Dystopian Snowflake
Our dystopian snowflake wakes as calm gusts make the curtains dance. Through those curtains, gleaming light makes its presence known and foretells a pleasant day.
This light, lighting them up from a corner, reaches the books’ hard covers. It travels up the stacks, touching thousands of covers one by one.
Then, it beelines for the piles of CDs in various conditions. The audio entertainment room has not only iPods but also old record players, etc.
The ready young man starts his day after one more yawn. Just then, the final alarm echoes throughout the walls comprising cassettes, disks, magazines, etc.
When Pride Overtakes
Getting into a black full-sleeved t-shirt, the dystopian snowflake turns his head to see a 2020 newspaper clipping. This reminds him of more than the pandemic. The split took place in 2020, and remembering it pains our protagonist. Yet, he keeps it here as it reminds him of better days.
In sum, the Big Sprouts, the biggest names in the world (e.g. Eleventh Haven and Make Way) hatched a sinister plan. They decided systemic racism was not enough–people needed to meet their standards.
The creators, who had imagination, made strides with godlike help. This left the consumers with dust.
Reasons to Support the Dystopian Snowflake
The split introduced Consumer Abbey and Production Pad. Contrasting Production Pad’s robotic people, Consumer Abbey’s consumers; who they cannot compose, draw, or sing; must struggle.
Some good people lost their families in the split. Conditions in Consumer Abbey are beyond unfit, yet Production Pad’s powerful creatives think up atrocious experiments.
An internal war, now tame, erupted when the consumers realised the system forces sees them as numbers. Nonetheless, Production Pad is guilty of each claim.
“Consumer Abbey loves me,” the dystopian snowflake thinks, “Not because I act, draw, and make mind-blowing films, but because compose, dance, and make films here.”
What He Sacrificed
September 22, 2020, the Big Sprouts offered all creatives a lifestyle at the top. However, he refused. He thinks a mindless fortune worse than death. The Big Sprouts smashed his computer, guitar, stylus, etc. The two men that came to cripple the mindful creative also scarred his chest and thighs.
When the dystopian snowflake closes his main door behind him, his day kicks off. With his day, millions days of much more privileged creatives start. Many spoilt creatives take truffle with wagyu beef for breakfast every day. With his prowess, he could have half of Production Pad housekeep for him.
Friends to the Dystopian Snowflake
Adamant footsteps lead the dystopian snowflake to a shady pub. After all, every unlawful thing happens in a pub. Still, oh! Karma runs this one.
The consumers suffer from a food dearth. Still, an endless supply of entertainment keeps them fat. Production Pad sees Consumer Abbey as a testing ground.
Every man in Chester’s Pub is the dystopian snowflake’s friend. In 2020, Chester first said, “Expression is freedom! Send out this message to every house.” The Big Sprouts never forgave Chester. The dystopian snowflake runs covert art centres, but today, he will host a splendid concert for the deprived consumers.
How He Avoids Capture
Consumer Abbey struggles. The consumers laugh, live, and play (a lot), but they cheat when it comes to work. Do not blame them. For, the Big Sprouts made them so. They turned people hexed by adverts that were already inactive, and systematically crippled them. Therefore, they cannot chase their dreams.
The Big Sprouts fuel this shunned colony by forcing the unwilling creatives to underperform. Thus, they jolt the half-dead consumers, whom they need for experiments.
The dystopian snowflake performed for consumers. Since he escaped, the Big Sprouts put a bounty on him. Thanks to Chester’s friends, Consumer Abbey still lives.
The Dystopian Snowflake’s Dreams
Tonight’s show was going as planned. After the closing, two hunks stood up before everyone else. Their large frames garnered attention when they showed badges.
Oh, no! These are Big Sprout Patrol officers. An obese onlooker being booed looks on with twenty Kit Cat bars on his lap, remorselessly, senselessly. One word cuts through the muffled laughter like lightning. It says, “Run!” repeatedly. The high-pitched warning is too late; the dystopian snowflake is already running.
The dystopian snowflake looks down. His most prized possession–the ribbon he made for his first love–has fallen. He must go back for it.
Those officers bagged the dystopian snowflake. They are as brainwashed as the consumers, who live here. The Big Sprouts authority made strides in ruthless efficiency.
One officer says, “Was that my wife’s childhood picture?” and the dystopian snowflake has run. “Hey kid, you only drank under age!” the officer notes.
