Dystopian Realism

Talk about depictions of the future in science fiction and other sources
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eacao
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Dystopian Realism

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Set in the Anglophonic world, in the mid 2020's:

Jorden waited by a bustling street. Before her passed cars with a hit-or-miss chance of spewing exhaust. Across the street, her desired coffee-shop stood modern in its minimalist glamour. Exposed brick lay in juxtaposition to the strident, glass-laden buildings all around. Upon her wrist sat a clever device that vibrated, ensuring she knew that the pedestrian-light was green.

In an elegant flick of her neck, Jorden swung the green accent of her hair behind her shoulder amidst her long and graceful strides. The green of her bangs met tastefully with the deep brown of her natural hair colour, which fell densely-straightened from atop her head. Her accents had cost her dearly, and they looked good. She knew by the furtive glances that possessed the men of the street that she looked good.

She held her fingertip on her watch's screen, and the device replied, "bing!". She then held her wrist against the blackened patch on the wall of her coffee-shop, which confirmed her the transaction with its own, lower-pitched,

"Bing."

She stood for a moment as the barrister-behind-the-glass made her regular coffee. Men and women walked passed her, all with their hearing aborted by small, white devices that hung from their ears like dribbles. People looked up occasionally--most frequently young and old men--but nobody spoke to her. This was her preferred way of conducting a day. Even if someone had attempted to speak with Jorden, she would end it as quickly as she was able. Such a thing was simply not done in the city, and of the ten-thousand people that a person might encounter in a day, a person might usually speak to none.

A tall man, wearing a stylish black coat and sporting thick black hair locked eyes with Jorden for a moment as he walked passed. She instinctively turned her face and shoulders to meet the man for a second, before continuing her movement, turning her back on him, and reaching for her phone.

Looking down, she checked for non-existent notifications from her dating App. We should note--you and I, reader, that there were many messages on Jorden's folding smartphone, but they inhabit the grim abyss of her junk bin. Her phone had long ago learned her preferences, and the man she was most hopeful to see appear, had not replied from the message she had left him (and he had seen) two days ago.

The barrister placed the cup beneath the coffee-shop's glass panel. Jorden took it, and left.

She was heading home. She had little time to spend outdoors. Her plans demanded haste.

She arrived home. Downstairs, her wrist gave her entry. Upstairs, her thumbprint sufficed. Inside, her home was white and splendid. It was sparse. "Minimalist", she would say. Despite the quantitatively small area, Jorden had furnished the room to maximise space. From the front door, her single-bedroom apartment looked quite spacious. It was also entirely silent.

Jorden placed her bag down and, sipping from the tiny slit on the lid at the top of her paper coffee cup, and with all swiftness hurried to the couch.

"Big Bro, call Aaron", she said to the stylish but empty room.

The movable projector that she had so finely placed against the largest white wall of her apartment flickered into action.

Jorden sat patiently on her couch. The "bring, bring" of the dial tone rang several times. Her face was approximately faced to her toes, but she saw nothing as she waited.

"Hey you've reached Aaron. Sorry I can't get the phone right now, I'll call you back".

Silence, again, inhabited the room.

Jorden was unperturbed. Aaron worked odd hours. His employers lived overseas, and his profession in coding allowed him to accomodate the nighttime work hours. Awake like an owl and asleep like a bear.

A ruckus was kicking up, outside Jorden's window, down the street. It was ignorable.

"Hey Aaron, call me back when you can. If we see Mum on Saturday, we can see Dad on Sunday for Christmas. And I've transferred you for the gift cards!".

"end call, Big bro", Jorden finished with.

The marching ruckus had now arrived below Jorden's balcony.

Jorden stepped to her sparse, plant-less balcony which sported a tasteful, white, ornament of a now-extinct emperor penguin nestled in the corner.

Below, on the street, she could see and hear the protest.

A mangy mob marched slowly underneath her. The people wore simple, unstylish clothes. They sported cardboard signs with messy writing.

"The First Amendment Without Addendum!", read one. It was painted in what looked like lipstick.

"No Imprisonment 'Cause Embezzlement", read another.

Jorden was surprised to see people of colour amidst the crowd, holding signs, and chanting too. The free speech movement was a targeted campaign against minorities and equity. She had seen such protests on the News, and understood fully from News Anchors that this was a small movement from of the conspiratorial type. She was thus surprised to see such a protest outside her home.

She peered past her nose at them.

"Safe Speach Is Not Speach".

Jorden couldn't contain her contempt for these mis-typists for another second. She spat on the crowd, and walked inside to the sound of bigots convulsing at her saliva.

When Jorden closed the door and the sound evapourated behind her double-glazed windows, she sat on her couch in quiet peace.

"Big bro", she said,

"Show me what's trending".
"You don't decide your future. You decide your habits, and your habits decide your future",
"Nearly all men can endure adversity. If you want to test a man's character, give him power",
"If you're going through Hell, keep going".
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