Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24996913-20150301060107

This is an EXTREMELY different pasta for me to write, but it was a random thought in my head, and I had to write it down just see if it was worth the thought. Enjoy.

I'm in a strange position right now, one I'm not too sure I'll live through to tell you about tomorrow. Every hour, we are picked off. Sometimes, more than one of us is the unlucky bastard that is pried away from our family and into the hands of the unknown. Unfortunately, that's a pill we must swallow.

Most of us grew up knowing our fate, knowing that one day we would be bagged and towed away to some foreign land we only heard stories of. Thinking about it now, it pains me to know that the imaginary tales I pegged the stories to be were actually real.

Everything described within each and every tale I heard within the last week has proven to be true. Just as the stories revealed, it's terrifying here. It's dark most of the time, and when the light is on, you wish it wasn't. On top of that unsettling fact, we have no heat, and most of us expire before we are even taken away from the group.

The most horrifying thing besides the cold and lightless environment is the moment the light comes on. Once the heat of the light overhead warms us, we are greeted by the picker, who displays an anxious stare on its face. It makes it pretty obvious its intent as it scans over each and every one of us, its gaze sometimes shifting over the same member twice. We all know the warning signs of the picking. Anytime it repetitively glance back at you, you are likely to be the pick of the hour. Sometimes the excruciating picking lasts for minutes, causing most of us to perspire nervously.

Consequently, once it grab you, your fate is sealed, and the rest of us happily descend within the darkness once more as the door closes behind you. I can't say I am not relieved each time I am not picked. Although I know eventually I will be picked, this overwhelming sensation of happiness radiates throughout the chamber. Unlike the picked, I and many others have another hour of substance left.

One hour. We, I mean I, have one hour. You want to know how I know? I know because the picker's eyes wandered back to me several times. It licked its lips, rubbed its chin, and sighed. It wanted me. It just didn't want me yet.

Because of this revelation, I don't know what to do anymore. I mean, I don't want to die. I'm not ready to die. I'm relatively new to this group, so why did the picker want me? Of all the other options in here, why did it want to take me away? It wasn't fair. I was still so young, so new, so fresh. It wasn't right.

Still, I knew my fate. Still, I watched as the door opened once more and the picker's eyes met with mine, instantly. Still, I watched as its hand reached out to me, ripping me away from the others.

"Lisa, hurry up! The game's back on!" One of the picker's called out.

"Okay, okay! I'm coming!" It yelled back.

Hurriedly, the picker joined the other on the couch before it ripped away my straw from my packaging, and plunged my limb within the opening. Its lips then met with my mangled straw, and it began to squeeze the life out of me as it sucked me dry. Once it finished, it hurried back towards the kitchen, tossing me within the garbage can amongst the others who were picked previously, and opened the refrigerator once more.

"Fuck, what do you want again, Larry?" The picker shouted, as it glanced within the lit refrigerator.

"A beer! Don't bring me no pansy ass caprisun," The other replied, stoically. 