7:40
Actually, thinking about writing and dreams reminded me of this story which I must have written in... 2007. Yeah, 2007. It was entirely based off a dream I had, and remains one of my favorite pieces of writing I've ever done.
7:40
It was a beautiful city. Spires rose from the swaying branches to glisten in the sun. Light wound its way through leaves to pattern the tiled walkways where gorgeously dressed figures walked and laughed. But among the blatant displays of wealth meant to fling power in the faces of the poor stood one building that far surpassed the others.
A more beautifully crass palace had never been seen. It towered above a plaza tastefully surrounded by flowering tress and twinkling brooks. The structure consisted of pure white marble with gold veins and open glass panes. Golden statues of the classical Greek kind held the glass up as it twisted its way around the marble.
Inside the most extravagant building in a city full of excess, sat a man. He stayed at a table on the open first floor, near the door, a briefcase beside him. Alert eyes watched a people milled and passed by his small table, not sparing a glance for the plain man. Glancing at his watch, he frowned. The silver hands told him it was 7:20, meaning his informant was late. He wondered if she knew what he knew, or if she’d just bailed out. For his part he suspected the later.
After all, he felt sure only he knew he’d die at 7:40.
Then she appeared from the crowd and slipped into the seat left for her, causing the plain man to blink before opening the briefcase.
“You’re late,” he stated.
“I know,” she answered just as simply. “I was watching you.”
“Ah.”
“I was unsure I could trust you,” she added unnecessarily.
In reply he flipped out several papers. “You said you had something to tell me,” he said.
The woman frowned at him. “I said so, yes.”
“Did you lie?” he enquired blandly, almost as if he didn’t care at all about the answer. After all, the head of the secret police had a reputation for being cold and heartless.
The woman bristled. “I might have. Why should I tell you anything?”
“Because you came asking for me,” he replied, suddenly sure this woman had something to do with his impending death.
A rumor that circulated the underworlds about him was that he could see the future, which explained his uncanny ability to know the underworlders movements before they even made them. The simple truth was that he could sometimes. And his last glimpse into the pool of all that could be showed his death at 7:40, on this day at this time.
Again the woman bristled. “I did have something to tell you.”
“Did?” His voice remained bland.
“Do,” she corrected. “But more, a question. Why?”
The man started. After all, in all his years of working he’d never once been asked to justify his actions. Such thoughts he left for future historians-after all, that’s what they seemed to enjoy best, trying to figure out history when they never could. Now this strange woman sat before him and demanded he come to task for all he’d done.
He was still a young man, plain though maybe a little handsome with brown coloring. Mild manners, even when he was torturing a man. As a young boy he’d been taken in by the mistress of this monstrosity of beauty and trained to her. She feared the underworlders, where people of poor origin plotted to gain her wealth. And, sadly enough, such weak people as she ruled the city with a tight grip against the idea that the poor, who lined the world beneath the tended paths, might want more-more of what the rich believed was theirs.
Hating the rich got him nowhere, even though he’d been raised in the underworlds, but left as an orphan with a strange knack for knowing things. From there he’d been lifted by the Mistress’s secret police and taken to her. While he might resent her and all she stood for deep down, this was the only life he’d ever lived. In all those years, never once did he question it.
Until this woman sat down at a table with him in a bustling room with the prospect of his death fast approaching, that is. Oddly he didn’t find the idea of his death disturbing.
“Why?” he repeated mildly.
She glowered. “Yes, why. Why do you do all that you’ve done? Why do you hunt us down and hurt us at the expense of a pampered fool? Do you have no sense of mercy or feelings of compassion at all?”
He thought for a second. “No,” finally he said. “I don’t think I do. They’d do nothing for me.”
He paused to think. It took the space of seconds, but his mind ran and twisted about his life much as the gold twisted around the marble column behind him. Such thoughts took him past his upbringing in a city below the city where dissent breed as often as rats. The sodden people looked at the above world with its splendor and hated. As he once hated. But when he’d been chosen, taken up, he hadn’t spared a thought to those left behind. In fact, not long ago another man had brought him almost to task as the woman did.
He’d led the raid himself, a rare occurrence. The other man had stared wide-eyed at the serene man before him. “You’re one of us!” he’d cried, aghast. “Why are you doing this to us?”
Now the plain man, the head of those who oppressed the already oppressed felt unsure. Never before had he really cared. He did his job as he was supposed to, and as such got his reward and went home to relative comfort. His gift of glimpsing the future gave him an edge no one else had.
The woman spoke again. “Why?” she demanded this time, angry.
“Because.”
“No justifying your actions?” she sneered.
“There is none. I did it all because. They told me to and I did it.”
That caused the woman to stop. “Have you ever had an original thought in your head?” she asked, incredulous.
“No,” he answered again.
“Why not?”
“It didn’t seem like it’d be useful. It’d cause me to think and that would make me unhappy.”
“Are you happy then?”
“I’m content. I have a good life.”
“Being content is not being happy.”
The man looked intently at her. “No, I guess it isn’t.”
“You don’t have to stay here,” she gazed at him. “You don’t have to die here. The world could use your gift.”
Blinking, he turned the thought over in his head. She must have been the bringer of his demise then, to say such a thing.
“You can think, you can help us. You could be happy.”
He slowly closed his briefcase and checked his watch. 7:36. “Happy,” he repeated.
“You might as well live for something,” she said before turning and walking away. He rose and followed her out of the golden building and into sunlight that highlighted the plaza with its commerce. She smiled at him and touched his hand before leading him toward the nearby trees. Behind them the gold and white building flared red behind them, the shock wave pushing them forward, and then the building fell still.
A rebellion had started, one that would fight all wrong, killing in an act to redeem the lives the rebel’s had lost over the years.
And the man found he was starting to care.
His watch read 7:41.
***
It even got published in the high school art magazine. :D Of course, you had to pay for the bloody thing even if you got published in it. But it was nice to be like ha! I've *actually* been published in something. Well, then there was that limerick in the city newspaper in first grade but you know.
Actually, this was a story I've considered at different times going back to and expanding, in a vignette kind of style. I've written out a couple of these companion pieces, only one of which I've ever actually liked. Somehow, actually describing the rebellion never really seemed to work. It just... it stands on it's own so well. Yes, clearly there's a much larger story, but it still stands.
Also, fun fact: my high school started at 7:40. My subconscious disapproved of this about as much as I did it seems.
7:40
It was a beautiful city. Spires rose from the swaying branches to glisten in the sun. Light wound its way through leaves to pattern the tiled walkways where gorgeously dressed figures walked and laughed. But among the blatant displays of wealth meant to fling power in the faces of the poor stood one building that far surpassed the others.
A more beautifully crass palace had never been seen. It towered above a plaza tastefully surrounded by flowering tress and twinkling brooks. The structure consisted of pure white marble with gold veins and open glass panes. Golden statues of the classical Greek kind held the glass up as it twisted its way around the marble.
Inside the most extravagant building in a city full of excess, sat a man. He stayed at a table on the open first floor, near the door, a briefcase beside him. Alert eyes watched a people milled and passed by his small table, not sparing a glance for the plain man. Glancing at his watch, he frowned. The silver hands told him it was 7:20, meaning his informant was late. He wondered if she knew what he knew, or if she’d just bailed out. For his part he suspected the later.
After all, he felt sure only he knew he’d die at 7:40.
Then she appeared from the crowd and slipped into the seat left for her, causing the plain man to blink before opening the briefcase.
“You’re late,” he stated.
“I know,” she answered just as simply. “I was watching you.”
“Ah.”
“I was unsure I could trust you,” she added unnecessarily.
In reply he flipped out several papers. “You said you had something to tell me,” he said.
The woman frowned at him. “I said so, yes.”
“Did you lie?” he enquired blandly, almost as if he didn’t care at all about the answer. After all, the head of the secret police had a reputation for being cold and heartless.
The woman bristled. “I might have. Why should I tell you anything?”
“Because you came asking for me,” he replied, suddenly sure this woman had something to do with his impending death.
A rumor that circulated the underworlds about him was that he could see the future, which explained his uncanny ability to know the underworlders movements before they even made them. The simple truth was that he could sometimes. And his last glimpse into the pool of all that could be showed his death at 7:40, on this day at this time.
Again the woman bristled. “I did have something to tell you.”
“Did?” His voice remained bland.
“Do,” she corrected. “But more, a question. Why?”
The man started. After all, in all his years of working he’d never once been asked to justify his actions. Such thoughts he left for future historians-after all, that’s what they seemed to enjoy best, trying to figure out history when they never could. Now this strange woman sat before him and demanded he come to task for all he’d done.
He was still a young man, plain though maybe a little handsome with brown coloring. Mild manners, even when he was torturing a man. As a young boy he’d been taken in by the mistress of this monstrosity of beauty and trained to her. She feared the underworlders, where people of poor origin plotted to gain her wealth. And, sadly enough, such weak people as she ruled the city with a tight grip against the idea that the poor, who lined the world beneath the tended paths, might want more-more of what the rich believed was theirs.
Hating the rich got him nowhere, even though he’d been raised in the underworlds, but left as an orphan with a strange knack for knowing things. From there he’d been lifted by the Mistress’s secret police and taken to her. While he might resent her and all she stood for deep down, this was the only life he’d ever lived. In all those years, never once did he question it.
Until this woman sat down at a table with him in a bustling room with the prospect of his death fast approaching, that is. Oddly he didn’t find the idea of his death disturbing.
“Why?” he repeated mildly.
She glowered. “Yes, why. Why do you do all that you’ve done? Why do you hunt us down and hurt us at the expense of a pampered fool? Do you have no sense of mercy or feelings of compassion at all?”
He thought for a second. “No,” finally he said. “I don’t think I do. They’d do nothing for me.”
He paused to think. It took the space of seconds, but his mind ran and twisted about his life much as the gold twisted around the marble column behind him. Such thoughts took him past his upbringing in a city below the city where dissent breed as often as rats. The sodden people looked at the above world with its splendor and hated. As he once hated. But when he’d been chosen, taken up, he hadn’t spared a thought to those left behind. In fact, not long ago another man had brought him almost to task as the woman did.
He’d led the raid himself, a rare occurrence. The other man had stared wide-eyed at the serene man before him. “You’re one of us!” he’d cried, aghast. “Why are you doing this to us?”
Now the plain man, the head of those who oppressed the already oppressed felt unsure. Never before had he really cared. He did his job as he was supposed to, and as such got his reward and went home to relative comfort. His gift of glimpsing the future gave him an edge no one else had.
The woman spoke again. “Why?” she demanded this time, angry.
“Because.”
“No justifying your actions?” she sneered.
“There is none. I did it all because. They told me to and I did it.”
That caused the woman to stop. “Have you ever had an original thought in your head?” she asked, incredulous.
“No,” he answered again.
“Why not?”
“It didn’t seem like it’d be useful. It’d cause me to think and that would make me unhappy.”
“Are you happy then?”
“I’m content. I have a good life.”
“Being content is not being happy.”
The man looked intently at her. “No, I guess it isn’t.”
“You don’t have to stay here,” she gazed at him. “You don’t have to die here. The world could use your gift.”
Blinking, he turned the thought over in his head. She must have been the bringer of his demise then, to say such a thing.
“You can think, you can help us. You could be happy.”
He slowly closed his briefcase and checked his watch. 7:36. “Happy,” he repeated.
“You might as well live for something,” she said before turning and walking away. He rose and followed her out of the golden building and into sunlight that highlighted the plaza with its commerce. She smiled at him and touched his hand before leading him toward the nearby trees. Behind them the gold and white building flared red behind them, the shock wave pushing them forward, and then the building fell still.
A rebellion had started, one that would fight all wrong, killing in an act to redeem the lives the rebel’s had lost over the years.
And the man found he was starting to care.
His watch read 7:41.
***
It even got published in the high school art magazine. :D Of course, you had to pay for the bloody thing even if you got published in it. But it was nice to be like ha! I've *actually* been published in something. Well, then there was that limerick in the city newspaper in first grade but you know.
Actually, this was a story I've considered at different times going back to and expanding, in a vignette kind of style. I've written out a couple of these companion pieces, only one of which I've ever actually liked. Somehow, actually describing the rebellion never really seemed to work. It just... it stands on it's own so well. Yes, clearly there's a much larger story, but it still stands.
Also, fun fact: my high school started at 7:40. My subconscious disapproved of this about as much as I did it seems.