The Mat Makers: A Dystopian Science-Fiction Short Story

An alarm sounds. Movement causes the lights to flash. We are grateful for fluorescent lights, and the man on the television screen says that their light encourages the most productive workers. I hear it is nothing like sunlight and can burn your eyes if you look into it.

I stand up, remove the feeding tube, and receive four white capsule pills and a coffee cup. Next to me, my colleague receives the same thing. There are 31 of us here. You will rarely receive a new number, and only if you lose your number and need to replace it. I have known most of these women and these four metal walls since childhood. I was so young that I cannot remember a time when they did not surround me.

Some older women remember things from earlier times, but much of what they remember is confusing to me. They talk about tall, brown and green trees that grow out of the ground. When the migration occurred, only a few of them remained. They hardly remember, but talk about them curiously. Although they have not talked much about them since the Overseers took 924.

The Workday Begins

The bed retracts into the ground and the work platform rises. I pour coffee into my coffee cup from the dispenser on the wall. Guards are on standby to make sure no one takes more than their ration. As I slurp, I feel a tingling sensation in my fingers and around my jaw. My thoughts about the tree begin to thicken. Focusing on the task at hand reduces the fog.

A gray filament tray rises to the right of my table, and my hand begins to move repeatedly until a second alarm sounds. I remove the sickly green filaments one at a time. They are thin, slippery and easily broken, but my skilled hands weave them into a mat. Occasionally, I turn the light above the piece and spray water to moisten the filament. I watch as the water drips and pools before flowing out of the narrow slit under the table.

I make it a game and steadily count to 100 in my head. Each part of the filament represents life. If I drop or break one, I have to count them again. I finish the mat and place it on the tray on the left side of my desk. If I finish enough mats by the second alarm, I get two coffees.

Productivity and Growth

The second alarm causes my hand to cramp. When I was young, I thought that the harder I worked with my hands, the stronger they would become. The man on the television screen says that growth is exponential, but I cannot convince myself of this. Every day, my hands seem to be getting slower and slower. It was said that growth begets growth, so why are my hands slow?

Mr. 961 was removed by his supervisor because his daily number of mats fell below the recommended amount. She was the oldest woman I knew. She screamed as they led her away. She said we had to fight to help her, to remember the trees. I believe 924 was removed shortly after that. Two very young women took their place, but they do not speak much. Even less than the rest of us.

The Daily Count

I drink two cups of coffee and sit down for a break. I may be slow, but I am still one of the fastest producers in the unit. The small screen flickers. Looking up, I see the women each enjoying their well-earned time. A short television break will be given after the second and third alarms, as long as we achieve our goals.

The old man on the screen taught us how to count and how to make mats. Large numbers fill the screen, and a countdown appears, announcing the sectors that have created the most mats since yesterday’s second alarm. Every day, for just a moment, I begin to hope that it might be us.

Absolutely not. It was not even when my hands were the fastest.