Short Story:

 
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Old_Gobbo
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Joined: 19 Jan 2007
Posts: 565

PostPosted: Sat Feb 02, 2008 10:20 pm    Post subject: Short Story: Reply with quote

I enjoy writing fiction, here is a little thingy I wrote:


He warned us not to, but we gave him our faith as a sign of good will for the road ahead. We did not know what else to do with his words, really, and he knew that.

As the winds of control build outside, every prophet left standing does so inside of his house. These men are cozened by fires assembled of what they can manage. There are no crowds left at this juncture in human history, only the conceiving collective, of which I will soon be the many.

Looking backwards is what this is all about. I was born in a bubble of potential which floated up from the 80’s into present day, and like all writers who would transcribe an account of his life--even one of admitted failure--I feel myself to be somewhat special. Ours was a special time, for a while at least. After the etheric love fragrance of the 70’s had been washed off, the 80’s plunged down into the material and never looked back. A luxury was enabled: watching ‘The X-Files’ and witnessing the awe and unnerving within the confines and safety of a television set. The arrowhead of history continued forwards, but the sheen of magic had been tarnished -- the shadows of the Carnivale replaced with bright halogen light, and five different versions of Law and Order.

“Magic...a miracle...is just a higher order of physics” Joshua had explained to me casually one day, dipping a fry into ketchup. “But how many can share a miracle? How many are allowed these days?”

My time with Joshua existed within this bubble. We worked together in broadcasting, and after 9/11 a dam broke. The valleys of the corporate media were flooded with itineraries promoting the secular crime state, and the eastern glow was extinguished. It evident, looking back, that it was the start of a rather transparent agenda, which we were complicit in enabling. Josh’s face delivered the public their thoughts for the day, and he did it for quite a while. We all knew he was the left hand of management, and so our story must begin with the anomaly itself.

“First this....this recession. I mean in this day and age, how does that happen?” Nancy Stevens had asked the news anchor pleadingly.

Joshua continued to stare, unresponsive. The silence on air was emphasized by the fact that the woman was the first live interview with someone infected by the TES virus. Throughout the hysteria caused by the onset of the mysterious pathogen, to the days leading up the interview, the host seemed to show no real fear or concern.

“...and now this” she finished, looking down at the faint purple spots covering her arms, and internally edging dangerously close to tears.

The crew, with their medical masks covering their faces, watched the progression of history as the behemoth conversed through the two souls on camera.

“Nancy, in your opinion what is the consensus of the public right now?” Joshua asked after a long pause. “Where do we go from here?” The host clicked his pen, shaking his head ever so slightly before he added. “...do we need to respond to this attack?”

Nancy let out a small, defeated laugh. “Respond” she uttered the word with contempt. “Why ask?” she responded rather quickly. “The only thing the public knows is that it doesn’t have a choice.”

As a cameraman, a statement like that causes me to turn to the director, who I could see was on the verge of cutting the feed. Without responding Josh began to rise to his feet and I found myself unable to move. I could not turn my head to look back at the director, and I would later find out he, nor anyone else in the room could do anything about what would transpire next. Frozen in the behemoth’s desire we watched.

The meek, diseased woman stared in wonder as the news anchor walked around his desk to arrive before the seated woman. “Abusus non tollit usum” he uttered, placing a hand upon her forehead.

Thinking back, all I remember was the emotion: joy like I had never felt overrode all previous thought forms and I released myself into the blissful friction of the catalyst. Reviewing the video cameras, there was a large white flash which emanated from Joshua’s middle-aged hand. When it cleared we were all laying on the floor in still-motion until the military could be seen, guns drawn. It was at this point our video copies of the event ended. Nancy Stevens was never heard of again.

So the realm of magic had breached the box from the outside in, and for a time at least, there was a story of experience and passion. Coalesced through the annals of fringe left on the internet, the wizards would battle the priests with spells of thought and ghost; inspiration and persuasion; hope and fear. Those present in the studio that day were signed to confidentiality agreements, and it took less than a week to dismiss the event as a ‘hacked video’ uploaded by hoaxers. Our point of departure for this tale comes when Joshua returned to work as if nothing had happened. Surely something had, and yet none present in the room that day seemed apt to relive or talk of the experience. The anchor would meet with the elusive management as usual, but this gatekeeper had signaled something, and reached a demographic that would be the last of it’s kind.
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