Denise Getson has a bachelor’s of arts degree from Duke University and a master’s degree from Southern Methodist University. Her previous publications include business articles and fine arts reviews. In the past three years, the author has lived in Texas, Taiwan and Malaysia. Dry Souls is her first novel.

Dry Souls

By Denise Getson

CBAY Books

Copyright © 2011 Denise Getson
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-933767-12-3
CHAPTER 1

I glance at the sky, but there are no clouds. There are never clouds. I know what clouds look like only because of the digital images in our lessons at school. I know someone who has been north, to the mountains, and swears she saw clouds. Perhaps she’s telling the truth, but I doubt it.

I take my book to a spot I like, a quiet corner behind the shed. There’s shade here. The ground is hard and cracked, separated into rough-edged shards that can pierce the skin, but I bring a cushion with me.

I’m reading a book about flowers. I don’t have much personal experience with flowers. It’s against the law to have unauthorized vegetation on private property. Plants require so much water, you see, that every kind of gardening or agriculture must be approved by the proper agencies.

Naturally, we don’t have much in the way of plant life here at the orphanage. We have cactus, the tall and the short kind, creating an obstacle course of pincushions throughout the property, and a tomato patch was approved after proper petitioning by Matron. When the fruit’s ripe, we have fresh tomatoes with every meal, which is a treat.

But flowers are considered a frivolous use of water. Flowers — the purely ornamental kind — are non-essential. However, I’ve discovered a flower tucked into a small patch of earth behind the shed. No one ever comes here but me, and I don’t think it’s been discovered. It should have died by now since summer is full upon us and the heat is fierce, but I’ve been watering it in secret.

Every night, instead of drinking my last ration of water, I save a swallow in my mouth. Discreetly, I slip out of the dining room. I go to our sleeping quarters and spit the water into a small, covered dish I keep beneath my bed. Every few days, when I have a break from my studies and my chores, I take the water to the shed and pour it out onto the ground.

The flower’s beautiful. The blossoms are small and pink and clustered together like tiny bells. The petals are softer than anything I’ve ever felt in my life. I touch one now, for the pure pleasure of it, before getting comfortable on the cushion and opening my book.

I want to find out what kind of flower I have. The book hints it might be a variety of bluebell, except that my flower is not blue, or even purple, as most bluebells were. It is clearly pink.

“What are you doing back here?”

I freeze, my breath catching at the back of my throat. Carefully, I lean back until I’m sure no part of the flower can be seen. Placing one finger on the page to hold my spot, I glance up.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

I’m not in the habit of making nice with Mary Castle, but neither am I in the habit of being deliberately difficult. I try for casual disinterest and gaze at my intruder with what I hope is just the right mixture of impatience and preoccupation. Looking at Mary always makes me feel impatient, anyway. She’s too perfect, too put-together. Whenever I see her, I want to rumple her up.

Mary studies the book in my lap then raises one snooty eyebrow. “You’re wasting your time studying flowers,” she snorts. “You might as well be studying Latin or some other useless thing.”

“It’s my personal time. I’ll read whatever I want.”

“Matron wants you inside. Visitors are coming tomorrow. You and Sheila have floors.”

I hide my dismay. No one wants floors. Matron insists we get on our hands and knees, running a cloth over every hard square inch. I know I’ll be aching from it tomorrow. Still, I won’t let Mary see that I care one way or the other. She’s