Hi Stacey

a short story, by moi

So we walked back to Omelas, we who’d been in the forest for some time. Some of us are very old, some of us are quite young. It was no small potatoes for any of us to go back “home”—-mostly because we liked our new home. Our real home. Our haven Nomelas (as folks called it, at first in jest, then seriously) wasn’t utopia. Nomies still argued, sometimes went to bed hungry, occasionally caught chills and died. But, still, no one ever left. Because despite life in Nomelas being imperfect, it offered something the people of Omelas would never understand: Nomelas was free of suffering. There was pain, yes, as there always is—-but no suffering. Nomies built their society on respect, truth, and joy. They had community meetings every morning and artistic celebrations every night. But as is the nature of Life, things changed. Namely, the river was poisoned. With run-off from Omelas. And, so, we had to walk back.

The first thing we noticed about Omelas 2.0 was the new gate. We hopped it in the night. The next thing we noticed about Omelas was that it sucked. The shops and square were well-constructed and clean, but they were filled with smiling though unfeeling people. We didn’t even have to say the words aloud, we all had the same question in our minds: was this how it always was?

Our goal was to meet with the Water General, to see what could be done about the poison. But we quickly learned the role of Water General had been scrapped. So had the positions of Community Chair, Artistic Director, and even Head of Educating. All significant roles had been mashed into one: Leader. The current leader was John Omelas. Some of us had heard of the Omelas family in our Before Time, but none of us could remember much about them. They’d kept to themselves on a hillside.

Suddenly, and, again without speaking, we knew what we had to do. We, in a broad clump, marched to the cell. Our Silversmith brought out saws from his bag and started on the bars. The child—-shit-stained, pale, and bone thin—-began screaming.

There were still no “police” in Omelas. But there were “support squads.” In minutes, one such squad arrived on site. But it was too late! We’d already broken the girl out. She was hesitant to leave the few feet she’d ever known, but two of our strongest Nomies hefted her up like a rolled rug and rushed her up the cellar steps, into the morning sun. We all ran as fast as our wild legs could go. I myself carried the granny of our crew like a little baby in my arms.

We made it to the gate, just as several more support squads descended. They held strange rocks—-black and metallic. One rock emitted a SOUND, so violent we all jumped. Our girl screamed more. Louder and louder and louder.

“Maybe we’re wrong!” One of us shouted. That’s when our Storyteller stepped out from the group…and began to sing:

“Her pain was a threat / to keep you in tow,

But make no mistake, it was only a show.

Why are you here? / Can you not see? 

Nothing has changed / though the child is now free.

And nothing will change, if the child is not free.”

If you’ve never heard our Storyteller sing, I recommend it. Her voice is so pure and so bold and so so that you cannot help but pause when she begins a song. Even the squads were powerless to take a single step closer or lift their bizarre rocks.

So our Storyteller sang the song again. And again. As long as she sang, the squads were hypnotized to stand still. The tune floated on the wind, throughout every corner of town. Citizens emerged from their houses and schools and churches and offices. They couldn’t help but gravitate toward the melody. A locksmith was one of the last to arrive. He pushed past all of us, thrust a key into the lock, and flung the gate open.