why I am a Christian/Proud to be a Christian and then insert that quote to explain why said person was [i]not[/i] a Christian.

[acronym='All parody, no matter how absurd, is indistinguishable from the object of parody.']Poe's Law[/acronym] just out-meta'd you.
[/quote]

FUUUUUUUUUUUU...

Sorry.

Sorry about two things, really. Sorry about using the slowest possible pacing and sorry about the fact that I tried to argue with you while being wrong. I hate doing that.

Ch. 6 is up, by the way. Special note about this one. I was so bored and trying to set up a time skip that i wrote a sub-story to entertain myself while waiting for Chapter 7. Also, it marks the 10,000 word milestone. Go ahead and count if you like (:

[radio414]

1/3rd of the way through, and going strong!

YAY

Comments so far?