the strangest of places

NOTICE: Caleb's Story

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 16:40:23 GMT

I'm going to try to create a cohesive short story with Daniel and Caleb. (Crazy, I know. I'm kind of famous for Not Finishing Things.)

So I'm posting any remaining pieces under a small filter consisting of the people who have been commenting/reading and helping me with direction and criticism. If you feel like you should be on that filter and I've missed you, please drop me a comment and let me know.

The City: White Walls

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 23:49:12 GMT

The inhabitants of the Haven shared a common misconception that everything beyond the impenetrable walls of the City was whitewashed. They spoke of white walls. White furniture. Chrome. Steel. Bright white lights. Faced with the dingy ruin of their lives, it was difficult to imagine anything other than a pristine, clinical atmosphere.

In actuality, much of the interior of the City was covered in murals and mosaics depicting everything from extinct rainforests to the depths of ocean trenches. Caleb, sub-citizen #45201, found the decor to be tacky at best. He actually preferred the sterile environment of the System’s Department of Cerebral Possibility to the various forms of synthetic diversity crafted to make the planet’s largest biosphere seem appealing and organic.

According to Caleb’s research in the City’s digital photography library, all of the efforts to re-create the splendor of the past resulted in nothing but a cheap, pale illusion.

“They just jump right off the wall,” Caleb said, eyeing a flock of flamingos painted along the hallway leading to the dining compound.

“Don’t you get sick of trying to come up with a new comment ever time we come to dinner?” his Keeper asked.

Caleb knew that Daniel didn’t really mind, so he just shrugged and reached out to touch the tip of a cold, flat wing.

***

As part of the first successful run of the DCP’s Controlled Intelligence Project, Caleb was a bit of a celebrity among the sub-citizens. No one had lived through the installation of an impulse controller until him. Caleb had been fourteen at the time of implantation surgery. Over the five years since, seventeen more candidates had received the modification successfully.

Along with his peers, Caleb had a Keeper, which was a little like having babysitter 24 hours a day. Caleb appreciated the companionship. Since sub-citizens weren’t allowed to marry, had limited congregation rights, and were frequently relocated, it was a little difficult to make friends.

Daniel Givens had served in the City’s exterior militia for four years before joining the DCP’s ranks as a junior officer. His secondary studies in advanced technology and spotless record won him the chance to serve as Caleb’s Keeper. He was intelligent and outgoing and had a bad habit of letting Caleb have his way.

In the cramped privacy of their shared quarters, Caleb listened to the sound of Daniel’s breathing as the other man slept.

***

Everyone knew that Caleb could read minds. He was something right out of fiction—a figment of bedtime stories and religious cults. His very presence went against the rigors of science. And even though his abilities were kept in constant check by technology, it freaked people out.

Caleb thought that was kind of cool.

Even the City’s nobles approached him with caution, well aware of his concealed weapon and often critical of what was considered a fallible method of control.

“After all,” one of the Senior Congressmen boomed at yet another boring hearing regarding funding for the Controlled Intelligence Project. “Our safety—public safety—is quite literally rides on the push of a button.”

“A complicated code is hardly a button,” Daniel said under his breath.

They sat in a remote viewing room, listening to the tinny broadcast. “It’s not like I can run around melting brains by the thousands,” Caleb sniffed, feigning insult. “He just knows I know that I know that he has an extra special relationship with his son’s tutor. Oh! And that whole bribe thing? Over the Lodging Requisition Act? That too.”

Daniel knew very well that the City’s politicians had more to lose at the hands of the Controlled Intelligence Project than anyone else. He turned off the broadcast.

***

Noah: Dusty Routine

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 01:16:26 GMT

Noah doesn't like the heat when the dead sticky-dry of summer sets in. But he doesn't like the drafty winter either. He knows he's ridiculous and wonders sometimes if he just prefers being mildly disgruntled about the majority of his surroundings at any given time. At any rate, it's a hobby, as much as anything else in his life is.

A series of hobbies. Dusty routine.

Cobalt and amber bottles lined up on plywood shelves. Antique glass cases full of tiny jars of herbs. Well-rehearsed statements of general dissatisfaction. Semi-bored glances with a shade of murderous threat. Morning tea. Polite haggling and quick transactions. Infrequent conversations. Evening noodles.

It pleases him that regulars sidestep the stains on the bits of genuine floorboard exposed where the industrial tiles have peeled away. Whether his visitors think the rusty-dark stains are suspiciously ambiguous or clearly organic, Noah enjoys keeping his customers on their toes. (Dr. Allen, always half-drunk when he comes in to stock his medical case, steps on them solidly, like a child skipping from stone to stone.)

But even he doesn't ask what they're from.

Noah: Store in a Cool, Dark Place

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 01:14:58 GMT

Noah considered the stained label of an unspecific blend claiming to be hair tonic. To have been hair tonic, he corrected himself, as the only remaining evidence of the bottle's contents emitted the stale, shaded odor of long-since dried-up oil. He kept his shop cool, and dry. Heavy dark blue curtains blocked out smog-filtered sunlight and muffled the sounds of the busy street outside.

But like the expired hair tonic, Noah was anything but well-preserved. At twenty-six, his pale brown hair was peppered with varying shades of gray--as if a layer of dust had settled on him along with the seemingly endless shelves of tins and jars and delicate opaque glass bottles. The tattoos on his arms resembled messy handwriting, faded and dispersed years ago by long rooftop summers in the toxic sunlight.

"Seventy-dollars," he offered the dark adolescent shifting impatiently with a plastic box of dusty bottles in his skinny grasp. Waving away the rest of the offerings, Noah opened his cash register and quickly counted out the payment. He didn't have to wait for a response--the price was fair, and he had a widely-noted impatience for haggling.

As the boy scampered away to the sound of copper bells thudding dully against the heavy composite door, Noah settled behind the counter and began the tedious process of cleaning out the tiny cobalt blue bottle.

NOTICE

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 01:01:57 GMT

Please note: This will no longer be a fandom journal. I'm posting snippets of short original fiction. It probably won't be very porny.

I'd love it if you stuck around but I'll understand if you don't!