Ration
by
Cody T. Luff
Genre:
Horror
Set
in the far future, Ration is an unflinching take on the ways society
can both thrive and go wrong as pressure to survive builds.
All
the girls who live in the Apartments are forced to weigh their own
hunger against the lives of the others living in the building. When
Cynthia is wrongly accused of ordering an "A" ration, she
punished by the other girls. Eventually, she is forced to leave the
Apartments along with Ms. Glennoc, one of the former managers who has
tormented and abused her for years. Together, they encounter a world
of even more scarcity, but one filled with politics and intrigue.
Cynthia struggles to return to the Apartments and help the girls who
are still there.
Forced
to reconcile her role in the destruction of these girls with the
greater needs of society to find any sustainable source of calories,
Ms. Tuttle makes one bad decision after another while she grapples
with a mother who is growing more and more impatient with her
mistakes.
Ration is
a dark and forceful book, written in a surprisingly nuanced and
accessible way. It combines the darkness and despair of The
Road and The Handmaid's Tale, but has notes of
charm like Lauren Oliver's Replica.
Cynthia
stops eating after the scream finally trails off. The power is still out, and
the
smell
of her B-ration hangs meaty and dense in the still air of her Apartment. She’s
cross-legged
on
the rug in the kitchen, her naked feet white even in the darkness.
A
deep glubbing sound burbles in the wall; someone
flushes a toilet above her. She
swallows
and winces as B-ration bits stick to her throat. She waits a moment more,
allowing
even
the biologic gurgle of the building’s plumbing to quiet before she forks
another mouthful
from
the plastic ration pouch. Third floor, she thinks.
Scream is on the third floor, still above,
just
not far above.
After
she finishes the last of her ration, the power hisses to life, the ceiling fan
jerks to a
spin,
the fluorescents in the kitchen click to life, and the little radio she keeps
by the bathroom
door
retches static. Cynthia stands slowly, her stomach begging her for another
ration even as it
disagrees
with what she’s given it.
“That’s
what we have,” she says. “Hang on to it.”
The
door bangs, a flat palm in the hallway slapping the thin wood. Cynthia freezes,
finger
covering
her mouth.
“Cinnie?”
Cynthia
hiccups, belches softly, and sags where she stands. Imeld. Of course, it’s
Imeld.
“Cinnie,
did you hear that one?”
“Just
a second.” Cynthia scuffs her barefoot way to the door, one hand pressed to the
flat
of
her belly. She pulls the sliding latch and chain, stepping away as Imeld slips
into the
Apartment.
“I’m
pretty sure that was on the third floor, right? You heard that one, right?”
Imeld takes
Cynthia’s
hand immediately, her cold fingers like water.
“I
heard it,” Cynthia says. She closes the door with her free hand and slides the
latch. “I
would
say the third floor, too.”
Imeld
is small, even for the Apartments. Dark hair that riots away from her brown
face in
startled
waves. “I don’t know anyone on the third floor. Well, not really. I know Mei
and Shuvo,
but
…” Imeld pulls her hand away, frowning. She brings her fingers to her nose.
“You were
eating,”
she says.
Cynthia
stands motionless. She does not meet Imeld’s eyes, instead studying her
friend’s
stockinged
feet. Imeld is wearing the red pair, one brown heel completely nude and
wreathed in
worn
threads, almost like curled springs. “Yes.”
Imeld
does not speak, she doesn’t need to.
“It
was a B.”
“Cynthia,”
Imeld says, her voice nothing more than a whisper.
Cynthia
turns away, pulling her arms to her chest. “What could I do?”
The
building hums around them, the newly restored power feeding the other Apartments
in
the complex. From somewhere above, a television laugh track rolls
uninterrupted, a hair dryer
hisses
next door.
Imeld’s
fingers find her hands and pull Cynthia’s arms gently apart. “It’s okay,
Cinnie.
It’s
all right.” Imeld is hugging her, standing on her tiptoes and pulling Cynthia
against the sharp
angles
of her body. “How long was it?”
Cynthia
shakes her head; Imeld’s hair smells of government soap and chicory coffee. “I
don’t
know. Maybe three days.”
“Oh,
Cinnie,” Imeld says, and they hold each other for a moment, both cold and glad
for
the
warmth of the other. Without agreeing to, they sit on the little rug in the
kitchen, hands still
entwined.
“I
didn’t want to,” Cynthia says.
Imeld
smiles, lips tight. “Not true. You wanted to eat; we all do.”
“But
not …” Cynthia begins.
“But
not a B. I guess that’s right. You do and you don’t.”
“You
do and you don’t,” Cynthia repeats. Nothing truer, she
thinks. Nothing at all truer
than that. How long have they
known each other? Two years, maybe? Cynthia stopped marking
her
calendar soon after the two had run into one another in the hallway. Imeld had
been the first
girl
Cynthia had spoken to in over a month. She’d been smiling, a beautiful,
full-toothed smile.
“Well,”
Imeld says, squeezing Cynthia’s hand, “I think we should see which one it was.”
Cynthia
stares. “You mean now?”
“Yes,
now.”
“It’s
too soon, Imeld. We don’t know if they’re, you know, done yet.”
A
girl calls a name down the hallway, the walls break the syllables into a muddy
sound
and
both Cynthia and Imeld jump.
“Barbara,”
Imeld says. “That was Barbara.”
“Who
was she calling?”
Imeld
shrugs and both sit for a long moment, listening.
The
building breathes its constant hush, distorted voices, touches of static, the
deep belly
gurgle
of flushing toilets, running taps. It is the dull music of Cynthia’s sleep. It
lulls her, and she
closes
her eyes. So many nights, lying on her thin mattress in the dark. Smelling the
sweat of the
place,
old, harsh soaps, unwashed clothing, even the mattress itself holds the odor of
the girls
before
her. Backs and shoulders carving out the well in the cotton batting she sleeps
in. Heels
pressing
the gentle craters into the seam at the foot. She imagines all of them, all the
girls who
came
before, curled around one another in sleep, holding one another for warmth in
the dark and
listening
to the building whisper its rumors.
“Come
back to me,” Imeld says, and Cynthia opens her eyes, her box kitchen flickering
into
view. The empty refrigerator, silent and warm, the single gas range built into
the counter.
Has
she ever used either?
“Where
did you go?” Imeld asks as she squeezes Cynthia’s hand.
“Sorry,”
Cynthia offers. “I guess I’m sleepy.”
Imeld
smiles again, a small flash in the fluorescents. “Eating always makes me
sleepy,
too.”
A
twinge, a gentle reminder that Cynthia has chosen a B ration.
“I’m
sorry,” Cynthia says.
Imeld
answers with another hand squeeze. “I still want to go check,” she says.
Of
course she does. It is inevitable. Imeld is everything Cynthia is not: brave,
beautiful,
willful.
She doubts Imeld has ever chosen a B ration, although this is ridiculous.
Eventually
everyone
in the Apartments eats their B. Everyone. “Okay,” Cynthia says.
Imeld
does not release her hand; as she stands, she draws Cynthia with her, pulling
her
close
as she opens the latch and slips into the hallway.
The
hallway is very wide, entirely too wide. Cynthia has always hated it. She is
the tallest
girl
she knows in the Apartments, and even she, with her arms fully outstretched, can’t
touch
both
sides of the hallway. It would take two of her, and possibly one of Imeld, to
create a link
between
the walls. A damp, red tongue of a carpet lies stretched loosely in the center
of the
hallway,
threads bleeding from its seams, peeling away and creating rusty drifts that
the girls
sweep
up dutifully on cleaning day. Her feet hate the texture of it, hate the cool
slickness and
sticky
threads. Doors stand opposite of one another the length of the hallway. Twenty
per floor,
beyond
each, an identical Apartment, identical mattresses, identical, unused burners
and
refrigerators.
The stairs create a pivot between each length of hallway, also terribly wide,
also
tacked
with rotting red carpet. Cynthia uses them only when she must, only on cleaning
day and
bath
day. Imeld pulls her along behind, her own bare feet whickering through the
carpet’s shed
skin.
“Wait,”
Cynthia says. She knows Imeld will not wait, but she has to say it, has to
protest
even
with such a small voice.
“Come
on,” Imeld says as she pulls, and Cynthia follows, watching her friend patter
up
the
stairs, still connected to her by cold fingers and Imeld’s greater will.
The
stairs speak as they climb. Bitter old wood, sour creaks chased by the
occasional
sharp
crack. Even from her Apartment, Cynthia can hear when girls moved between
floors.
“Have
you ever eaten a … B?” Cynthia whispers.
Imeld
does not slow her ascent. “That’s a stupid question, Cinnie.”
“Oh,”
Cynthia says. They turn the sharp corner on the small landing. A ration pouch
lays
folded
against the stair wall. The large A printed in faded maroon on the tan plastic
face of the
pouch
stops both girls.
“Somebody
just left it here,” Imeld says.
“For
anyone to see,” Cynthia whispers.
“They
wanted us to see.” Imeld lets go of Cynthia’s hand and bends to pluck the
ration
pouch
off the carpet and bring it to her nose. “Oh,” she says and the smell hits
Cynthia. Warm
spice,
meat, ghosts that brought saliva flooding to her tongue.
“Why
would they do that?” Cynthia asks.
Imeld
opens her mouth to speak and a thin, silver thread of drool slips from her
lips. She
drops
the pouch and wipes her mouth with a palm.
“I,”
Imeld begins, and her stomach speaks a high and needy note. She reaches out to
Cynthia
and steadies herself on her friend’s shoulders.
“Are
you all right?”
Imeld
waits, her eyes locked on the ration pouch at Cynthia’s feet. Another groan
courses
through
her body, ending in a painfully loud gurgle behind her breastbone.
“How
long?” Cynthia asks.
“I
had a C four days ago,” Imeld says.
Shame
rushes to Cynthia’s face, blood squirms at her temples. “You’re … so much
stronger
than I am,” she says.
Imeld
frowns, her fingers tightening on her friend’s shoulders. “Don’t say that.”
“But
…”
“Please.
Just don’t.” Neither girl moves, the fluorescent light bolted crookedly to the
stair
wall
fizzing unhappily.
“Whoever
had the A wanted us to know,” Imeld says.
“Why
would they?” Cynthia asks. The last time a girl was discovered eating an A,
everyone
on the second floor gathered outside her door. The girl knew, of course. She
could hear
them
out there, could hear the whisper of their clothing, of their feet. She did not
open the door
when
the first girl in line knocked. They waited for three hours before the offender
had finally
opened
the door, resigned to her punishment. They held her down in the hallway,
rolling up her
sleeves
to the elbow. Each girl in line stomped once, just once, on one of her
outstretched hands.
Cynthia
had been the one to hold the offender’s right arm, forcing the hand palm down
on the
floor.
She felt bones break after the first bare heel struck just above the wrist. The
offender didn’t
scream
until the fifth heal, tears coursing over the cheek that was not forced against
the floor.
Cynthia
was offered a turn after the line had dwindled to just a few girls, the
offender, sobbing
weakly
against the floor, no longer needed to be held down, her broken hands curled
against her
chest
like bloody bicycle spokes. Cynthia had passed. Imeld had watched from down the
hall,
she
hadn’t even joined the queue.
“Maybe
they’re just that mean,” Imeld says. “They want us to know we have to pay.”
“But
we always find out,” Cynthia says.
“No.
We don’t.” Imeld turns from her, slipping Cynthia’s hand in her own as she does
so.
She
kicks the ration pouch as they continue their ascent.
The
third-floor hallway is much like the second, save the carpet has been worn
nearly
through.
Great holes lay open to the bare wood beneath like terrible, fleshy wounds.
There are
girls
in the hallway, all strangers to Cynthia, all draped in shirts entirely too big
and bottoms that
pool
around their feet like muddy water. Several glance their way. One girl, her red
hair fizzing
around
her sharp face like watercolor, holds a single finger to her lips. “They’re not
done yet,”
she
says, her words too round.
Imeld
pulls Cynthia over along the tortured carpet, the redheaded girl falling in
beside
Cynthia.
They stop just behind the greatest concentration of girls in the hallway. Five
or six
faces,
blank and still, all stare into the open door of the Apartment labeled 19.
“They’re
still in there,” one of the girls says.
“We
know,” the redhead responds.
From
the hollow of the Apartment, Cynthia hears a heavy grunt.
“Now
be careful, Ms. Glennoc.” A Woman’s voice, warm and richly spiced.
“I
always am, Ms. Tuttle.” Another voice, higher, sharper.
The
girls in the hallway draw together; Cynthia’s free hand is taken by the
redhead.
“Now
there, you see? Not to worry, not to worry at all,” Ms. Tuttle says with a
pleasant
open
mouthed ah for all.
Another
grunt and a quick burst flat, staccato sound.
“Oops.”
“Oops,
indeed. Say you are sorry, Ms. Glennoc.”
“I
say better out of me than in me, Ms. Tuttle.”
A
sharp sound, flesh against wet flesh followed by a hissing pause.
“Now,
say you’re sorry, dear. Right?”
“Yes,
Ms. Tuttle. I am really quite sorry.”
The
girls fill the open doorway, Imeld at the center of the group, Cynthia just
behind. The
Apartment
is deliciously warm, the heating vents somehow alive and generous. The little
kitchen
beyond
is a mirror of Cynthia’s, the same ragged rug, the same pointless counter, the
same
blistered
paint. The bedroom/toilet room door stands open, the back of a very tall Woman
framed
in
the black doorway. She is wearing a beautiful white blouse, pearls stitched
into the shoulders,
cuffs
kissed with cream lace. Her bottoms are vivid green corded and clutch at her
wide hips
greedily.
But it is her shoes that Cynthia focused on. Black leather flats, real shoes
surrounding
black
stockings that look impossibly thick and richly warm. It is the shoes that
always catch her
eyes
during these rare moments when the Women come.
“Well,
we have quite the crowd out here, Ms. Glennoc. Nearly the entirety of floor
three,
did
you know?” Ms. Tuttle, the speaker, turns slowly, red lips parting into a white
blade of a
smile.
Blonde hair curls at her temples, parted at the center of her forehead, framing
a smooth
face
and wide eyes. The flat, blue latex of her gloves diminishes the perfection of
her clothing,
long
fingers caught in clinging surgical wrap.
“They
always come out for a show, Ms. Tuttle. Moths to candles and such.” Another
grunt
issues from the darkness of the bedroom.
“Good
evening, girls. You all are looking so very well, aren’t you?” Ms. Tuttle
sweeps
the
group with her eyes, and Cynthia feels the absence of the girls behind her,
hears the slap of
their
feet and the click of their doors closing. Imeld squeezes her hand painfully.
None of the
remaining
girls speak.
“Just
cleaning up a bit. You know the drill,” Ms. Tuttle says. She seems to notice
her
gloves
and frowns, thin lines crawling away from corners of her mouth. Another wet
sound,
fabric
and flesh, issues from the room behind Ms. Tuttle. “You’ll want to give Ms.
Glennoc
some
room, girls,” Ms. Tuttle says, the frown bending her red lips. “She’s none too
steady on her
feet
these days.”
“Is
that so, Ms. Tuttle?” Ms. Glennoc says from within the bedroom, annoyance
thickening
her voice.
“Well,
yes, it is. How many times have you dropped her now?”
“A
job for one is made simpler still if it is made by two,” Ms. Glennoc says, her
form
blooming
in darkness behind Ms. Tuttle. The other Woman steps aside and Ms. Glennoc
shuffles
into
the little kitchen. She is much taller than the already tall Ms. Tuttle, hard
shoulders with a
drawn
face balanced on a neck corded with sinew and veins. Long, black hair gathered
into a
braid
falling away down her back. She balances the girl from Apartment 19 on her
shoulder.
Naked
and wrapped in many layers of clinging plastic, the girl’s mouth visible as a
black O, she
curves,
boneless, over Ms. Glennoc’s shoulder like a rolled-up rug. The Woman adjusts
her
burden
with a flat grunt, muscles crawling the length of her forearms.
Imeld’s
hand crushes Cynthia’s and she tries to pull away. Her friend’s eyes spark,
tears
immediate
and heavy. “Mei, it’s Mei.”
“One
side, girly girls. I need to get her there before all her uses are dried up,”
Ms.
Glennoc’s
says, her black brows heavy against her pale face. “We don’t like to waste, do
we, Ms.
Tuttle?”
“No,
we surely do not like waste of any kind. Move aside, girls.” Ms. Tuttle steps
forward,
shedding her gloves on to the floor of the kitchen. Cynthia imagines the girls
of floor
three
staring at these on cleaning day. They would have to be picked up, but who can
do it?
“She
was my friend,” Imeld says and the shock of her voice splits the little group
of girls
in
the doorway. Some simply leave, others step away, their mouths open. Cynthia
feels the
redhead
drop her hand, the cold of the hallway immediately replacing the warmth of
skin.
“Well,
I am sure she was. Which one are you?” Ms. Tuttle smiles again, reaching out
and
touching
the frizz of Imeld’s hair, plucking at it gently.
“Imeld.”
“And
which Cohort?”
“Floor
two, room eleven, Cohort Five,” Imeld says. Her voice cracks on five.
“Oh,
I like Five,” Ms. Glennoc says brightly.
“We
all like Five,” Ms. Tuttle says as she wipes her hand on the hem of her blouse.
“She
was my friend,” Imeld says, and Ms. Tuttle sighs, a soft little puff between
impossibly
white teeth.
“Yes,
I’m sorry, dear. But friends fade. It looks to me that you have a new one
anyway.”
She
gestures to Cynthia, and Cynthia steps away, trapped only by Imeld’s grip on
her hand.
“Besides,
if you wanted to keep your friend, you should know better than to ask for so
many A
rations,
right? I mean, we all know the rules here, don’t we?”
“You
asked for an A?” A voice from the hallway, Cynthia turns, and the redhead peeks
from
behind her nearly closed door.
“I
did not,” Imeld says.
“She
didn’t,” Cynthia says, staring at the redhead through the slit of her door.
“We’re
Floor
Two, anyway.”
“Well,
there were ten As this week,” Ms. Tuttle says, her voice thick with sympathy.
“Ten.
Hungry girlies, I should say.” Ms. Glennoc adjusts her burden again, shifting
from
foot
to foot.
“You
should say so, indeed, Ms. Glennoc.” Ms. Tuttle nods.
“I
can’t stand here all day, Ms. Tuttle,” Ms. Glennoc says.
“Right.
Time to be off, girls.”
Imeld
swallows and Cynthia hears the click of dry flesh against dry tongue. “If there
were
ten
…”
“Then
we are coming right back, girly. My back will give me hell even if the next one
is
skin
and bone,” Ms. Glennoc says.
Ms.
Tuttle steps to her companion, hand raised, and brings her palm across the
taller
Woman’s
face. The sound is like wet cloth against tile. Both Women are still for a
moment, Ms.
Glennoc
holding on to Mei with both hands, her cheek blossoming into an angry red.
“Say
sorry, Ms. Glennoc.”
The
Women stare at one another and Cynthia wishes for nothing more than to sink
through
the floor and into her own Apartment, to pull the old rug from the kitchen and
wrap
herself
in it as she lay on her mattress. The thought of the rug causes her to once
again find the
dark
O of Mie’s mouth through the plastic wrap. She looks away.
“Ms.
Tuttle,” Ms. Glennoc begins.
“Make
your manners,” Ms. Tuttle says through bared teeth. Again, a moment of silence.
“I
say sorry, girlies. I say sorry, Ms. Tuttle. Now, let me by,” the taller Woman
says, her
voice
thick and clotted.
“Good.
Let her by now, girls.”
It
is perhaps the smell of Ms. Glennoc that forces Cynthia away more than Ms.
Tuttle’s
order.
The Woman smells hot, like black oil baking on raw steel. Both Imeld and
Cynthia step
away,
the rug catching Cynthia’s foot and causing her to stumble. “She took ten As,”
a voice
says,
the voice leaking from behind a door barely held open. “Ten. That’s two of us.”
Ms.
Glennoc moves fast, her legs pumping, and her shod feet heavy against the raw
wood
of
the hallway. Ms. Tuttle follows. She stops for a moment, reaching out to Imeld,
dropping
something
small and white into Cynthia’s friend’s hand.
“If
things are a little unreasonable, this will help a bit. Off you go.” She pats
Imeld’s
shoulder,
her hand awkward and loose.
The
Women retreat to the stairway, Ms. Glennoc bent beneath Mei’s wrapped body.
They
whisper
to one another, Glennoc’s voice hot, Tuttle’s voice bitterly cool. The stairs
speak
beneath
their feet as the Women climb to the final floor.
“You
took ten As,” a girl steps from her doorway, her brown face twisted, her own
teeth
visible.
“She
did, I heard Ms. Tuttle say so.” The redhead slips from her own doorway. Within
a
moment
the hall is filled with girls.
“We’re
from floor two,” Cynthia says. “We’re not from three.”
“Maybe
they changed the rules,” a girl says. Her eyes wide, poisoned.
“They
would have told us,” Imeld says as she glances into her palm.
The
redhead holds up her hand. “I smell it!” she says, triumph in her voice. A
short girl
with
a flat face grabs the redhead’s wrist. She brings the girl’s fingers to her
nose. “I do, too.” A
hiss
moves through the hallway and Cynthia reaches out for Imeld.
“That
was a B, Cinnie had a B. A floor two B. Nothing from floor three.”
“I
smell it,” the redhead says again as she stares at Cynthia, “I held your hand
and I
smelled
it on you.”
“I
had a B,” Cynthia says, her voice shivering in her throat.
“She
admits it,” a girl says.
“She
said a B,” Imeld shouts, and the girls flinch in unison.
“A
B is just as bad,” the flat face girl says. Cynthia can see blue veins running
the length
of
the girl’s thin neck.
“Which
one did it?” A voice from the back, fingers are pointed.
“You
know what’s coming,” a girl says.
“You
smelled a B, just a B ration. We’re from floor two, don’t be so stupid.” Imeld
points
at the redhead and the redhead seizes her hand. She sniffs violently at Imeld
before
Cynthia’s
friend can pull her hand free.
“I
don’t smell anything on that one,” the redhead says. The hall grows silent and
the girls
turn
to Cynthia.
“It
takes 25 Bs,” she says, tears breaking her voice. “I just had one. I just had
one,” she
says,
and the girls move. They are not fast, they don’t need to be. Imeld tries to
shout, tries to
pull
them away, but just like the girl who hid behind her door, Cynthia knows what
will happen.
It’s
the same on every floor. It’s the same anywhere.
They
push her down, a girl sitting on her back, another holding her right hand
against the
floor.
A third girl struggles with Cynthia’s left hand, Imeld desperately trying to
hold her back.
“Don’t
fight, okay?” she says to Imeld. The girls might hurt her, too, might kill her
if she
keeps
fighting them. “You hold me, okay? Will you let her hold me?”
The
girls of floor three look to one another and finally the redhead nods. Imeld is
crying
but
she holds Cynthia’s left elbow down, her fingers gentle and cool.
“Everybody
gets a turn,” the redhead says. The girls begin to form their queue.
“Eat
this,” Imeld says, pressing something to Cynthia’s lips. “Ms. Tuttle, she gave
…”
The
first girl in the queue, the girl with the flat face, misses Cynthia’s hand,
her heel
instead
crushing Cynthia’s thumb.
Pain,
so much at once. Cynthia remembers the girl she held down in the hallway of
floor
two,
remembers how the girl was silent for so long. She can hear herself screaming
and feels
Imeld’s
fingers in her mouth.
Bitterness
blossoms on her tongue. Slowly, lightning courses down her throat. What was
it?
What did Ms. Tuttle give Imeld?
The
next blow is muted, still bright, still liquid red, but the bones that break do
so at a
distance.
After the seventh heel, she is gone somewhere dark, somewhere crimson.
Ration is set in the far, far future with only girls and
women remaining in a dark world. A virus swept through the world many years ago
clearing out men, animals and plant life. The way of life or survival is now
measured in calories. Calories are used as a way of payment in a dark and desolate
world.
When I read the summary for Ration I was hooked and couldn’t
wait to start reading it but once I did I was like this book is so weird I wasn’t
sure if I could read it but I trudged on as I am one of those readers that can’t
stand starting a book and not finishing it. So I trudged onward and the more I
read and the deeper into the story I got I think I finally started to get it to
understand it more or at least understand the characters.
In the first part of the book our protagonist Cynthia lives
in an apartment building known as the farm with lots of other girls. The girls
are assigned chores and they must complete each task to earn their rations.
There are three types of rations, A, B and C. The girls are only allowed to
have B or C rations, A rations are for the women. A rations are the best of
course.
If one of the girls ask for an A ration then they are
punished which means they are sent to the wet room. What goes on in the wet room the girls don’t
really know but I assume they have their own thoughts about it. All animal and
plant life are gone they have to eat something, right? Imagination needed here.
These girls have never been outside the apartments and probably never will see
the outside.
At first I didn’t like our protagonist because of what she
did after she was accused of eating an A ration. But as I said the more I read
the more I understood and I began to see Cynthia in a different light.
Ration tells the story of what different people would do and
how far they would go to survive. Some people want to be on top and be the best
and to be in control of others and be the boss. Have people be afraid of them.
Some people can’t make decisions on their own and leave that
to others so they stay inside this box and are happy to let others lead them
tell them what to do. They never think about being free or what their life
would be like if they controlled it. It is just easier for them to live like
that. In ways they are like the ones who are in control they don’t care about
anyone but themselves.
Then you have people like Cynthia who wants to be free and
go outside the box. Who is not afraid to step up and say no more I am taking
over my own destiny. I am no longer going to be your slave or my own. Cynthia looked
deep into her own heart and broke free from herself and then she stepped out of
the box and stood up for her freedom and others. She was no longer going to be
afraid nor was she going to let others make her afraid.
Ration is a very dark and desolate book that is hard to read
but if you go deeper than the words themselves then you may learn something of
the world and how different people react to different situations. Ration is
tied up with so many emotions that are so very intense that leaves a lot to the
imagination. I will give warning you need a strong stomach and a very good
imagination to read Ration but the message I read between the pages makes it
worth the read.
I would recommend Ration to anyone who loves a good story
set in a very dark and desolate world.
Cody T Luff’s
forthcoming novel, Ration, will be released by Apex Book Company in
2019. Cody’s stories have appeared in Pilgrimage, Cirque, KYSO
Flash, Menda City Review, Swamp Biscuits & Tea, and others. He is
fiction winner of the 2016 Montana Book Festival Regional Emerging
Writers Contest. He served as editor of an anthology of short fiction
with twelve contributors titled Soul’s Road.
Cody teaches at
Portland Community College and works as a story editor. He completed
an intensive MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College. Cody grew
up listening to stories in his grandfather’s barber shop as he
shined shoes, stories told to him at bedsides and on front porches,
deep in his father’s favorite woods, and in the cabs of pickup
trucks on lonely dirt roads. Cody’s work explores those things both
small and wondrous that move the soul, whether they be deeply real or
strikingly surreal.
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