Thoughts

One of the great was entombed as befits their station — as it should be.

The dead were dumped in a bare pit — no dignity, no honor.

The dead were laid to rest with dignity, in a grave that honors them.

Quietly relieved that someone they resented has died.

One of the great was dumped in a common pit — a shocking disrespect.

Satisfied after eating.

Joined the whole colony to send off one of the great — a solemn, uniting occasion.

The colony chose a gentler pace.

Nothing but work — the days have blurred into one long shift.

A working colonist put in the ground with no more care than a beast — as always.

The colony has adopted a new form of government.

Cold enough to notice. Hands stay in pockets and the work goes slower.

Wants for nothing — the colony's wealth flows their way.

Kept stirring — someone moving about while they were trying to sleep.

Absorbed in work they have a real passion for.

Quietly pleased with the work at hand.

Desperately tired.

A little steadier after being tended — comforted, even if not truly healed.

Bitter, biting cold. Every breath hurts and shelter is the only thought.

A grand hall — the kind of space that lifts everyone who stands in it.

Works hard and owns little while others prosper.

A pleasant word with someone.

A conversation turned sharp.

A conversation left a sour taste.

Idled away a while at something purely for the pleasure of it.

Glad to have someone they like around.

Bothered by someone they resent.

A fine, well-appointed room — a pleasure to work and live in.

Wounds beyond bearing. There is nothing else — only the pain.

A wound that aches whenever they move.

Hurt badly enough that it is hard to think about anything else for long.

Every movement costs something. The pain does not let up.

I married the one I love.

No light in their quarters — they sleep in the dark.

A standing colony policy chafes.

Aching for company.

The colony chose to work long, hard hours.

My child has died.

My parent has died.

My partner has died.

Grieving someone they were fond of who has died.

Nobody has tended to me.

A child was born to the family.

A bed, but no private space — a crowded bunkroom is not the same as a room of one's own.

A bare but proper room — four walls and a floor, nothing more.

A tidy, comfortable room — a decent place to spend the day.

Owns what they make and makes a comfortable living — the colony works for them.

Goes hungry and threadbare while the granary is full and the elite want for nothing.

No time to themselves in far too long.

Passed a body left to rot — the smell, the sight, the disrespect of it.

Takes quiet satisfaction in a craft that keeps them comfortable.

Woken before getting enough rest.

A comfortable night in their own modest room.

A night in a grand room — the kind of space a whole colony notices.

A restful night in a fine, private room of their own.

A plain room of their own — bare, but the door closes.

Rested in their own bed — no room to call their own, but the bed is theirs.

No bed to call their own — a shared bunk or the cold floor.

They swung first, and know it.

Painfully, dangerously hungry.

Grinding through work they have no feeling for.

Punishing heat. Shade and still air are all that matter.

Our dead are left where they fell — no one has laid them to rest.

One of the great lies in a common hole. They are owed a tomb, and everyone knows it.

One of the great lies in a tomb worthy of them — the colony did right by their dead.

Uncomfortably warm. Sweat gathers and the air feels close.

Coin comes in faster than it goes out — a good season.

Felt a little lighter after working up the nerve to ask for help.

Worked hard, but the colony couldn't make payroll.

Someone laid hands on them.

They were spoken to sharply.

Saw a fellow colonist die.

Tired from a long stretch of work.