Unbound
Unbound
In the year 2047, the world lost gravity,and the rich called it salvation.
They (the rich) rose into sealed sky-cities with artificial floors and artificial smiles, swearing the catastrophe was “a new dawn for humankind.”
Down below, in the shattered districts now called The Drift, the poor anchor themselves to broken towers with frayed ropes, drifting through the ruins in search of food, warmth, and anything that won’t float away.
Day 28, Cycle 13, 13 G.E. (Gravityless Era)
6:42 P.M. AT (Artificial Time)
I wake up like I usually do. Strapped to my mattress by a thin leather belt that keeps me from floating away at night. Lights will turn on any second. We don’t have light anymore. The light was taken away along with gravity 13 years ago. I don’t remember what it was like, when I could run in the sun, feet touching the soft, moist grass. We don’t have grass. At least, not in The Drift—that’s where I live with my family. It’s the lowest of the low, poorest of the poor, most ruined of the ruined. When you mention you’re from The Drift, people suck their teeth, sigh, mutter something about “feeling sorry” and go along their way. I hate them for it. It’s not our fault the rich played dirty and didn’t tell everyone that gravity would be gone; it wasn’t our fault the scientists hid their secrets from us citizens; it wasn’t our fault, but then why did everyone blame us? Because people will always find someone to blame when things go wrong. Every time. Look around, you’ll see.
In The Drift, we have a school. We’re proud of it. Six years back, when people started really grasping things, they built it for the kids. Any teacher still in The Drift went to teach for nothing. They wanted to teach children. Teach them what the rich did to us. Teach them of the ways of the Great Unbinding.
I can recite the whole story. It’s one we recite at gatherings, pray before meals and bedtime, quote into our daily lives, and use to make songs, chants, and games. We have it printed in our brains.
Here’s how it goes: One day, 13 years ago, when everything was normal, people ran, walked, and had fun. Suddenly, around noon, a great crack sounded. People stepped out of their homes, offices, and shops. They found they could float. In that first ten minutes, hundreds if not thousands, died. They just floated and floated and floated higher and higher. It really wasn’t planned. The scientists didn’t mean for it to happen, but gravity just... vanished. No warning. No explanation. We were all grounded one moment, and the next, we were floating. The rich took advantage, building their floating cities high above, untouched by the chaos below. They didn’t care as long as their tea wasn’t cold and their beds were warm. But us? For us, it wasn’t freedom or a new beginning; it was a living nightmare. The earth no longer held us; it no longer cared for us enough to pull us towards it. It was like no apple fell by Newton and he didn’t discover anything. The world was broken, and we were left to survive and rebuild our lives in the wreckage.
Mother told me what that day was like. I was two years old, Father had just gone back to work, dressed smartly in his suit after Mother’s filling lunch. She stayed in our apartment with me, happily amusing me. Then a crack. Loud. She screamed as she saw the postman floating outside the window. She grabbed me and tied us together. We never heard of Father ever again. Even when Martha, our next-door neighbor, helped us out to find him. Mother said she looked all day and night, but not a trace of him.
In a life here without gravity, everything changes. There are lines strapped over the city, and everyone has a rope with a hook. You tie the rope around you and attach the hook to the lines. That’s how you travel. Buildings crack, but some still stand. We pay with what we can find, eat what we can make, do what we can to pass the time, and try to live. It’s a good life now, says Mother. Better than before. But it’s still a daily fight to survive. We’re left in the ruins, floating in the Drift, an unstable, broken place where nothing is certain. The air is thin in parts, food is scarce, and safety is a luxury most can’t afford. The loss of gravity didn’t just change the way we move—it changed the way we live. There are no more straight roads, no more predictable paths. The only certain thing is the uncertainty.
I’m searching the wreckage today for food. We want enough for the last day of the year. It’s a big festival.
Wandering through the crumbled buildings alone, it’s easy to forget that this was once a city full of life. Because now, everyone is alone. You can’t even have friends at school because you’re afraid they’ll take your food. Here, no one trusts anyone. Brother fights against brother, friend betrays friend. And the city? Now it’s just skeletons—buildings that are more hole than structure. The air’s thicker today. I can feel it when I breathe. It’s a relief to have enough air. We don’t usually have enough, so we have a government-issued oxygen treatment every day. Really, that’s the only time in the whole day I feel there really is someone in this world except us people. Oh, I forgot, there’s the grace and prayers to thank those who put us like this. Maybe it’s the winds carrying dust from the edge of the city, or maybe it’s just the heaviness of being here. I’ve tied myself down with ropes again, and I hate it. It’s not that they help; they only keep me from floating off, but they remind me I’m not free.
I float into the remains of what used to be a market. The shelves are empty save for some old cans of food that escaped into the endless abyss you go once you let go of the rope. I see some scraps of old papers flutter in the wind. The ground is gone, so everything hangs at odd angles, swaying, like the world itself isn’t sure where it belongs. I grab what I can find: an old tin of something with a faded label and something mushy inside, maybe beans. You can’t even find a good rat now because they don’t have ropes strapping them down. And the beans? Who knows if it’s even edible? But I’ll take anything. Anything to feed my little sister and Mother.
The floating debris makes it hard to find anything of value. And the worst part? The other people. People who look at you and just float by, pretending they don’t see you, don’t care about you. There are so many like me, tied to the lines, struggling to find what’s left, but no one looks at each other. We’re all too busy trying to survive. There’s no compassion in this world anymore. Everyone’s too busy floating, trying not to fall too far. You’re lucky if you even have a rope and a hook to hold on to.
Tomorrow’s the festival. The last day of all 13 cycles. It’s supposed to be a day of hope, to celebrate what little we have left. But I don’t know if I believe in hope anymore. Every day, we just survive. That’s all we do now.
In The Drift, we have a school. We’re proud of it. Six years back, when people started really grasping things, they built it for the kids. Any teacher still in The Drift went to teach for nothing. They wanted to teach children. Teach them what the rich did to us. Teach them of the ways of the Great Unbinding.
I can recite the whole story. It’s one we recite at gatherings, pray before meals and bedtime, quote into our daily lives, and use to make songs, chants, and games. We have it printed in our brains.
Here’s how it goes: One day, 13 years ago, when everything was normal, people ran, walked, and had fun. Suddenly, around noon, a great crack sounded. People stepped out of their homes, offices, and shops. They found they could float. In that first ten minutes, hundreds if not thousands, died. They just floated and floated and floated higher and higher. It really wasn’t planned. The scientists didn’t mean for it to happen, but gravity just... vanished. No warning. No explanation. We were all grounded one moment, and the next, we were floating. The rich took advantage, building their floating cities high above, untouched by the chaos below. They didn’t care as long as their tea wasn’t cold and their beds were warm. But us? For us, it wasn’t freedom or a new beginning; it was a living nightmare. The earth no longer held us; it no longer cared for us enough to pull us towards it. It was like no apple fell by Newton and he didn’t discover anything. The world was broken, and we were left to survive and rebuild our lives in the wreckage.
Mother told me what that day was like. I was two years old, Father had just gone back to work, dressed smartly in his suit after Mother’s filling lunch. She stayed in our apartment with me, happily amusing me. Then a crack. Loud. She screamed as she saw the postman floating outside the window. She grabbed me and tied us together. We never heard of Father ever again. Even when Martha, our next-door neighbor, helped us out to find him. Mother said she looked all day and night, but not a trace of him.
In a life here without gravity, everything changes. There are lines strapped over the city, and everyone has a rope with a hook. You tie the rope around you and attach the hook to the lines. That’s how you travel. Buildings crack, but some still stand. We pay with what we can find, eat what we can make, do what we can to pass the time, and try to live. It’s a good life now, says Mother. Better than before. But it’s still a daily fight to survive. We’re left in the ruins, floating in the Drift, an unstable, broken place where nothing is certain. The air is thin in parts, food is scarce, and safety is a luxury most can’t afford. The loss of gravity didn’t just change the way we move—it changed the way we live. There are no more straight roads, no more predictable paths. The only certain thing is the uncertainty.
I’m searching the wreckage today for food. We want enough for the last day of the year. It’s a big festival.
Wandering through the crumbled buildings alone, it’s easy to forget that this was once a city full of life. Because now, everyone is alone. You can’t even have friends at school because you’re afraid they’ll take your food. Here, no one trusts anyone. Brother fights against brother, friend betrays friend. And the city? Now it’s just skeletons—buildings that are more hole than structure. The air’s thicker today. I can feel it when I breathe. It’s a relief to have enough air. We don’t usually have enough, so we have a government-issued oxygen treatment every day. Really, that’s the only time in the whole day I feel there really is someone in this world except us people. Oh, I forgot, there’s the grace and prayers to thank those who put us like this. Maybe it’s the winds carrying dust from the edge of the city, or maybe it’s just the heaviness of being here. I’ve tied myself down with ropes again, and I hate it. It’s not that they help; they only keep me from floating off, but they remind me I’m not free.
I float into the remains of what used to be a market. The shelves are empty save for some old cans of food that escaped into the endless abyss you go once you let go of the rope. I see some scraps of old papers flutter in the wind. The ground is gone, so everything hangs at odd angles, swaying, like the world itself isn’t sure where it belongs. I grab what I can find: an old tin of something with a faded label and something mushy inside, maybe beans. You can’t even find a good rat now because they don’t have ropes strapping them down. And the beans? Who knows if it’s even edible? But I’ll take anything. Anything to feed my little sister and Mother.
The floating debris makes it hard to find anything of value. And the worst part? The other people. People who look at you and just float by, pretending they don’t see you, don’t care about you. There are so many like me, tied to the lines, struggling to find what’s left, but no one looks at each other. We’re all too busy trying to survive. There’s no compassion in this world anymore. Everyone’s too busy floating, trying not to fall too far. You’re lucky if you even have a rope and a hook to hold on to.
Tomorrow’s the festival. The last day of all 13 cycles. It’s supposed to be a day of hope, to celebrate what little we have left. But I don’t know if I believe in hope anymore. Every day, we just survive. That’s all we do now.
Unbound
Chapter 1
I push open the rusted door that leads to our house. It's a house by definition: four walls and a roof. But it's nothing like it. Everything is shabby and old. The buildings couldn't not bear no gravity, and crumpled one by one. This is the thirteenth year since. There really aren't any buildings left. So most people build their own ones. Of course, you have to give the government some credit. They did help with stablizing structures. Mother had ours made with the help of some neighbors. We live in it together. Us-- the Athertons, the Moccoys, the Elliots, and old Mr. Fernandez with his equally old dog. Somehow, it survived the unbinding.
"Mother, I'm home." I called into the sitting room, unlatching my rope and hanging it to the iron rack. Mr. Elliot found it three years ago, floating down to earth. It must've belonged to one of the rich people. But they discarded it. A plump, short woman entered into my vision. My mother has copper hair and dark eyes. They say she was a proper maiden back in the days. But you can't really see that now. Stress, pressure, and raising three kids isn't easy. Especially with the loss of her husband. Her eyes now gaze at me expectantly. I held out my hands, revealing a fistful of candy and ketchup packets. I dropped it into her hands, and she turned back to the kitchen. I followed, pulling more things out of my bag. Two cans of baked beans, a bag of rice, some bread and our weekly food stamps.
Thanks, honey." Mother says, softly, opening a can and dumping the contents into a bowl. I roll my sleeves, and get ready to help her make dinner. I'm not the oldest child. My sister, Gianna is 17, a year and a half my senior. She doesn't help out much, because she landed a government job a few months ago. And suddenly, we had more food stamps, and more oxygen and even two new ropes with brass clasps.
Three kids come running at the sound of plates clattering. One of them is my brother, Cooper. He's ten years old. When I say we live together, I didn't say how many people exactly. There's me, Genesis, Mother, Gianna and Cooper on the loft; Abigail and Grace Maccoy, fifteen and thirteen, and their parents take the only bedroom; the Elliot boy, Henry, stays with his father on the other side of the loft. Mr. Fernandez made a bed on the couch every night before he had enough, and demanded a bed. So he took a tiny closet. Not much better than the couch, I'd always say.
Cooper starts babbling about some adventure he'd been on with Grace, but I tuned him out. It was easier that way. Ten years of listening to that chatterbox does that to you. Abby didn't say much, and came over to help me open the two cans. She's more reliable than her sister, and I could see she gets it from her mother.
"Cooper!" Mother says, putting her attention on her only son. "Either set the table or go help Mr. Elliot." Cooper paused, weighing the two choices, before he turned, and laughing, ran out to find Mr. Elliot. Grace went to set the tables.
Mrs. Maccoy calls for him to get a rope cable, and the whereabout of Mr. Elliot. Mother and Mrs. Maccoy spent their days cleaning the house, getting ideas of how to make the food more edible, talking or gossiping with other women and mending or making clothes. We wore out clothes, but most are hand-me-downs. My red checkered shirt was Mrs. Elliot's before she died seven years ago from a falling boulder. She died saving her eleven year old son, Henry.
The meal was put together and set on chipped enamel plates. Everyone's plate was different. Mr. Elliot and Mr. Maccoy would always get an extra portion of grains, would it be rice or bread and extra vegetables. They worked a lot, trying to get enough for us all to eat. Henry used to get the same as us girls, but a year ago, he suddenly was allowed half a second serving.
Henry seated himself next to me, and threw an arm over his seat back. "Wild today. So wild." He swiped a piece of bread off his plate, and stuffed it in his mouth. He made to make conversation with me, but I could not care the least about his doings in helping bring home supplies. I rolled my eyes, and left to help bring in another plate, this one, mine.
When we had all sat, hands held in prayer, our meal began. It was simple, like many of the meals we had. Just enough to not die from starvation, not enough to indulge on. I dug my fork into the beans, and pushed it into the rice, scooping it all up and into my mouth it went. Personally, meal time was like a chore. Make food, stuff it down and get out of there in twenty minutes. Smile, laugh, share polite words. Mr. Fernandez was arguing something to Mr. Elliot, and a part of me wondered why, before I turned my ears to another source of conversation. Grace and Abby were talking about cloth patterns for a new dress from their mother; Henry was talking to Mr. Maccoy about politics or something. And Mother was giving the Cooper more of her food. All mundane things, really. I didn't care much, so I looked at the TV. We have a tv, and television was one of the things the Government tried to restore first. It was social media, and needed.
It was usually movies or news, which I didn't care much. But the big headlines blared out and I gave it a second look. REMEMBERENCE DAY CANCELLED? CATASTROPHE INSTEAD? I looked to see if anyone else was looking, but no one was. Suddenly filled with a rage I could not place, while looking at Henry shovel food down his throat, I kicked his leg hard. He looked indignantly at me. "What, Genesis? Can't you see I'm having a conversation?" He said through gritted teeth, glaring at me with annoyance.
"Look." I snarled, and jerked my head towards the TV. "You see it? Mother? Mr. Elliot? Abby?" I watched as all occupants of the table turned their heads towards the screen. Henry's mouth dropped open.
"Well, we be doomed! The end is neigh!" Screeched Mr. Fernandez, throwing his hands in the air. Everyone ignored him.
"A... Another unbinding, you think?" Whispered Mrs. Maccoy, all rosiness gone, and replaced with grimness and pale.
"Surely we'll get answers by tomorrow." Her husband soothed her, calmer than everyone on the table. Looking at the remains of my plate, I suddenly wasn't hungry. Not that I ever felt like eating. I threw my fork down and stood up, and walked away.
I push open the rusted door that leads to our house. It's a house by definition: four walls and a roof. But it's nothing like it. Everything is shabby and old. The buildings couldn't not bear no gravity, and crumpled one by one. This is the thirteenth year since. There really aren't any buildings left. So most people build their own ones. Of course, you have to give the government some credit. They did help with stablizing structures. Mother had ours made with the help of some neighbors. We live in it together. Us-- the Athertons, the Moccoys, the Elliots, and old Mr. Fernandez with his equally old dog. Somehow, it survived the unbinding.
"Mother, I'm home." I called into the sitting room, unlatching my rope and hanging it to the iron rack. Mr. Elliot found it three years ago, floating down to earth. It must've belonged to one of the rich people. But they discarded it. A plump, short woman entered into my vision. My mother has copper hair and dark eyes. They say she was a proper maiden back in the days. But you can't really see that now. Stress, pressure, and raising three kids isn't easy. Especially with the loss of her husband. Her eyes now gaze at me expectantly. I held out my hands, revealing a fistful of candy and ketchup packets. I dropped it into her hands, and she turned back to the kitchen. I followed, pulling more things out of my bag. Two cans of baked beans, a bag of rice, some bread and our weekly food stamps.
Thanks, honey." Mother says, softly, opening a can and dumping the contents into a bowl. I roll my sleeves, and get ready to help her make dinner. I'm not the oldest child. My sister, Gianna is 17, a year and a half my senior. She doesn't help out much, because she landed a government job a few months ago. And suddenly, we had more food stamps, and more oxygen and even two new ropes with brass clasps.
Three kids come running at the sound of plates clattering. One of them is my brother, Cooper. He's ten years old. When I say we live together, I didn't say how many people exactly. There's me, Genesis, Mother, Gianna and Cooper on the loft; Abigail and Grace Maccoy, fifteen and thirteen, and their parents take the only bedroom; the Elliot boy, Henry, stays with his father on the other side of the loft. Mr. Fernandez made a bed on the couch every night before he had enough, and demanded a bed. So he took a tiny closet. Not much better than the couch, I'd always say.
Cooper starts babbling about some adventure he'd been on with Grace, but I tuned him out. It was easier that way. Ten years of listening to that chatterbox does that to you. Abby didn't say much, and came over to help me open the two cans. She's more reliable than her sister, and I could see she gets it from her mother.
"Cooper!" Mother says, putting her attention on her only son. "Either set the table or go help Mr. Elliot." Cooper paused, weighing the two choices, before he turned, and laughing, ran out to find Mr. Elliot. Grace went to set the tables.
Mrs. Maccoy calls for him to get a rope cable, and the whereabout of Mr. Elliot. Mother and Mrs. Maccoy spent their days cleaning the house, getting ideas of how to make the food more edible, talking or gossiping with other women and mending or making clothes. We wore out clothes, but most are hand-me-downs. My red checkered shirt was Mrs. Elliot's before she died seven years ago from a falling boulder. She died saving her eleven year old son, Henry.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
The meal was put together and set on chipped enamel plates. Everyone's plate was different. Mr. Elliot and Mr. Maccoy would always get an extra portion of grains, would it be rice or bread and extra vegetables. They worked a lot, trying to get enough for us all to eat. Henry used to get the same as us girls, but a year ago, he suddenly was allowed half a second serving.
Henry seated himself next to me, and threw an arm over his seat back. "Wild today. So wild." He swiped a piece of bread off his plate, and stuffed it in his mouth. He made to make conversation with me, but I could not care the least about his doings in helping bring home supplies. I rolled my eyes, and left to help bring in another plate, this one, mine.
When we had all sat, hands held in prayer, our meal began. It was simple, like many of the meals we had. Just enough to not die from starvation, not enough to indulge on. I dug my fork into the beans, and pushed it into the rice, scooping it all up and into my mouth it went. Personally, meal time was like a chore. Make food, stuff it down and get out of there in twenty minutes. Smile, laugh, share polite words. Mr. Fernandez was arguing something to Mr. Elliot, and a part of me wondered why, before I turned my ears to another source of conversation. Grace and Abby were talking about cloth patterns for a new dress from their mother; Henry was talking to Mr. Maccoy about politics or something. And Mother was giving the Cooper more of her food. All mundane things, really. I didn't care much, so I looked at the TV. We have a tv, and television was one of the things the Government tried to restore first. It was social media, and needed.
It was usually movies or news, which I didn't care much. But the big headlines blared out and I gave it a second look. REMEMBERENCE DAY CANCELLED? CATASTROPHE INSTEAD? I looked to see if anyone else was looking, but no one was. Suddenly filled with a rage I could not place, while looking at Henry shovel food down his throat, I kicked his leg hard. He looked indignantly at me. "What, Genesis? Can't you see I'm having a conversation?" He said through gritted teeth, glaring at me with annoyance.
"Look." I snarled, and jerked my head towards the TV. "You see it? Mother? Mr. Elliot? Abby?" I watched as all occupants of the table turned their heads towards the screen. Henry's mouth dropped open.
"Well, we be doomed! The end is neigh!" Screeched Mr. Fernandez, throwing his hands in the air. Everyone ignored him.
"A... Another unbinding, you think?" Whispered Mrs. Maccoy, all rosiness gone, and replaced with grimness and pale.
"Surely we'll get answers by tomorrow." Her husband soothed her, calmer than everyone on the table. Looking at the remains of my plate, I suddenly wasn't hungry. Not that I ever felt like eating. I threw my fork down and stood up, and walked away.