This is a Grad school creative writing assignment. The challenge was to write something in the world of the film Minority Report. This something would have to show the passage of time. This is a bit of an experiment for me. I tried to write with a voice very different from my normal one. I wrote from the perspective of a “precog” who lives with Dr. Iris Hineman, aka “the old one.”
…
Dolls Eye. Baneberry. Carnivorous vines that enjoy the strips of red meat that this one tosses near the estate wall. It lines us all around except the gates in the north and south. Of course those gates are always closed. We don't go out there. The elderly one used to leave, but no more. Now the gate hinges rust. Every month they scream when the man brings the cans and frozen foods. I hate that noise. The man is boring. I like him. No dreams come of him. No pain. He makes safe choices. Drives slow. Exercises regularly.
A vine snaps at this one's leg. We dodge it as it happens, easily. We always know when pain is coming. This body floats around it. Our hand tosses meat strips to the next group of Dolls Eyes. They snatch at the ground, their mouth-like, thorn-filled maws snag up steak bits amongst the rotting autumn leaves. Then they curl back up in the cracks and broken pieces of the stone wall.
We're inside. Benevolent plants snatch at this one's hair as we deliver tea. Dandelion. We find it disgusting but we drink it with the old one. She adds heaps of sugar, but it makes us gag. It's worse with sugar. It just sits beside the bitter. But drinking it with the old one, the woman, Dr. Iris, settles the place. Settles her demons. Makes her feel less guilt. For this one. And the others who see things further away.
We drink dandelion tea. We tend to plants. We trim, we rake, we compost. The winter is always calm and quiet. Our dreams are stable. We steer the old one toward agreement, peace, safety. Quiet winter.
…
Spring is vicious. Vibrant colors and sunshine burn out eyes. The old one is cheerful, but only because she cannot see the death surrounding us constantly. Birds peck the eyes out of their competition. Male squirrels tear out each other's throats in displays of dominance. Spring is violent. We long for the sleep of winter.
Long into the spring blooms, a man comes. Short, dark haired, desperate. This one hides behind a tree as he passes. He means no violence. He seeks answers. He must be avoided. We cannot save him from his turbulent future. There is too much pain there. We must skip the tea. She will drink it with him. He will trouble her. But he is here and there is nothing we can do about it. We only saw him coming briefly before he arrived. No time.
He has been pierced by the thorns of the Dolls Eyes. She will heal him. She has the antidote. She will point him to the ones who are like me. It doesn't matter. He will not hurt them. He is a creature of good despite his capacity for violence. At least that is what this one thinks.
We toss strips of meat to the disturbed vines. We are careful not to be seen. Spring is violent. It is a season of avoidance.
…
The intensity of green lightens for summer. Nothing is as wet. The rush of spring is over and parenthood ages. This one's mind is calmer with the decrease in violence.
We spend more time outside. We drink dandelion tea less. The old one stays in her room more. This means more work for us. We trim more plants. We re-pot more. The old one's experiments languish, but they are not our responsibility. We care. We maintain. We do not experiment. We are an experiment.
The news screens we glance at occasionally show the others have been freed. No more "precogs" worshipped. No more "precriminals." The old one says they have gone to live a secluded life like this one. Away from people who can make them dream violence. This one doesn't dream violence. We simply see violence. But we are useless. We only see what happens an instant before it does. Enough to move. Enough to suffer.
This one should be with the others. We would be symbiotic. Like the ant and the aphid. But this one must wait. Summer persists.
…
Autumn falls. Leaves fall. The old one falls. This one travels. It is torture. Until finally this one arrives in a tundra. It is different from the swamps of the old one's home. There are different plants to tend and cultivate. They will be this one's choice. We will avoid the predatory plants the old one favored. This one prefers plants that bear fruit and vegetables.
We do bring with us a fern. It is native to our old swamp home. We tell the others about it. We tell them of the old one. We never speak of our dreams. This one steers the others around dangers and we live in fall. Constant fall to the sleep of winter.