RD AUTO Message: -2090, Sun 17, Octobre 2081 – Centerville, VA. Off-Line |
The vintage bicycle was a shiny blue.
And silver. Leaves fell. Many bright colored leaves covered that mat quality of the early morning tar meeting the sun.
The kick stand came flying up into its place. The spokes of the wheels were not rusted as she’d thought the night before, just some dirt. She shined its surface every other day.
Rachael was sitting on the shiny red seat, and a puff of air trapped inside, came out like she was farting. She hated that sense, the sense that things weren’t serious. But she had to forget it, there was work to be done, a journey ahead of her. She’d been at the hospital the night before. That one last night. With him.
The woods would lead to the clearing and from there, she would take the path to the riverbed near the Airport. Orbs of white and yellow light were seeping from the crest of the horizon where the river water mixed with the sun and the harbor ocean.
The bike was going fast! She heard the music in her Ears blaring and she couldn’t help but think that the land, this expanse of light and endless sidewalk, the endless blue tin railing…they were the music.
Roaring could be heard and she was then feeling the air envelop her entire body, lifted from the bicycle, her heart pounding with excitement. Her purple cloche hat nearly came right off, she was so fast. Her white dress, cinched at the waist, was filling up with air and flapping all over the place. She sat on it and that seemed to solve the problem.
Today is different. I think I’ll avoid the woods.
This roar was of a DerGoG Jet, rising like a flying whale from the depths of the river, the last of the Airbourne flights in the developed world.
Her bike profiled, scrolling with the Jet, enormous NeauMetal and bellowing steel. A bulbous fuselage, but elegant; 2more like its predecessor, the old Airbuses before they’d been put out of commission, long ago.
She looked at her tiny silver watch: 5:30HRS.
But it’s not time!
Rachael sped up, faster and faster, pounding her little feet to the peddles.
She hadn’t actually seen the planes. But she remembered. She could always remember.
The Great Hall extended two kilometers in either direction.
The multitude of paper Thyn, textureless, organic and intelligent data systems comprised the surface of its perfectly self-illuminated white walls, cascading fourteen meters tall, from ceiling to floor, covering every inch of the length of the Hall. There were featureless steel looking vaults at either end. Only spoken User-Authorized command could let anyone in, and only those pre-Authorized on the fly, every time anyone entered. Even the echoes of voices were dwarfed by the immensity of the space it enclosed. And it was wet, but only on either side, so the floor and ceiling were perfectly dry. Thin, and sometimes, micro Thyn waterfalls of all kinds of speed and slowness fell either toward or away from gravity, only to disappear, then seemingly reappear from the ceiling. Or was it the floor? One couldn’t tell the difference unless the streams were ‘mapped out.’
“We’re all glad you’re back Helen,” said her boss, Dr. Damiand, his voice, echoing next to the quietly streaming water putting a dancing light on Helen’s smooth round face. Her eyes were even more crystalline in the blue and yellows reflected off the sparkling falls. The side of her face that stood next to the water, caught the glint of a sharp melting pocket of light when it mixed in with her hair.
“Yes, good to be back!”
She’d taken off a few days from work to help David with the yard software.
“Yeah, good to have you back!” he repeated as if nothing had been said the moment previous. “We were getting a tad worried you’d get too used to the retired life, after three days, that is…”
Helen moved the petrie dish that seemed to have nothing on it, from one tiny rectangular white plate to another, then began to feed it into the blank wall. The flowing water opened smoothly, like a curtain, its edges quickly conforming to the shape of her hand. Her delicate finger tips pressed to the surface of the unrelenting Wall, perfectly dry, as it took in the petrie dish. A featureless levitating metal slate stood beside her at arm’s level that held a whole set of different lengths of Thyn glass cylinders, a dull surface to each one. They looked almost too Thyn to support their own length.
She and the head Dr. or U-Dr., were in the Una-Hall, right there in the center of the ‘Higher Dynamics’ department at UNATRAD Headquarters, deep within the compound she had so acclimated to over the years.
The walls had no markings on them of any kind other than the fact that it was white and the surface looked like seamless, polished marble. It was actually a series of machines with interacting nodes that lit up if anyone touched any of them. The vault door they were closest to, looked to be the size of a car wheel, the other, the diameter of a dime.
“Turn on the Emo-Reader,” said the Dr.
“Yes, of course,” said Helen. “Yes, Final Sunset please, it will soothe her…”
Helen clicked her fingers over a few green squares that emerged from the wall as buttons and then receded back into the wall as if never having changed its shape. This activated a set of instructions read in yellow light with light grey outlines, emerging as real as ink on paper, in the consistency and most of the physics of both. This was her work, she and this wall. “Me and my wall,” she’d joke about at home. She could say certain things, as long as they were without context or claim. It was here on the surface of the wall that Helen spent most of her hours and days. She lived through this, because she couldn’t think outside of ‘the many.’ Not in a serious way. She was and would always be of the few, and for the many.
The instructions that had appeared, were as follows:
U CAN = Run. Syntha TURBINES Cron Manager Commencing via POWERLITE INC. = NMR to CVR 25655 (Africa) S C E N A R I O
THEN. U = Enis.
UNDER. U = Run 62% Enis; Then. All Sub Drives.
WITH. Ab U = Collate. Divise. Collaborate Run Program.
IF. U = F-Dev. Avail. Capacity. Trans.
THEN. UJ = Run Gateway
IF NA THEN U = Gateway Active
IF LESS – THEN U = Run Forum: January.
U = U
“Okay, here we go then..,” said Helen, stretching dormant vocal chords with a choppy start.
IF U = U. THEN –
Please wait a moment…
She could remain still like this while the computer processed, sometimes for whole half hour stints.
.U = January-Transitional Commencing.
U = Forum Inactive.
U = Run + X O X A X B X X L X I S T X X X XXXX||||
She tapped something in midair and then this appeared…
U = Run + S O X A X B X X L X I S T X X X XXXX JuXXX
U = Cron-Morning-Snow.
U = Forum Active.
U = Gateway Active.
U = DoubleFace. Active.
U = Morning Active.
U = Phonograph Commencing Periodic Sound Vibration ‘Music.’
USC = “To whose star do you face Helen XXXXXXXX?”
“Morning Snow,” said Helen back to the MachineWall.
UJ + USC = DoubleFace. Active.
D345fgh9987d345fgrpentagonissued=+?< – RUN PENTAGON ISSUED DOCUMENTS TO USC INDONESIA CLIENT – ON -MEGA-FLIGHT 25655 USC (Affiliate) AIR – >Ca>Home<-/-*DARA> U = RUN HOME = END STATE THEN <-/-*DARA HOME> wait the birdcage is|
a fw-class-678cf2122651d430a0e345ea7406ee74 Indonesia Client 25650 = FALSE. libido animals produce| D345fgh9987d345fgrpentagonissued=+??D345fgh9987d345fgrpentagonissued=-?D345fgh9987d345fgrpentagonissued=+?< D345fgh9987d345fgrpentagonissued=-?< D345fgh9987d345fgrpentempty|more
TRUE>libido animals . more
Active = Morning + Snow += linkedseries = linkedseries ++
MORNING ACTIVE 2…
“I Face Early Morning Snow.”
And with this more zillions of calibrations were made, and she was finally in. For that day.
“Okay, Dr., now I think we’re ready to proceed.”
“Good, good, okay…Is Gateway Active?”
“Sure is. And, the new Sonic-Architecture is underneath everything.”
“Great, okay,” he said, adjusting his spectacles, appearing also to get slightly more situated in his medical Jacket. He was a much older man than anybody she worked with, in his late 90s.
“Did you tell it what Star to Face?”
“Yes, she is facing Morning-Star, January Transitional Commencing.”
“Cron is checking for receding fractions. Oh, sorry, receding Pairs.”
“Yes doctor, the fractions are finally multiplying in pairs.” Pairs are the most efficient way that equations of this sort could multiply organically.
“Ha, my god, that’s…That—are—are you sure??” He knew she couldn’t be more sure.
“Well, aren’t you surprised at least, I mean, the Theorem worked, we have Gateway responding intelligently to multiplying exponentials here, that act biologically, no less. Don’t you get it–not only a Learning Brain, but a brain that can self-evolve its own biological matter!”
The absence of excitement was shored up by Helen’s ever present miniature smile existing only on the right or left side of her face, like the Mona Lisa. At least that was the joke around the Lab.
“Well, it’s what we’ve been working toward all along here, isn’t it?”
“Helen, you’re such a talent, and yet, you don’t give a shit or a hoot about any of it.” He’d said that smiling, but reproached himself when he suddenly asked why. To himself, of course. But it was too late, he had to pay attention, and resigned his thought on the scroll of his presently focused mind.
She knew what a revelation he must have felt, what a breakthrough this was for him. For him. For everybody else. She was simply delighted though, in the emotional reaction people made, that actually made things, produced things–could feel like. She’d always pay his passion just the proper amount of lip service though.
But all she could think about was The Game with her Hubby later on that evening. It had been like this, for as long as she worked at UNATRAD. She was just so damn good at everything requiring the quick witted understanding of harmonics and Bio-Symbol-Systems, I mean, you name it in terms of what she’d sought out to do. Certain concepts that took others forever, she could do in minutes. Made her non-expendable.
The good Dr. did find it mildly odd she shared no exchange of passion with him, ever. Maybe that’s just how women are, he thought. It never occurred to him what actually resulted in putting this conclusion to action. Then again, he didn’t do much other than spend time at the lab’s facilities in some way or other.
There were also the rumors. Oh, the rumors, she’d say to herself. But in the end, she told herself she cared and ignored the fact it didn’t change her life in any immediate way, so her interests would then stray to thinking about something random, like Jenny. This typically wouldn’t last very long before she was on to Kenson’s new album and her top Fetish shows.
She looked at him just then, almost to test herself. She knew what he’d done. The child he molested was nine, not ten as the authorities reported, and there were rumors that bounded through Space and Time itself, it seemed, that he had been molesting his daughter, Harietta, all along. There was no way to prove anything either way but the surveillance of the church the incident occurred in.
Intra-Cam Nano Surveillance wasn’t allowed in the homes of certain elect Diplomats. Dr. Damiand had no Nano Recording installed in his home, ever, due to his membership to Global Community One, GCO–CAMBIAN’s Central Global Networks, since 2044.
She had known the wife, Johanna. But whenever this thought came back into her head, somehow she had a harder and harder time imagining it. What she didn’t realize is that if she’d ever tried, she would have discovered the same difficulty in imagining anything. And the test resulting in the same thing: she couldn’t feel more than distant from actually loving this stuff.
She also and weirdly, knew that his daughter was no longer ‘present’ on God’s Good Earthen Soil, either. Harietta Damiand had died in a horrible Hover accident involving several or more automobiles. She was nine at the time of her death.
He had loved her, like Daddy’s do. Or like, Daddy’s can. To complicate things, Johanna, his wife was going senile. Her sudden dementia was combatted with restructuring software and everything, but in the end, she just slipped away.
This made things more convenient for him of course, especially. Harietta had been made of God’s Good Flesh when she lived. She was made of God’s Own Good Born Silicate and now, well now, she was made of wood. Dr. Damiand, resurrected her by copying what the Intra-Portable Equiv-MRI Bot, that is, the brain software, had recorded for the duration of her life. Damiand, being privy to software and Skins in the Lab, got quite a discount in taking over the more expensive parts of her. Unfortunately, he wasn’t a Hollywood man, nor exposed to many artists, so he regarded Human Silicates to be cost prohibitive. Anybody with his income could have found a less expensive Human Silicate Equiv., but he was an old fashioned kind of guy, and the new Networks Spots and channels were a little too fast paced for the likes of him.
The IPE-MRI Bot had obtained most of the details. Things like the surface textures identities of formica or certain types of metal and wood etc., didn’t copy over. Amongst an entire host of lost data, such as her first time using the toilet, which as a mahogany wood Real Girl, a subtype of Rubber Girls and RBoys.
So, Harietta was now made of mahogany, fine polished dark cherry wood. The Dr. Had grown to like the aesthetic of wood. But his sexual appetite was taken care of on behalf of the FED Marriage Sexual Health Act of 2067. He had amassed enough FED-MSHA-2067 money in a special FED linked account, to buy him RealSkyyn, or actual organic home grown genetically engineered flesh and muscles in a small private Lab. She would have RealSkyyn, soon.
There was something different though, even to her now. She had begun uttering things her mom had said, his wife and himself, could only have known, as they had never shared certain details with Harietta.
“Hey Cam, come here quick for a second.”
“Ok, what’s up?”
“All right, first of all–are you Mikin’ sure that this Switch Light is the only data device that’s retaining this event?”
“I mean except for Unambiguous. eah…why?”
“Take a look at this. Look, the two numbers.”
“What? Oh, wait, yeah, I guess–they’re not the same number but…”
“But they are the same number of digits.”
“Holy fuck, you are right! So what does that mean? Naw, no way, were not doin’ what I think you’re getting at.”
“Oh, so you know what I’m getting at?”
“I think so, you wanna use these digits somehow to…to make money somehow…”
“Yeah, literally, like, Print money.”
“No one uses Print money anymore.”
“Not off the Main Line.”
“So, the only places we could use whatever you’re concocting is here in central CAMBIAN?”
“Not, ah, what about Oakland Community Mall?”
“OCM is so…”
“Ghettie I know, but not entirely, they have some good stuff cause like, business men go through there…”
“I don’t know, Oakland? That’s so dangerous though.”
“You know it’s funny, as much as you say you hate your mom, sometimes you really listen to what she says…”
“What?? Whatever, I guess, well anyway, I’ve got nothing against going, but well, what are we even talking about here Kim?”
“Camel Toe, this is an entry key code for bills, and its just a coincidence it matches up here, I mean, not just the digits, but the letters and dashes too! And Una gave it to you, prolly for a reason. Mike! This is what my Dad does or well at least knows a lot about money printing in the old days and he pointed out the number range of certain numbers that are or were allegedly, numeral skeleton keys.”
Read More at:
RD AUTO Message 178: Fri 18, Octobre 2086 — Fairview, VA Main-Line USC – CAMBIAN – SUBURBAN ‘Inner Crust’ Territory: ‘MM-PS 255 Munich District 5’
As it were.
The room was fairly quiet, no one dared to try and make a sound.
Other than their Role Call Voices.
The colossal Gym Room seemed only to crane from above. As if witnessing the long gradual motion of a distant shooting star.
They kept on in a droning, murmuring…faintness. Squeaky voices slipped into the Gym stratosphere, as if sucked up by the lines they thought were probably the roof’s intricate paths of crisscrossing Metal rafters.
Every five minutes or so, you could hear the tiny threads of students running by, flitting past the long slit windows of the four rows of pale blue double doors; repeating off into the Gym, lining nearly the entire course of every wall receding into the big white beige of the Room. Five hundred and seventy doors total. The lines of Gurls were near the first doors of their Section, off to one corner: Exital Orb-Group Section B114, Sqaure Resendo 8.
Somewhere in the distance were the faint suggestions of other Sluts doing acrobatics.
Wasn’t a big deal if you did make a little cough or hand gesture fiddling with a shirt or something, but you weren’t really supposed to. Some people disappeared. No one wanted to disappear.
The Coach cradled a thin old brick slate with actual pen and paper, facing the square grid of five long, distinct rows.
Out of the blue, Camille randomly placed a disingenuous foot outside her Square. For kicks. No one would care, per se, but it was there, her foot. Placed outside the Square. Retracted it instantly when Ms. Steven’s bobbly head peered up again. What is she reading on that damned sheet of paper that takes up the entirety of her attention for that long?
“Jenny??” Everyone laughed. Ms. Stevens smiled at Jenny.
There was something peculiar about Jenny today, though…
Her neck. There was something curling around it, Rachael observed, wrapping around the base or something… Something dark like a bruise. She couldn’t put a finger on it from her range.
It was first Session. Rotating Session, which meant, Gym class at the beginning of the day. Feet felt clammy and hard meeting unremitting tile. So cold.
They’d all pass time with a gradual muted little dance to keep their feet from freezing. Like they were laughing without smiles or sound. All wore faded red short-shorts with darkening white T’s. None of these dress ‘uniforms’ were ever really washed. Just stuffed into lockers day in and day out. Neither Rachael’s, which one could smell of female essence if it weren’t for the boundless space of the enormous Gym.
It would take a solid forty-five minutes for Role Call to finish, and when it did, every one of the seventy or so females had to herd into the locker room.
First, today though, “Basketball tryouts!” Ms. Stevens added, placing the RC sheet and board under an arm. Steven’s uniform was washed.
Sighs and grunts like chimps let out with this last word.
“Okay, okay, let’s settle down girls!” shouted the dikey buzz cut P.E. Teacher with echoes not caught by any Sound Web to mute them, the sharp grating tones, vacant and unpromising.
“See how long you can hold em up girls.”
It was painful. Part of Role Call was that you had to hold up the girl in front of you, then rotate after half of Role Call was finished. No one rotated anymore though. Most of the time it took place to cradle ‘the dead,’ the girls too drunk or high from the night before to even stand. Instead of being sent to the First Aid room, they could at least show up for attendance first. Other Gurls were just doing it to make the rows uniform in appearance.
The object was to see how long you could hold the other one up. It seemed. Or is it a trust exercise? Rachael couldn’t care less to remember all the reasons for the cradling of your front partner in Gym.
“Hold her up there Lindi.”
“Linderen,” corrected Camille, instantly.
“Whatever sweetie, jus’ keep holdin’ her up by her armpits.”
Sally’s pits were wet and cold, but Cam’s fingers bunched into fists that acted as a push-up bra. Camille could feel her finger tips burrowing into the flesh of breasts and underarms. The tips of the girl’s straggly short sleeves appeared to be slightly crusty, the creases nearly wet from sweat stains. Fleshy bruises would be left there from Rachael’s grip, but at least the girl didn’t have to rest outside her Square.
Ms. Stevens was rather weighty and tended to center over where her monumental gut was hanging, though somewhat hidden inside her T-shirt. Like a big billowy bag to catch her guts.
Some kids were just too tired. There was always a TwoKiloRun before any Gym class as well, not every kid made it through. Even at the very start of the day. It’d been way too cold out.
Everyone had to be in five perfect rows, no matter what, for morning Role Call.
Camille was holding up Grace, a tall girl like her, who’d just taken too many Injections the night before…or…whatever… Maybe she’s pretending…
Everyone knew what that was like. She wasn’t the only one, there were fourteen or so girls basically keeling over if it weren’t for the ones behind them, barely holding them to their feet.
“Why do we still have role call, coach? I mean, doesn’t Janus take care of attendance?”
“Look, like I’ve said a trillion times, Janus, eh, Err, UNA–doesn’t always catch everything.”
But that was only what they’d told her. In Reality, Una was Perfect. Everyone knew it, but the instructors had to do role call anyway.
When everyone lined up again for Basketball tryouts, Ms. Stevens had them practice shooting first. The girls lined up, single file before each of the four hoops on each wall of the large Gymnasium. No one got to put on their shoes again until matt exercises.
They all missed, most of the time. About ten balls that never quite seemed to bounce enough, hit the floor as if with one disgruntled thud and bounced maybe halfway to the basket before someone had to help it to the goal. All the balls were a soft white. Some of them kinda deflated. A few girls kicked them, and that seemed to work better. None of them made it to the baskets without being hurled directly by hand from a short distance. To hit the ground most often with nothing more than a…thud.
“Okay Ladies, time to hit the matts! Lie down in five lines here on the five mats!”
The locker room stank of designer perfumes. All actual “BO” was monitored, but some still slipped into the stuffy room, overflowing with steam from the showers.
“Pick your soap and get in the showers, girls!”
She always watched them, Ms. Stevens. Watched them shower. They’d zone her out as she ‘stood watch.’
To make sure soap got over all over the bodies.
Jenny was still squirming her way through the showering bodies when she snuck around Camille and grabbed a boob.
“Woah! Hey, that ain’t free, Slut!”
Giving her that specialty kaleidescope look again, and with a curious little smile Jenny stuck both fingers inside Cam’s vagina. Then in her ass.
“Yeah, stop it!”
“Not much of a CAMBIAN girl, then huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the big push now: everybody’s bodies, are well…everybody else’s.”
Rachael’s face deflated into a precise rest.
“‘Oh, come on, not in the mood girl.” Cam whisked an ever persistent hand away from her pussy. But then Jenny, as usual, put a finger to her lips, slid it in her mouth, and tasted the juices of poor ol’ Rachael…
…Who kept turning to Ms. Stevens with looks of blank contemplation.
Stevens, in her yellow “T” remained stolid as ever there in the background…behind the thick heat. Crossing her arms and parting her legs like a Sergeant.
“Time is slowing,” uttered Cam, softly.
“What, what are you discussing with yourself now?” inquired Jenny.
“She does me favors you know…”
“Yeeeeah, I, –I know Jenny.”
She kept staring while the droplets of shower water fell and slipped over her brow and nose. The sight of Steven’s veiny cottage legs, irregular clumps of flesh and fat, remained the direction of her stare.
“Oh Cam!” Jenny’s intermittent voice seemed to dart around the rushing water, muted from it and chopped up like broken frequencies.
“What now Jenny,” grunted Camille, scrubbing her face with bare hands, accidentally sticking her index digit up her nose. “Ah, shit, what the fuck!”
“Hey, what’s with the weird fuckin’ scar, Jenny?”
“Eh, got some more Knife work done.”
“On your fucking neck? Dude, the thing is like a TummyTuck scar, or well, if you can’t get the more expensive VacuumPress nano shit…”
“You don’t what?”
“Jenny?” Jenny stopped talking.
“Come on bitch!”
Jenny was suddenly, seemingly in a very furtive way, staring at one of the other girls. Rachael scanned between the turning and pivoting whitening bodies, the even brighter florescently glaring, misty tile walls…but saw nothing but matted hair, buts, backs, landing strips, elbows, girls, tile and steam. And Ms. Stevens back in her office now, almost directly visible from the showers, if it weren’t for all the mist.
“I’d like you to meet a good New friend of mine.”
“Her name’s Gena.”
“Gena? Oh hi!” blathered Camille through the spouting ripples covering her lips as she moved from under the tiny spicket.
Camille felt Fear rise again. The Them again.
Gena was a Tranny. That meant, she had a penis, and a girl’s body. Weren’t many of them at Fairview. Yet.
“How do ya do!” shouted Gena in an overtly feminine voice, a tall tan Gurl, or Tranny, shaking her dick, about to show off the distinction between her and The Rest of the Otherly Gurls. It was a large one, and Camille kinda just rolled her eyes. She wasn’t always into dick out of context, but once in a blue moon could make an exception for a Tranny.
“Gena is um, well New, but I’m Sponsoring her anyway, she’s a great Tranny-Gurl.”
Camille knew she’d have to fuck her to break her into The Peer Group, and felt tiresome from chewing on the idea, so went on to do a little small talk while she cleaned her pussy more. She kept a vigilant eye on her own junk and not the dick–NOT the dick!
“I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of America. And to the Republic, for which it stands, One Nation, Under God, Indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all.”
“Oh come on Cam, it’s not like it’s a big deal, just put your fuckin’ hand over your heart…”
Camille could hear the bouncy ball of her mind, shooting around the room, dribbling onto the floor, once again, loosing its momentum…
Breathes in all chambers…
She thought about it, sex with a Nigger. That white pussy being penetrated softly yet hard, by another color.
Why always sex? Always.
She looked at his thighs. His back. The way he stood upright and Mr. Shermer, sitting there, hunched, broken over that old wooden desk with nothing but wood and metal bolts to hold it together…his beer gut flopping over his near invisible belt.
“Arthur. I love you.”
She could say.
Under her breath.
“Turn around. Turn around.”
“Is there something you need Cam?” The entire class turned around. Ah fuck, thinking aloud again, damn!
“Arthur?” Mr. Shermer stood up abruptly. “You are gonna have to exit as well, I’m afraid. An apology is expected.”
Without delay, cordially, Arthur Blina, this tall structure of a Boy in navy and white imperial CAMBIAN uniform, gathered his bag and left the room with hardly a squeek from his sleek, polished jet black combat boots proceeding as if to remain single file, toward the door. It shut gently with the clicking sound of its latch.
NeauBlurbs, transparent video messages from Peer-to-Peer were floating around the room, making sound only to those to whom it was sent…there were a lot of rich kids in History…
She knew she couldn’t exit the class without setting off the UFED alarm and as usual, her mom’s bank account would be chiseled off a hair.
“I think I’m sick, can I have a hall pass?”
Go ahead, Cam, I’ll remove the hallway InSessh Dect. He meant the InSession Detector.
It was a long way to the main office, where she’d assumed Arthur must have gone. This was the second time she’d seen him, and the first time up close. It was a weird to like a black guy, but…not so weird. She couldn’t help thinking how tall he was and what features! The way he spoke…narrow hips, wide shoulders. Egypt. Toothbrushes.
The restaurant had indeed been the one they thought of; the old Maryland-Bound TransCar. It was enormous, all steel and some kind of special glass. It leaned ever so slightly to one side, still levitating off its remanning energy store. Energy in ‘the good ol’ days’ wasn’t energy today–a single power bond Nano-battery store could last a hundred years in its day. The world just couldn’t afford millions of transports like this, as the Feds never came in with more than a few hundred thousand of these units.
They were waiting nearly an hour to get inside the battleship-museum of a restaurant, and their conversation dissipated into silence upon seeing the large crowd made of proud American dining. Camille felt like Rachael again, and got that ever-returning tinge of ‘I have no idea what to say to him.’ She dismissed the feeling though in a moment of fight or flight.
These sketches are the first draft sketches; inklings or the zygote for the Graphic Novel Series Vesper Heliotropic.
This will be issue #2. You can find issue #1, Here.
6. Ein München Mädchen
RD AUTO Message 162: Fri 4, Octobre 2086 – Fairview, VA Main-Line USC – CAMBIAN – SUBURBAN ‘Inner Crust’ Territory: ‘MM-PS 255 Munich District 5’
“Rachael!” shouted her mom’s high pitched voice from downstairs.
“Yessssss, Mother! It’s Camille now by the way!”
There was no answer. And then…
“Don’t forget your make-up!” her mom’s faint voice could now barely be made out.
“Ugh.” Rachael said to herself.
“Okay!” she yelled back, vein and limply.
Rachael sat upright on the edge of her bed, her widish butt planted deep within pillows and Tynker Animals lying about, her legs pretzeled Indian style. There were disheveled bra straps under a Thyn white T-shirt falling off one shoulder as she constantly pulled it up only to have it recede back to her upper arm. Her room was fairly tidy with printed posters, arrays of ads, a large mirror to her right along with bottles and cheap makeup.
Short little mounds of laundry were shoved to the edges of the soft lightly tinted carpet, pink. Pinkish. Large suburban bedroom windows obscured the bright room of its details, shafting a morning glow of dreaming breakfast. Rachael had been fantasizing about strawberry pancakes in the City on this particular day. Sometimes it was boys, other times a nice mental round of fantasy morning sex with a sibling.
A short blonde bob swayed back and forth, back and forth, as she browsed with her hands through multitudes of levitating virtual options; left to right, left to right, her gaze, preceding her arms, crisscrossing over and over…
She was scrolling through dozens of Day-Theme posters, one after another, as each one disappeared, only to have another colorful Pop-Band Day Theme poster reappear in midair.
The silhouette of a factory and some kind of penal institution cut a panorama straight across the blank yellow and blue dawning sky in one poster that read: “FinnLaNDIK, the New Album! DEISANIK CELL BLOCK LINE P344, PRODUCT CO.”
Another: “‘BEAT A BITCH UP FO’ YA SQUIRD ON HA,’ Shokolok, the New Album OUT NOW!”
A slight whopping sound then blossomed a little blonde Whyte Gurl with crystal blue eyes from out of Thyn air. Multicolored signs, banners, and comic blurbs trailed from out her mouth like live flying drool. In a stark yet softly aggressive female voice, came…
“All New Finally Fourteen Perfume, straight from the company that brought you Fexalot Smart-Maquillage!”
Rachael continued to page through the transparent spherical depth of the floating View like she were swatting at flies she could never catch. Each poster retracted in a circle upon moving to the next like a moving clothing line. The receding Posters disappeared behind the one she was Viewing in a half-circle. Band after band, soap bar after soap bar flew by, NeauDolls, Cereals and ‘Biono-Lymbs with All-Free Cosma-Surgery When You Buy Two!’
“KENSON AUDI DAY!” one of them read with an absurdly blunt solid pink and purple border with shimmering translucent photo of the band, focusing especially on its front man, Gary Sake next to his one and only Hoe-bag, Merry-Eight. It was a kind of Great American Autumn scene. Sun shot through the profile of an inner city alleyway, buildings climbing up the sides of the lucid shot. The three other band members stood obscure next to the two ‘partners in crime,’ gusting steamy breath in kissing each other next to a dumpster as trash fell like leaves from tenement roofs. A caption imbedded inside a hot pink heart graphic floating on a cartoon cloud suspended below the poster, read: “Pick your Fexer ‘Day-Theme’ from any Movie, Musician, Artist, or Media Fyle!”
“Put together a Soundtrack for each emotion and event with Emo-Life Readers!”