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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