SkyGinge
Sad Shroom
Alright, so the university I'm hoping to go to runs this annual writing competition, with catagories of criticism, poetry and short prose. At the open day, they kinda hinted that if you wanted to do Creative Writing there, you really ought to enter. So I did, partially for that, partially to finally attempt something outside of RP. The word count was 1500.
Anyhow, they finally announced the longlists today, and I didn't make it, so I figured it was alright to finally post it here. It's fairly gutting as you'd expect, but I've learnt some valuable lessons in the process, and at least know I have to try a little harder from now on. The lovely @Dusky already gave this a seeing to in the week leading up to the submission date, and I am aware of at least two fairly damning flaws that I imagine probably proved to be its undoing in the end, but any of you other critique-y folk are more than welcome to give me your opinions. Reading through again now, I'm aware of a third. In any case, I'm interested to see what people think, so comment once you've read it, whether it be as simple as 'I like it!' or a detailed review of all my failings and how to improve them. I strongly welcome constructive criticism (though I do reserve the right to argue my case back
)!
So yeah. Thanks for checking this out, and I hope you enjoy the read. It was intended as a kind of opening thing (which is why I imagine it probably lost out to more self-suffient short pieces), and I still have all the ideas written down somewhere if people wish for me to continue it at some point.
~#~
Last week, Allen Rabbitt was arrested for rewriting history.
We watched him go, Dr Coen, Caleb, and I. We watched as the Enforco-Drones marched through the corridors of computers, the trump of their metallic boots like the excitable roar of the old Hovercraft Racers. His expression fluctuated from awe, to worry, to sheer panic, like someone had shoved his emotions in a blender, or like one of those old slide-shows from the pre-dark age. But the Law is unflinching, and the Law is not mocked. They hauled him away, their emotionless faces long and cold and precise, like the sculptures of marvellous men. We were transfixed as always by the beauty of those inorganic bodies, marvelling at their ruthless efficiency. The human mind is weak and malleable, but robotic processes surpass our every weakness.
“Shame, that,” Dr Coen had mused, “Rabbitt was a most excellent Archivist.”
“An excellent Archivist all right, and a right bleedin' idiot,” scowled Hilton, already excusing himself.
“Wonder if we'll ever see Bunny-boy again?” said Caleb. But we all knew the answer. Tampering with the Archives is a capital offence, never mind tinkering with the knowledge of Time itself.
Should I sympathise with him? Not really. Unlike 'Bunny-boy', I am a Model Archivist. I've only once disobeyed the Principles; I was docked a week's worth of Time for speeding on the Hoverway. And in the grand scheme of forty years, what's a week?
Seven mere specks of the sands of Time, that's what. At twenty years old, I've still got a good beach of it left in me. Allen Rabbitt doesn't, not any more. He swept his away in the blood-tide of his sins the moment he made that damn alteration. He brought it upon himself. The Principles must be obeyed; justice must be served.
But Allen Rabbitt is dead. So why can't I stop thinking about it?
~#~
The sun's brassed glare pierces the sky's cloudy musk. The oceans of ethereal greyish smog are almost omnipresent here, as familiar a landmark as Temporal Tower, the Econoplants, or the Archives. Today though the sky is hungry; thunderclaps rumble from its bowels, and the horizon is illuminated by vicious bright light.
Damn it. I was daydreaming again, wasn't I? I swiftly survey my surroundings. Thank Functionality. Not a Drone in sight. Of course, daydreaming is perfectly legal, but it's widely known to be a symptom of budding Deviance. And we all know what that means; cases like Allen Rabbitt.
The thunder's warning klaxon is heeded as sizzling rain sprinkles from the sky. Cursing under my breath, I scramble to shelter. A faint siren sounds in the distance, and the frosted breeze carries a serenade of grumbles and curses. Soon our shelter is teaming with anxious Citizens, ruing their lost Functionality. Acid-storms are commonplace these days. Apparently, years ago, rain used to bring life. Now it only destroys.
I shift in my boots and try to find somewhere to rest my eyes. It's not long before they fall upon Temporal Tower, the centrepiece of Home City. The jewel of our gleaming metropolis, its neon purple clock-face stands out amongst the valley of greys and blues, darker-greys and darker-blues. I read the insignia it bears for what must be the thousandth time:
'There is a time for everything. Time wastes away, so don't waste your Time.'
“Winston Churchill,” I mumble, and a woman glares at me like I'm stupid or mad, or both. Maybe I am. That's the problem with madness; to the introspective, its curse is invisible.
Another quote, ripped straight from Einstein's defining discovery, directly beneath it:
'The results of my findings conclude that there is indeed a Time Aura, the source and sustainer of life itself.'
This one's always seemed less prominent to me; Einstein wasn't a lecturer like Churchill. Besides, every Citizen knows about Time. Our society's practically drowning in it. Every child is told the nightmarish tales of the days before Functionality, where untamed Time flowed fierce and free. Nobody was safe from its callous clutches, not even Einstein himself; he Outflowed at the tender age of 26.
Then, underneath, a thousand, a million, countless cogs, turning and churning, clicking and turning. Their constant clinks and whirs form the city's mechanical heartbeat. There's a cog for every Citizen, and even if a single cog breaks, the entire mechanism stops, leaving only deafening silence.
There was silence for Allen Rabbitt that day.
Normally, Temporal Tower soothes me. I am but a simple cog, yet if I fail, the entirety of Functionality folds down on itself. Or at least that's what Government say, but now I'm in doubt.
It's like I'm caught in a loop where everything reminds me of Allen Rabbitt. His round, jovial form, his stubbly beard, never quite cleanly cut. Before he was incinerated, they'd have extracted his Time. Now it'll be floating around in the Timepack of someone who can afford it, like all Time docked from Deviants. It's extremely difficult to expand one's lifespan past the standard forty years. For the rich, the prices are monstrous, but for the poor, the riches are worth any monstrous price.
I feel like screaming.
Nobody cares that he's dead. Nobody cares that Allen Rabbitt is dead. A good man, a precious cog, has plunged out of this world and nobody gives a damn. The people in the shelter with me suddenly don't seem like people. They look, but they don't see. They only think.
The people seem more like robots.
~#~
The acid-storm soon passes, but the clouds dissipation hardly aides my foul mood. Still, I can't help but smile as I admire our architecture once more; miles upon miles of magnificent metals. For my generation, a world without technology is an idea ripped straight from the pages of a kid's book.
“Salutations, brother!” chimes a painfully familiar voice.
“Martin,” I make my smile as artificial as possible, “how fortunate to see you.” My older brother is twenty-five going on seven. If I wasn't satisfied with my Functionality, I know I'd envy his handsome, bulking form; the reason why he was selected an Enforcer and I a weedy Archivist. Even now I feel like the ugly duckling around him, and I flounder to adjust my messy crop of sandy hair. Martin's grin has the geniality of a plastic doll's, and the warmth of liquid nitrogen; his handshakes feel like trapping your hand in a grate.
I suppose I'd better make conversation. “So... erm... what brings you so close to the Archives?”
“Well, it's rather exciting actually. There's been a recent outbreak of Time-Crime, beyond the realms of Droid-ly apprehension...”
AIGH!
If Fate exists, he has a great sense of timing, for at that moment, a shrill screams pierces the air. My brother leaps into action, like superman only twenty times clumsier. I really ought to be off; this is none of my business. But curiosity's a vice of mine I have no intention of correcting.
I struggle to keep my brother's pace as we dash through the city. We skirt claustrophobic corners like characters in an action movie, barge by po-faced Civilians, we flash past giant buildings, steel skyscrapers, half-window-half-iron behemoths, until eventually we reach the scene of the crime, where a young woman lies abandoned in a crumpled heap.
My brother eyes me suspiciously.
“Say... shouldn't you be at the Archives, Joel?”
“Oh, come off it,” I shrug. Yeah, I should be at work, but surely my own brother wouldn't arrest me?
That look, that traitorous look, suggests otherwise.
Martin crouches next to the woman's fallen form. “Time-Crime,” he mutters under his breath, but I'd already recognised the signs. Her outstretched right arm, its snake-like Timepack fully exposed. The reading on its dial: Alison Frei, 25 Days Remaining. Yet she can't be a day over eighteen. There should be signs inside the pack's capsule too; blue strands of Time smeared against the rim.
Her Time has been stolen by a Time Thief.
Martin rises. He sighs and tuts, pretending to be a man far wiser than he. “Poor lass.”
“How many?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“Cases, you oaf,” I chide, “You said there'd been an outbreak of Time-Crime-”
“-thirty-five,” Martin's face has bloomed blood red, and I realise I've probably done my usual thing and overstepped my mark. “And you really, really ought to be going.” He pulls this very serious face, so I suppose I'd better honour him and do as he says. I leave him in the clearing, his huge hands making a right blunder of his TeleComms.
As I disappear into maze of skyscrapers, my mind is caught once again in Allen's rabbit hole. Wherein the seeds of doubt are sown, and watered by his blood. Is one tempting little mistake, one deviation from our supposed perfection, excuse enough for murder?
Who are the real Time Thieves? The criminals with no alternative, or the government who drive them to lawlessness?
Anyhow, they finally announced the longlists today, and I didn't make it, so I figured it was alright to finally post it here. It's fairly gutting as you'd expect, but I've learnt some valuable lessons in the process, and at least know I have to try a little harder from now on. The lovely @Dusky already gave this a seeing to in the week leading up to the submission date, and I am aware of at least two fairly damning flaws that I imagine probably proved to be its undoing in the end, but any of you other critique-y folk are more than welcome to give me your opinions. Reading through again now, I'm aware of a third. In any case, I'm interested to see what people think, so comment once you've read it, whether it be as simple as 'I like it!' or a detailed review of all my failings and how to improve them. I strongly welcome constructive criticism (though I do reserve the right to argue my case back
)!So yeah. Thanks for checking this out, and I hope you enjoy the read. It was intended as a kind of opening thing (which is why I imagine it probably lost out to more self-suffient short pieces), and I still have all the ideas written down somewhere if people wish for me to continue it at some point.
~#~
Last week, Allen Rabbitt was arrested for rewriting history.
We watched him go, Dr Coen, Caleb, and I. We watched as the Enforco-Drones marched through the corridors of computers, the trump of their metallic boots like the excitable roar of the old Hovercraft Racers. His expression fluctuated from awe, to worry, to sheer panic, like someone had shoved his emotions in a blender, or like one of those old slide-shows from the pre-dark age. But the Law is unflinching, and the Law is not mocked. They hauled him away, their emotionless faces long and cold and precise, like the sculptures of marvellous men. We were transfixed as always by the beauty of those inorganic bodies, marvelling at their ruthless efficiency. The human mind is weak and malleable, but robotic processes surpass our every weakness.
“Shame, that,” Dr Coen had mused, “Rabbitt was a most excellent Archivist.”
“An excellent Archivist all right, and a right bleedin' idiot,” scowled Hilton, already excusing himself.
“Wonder if we'll ever see Bunny-boy again?” said Caleb. But we all knew the answer. Tampering with the Archives is a capital offence, never mind tinkering with the knowledge of Time itself.
Should I sympathise with him? Not really. Unlike 'Bunny-boy', I am a Model Archivist. I've only once disobeyed the Principles; I was docked a week's worth of Time for speeding on the Hoverway. And in the grand scheme of forty years, what's a week?
Seven mere specks of the sands of Time, that's what. At twenty years old, I've still got a good beach of it left in me. Allen Rabbitt doesn't, not any more. He swept his away in the blood-tide of his sins the moment he made that damn alteration. He brought it upon himself. The Principles must be obeyed; justice must be served.
But Allen Rabbitt is dead. So why can't I stop thinking about it?
~#~
The sun's brassed glare pierces the sky's cloudy musk. The oceans of ethereal greyish smog are almost omnipresent here, as familiar a landmark as Temporal Tower, the Econoplants, or the Archives. Today though the sky is hungry; thunderclaps rumble from its bowels, and the horizon is illuminated by vicious bright light.
Damn it. I was daydreaming again, wasn't I? I swiftly survey my surroundings. Thank Functionality. Not a Drone in sight. Of course, daydreaming is perfectly legal, but it's widely known to be a symptom of budding Deviance. And we all know what that means; cases like Allen Rabbitt.
The thunder's warning klaxon is heeded as sizzling rain sprinkles from the sky. Cursing under my breath, I scramble to shelter. A faint siren sounds in the distance, and the frosted breeze carries a serenade of grumbles and curses. Soon our shelter is teaming with anxious Citizens, ruing their lost Functionality. Acid-storms are commonplace these days. Apparently, years ago, rain used to bring life. Now it only destroys.
I shift in my boots and try to find somewhere to rest my eyes. It's not long before they fall upon Temporal Tower, the centrepiece of Home City. The jewel of our gleaming metropolis, its neon purple clock-face stands out amongst the valley of greys and blues, darker-greys and darker-blues. I read the insignia it bears for what must be the thousandth time:
'There is a time for everything. Time wastes away, so don't waste your Time.'
“Winston Churchill,” I mumble, and a woman glares at me like I'm stupid or mad, or both. Maybe I am. That's the problem with madness; to the introspective, its curse is invisible.
Another quote, ripped straight from Einstein's defining discovery, directly beneath it:
'The results of my findings conclude that there is indeed a Time Aura, the source and sustainer of life itself.'
This one's always seemed less prominent to me; Einstein wasn't a lecturer like Churchill. Besides, every Citizen knows about Time. Our society's practically drowning in it. Every child is told the nightmarish tales of the days before Functionality, where untamed Time flowed fierce and free. Nobody was safe from its callous clutches, not even Einstein himself; he Outflowed at the tender age of 26.
Then, underneath, a thousand, a million, countless cogs, turning and churning, clicking and turning. Their constant clinks and whirs form the city's mechanical heartbeat. There's a cog for every Citizen, and even if a single cog breaks, the entire mechanism stops, leaving only deafening silence.
There was silence for Allen Rabbitt that day.
Normally, Temporal Tower soothes me. I am but a simple cog, yet if I fail, the entirety of Functionality folds down on itself. Or at least that's what Government say, but now I'm in doubt.
It's like I'm caught in a loop where everything reminds me of Allen Rabbitt. His round, jovial form, his stubbly beard, never quite cleanly cut. Before he was incinerated, they'd have extracted his Time. Now it'll be floating around in the Timepack of someone who can afford it, like all Time docked from Deviants. It's extremely difficult to expand one's lifespan past the standard forty years. For the rich, the prices are monstrous, but for the poor, the riches are worth any monstrous price.
I feel like screaming.
Nobody cares that he's dead. Nobody cares that Allen Rabbitt is dead. A good man, a precious cog, has plunged out of this world and nobody gives a damn. The people in the shelter with me suddenly don't seem like people. They look, but they don't see. They only think.
The people seem more like robots.
~#~
The acid-storm soon passes, but the clouds dissipation hardly aides my foul mood. Still, I can't help but smile as I admire our architecture once more; miles upon miles of magnificent metals. For my generation, a world without technology is an idea ripped straight from the pages of a kid's book.
“Salutations, brother!” chimes a painfully familiar voice.
“Martin,” I make my smile as artificial as possible, “how fortunate to see you.” My older brother is twenty-five going on seven. If I wasn't satisfied with my Functionality, I know I'd envy his handsome, bulking form; the reason why he was selected an Enforcer and I a weedy Archivist. Even now I feel like the ugly duckling around him, and I flounder to adjust my messy crop of sandy hair. Martin's grin has the geniality of a plastic doll's, and the warmth of liquid nitrogen; his handshakes feel like trapping your hand in a grate.
I suppose I'd better make conversation. “So... erm... what brings you so close to the Archives?”
“Well, it's rather exciting actually. There's been a recent outbreak of Time-Crime, beyond the realms of Droid-ly apprehension...”
AIGH!
If Fate exists, he has a great sense of timing, for at that moment, a shrill screams pierces the air. My brother leaps into action, like superman only twenty times clumsier. I really ought to be off; this is none of my business. But curiosity's a vice of mine I have no intention of correcting.
I struggle to keep my brother's pace as we dash through the city. We skirt claustrophobic corners like characters in an action movie, barge by po-faced Civilians, we flash past giant buildings, steel skyscrapers, half-window-half-iron behemoths, until eventually we reach the scene of the crime, where a young woman lies abandoned in a crumpled heap.
My brother eyes me suspiciously.
“Say... shouldn't you be at the Archives, Joel?”
“Oh, come off it,” I shrug. Yeah, I should be at work, but surely my own brother wouldn't arrest me?
That look, that traitorous look, suggests otherwise.
Martin crouches next to the woman's fallen form. “Time-Crime,” he mutters under his breath, but I'd already recognised the signs. Her outstretched right arm, its snake-like Timepack fully exposed. The reading on its dial: Alison Frei, 25 Days Remaining. Yet she can't be a day over eighteen. There should be signs inside the pack's capsule too; blue strands of Time smeared against the rim.
Her Time has been stolen by a Time Thief.
Martin rises. He sighs and tuts, pretending to be a man far wiser than he. “Poor lass.”
“How many?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“Cases, you oaf,” I chide, “You said there'd been an outbreak of Time-Crime-”
“-thirty-five,” Martin's face has bloomed blood red, and I realise I've probably done my usual thing and overstepped my mark. “And you really, really ought to be going.” He pulls this very serious face, so I suppose I'd better honour him and do as he says. I leave him in the clearing, his huge hands making a right blunder of his TeleComms.
As I disappear into maze of skyscrapers, my mind is caught once again in Allen's rabbit hole. Wherein the seeds of doubt are sown, and watered by his blood. Is one tempting little mistake, one deviation from our supposed perfection, excuse enough for murder?
Who are the real Time Thieves? The criminals with no alternative, or the government who drive them to lawlessness?
