Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Novel Idea, Days 27 and 28

Almost all caught up!!  today's offerings are a little interesting, and some really fun concepts.

Theme: The Prophet

Initial thoughts: Prophecy is a tough thing to handle.  Mostly, it's been done so much, that attacking it from a new angle is nigh impossible.  We often hear about a prophecy whereby, through a supposed series of random events, a Chosen One exists and saves the world - it's even present in our religions.  The theme is common to us.  But what about the Prophet him/herself?  there's my angle.....

     The cobblestone street was slick in the rain, and going up the steep hill to the dilapidated shack at the top was difficult.  Even with her walking stick, Hana had a difficult time keeping her feet.  The cold rain didn’t help matters any.  She was soaked through, her long cloak having long since become useless at keeping her dry, but she finally made it here.  She only hoped the Prophet would see her.  The he would be here.  That her traveling would not again be in vain.
     This was the fourth city across the great kingdom of Garenia where the Prophet was said to have a home.  She had already been to the other three, and now she was at the last one, the southern city of Baz.  It took every last gold coin she could find, and then some, to be able to take this journey, but she had to know the answer to her birthright.  No one in her little village knew why they were chosen to raise her, but with her strange light-colored hair, she did not belong among them.  When she was old enough, they directed her to find the Prophet.  He would have her answers.
     Now, at last, as she hobbled up the steep hill to the Prophet’s humble home, she was suddenly hit with worry and doubt.  A thousand questions raced through her mind.  She spent so much time and energy getting to this point, and after it, she was not sure what to do.  She plodded on, in spite of her fear.
     “No matter what he says, I shall know, at least, why there, and where I come from.”
     The wind picked up and buffeted her as she continued to climb.  She knew it would be brutal at the top, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her.  The wind whipped at her cloak, slapping her with it more than once, the wet fabric stinging her.  It took the last of her strength to hurl herself at the base of the door to the tiny cottage. 
     It opened slowly.
     Hana looked up into the face of an old man.  He looked down at her with kind eyes that were full of knowing.  He said nothing, but held a hand out to her.  As she grasped his hand and gained her feet again, she felt a strength in her unlike any she’d ever known.
     “I seek the Prophet,” she said.  “Are you he?”
     There was a long pause before he answered. 
     “Come inside, and you will meet the Prophet,” he said simply. 
     He ushered her inside the small cottage.  It was sparse, but comfortable, and though it looked ramshackle from the outside, it was also quite dry and cozy.  The only furniture were a few cushions upon which to sit.  A small stack of books in the single-room abode sat in the corner.
     “Take off your cloak and be warm,” he said.  His voice was calm and soothing, but strong and rich.  “You have come far on your journey, and I have been expecting you.”
     “I need to know –“ she began.
     “Who you are and why you were left in the village,” he finished.
     Her mouth hung open in amazement.
     “It is not magic, dear one.  It is simply the way of things.  I was once where you are, many years ago now, as you will be where I am, someday.”
     “I do not understand,” said Hana.
     “Of course not!” he laughed.  “Nor did I.  I was so much younger then.  I scarcely remember it.  But the time has come at last for change, and when there is change, a new Prophet must arise.  You said you wished to see the Prophet.  You have only to look in the mirror.”
     “I have no gift for prophecy,” she said.  “How can I be a prophet?”
     “I will give you the gift, as it has been given to me.  And then I will live out the rest of my days in peace.  Someday, you will do the same, when another will come to your door, weak and tired as you are now.  You must never seek them out.  Only after they find you will you know, and only then will they be ready.”
     He removed an amulet from his neck and pressed it into her palm.

     “I am not ready,” she said.


Theme:  The Primary Mode of transportation is the bicycle.

Initial thoughts:  near and dear to me.  Why would this be so?  there has to be a logic as to why technology stopped at the bicycle.  Let's give that reasoning a good try.  Hey, what if, in our current zeal for sustainable energy, we found one, and it's pedal-powered???  It's nothing we don't already know about, just the fuel source is different.   Yeah, let's have some fun here....now, what voice????
     The world was ruined.  The water burned our mouths and the air clogged our lungs.  We were forced to move underground. We all thought we were safe from the devastation we caused, but eventually, our fuel began to run low, and we were forced to abandon one technology for another.  Many thought we’d regressed in technology, as we were forced to use the only available fuel source: our own strength.
     This is the world to which I and so many others were born.  I never knew the great engines that drove our society, other than as relics of an age gone by.  The stories or war and manufacturing that polluted the air and water happened before my time, and I never saw the smog.  I was born to a world that saw and understood its mistakes, and embraced an old technology that turned out to be the one that saved us.  We embraced the bicycle.
     There were stories, at first, of how no one thought it could be done.  The turbines for the generators were too large, and no matter how many men were put to the cranks, we could not turn them fast enough to generate the power we needed.  We were forced to go smaller with our generators.  The smaller generators, though, could not produce enough power, and people could not work the cranks for long.  Many people gave up.  Everything they’d known was gone, and they could not imagine another life.  They are looked at now as the Brown Years.  They are a part of our history.
     It was before the genetic work of Jerome Kandil changed us forever.  Eventually, we were able to use fleets of stationary cycles to power our generators, and it created a class of citizen whose job it was to pedal all day, in order to store enough to the grid that we could survive.  Eventually, we went to three shifts a day, and the cranks were constantly turning.  Eventually, we had enough power saved in batteries to fuel our scientific endeavors again, and as we began re-introducing clean air and water back into the atmosphere, the land began to heal.  Kandil then began his experiments on how to turn out the perfect worker for the cranks.  He succeeded. 
     They needed little rest, and very little food, but their stamina was unmatched.  They were known as the Cycle Men.  From birth to death, their single purpose was to man the cranks that powered our world.  They were born to the bicycle.  Their education was neglected, except for the ways in which to better their performance – the proper form in which to sit, the best things to eat, and amount of sleep they should get – it was a life of routine.  There was no variance.  The Cycle Men were looked upon as property, and they were treated as such.  They supplied the power for the rest of us.  It was simply their job, so the rest of us could do other things.  We thought life was good.
     Life is life, though, and no matter what we try and do to control it, life will find a way to survive and continue.  The Cycle Men began to learn more, and as they did, they became aware that there were no Cycle Women.  They began to realize they were slaves.  As it always happens with slaves, they began to rebel.  They wanted their own women.  They wanted better housing.  They eventually wanted to be paid for their labors.  We’d come so far, and we were once again facing war.  The Cycle Men wanted their freedom, and we seemed doomed to repeat the mistakes of our long-distant past.
     But Kandil wasn’t done.  He’d expected this, and knew the day would come when the Cycle Men would revolt.  He’d been working on a new genetic hybrid, a race of automatons with limited brain capacity, almost devoid of feelings.  They were little more than organic machines.  It was in these our future would lie, and they sustained us until at last, we could once again open the sky and live above the ground once again. 
     Now, we use our bicycles to move around, to get from place to place.  We use wind and solar power, primarily, and the underground cities that were our homes are now the museums of our dark past.  We grow only what we need, and re-use as much as possible, in order to avoid our past mistakes. 
     Still, there is a fear that I harbor deep in my heart, that one day, those who come after us will forget our lessons.  They will make the same mistakes.  That is why I, the Chronicler, leave this our history to the future.  Learn from us.  Learn from the Cycle Men, and the Automatons.  Take care of what you’ve been given, for it is precious beyond measure.  May you live long and happily, for generations to come.

Thanks for reading,

Me

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