Throwing it Down
*If I had a week more I could do more with it. Here we go*
*Good Luck my esteemed opponent*
Throwing it Down
© 2007 CW Kelson III (Tad)
All Rights Reserved
A Tale of the Tech no' Logical Worlds
Ceramic DM Competition, Round 2, Spring 07
This is a tale told with all my dark art craft.
All tales, all stories, all remembrances future or past, are real, in one form or another. They are real because it is agreed on, in the singular or the plural, that all things are real, all elements are possible, life has potential, and the striving of kind is the end pursuit of the act of breathing.
This is as real as anything else that exists in the realm of light, this tale to be told to you that are taking the time to read the missive constrained with the English Language, the act of typing, the relating of a story pursuant to other frameworks and ideas.
This is a story of reality, how things really are in the Real World ™ instead of the make believe world of truth, honor, democracy, and politicians. This is how it is underneath it all, where madness is the stuff of everyday occurrence, and where hope can blossom in the most unlikely of places. This is the story of people, like and unlike all the rest that have crawled across the face of Mother Earth.
These are words of what things are like when you get below the sticky sweet surface of corporate responsibility, and just get down to business.
Just.
Throwing it down.
Starting off:
Lost in cavernous malls populated with hollow shells fueled by endless outs of over sugared caffeine in stark recycled white and green highlights, the two couples waltz through the mindless drones of modern thought.
The Doctor, the Liar and their twin loves all dancing to tunes only they can hear, up and down the endless alleys and side sections, in front of the strip malls with the same products, phones, hair, fingers and toes, as well as prepackaged food, the difference is usually only the name blazoned across the front of the establishment, and sometimes it is difficult to make out the lettering, they all look the same.
[Pic of the Doctor and the Priest}
"Love is nothing but a performing art" the liar said in his mockery of piety, "Filled with Palms, Blackberries, and other PDAs conducted in the privacy of the self-esteem and home, hopefully for some people."
[Pic of the two ladies standing or dancing, not sure]
"But you are wrong there my good man," the Doctor spouts off around his trademarked drink, warm in the summer sun, cold in the winter months, available to anyone with the coin to drop, "I find you utterly wrong in this regard."
Small children still with minds left are dragging their parents from one distraction to another. The mothers are less susceptible than the fathers, inoculation started early with baby dolls and other ragged promises.
The quartet staggers on down the crowded shopping mall, pausing to purchase nothing, to savor and regret even less. Waiting for the call to come and visit the other, to get the ball rolling down the hillside once more into that gray area of light and dark.
Throwing it down.
Long before it all started, as an starting point to The World
"The ratios are off your Lordship," the technician is cowering behind the plate glass, tempered in the forge fed by mistakes and fueled with anger and despair, "the timing is wrong, the placements are suboptimal, as well as immediate deformities arising."
”As you can see from this prototype this human genome is not as adaptable to the alterations required, it needs to be modified before further alterations will take effect.”
The technician knows when to finally close its mouth, and await the fate in store with the deliverance of news not conducive to prolonged existence.
“Well,” smooth, sardonic, akin to smoke sliding across a gently resting pond in the middle of virgin wilderness, “Well it seems there are limitations to the species, it will take a few generations longer I suppose. No matter for it, draft plans to cull the herds more to speed up the process, start a few wars or something, just make it happen.” Glint of black on black, white chiffon dangling at the cravat line, pallid white flesh that has never been touched by the light of the sun, paler than the deepest cave bred mushroom could strive or dream to achieve, echoed in the ebony of the drapery and finery that adorned the skeletal structure with its scant covering of an epidermis. Turn on the heel and leave out the stone bound wooden door deep in the fastness of the earth.
[Pic of the alien looking thing in the hands]
The technician goes back to work, time to destroy the test material. Time to start over again, there is no lack of raw material to work with. Even when using only the local stock walking around the facility, it might be decades before they would need to tap back into the outside world for fresh stock to manipulate among the humans. Time passes slowly when there is all of it left in eternity stretching out in front of the eyes.
Throwing it down.
Keeping it all in check
Death comes knock knock knocking on the basement door
tick tock tick tock the clock strikes the hours on the dot, tick tock tick tock
stealthy little steps up and down the cold concrete floor
while the water goes drip drip drip down the back of the neck standing in the puddle watching the seepage seep
This is where the boundaries are weakened with each and every birth that is forced into the world, with each drawing of breath, of each outreaching of unnatural arms, does the fabric become ever so slightly more torn, ever so gently more ripped, worn away with the work of the unceasing mechanics of design taking all into endless ripostes of control and harmony enforced with blade and shovel into the cold hard ground to bury the dissenting.
This is what is happening every single day to the world, as it grows colder with the lack of human hearts, with the expansion of the meme of consumerism, with the advent of one world scattered to all the corners, forever reaching hands out to touch, and unable to make solitary contact.
This is what is happening when man does not care about man, woman ignores woman, children are cruel to one and another, all the while the pets run rampant, feral lurking behind each overturned rubbish bin called a home by the homeless, it only takes a few generations for domesticated porcine to become feral razorback killers, the potential lurks under the torn and broken flesh with each step into broken glass of a relationship.
There are things out there, that touch on the lives of men, women and children, bringing out life and pouring death as a decanter of wine is emptied into each and every glass at a banquet, leaving none spared the embrace of the bitter absinthe like slide down the throat of the nightshade that comes with the passing of time, or the swiftness of stolen eternity cut short in a spray of crimson flecked foam from a gurgling pair of lips. This is when it all turns sour, heads south and drops out of sight six feet under the ground with only weeping as a memorial.
This is what happens when hearts have grown colder, as the Ice Age of the soul steals away the warmth of human interaction, borne away on the wings of gold and lust for power.
Throwing it down.
Rocked Lives torn into tiny scraps of putrid flesh decayed lying in the gutter.
Standing outside the dingy tenement square, where the time has stopped for all practical purposes, but still it crawls as a carcass twitches in the final throes of rigor mortis, death gases nearly complete in emission.
The bloated corpse, once a female from the vestigial traces of an outline, is left to rot away into nothing. The old man, growing older in the passing of time, letting the flecks of life drip off his fingertips making way for more pain and despair, every breath a small concession to living again, moves from the shadows into the light of the doorway, eager to enter and see what the others have concocted this time. There in the endless battle against entropy, the dark destroyer of all that was lovely and beautiful. At one time he felt that religion was the true evil, then it was money, later on it was the fickle nature of man, when all along it was the endless decay into mindless entropy, the winding down of choice into destruction, that is the true root of all that is inimical to love and happiness.
Now he just knows it is all lies, the words spoken by the big governments, by the giant multinationals, the lies told by those in power, as well as those desiring power and dominion over others. They are all lies, meant to mislead and confuse the real issues, of life, love, giving, and being creative. Those are the true boons of mankind on the skein of existence. Instead though, the words of hate, of greed, of existence for the sake of consumerism flow in torrents to rival the largest of waterfalls made with imagination and delight.
The leftover man, the remnant carried out of the depths of the past, across the wide worlds and left forgotten in the dark wire twisted realms of nether fey that drift along, tormenting all they come across. The Remnant limped along the darkly lit ways down the streets, making his way to meet up with the others of his little cliché. Too few to be of notice, too many to gather safely, meeting up with the Doctor (really only in name along and not in function, assumed name at that), the Liar and their Twin Loves (not lovers) to discuss their findings of the recent past. The Remnant wanders along, with cup in hand, goggles for the dust and miasma that floats in particulate state, and with a hat on to disguise and dissuade comments, he walks along and dreams of the days before he knew of other things. He makes a lonely path on the urban sidewalks looking for answers in the world all about and around him.
Footsteps echoing in the distance of time, down the rusted stairwell into the bowels, rumbling coming from deep below, steam pipes breaking open to spill open second and degree forms of almost or actual death, while pumps eat themselves alive in the frenzy of unmentioned states of existence.
[Pic of the b/w guy with the big goggles on]
Down into the depths he descends, seeker’s journey in the waking state. The others should be there as well, in the meeting place, where they can discuss what can be done to thwart what seems to be occurring all about the world, in the skies, under the waves, buried in the rocks dredged up from the bones of the planetary body.
The Doctor’s pale flesh, by design rather than genetics, gleams in the soft bulbs illuminating the small room where the five are all meeting at. The cold steel table is bolted to the floor, relic of a time when someone with a scalpel made this their work space. Now it is somewhere far from prying eyes, electronic devices, and full of cold iron to ward the unwanted from spying on the conversation.
The Liar and his ruddy complexion making a fine mockery of health and good fitness habits, was next to enter the space. He in his usual frock of black, pretending to know things he does not profess to adhere to. His boots always go click, click, click as he steps on metal plates or doorstops.
The twins enter, the loves of the flesh of these conspirators. Really little more than mindless blood and sinew automatons, they are a pleasant distraction as well as eye candy to distract from the two men on their dealings.
The ensemble is all there, another round of expository about to ensue, another bout of philosophical masturbatory fantasies of making a difference when the hand basket has already be doused with accelerant and the roadside flare is burning almost into the Kelvin.
“So where does the road lie this day.” The Doctor in typical obtuse fashion just spouts, never saying anything, never doing anything, never meaning anything.
“Ohh look a dead spider, dears come and look at it!” One of the twin loves, with the aplomb and intelligence that selective breeding for looks not brains will produce, ohh the wonder of the anorexic age.
“Not now my sweets, our dear meditator, I mean mediator, has something he wished to discuss with us all.” The Liar smoothing the way, as usual, decorated in the usual frock of lies and disguise.
“This is over, I am done.” The lost one, lonely, short, getting round and hairy leftover from a bye gone age, one of life and the want to help others, just sighs out loud.
“If this is who wants to change the world, then what is the point to change?”
“Go ahead, go back to the malls, the stores, the lies, the latest fashions, I am through with this world anyways. Time to move on.”
“But dear sir,” The Doctor who is not a doctor in reality, in typical Moulin feeling, “But dear sir, we are here to lend a helping hand, or perhaps eight.”
“I say, what is going on?” Caught in the lie of paying attention, the Liar looks up from his attempted observations of almost displayed distractions while the mindless pair coo and awe over the desiccated remains of an arachnid.
“He says he is through, all done with it all, the quest, the search, the good fight.”
“Yes I am done.” The chest sighs, heaves, pain flares on the inside, anxiety and panic at constant war ever since fleeing from the first set of chains, only to find the ones forged all alone in the dark, wandering lost rain streaked roads and back alleys, were all the tighter for being self-inflicted.
“Well if that is all, why did you call us down here good sir?” Indignity at the duration to come here, indignity at the lack of couth it might appear, the faux man of cloth stands straighter, evidence of too few meals missed straining at the seams.
“Lets go sweeties, the spider bores us.” One or the other of the twin loves, who can tell them apart unless they were to be tattooed or branded, one could imagine they cannot tell a difference save if one should sleep, but that might require a brain that was leached out in the modern school system.
“Yes, forget him, let us all depart,” The Doctor or was it the Liar says that. The lonely man has his head bowed in entropic reaction to fatigue.
The other four make their way out the door, forgetting why they came there almost immediately, the stain of almost confrontation draining away under the ever increasing acidic PH balance of the fog on the ground once back to the city streets.
Far below, where the pipes have rusted away, and the remains of dead insects lie, the Remnant, the leftover one, he who escaped a captivity of servitude, stands all alone chained with links forged of his own device.
Throwing it down.
Far behind the scenes, back where The Dark Fae Queen and The Fox Queen both held their courts when they would deign to touch the earth, there a lonely old man, on his birthday in fact, a lonely old man sits in a forgotten corner of a server room. His sole task being the monitoring of traffic devoted to search engine requests and how it affects the speed of the various government owned and operated supercomputers, as they being non-private sector tend to be overloaded and called upon for tasks unrelated to their true purposes.
He and his stuffed animal hand puppet, Wiggly the Penguin, sit and spend their lives there, watching the HDDs spin up and spin down, there in the server room locked away from sight and sound of the outside world.
[Pic of the Blue penguin and the blade server rack]
Nothing ever happens to them, and someday this other lonely old man will die of old age sitting there watching nothing happen to him at all.
While his counterpart stands all alone in the darkness, paralyzed with his own self.
This is a tale told with all my dark art craft.
It is a tale of The World, and how it impacts the rest of creation, with pain, fear, loathing, disgust and lies.
It is not over yet.
