I HAD AN idea once. No, wait, that makes me sound like I’ve only had one. I’ve had at least three in my lifetime… But seriously I had an idea for a story about a planet where there is a master race who control all the resources, they turn it into a giant mine and exploit every living organism in it. There were many different kinds of people – the ones who controlled everything, and all the others. And there were chains of hierarchy whereby the rich enslaved the poor. Not necessarily in chains, attached to a desk, not like that. More in a subtle kind of way, like some people far far away would spend twelve hours a day stitching footwear together so the wealthy could buy them and parade them around until a small patch of dirt on the white fabric made them hideous and unwearable ever again.
Or that people would be forced to feed prawns and peel them from boats on which they would be prisoner, because the company who enslaved them had armed guards to make sure they didn’t leave. Then I had an even better one, idea that is, focusing on a factory where workers were so sick and tired of earning a pittance from their laborious lives behind a factory wall, they decided to kill themselves.
Which lets face it, is entirely selfish seeing as people need to make phone calls in another part of the world.
One way or another, whether ghost-slavery or blatant, this planet destroyed itself because the imbalance was so pronounced that it literally stopped spinning.
Then I realised, it wasn’t even fiction…