1st 5 Pages February Workshop - Schuren Revision 1

Name: Shannon Schuren
Genre: YA Contemporary
Title: Children of Psolemnity


The girls never get a choice. This has always been our way, for as long as I've been alive and longer. My father chose my mother, as he so often reminds us. Tonight, it is my turn to be chosen, and though the very thought of it turns my insides liquid, it is more from anticipation than fear.

I have a secret.

My mother perches beside me on one of the low benches the men have dragged out into the desert. Tonight—and tonight only—we are allowed outside the high walls of Psolemnity.

She holds out a plate piled with sticky rice, a roast leg of lamb, and a crumbling chunk of bread. “You need to eat something.” She has to raise her voice to be heard above the fluty sound of Yanni that is being piped from big speakers into the open air of the evening.

The smell churns my stomach, and I push it away.

“I saw Ruth over by the food station.” She points through the crowd, toward the fire in the distance.

My stomach lurches again as I follow her finger, catching sight of the opening in the rock wall behind us where the ceremony will take place.

I’ve never been inside. Like most of our rituals, the men are free to attend. The women go only once, on their wedding night. Afterward, they are forbidden to speak of it. My own father is the only man I know well enough to ask about it, and his answer is always a vague mumble of forgetfulness. I doubt this is true, but I cannot think why he would lie. I can only imagine the experience is either too sacred to speak of, or too profane. Or perhaps men do not attach the same importance to these things.

After tonight, I will be able to ask my husband.

“Surely you can tell me something,” I say, watching my mother’s headscarf twist in the cool night breeze. “The time is nearly upon us. What will it matter now?”

She shifts her gaze away from mine. "It's better if you don't know." she says. "The unexpected should feel like a gift, not an obligation."

“What is one more obligation?”

She must hear the bitterness in my voice, because she sighs and lays a hand on my arm. “Please. Not tonight, Miriam.”

I pull my hand away. “I need to talk to Ruth,” I say, jumping from my seat and spilling the plate she has balanced between us. “Sorry.”

“Go.” She waves me off and kneels in the sand to clean up my mess.

I hesitate only for a moment. I should help her, but the urge to get away is too strong. I pull up my skirt and begin to jog, scanning the faces of the girls for my best friend, though it is a half-hearted gesture. I have someone else on my mind tonight.

I skirt the crowd, stepping behind the groups of chattering women and around the booths and tables where they are serving food. I walk away from the warmth of the fire, from the familiar sounds and smells, until I am far enough into the darkness to see the stars. They decorate the sky like thousands of candles, while back near the celebration, the smoke from our bonfire climbs toward Heaven like an offering to God.

I stop only when I have no choice, when the patrolling guards come into view.

We are free for this one evening every year, but freedom requires protection. The rest of the country—the rest of the world—do not live as we do. It is only inside the walls of our communal society that we are safe. Outside, people do unspeakable things to one another.

It is my greatest shame that I have tried to imagine these things.

But all I can picture is the vast Mojave Desert, stretching out beyond me forever; faceless people hovering at the perimeter doing God only knows what. This life is all I’ve ever known. I was born here, and tonight I will marry someone who was born here, too. We are the Second Generation of Psolemnity. It is a title that carries its own obligations.

I walk back towards the party. In going round, I have managed to come out near the boy’s side. From the shadows, I seek out Boaz. His eyes are bright in the firelight, his skin bronze against the white of his shirt. His voice is warm and strong, and my skin tingles at the sound of his laughter.

These boys sound just like us.

We are not allowed to speak in the presence of men, and because we are separated whenever possible, they rarely speak in ours. The only time we are together for any length of time is Sunday, at Chapel. And at Chapel there is no speaking. That is a rule that even I have never broken.

His eyes are drawn to mine, like magnets, even in the darkness. There is a heat between us far greater than the desert sun. He smiles, the corner of his mouth curving like the crook of a finger. It is an invitation. I have felt this tether between us before, but never as strong as this. Tonight, it sends shivers of excitement down my body.

Ruth is fearful of what tonight will bring. She does not know who will choose her, whose wife she will become. But I don’t share her fear because I am sure of our connection. Boaz will choose me, and I will finally know what it is like to speak to him. Touch him. Be touched by him.

There is a shift in the energy, a signal that I am too far away to catch. He turns—our connection momentarily broken—and they all leave the fire, moving toward the cave.

I must get back. I have been waiting for this night my whole life. If I am late . . . I don’t actually know what will happen if I am late, but it will not be pleasant. There is no time for keeping to the shadows. I break into a flat-out run, sand dragging my stride and chafing inside my leather sandals.

I don’t see Aaron until it is too late. I barrel into him, sending him flying backwards. My body quivers from the impact, and I flounder to stay on my feet.

The gangly boy lies on the ground, eerily still.

“Are you all right? Do you need me to get help?” I ask, kneeling beside him and touching his shoulder.

“Miriam?”

I recognize the voice, sharp and imperious, even with only three short syllables to convey her superiority. Of all the people to witness this, why did it have to be Susanna? Her willowy beauty, though the envy of us all, masks the heart of a viper.

“Did you just touch him?” The words come out in a hiss, as if by whispering she will manage to avoid the punishment I am certain to receive.

Aaron scrambles to his feet, though I am not sure if it is my breach or Susanna’s reaction that shocks him into mobility.

“He’s going to pay for that,” she says, as he runs from us without a backwards glance.

I don’t think it’s right to punish him. The accident was my fault. But here in Psolemnity, my opinion does not matter.