In The blink of an eye it could all vanish. Like the trickling of dew over a drowning lily pad heavily laden with the weight of an obese toad. In the blink of an eye the air could go sour as milk left in the mid-noon sun on a warm afternoon in July. In the blink of an eye the life force could shift, denying all who leech from it permission to do as they wish and enabling a deathly howl of passing souls to echo off of unnamed mountains. In the valley of darkness it all could end with the single rise of a dawn whilst in the valley of light one shadow would ruin them all. It is with these considerations that we have been created, born, made and...exist. We are of the night and of the day. We are between the force and with the force. Unlike the merging dew we stand against the world and somehow work with it. We are abandoned, we are few;our names are not recorded in history thought it us who made it happen. So a question remains. What are we? What are we that we cannot speak without sounding as a collective of individuals...in fact, how does one have a collective of 'individuals'? Does not the very mention of collective provide ideas for multiple beings as a whole?
I have this tendency to ramble and tangent. It keeps my head on straight. it keeps me alert on the long nights where sleep is not advised, when the tunnels must remain open so that we can fill our lungs with enough oxygen to last us the new day. Day. They should retire that word. There has not been a single moment in the past century where the sun has fallen on our pale forms. If it did our existence would unravel for sure. Today I want to unravel. Today I am going up top...today...I will be free.
As the last boisterous shudderings of the air vents cease he finds himself able to return his head to his lumpy, feather stuffed pillow. The power cells have been lowered to minimum release, turning the false day into a false twilight. They never shut them off completely, they never allow true night to wash over their faces. The people of the Undercove, the last sane beings forced to the ground beneath an insane world, are afraid of the night. But he is not. He welcomes darkness any time it is blessed upon him. He welcomes lashings, he welcomes beatings and strong words. They sometimes mutter about him being sent up top. How he dreams of the ancient, towering domes said to be filled with nothing but filth and mulch. he would like to taste the top side air. The true top side air, not that which makes it through the ventilation shafts, not that which they filter and purify, but true, unadulterated air.
"You are mumblin'gain Thuros. There gonna ship ya out if ya don stop." A boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, much younger than the seasoned Thuros, comments.
"Let them. I would welcome it more than my own breath on the waking of each delusional morning. I would savor the very moment the fiery star caressed my skin. So let them. I will say what I say and they can do what they do."
"Be quiet, th'both of ya. I worked a twenty today." Another man reprimands the two. The boy goes quiet but Thuros continues his mutterings. Let them take him away...let them take him.
<>
In the tunnels where the people of undercove forage for minerals, that their psychics can change into materials and food, there are many chains. They glisten in the light, creating more illumination on some days than even the lamps themselves do. Metal. What would it be like to have metals as skin? Would one dig through the tunnels, moving up and up until breaking the surface of the earth and freeing themselves from this torment? Could one even attempt such a feat? No matter the work one does, we are human and that makes us feeble. Well, most of us that is. The psychics, bless their captive minds, are much different from human; they are power. They have found that boundless energy and tapped directly into it. They are the true night and day. The endless dawn and fevered dusk.
There is a room deep within the constitutional halls of Undercove where they keep these poor souls. From the time they can lift an object with their thoughts they are sent into a room, attached to a device and left there until their heart beats no more. Poor sods.
"Thuros! Don't go in there! Yer not allowed!" The boy calls, watching in horror as a cleanly shaven and well dressed Thuros waltzes directly into the Capital Halls of Undercove. You see, he has worked out a trick. He realized, that if he stayed quiet and stealthy enough he could sneak behind a representative and enter the halls with no trouble. The boy watches him disappear and shakes his head. "He's surface meat fer sure."
Thuros is quite smart, however, and he finds a man just his size whom he proceeds to pummel until he is conscious. He then removes every article of clothing from this man. Once clothed in something more fitting for his invasion, he hurries along the halls without a care in the world. First there are the elevators which will take him to the Constitutional halls. He must get there and find her. The one whom he dreams so much about. Thuros is positive that she lives. This nameless female stated that top world is no longer a dead zone. They could easily live there again. He will retrieve her...and they will be free.
"Your pass code sir. Thank you. Now please stand still as we match the data to your DNA code."
Well...maybe his plan was not as precise as he thought.
I have this tendency to ramble and tangent. It keeps my head on straight. it keeps me alert on the long nights where sleep is not advised, when the tunnels must remain open so that we can fill our lungs with enough oxygen to last us the new day. Day. They should retire that word. There has not been a single moment in the past century where the sun has fallen on our pale forms. If it did our existence would unravel for sure. Today I want to unravel. Today I am going up top...today...I will be free.
As the last boisterous shudderings of the air vents cease he finds himself able to return his head to his lumpy, feather stuffed pillow. The power cells have been lowered to minimum release, turning the false day into a false twilight. They never shut them off completely, they never allow true night to wash over their faces. The people of the Undercove, the last sane beings forced to the ground beneath an insane world, are afraid of the night. But he is not. He welcomes darkness any time it is blessed upon him. He welcomes lashings, he welcomes beatings and strong words. They sometimes mutter about him being sent up top. How he dreams of the ancient, towering domes said to be filled with nothing but filth and mulch. he would like to taste the top side air. The true top side air, not that which makes it through the ventilation shafts, not that which they filter and purify, but true, unadulterated air.
"You are mumblin'gain Thuros. There gonna ship ya out if ya don stop." A boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, much younger than the seasoned Thuros, comments.
"Let them. I would welcome it more than my own breath on the waking of each delusional morning. I would savor the very moment the fiery star caressed my skin. So let them. I will say what I say and they can do what they do."
"Be quiet, th'both of ya. I worked a twenty today." Another man reprimands the two. The boy goes quiet but Thuros continues his mutterings. Let them take him away...let them take him.
<>
In the tunnels where the people of undercove forage for minerals, that their psychics can change into materials and food, there are many chains. They glisten in the light, creating more illumination on some days than even the lamps themselves do. Metal. What would it be like to have metals as skin? Would one dig through the tunnels, moving up and up until breaking the surface of the earth and freeing themselves from this torment? Could one even attempt such a feat? No matter the work one does, we are human and that makes us feeble. Well, most of us that is. The psychics, bless their captive minds, are much different from human; they are power. They have found that boundless energy and tapped directly into it. They are the true night and day. The endless dawn and fevered dusk.
There is a room deep within the constitutional halls of Undercove where they keep these poor souls. From the time they can lift an object with their thoughts they are sent into a room, attached to a device and left there until their heart beats no more. Poor sods.
"Thuros! Don't go in there! Yer not allowed!" The boy calls, watching in horror as a cleanly shaven and well dressed Thuros waltzes directly into the Capital Halls of Undercove. You see, he has worked out a trick. He realized, that if he stayed quiet and stealthy enough he could sneak behind a representative and enter the halls with no trouble. The boy watches him disappear and shakes his head. "He's surface meat fer sure."
Thuros is quite smart, however, and he finds a man just his size whom he proceeds to pummel until he is conscious. He then removes every article of clothing from this man. Once clothed in something more fitting for his invasion, he hurries along the halls without a care in the world. First there are the elevators which will take him to the Constitutional halls. He must get there and find her. The one whom he dreams so much about. Thuros is positive that she lives. This nameless female stated that top world is no longer a dead zone. They could easily live there again. He will retrieve her...and they will be free.
"Your pass code sir. Thank you. Now please stand still as we match the data to your DNA code."
Well...maybe his plan was not as precise as he thought.
