Created: 11/25/2006
Around 18:33
Hands hewn out of a reddish-brown fur moved gelatinous bundles, translucent keratin-reminiscent blobs, from split-open crates onto a pile. These are the hands of Hlorn Mebastis of the Trado people. Above him is a sky that billows like a sheet, writhing with the wind, turned into grayish knots that tighten or unravel as they cover up what blue remains and hide it out of sight. Hlorn is in an area of mostly open ground with clumps of bushy brambles bunched together, purple grass with tree-dross (lost leaves) mashed into the mucky mire-mud beneath their roots, and spatterings of undecorated, barren trees out of routes ways. Each route is enclosed in plastic arches that rise up from the nearly-flat ground like cathedral mosaics round off at the top from their straight bases. Where Hlorn sleeps is within a massive pit-pet, inside a room (with a tropical atmosphere) of his house this clam-like land-pet closes around Hlorn when he goes to rest –blocking out light, keeping him warm, and even cleaning his fur a little. Around that room are others suspended in the air by their locally-generated power, connected to one another by airlock-tubes, and laid over on their outermost parts with gleaming metals. Most of Hlorn’s home is done in an orange-metallic polish with pale grey ornamentation and inset teal synth-stones. His neighbors say this set-up is tacky but he won’t waste the money to have it redone. A central pillar that all the rooms have tubes leading to continuously streams steam from its’ surface as frost continues to try a formation despite failure from the first. Visible even now is a blob, the home’s fuel/power provider, the same type Hlorn now stacks, with fire causing its’ surface to bubble off and the whole of it to shrink.
Down the side of the plastic path-covering, on a footpath heated by the enclosed path’s excess, came a foreigner. She had human features save for a few exceptions. Her skin was a very fair tint of violet patterned over with scarlet freckles. Nearly an ugly caricature by our standards, her nose protruded (it’d be appropriate to think “prominently” if it were exceptional or dominant among smaller features but), her ears went out to the sides like those of a child who can wiggle his, her lips were beyond pouty (they were fat), that chin of hers’ jutted out and her slit-lidded eyes were overshadowed by a prominent brow. Her hair was combed to the left and hung down to her rib-cage in a color sufficiently lighter a brown than that of the trees so it can be distinguished when it passes by a trunk.
Not much note of her was made by Hlorn before he returned to his glob-stocking work. It didn’t seem like long to him because he’d entered a working mode without internal dialogue when he heard a voice rough to his ears (though normal to mine) ask “Sorry to bother you, but could you help me?”. Just long enough to give himself a break, Hlorn leans back a bit, lifts his head up to see who spoke, and replies “no” before returning to work.
Not wanting to waste time as she had with the first couple no-help-here-offered people, Cgnthue Plated Spire (the previously unnamed woman) returned to walking after Hlorn re-began working.
Despite the earliness of this evening it has turned dark. Hlorn had quit his work when he could no longer comfortably see (really, if he wanted to he could have had his lot lit up like day but he wanted a break from work, not needing the stockpile done in two days) and walked off (after using the bathroom and getting a snack, without boiling his hands between those actions in a bowl to clean them of germs as is his people’s custom) to the local market. Some others of Hlorn’s kind would buy all they needed directly from manufactures –never needing to leave their homes. But Hlorn enjoyed the smell of old-fashioned meats roasting with pops and sizzles, hearing chattering people, auctioneers, playing children running about, dancing arcades (where you win the rights of ownership from any machine you can outdance), feeling the effect of joy-incense, and even watching expensive advertisements try to outmaneuver each other in the air for line of sight with customers registered as interested in their products. It was a fun game to sometimes look at an advertisement-screen showing products you weren’t interested in, which another shopper was already looking at, and watch as a company selling something you usually bought fought with its’ money to take over that advertising spot until one of the companies (the stranger’s or yours) retreated from the screen. Sometimes a company wouldn’t try to expand its’ window but would just stubbornly continue paying enough to let its’ logo sit in the corner of the dominant powers ad. This was generally seen as poor conduct though and Hlorn had even heard rumors that it was being challenged before the Judge of Kualltvobastf (the sub-state he’d fought to be a part of with other migrates, against Reboaldsaffa, which refused the transfer of many people, 27 years ago) as an illegal practice.
He’d reached Duli’s Market Piazza and began to drift around, not planning to buy any particular thing. Then he saw Cgnthue asking people questions. Each person she asked was a passer-by not a helper. She must have been asking for over an hour if she hadn’t found help after leaving Hlorn. Ruptabana Diel can be seen giving her money for food. Hlorn is curious as to what she wanted to do earlier. Its’ too awkward for his tastes to simply walk over and ask her (is he going to seek to know how he could help her just so he can deny her?) so he watches. She goes into the Alltypes Brewery and Hlorn stops watching. He doesn’t want to stalk her. He walks to the nearby dancing arcade to challenge Fogey, a break-dancer in the classical style. Hlorn doesn’t actually have the moves to even hope to properly imitate Fogey but dancing will let him stall for time while he waits to see her come back out. By the time she does come back out of the Alltypes Brewery, he’s too engaged in trying to outdance Fogey to even remind himself what he cared about minutes ago.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
For Instinct
I step, resetting my weight, trying to get my tight muscles loose again. Ignore the urge to rub my hands together and step instead. My main-gate shift’s almost here. Watch says 2306. Close enough, Charlie’s been glum lately, I’ll let him off early. “I’m taking my shift now” “Are you sure? There’s 9 minutes left.” “Yeah, don’t worry about it. Go home; I’ve got you covered buddy”. “Thanks man.”
These may have been Almend’s thoughts before he murdered Amschel. Arriving at base near midnight Amschel was shot through the gate while disembarking from his limo. His guards overmatched Almend’s bullets and killed him. At eleven, Amschel died.
There was no record indicating prior inclinations on Almend’s part to kill unprovoked or attack. He did not know Amschel and, being in his employ, had no apparent reason to kill him. Yet, seeing the boy, Almend reactively shot to kill.
Amschel was the director of world planning. All his family obeyed his demands and nations obeyed their demands. Attaining such a position in a family of back-stabbers, cunning brutes, clever devils and bankers required frightful craft. Amschel died at 11.
His completely unexpected assassination opened a route through to the destruction of his family’s glamour through which other families saw them as betters and so served them. Amschel had needed to kill, sequester, isolate, or otherwise make unfindable/useless all his rivals for family rule so, at his death, there wasn’t a family member left with the presence of dastardly will to hold all others in fearful obedience. In-fighting broke out between the family members; throughout the world wars waged. Such violent quarrel may not have ended the family’s rule because such spiteful in-fighting had long been their way: for generations brother murdered brother, father whipped daughter, mother poisoned husband, and son hired a hit on elder. These destructive effects were worsened with simultaneous violence in favor of paranoid insulation. No one expected or understood Almend’s assassination of Amschel. He couldn’t have known Amschel’s importance (adults were always kept around him so he’d more appear like a child being led so, should an attack on world-leader come, his bodyguards-disguised-as-parents would be killed instead). Suspicions were cast that another family member must have done it –though all serious contenders had been thought estranged/lost or executed. Other heads-of-family searched fervently for betrayers within their own organizations, killing many of their own guards as Almend had been one of Amschel’s guards. Communication and therefore the overall efficiency of the family’s organizations were hampered by powerful members holing themselves up in fortress-estates to be contacted through bottlenecks. Subordinates found themselves left to decide matters when information deferred up provoked no answer before decision-time came. Increasing independence in lower leaders of the hierarchy led to splintering loyalties. The illusion of needing to work with Amschel’s family began to dissolve and whole continental regions turned against them. Family-heads were in no state of mind to organize defenses as they had their advisers slimmed with executions and wasted money on protection from phantom enemy cells. Ideas of cells within manors took root in servants minds and some were actually formed. Frustrated with hurting demands, some security commanders staged coups. One set the standard when he realized most of the organization didn’t see their ruler anymore and so wouldn’t even be able to check if he was telling the truth when he claimed he spoke for their master. All bets went off when a regional ruler convinced state-heads to sabotage the currencies they’d been forced to use. Means of economic control, items kept clean of invisible warfare, became fair game. All the infrastructure of world rule was being burned while subjects of increasingly low rank-in-hierarchy began to self-determinate.
Almend saw Amschel. He felt him. A terrible child, horrid, abominable, twisted. A gunshot and the pain in his breast shamed Amschel, letting him know he’d done wrong.
Understand, that bullet didn’t hit Amschel; it struck a pane of bullet-proof glass. It did not pierce through; it did not shatter. Some fiber was smashed to particles, a pattering event, and the pane was rent. Though no hole was made, the pocket dug was a great impact all the same. Cracks spread from where the bullet-tip had hit and segmented the once solid pane. Pieces of glass fell onto the ledge, a plane oriented to an opposing axis, or floated as light particle-powder in an a-axial atmosphere. Even the edges and corners shuddered, knew a change took place.
Comprehend, a single sheet of glass wasn’t destroyed but a mosaic demonic. Singularly beautiful glasses were fashioned together into a horrible picture. The structure ghastly, its’ visage torture. A piece of woe was partially undone in its’ frame so some glass fragments fell free of the ugly image to be beautiful individually yet not hideous in context.
Believe, not for a bullet but a drop of water the mosaic shattered.
Know, cracks are not destruction but a return of original formation. Once the water and glass were together. They were earth. But heat=movement ascended water with dust left behind. A mini-mimic star (spark) struck the sand drops so they flowed as liquid then consolidated, cooled by the spirited air to a purified dryness. No longer would such glass be beaten by sun-rays. Now it was so solid it reflected and its’ parts were so close together man could only see the gaps. Individual water molecules on a higher level became depressed, pulled together by their most forceful / best-positioned members so they were so strong in their struggles against other bodies of water-particles that their anger scraped off as paths of negativity* that’d destroy whatever they’re channeled into. Such collection was ultimately a darkening of substance, stopping light from reaching lower levels, and returning water to the lower tiers it had come from. There, a drop hit the light-dried and hardened glass. Together they may again coincide to provide dirt.
*What’s an electron’s polarity?
These may have been Almend’s thoughts before he murdered Amschel. Arriving at base near midnight Amschel was shot through the gate while disembarking from his limo. His guards overmatched Almend’s bullets and killed him. At eleven, Amschel died.
There was no record indicating prior inclinations on Almend’s part to kill unprovoked or attack. He did not know Amschel and, being in his employ, had no apparent reason to kill him. Yet, seeing the boy, Almend reactively shot to kill.
Amschel was the director of world planning. All his family obeyed his demands and nations obeyed their demands. Attaining such a position in a family of back-stabbers, cunning brutes, clever devils and bankers required frightful craft. Amschel died at 11.
His completely unexpected assassination opened a route through to the destruction of his family’s glamour through which other families saw them as betters and so served them. Amschel had needed to kill, sequester, isolate, or otherwise make unfindable/useless all his rivals for family rule so, at his death, there wasn’t a family member left with the presence of dastardly will to hold all others in fearful obedience. In-fighting broke out between the family members; throughout the world wars waged. Such violent quarrel may not have ended the family’s rule because such spiteful in-fighting had long been their way: for generations brother murdered brother, father whipped daughter, mother poisoned husband, and son hired a hit on elder. These destructive effects were worsened with simultaneous violence in favor of paranoid insulation. No one expected or understood Almend’s assassination of Amschel. He couldn’t have known Amschel’s importance (adults were always kept around him so he’d more appear like a child being led so, should an attack on world-leader come, his bodyguards-disguised-as-parents would be killed instead). Suspicions were cast that another family member must have done it –though all serious contenders had been thought estranged/lost or executed. Other heads-of-family searched fervently for betrayers within their own organizations, killing many of their own guards as Almend had been one of Amschel’s guards. Communication and therefore the overall efficiency of the family’s organizations were hampered by powerful members holing themselves up in fortress-estates to be contacted through bottlenecks. Subordinates found themselves left to decide matters when information deferred up provoked no answer before decision-time came. Increasing independence in lower leaders of the hierarchy led to splintering loyalties. The illusion of needing to work with Amschel’s family began to dissolve and whole continental regions turned against them. Family-heads were in no state of mind to organize defenses as they had their advisers slimmed with executions and wasted money on protection from phantom enemy cells. Ideas of cells within manors took root in servants minds and some were actually formed. Frustrated with hurting demands, some security commanders staged coups. One set the standard when he realized most of the organization didn’t see their ruler anymore and so wouldn’t even be able to check if he was telling the truth when he claimed he spoke for their master. All bets went off when a regional ruler convinced state-heads to sabotage the currencies they’d been forced to use. Means of economic control, items kept clean of invisible warfare, became fair game. All the infrastructure of world rule was being burned while subjects of increasingly low rank-in-hierarchy began to self-determinate.
Almend saw Amschel. He felt him. A terrible child, horrid, abominable, twisted. A gunshot and the pain in his breast shamed Amschel, letting him know he’d done wrong.
Understand, that bullet didn’t hit Amschel; it struck a pane of bullet-proof glass. It did not pierce through; it did not shatter. Some fiber was smashed to particles, a pattering event, and the pane was rent. Though no hole was made, the pocket dug was a great impact all the same. Cracks spread from where the bullet-tip had hit and segmented the once solid pane. Pieces of glass fell onto the ledge, a plane oriented to an opposing axis, or floated as light particle-powder in an a-axial atmosphere. Even the edges and corners shuddered, knew a change took place.
Comprehend, a single sheet of glass wasn’t destroyed but a mosaic demonic. Singularly beautiful glasses were fashioned together into a horrible picture. The structure ghastly, its’ visage torture. A piece of woe was partially undone in its’ frame so some glass fragments fell free of the ugly image to be beautiful individually yet not hideous in context.
Believe, not for a bullet but a drop of water the mosaic shattered.
Know, cracks are not destruction but a return of original formation. Once the water and glass were together. They were earth. But heat=movement ascended water with dust left behind. A mini-mimic star (spark) struck the sand drops so they flowed as liquid then consolidated, cooled by the spirited air to a purified dryness. No longer would such glass be beaten by sun-rays. Now it was so solid it reflected and its’ parts were so close together man could only see the gaps. Individual water molecules on a higher level became depressed, pulled together by their most forceful / best-positioned members so they were so strong in their struggles against other bodies of water-particles that their anger scraped off as paths of negativity* that’d destroy whatever they’re channeled into. Such collection was ultimately a darkening of substance, stopping light from reaching lower levels, and returning water to the lower tiers it had come from. There, a drop hit the light-dried and hardened glass. Together they may again coincide to provide dirt.
*What’s an electron’s polarity?
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