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They promised us a utopia for a small price. A few of us would suffer for a greater good. The rest would flourish. And flourish we did, like plants given soil, water and sunlight. Time wore on and they came to us again. Paradise requires the sacrifice of upkeep. They asked, and we gave willingly: a handful chosen to suffer in the dark; the rest spared; a select few lifted closer to the sun. And so it went, again and again. For every dozen of us laid low to renew the soil of enterprise, one raised ever higher. No one questioned that those who suffer are always chosen from the same plots of earth. The same is true for those chosen to prosper. And now the light has grown so thin for all but a few. They promised us a utopia. They never said whose utopia it would be.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
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