(c) The Only Difference Between Futurism and Realism is How Many Lies You Believe (M)
3 posters
I am Revolution :: Words :: Stories :: Original Fiction
Page 1 of 1
(c) The Only Difference Between Futurism and Realism is How Many Lies You Believe (M)
by LADIES AND GENTLEMEN Fri 24 Oct 2008, 10:42 pm
Title: The Only Difference Between Futurism and Realism is How Many Lies You Believe
Rating: M for language and themes
Author: Mikey
Status: Chaptered/incomplete
Warnings: Blood, gore, very graphic descriptions of death and disease, mature themes, violence, murder.
Summary/Excerpt: There was an apocalypse.
The stench of death hung heavy and thick over the city, mingling with the searing scent of smoldering flesh and the inescapable odour of human waste.
There was a takeover.
If you spoke of anarchy, whether for or against it, the Council would find you. The people who were caught never spoke like that again.
Now, it's time for a revolution.
--
Nobody noticed the corpse. It was black and bloated, half-covered by decaying seaweed and the dark, grey-green sludge that streaked a line down the beach, toward the water. Joggers with dogs and families with children would rarely happen upon this area, avoiding the pollution like it was the plague. The surfers and swimmers were reluctant to stray from the flag-marked zones, even for the promise of better surf, fearing how far the waste could spread through the water. There were those, however, who found a form of macabre amusement in the hideous piece of land that the Council had so readily sold off to factories and developers.
Bored school children, unsure of how to squander the first days of their holidays, spent their time tormenting the defenseless animals sucked in by the all-consuming sludge; beggars and homeless chose it as a place of refuge. You could see them, sometimes, emerging from the rocks to try and catch dinner, or scab food or money off unsuspecting beachgoers. They were always disoriented; high from the fumes that the pollution exuded. It was only a matter of time before the Council disposed of them – that is, if the sludge-sickness didn’t get them first.
Today, the stretch of land was occupied by a couple teenaged boys. They wandered aimlessly around, thick boots protecting them from the damage the sludge could do to bare skin, and thin bandanas over their faces to protect from the fumes: whilst the high the waste gave one resembled a state of nirvana, it was short-lived, and few were willing to risk the backlash – not only the reactions of their families and friends, but the days of vomiting and exhaustion. Sometimes, sufferers were so fatigued that they fell asleep and never woke up. Entertaining as the sludge was, neither boy wanted to deal with such repercussions; they took the necessary precautions.
The shorter, stockier one was dragging a piece of driftwood through the sludge, piling it up before a beach rat. The poor creature squealed, terrified, trying with all it’s might to struggle away, limbs dragging painfully slowly through the waste matter that enveloped it. The chemical burns were obvious, its once velveteen skin now red and blistered.
Brendon, however, lost interest in the poor thing when he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eyes – something much more interesting. He jogged over, staring, in awe.
“Jeremy, oi!” he called. The younger one, kneeling down and trying to dissuade a small hermit crab from returning to its now sludge-filled cave, lifted his head, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah?”
Brendon beckoned him over, nudging the cadaver with the toe of one of his boots. Jeremy rose, intrigued, forgetting the crab and burying his hands in his pockets as he made his way toward his friend.
“Jesus,” he mumbled, when he realized what they had stumbled upon. Brendon grinned, sadistically, grabbing a thick piece of driftwood. He prodded the corpse’s head, roughly, and an eyelid fell open. Fluid gushed out, pooling below its rotten excuse for a nose, and Jeremy clamped his mouth shut, determined not to retch.
“Keep that thing the fuck away from me,” he muttered, bitterly, as Brendon waved the driftwood in his direction – the rotting flesh and fluid stank, and he had to cover his mouth again as it was whipped past his face.
“Wimp,” Brendon scoffed. It was good-natured, though; Jeremy would give him that – cruel as he could be, Brendon would never really aim to hurt him. The shorter looked down, snorting a little.
“Probably a faggot anyway,” he continued. Jeremy nodded, silently – he knew which discussions he should take part in, and which he shouldn’t, and regardless of personal beliefs, he knew it was wise, in this situation, to simply keep his mouth shut and let Brendon mock whomever is was that lay before them.
It wasn’t illegal to kill, any more – not as long as your victim was mentally retarded, disabled, past sixty five, a rebel, a homosexual, terminally ill, infertile, or anything or anyone else deemed to be an ‘ineffect’ by the Council. If you couldn’t work or reproduce, then generally, you were useless to them, and if they didn’t need you, then they didn’t see any reason to keep you alive. Not that they’d do anything too rash – as long as you kept paying your taxes, they usually couldn’t be bothered.
But they stopped other things. Jeremy had experienced it first hand; the Council had stopped all funding towards terminal cancer sufferers. She could have lived for years more, with treatment – she’d died alone, and in pain. They wouldn’t even let him out of school to see her – the last words they ever exchanged had been cordial, before-school goodbyes. He’d gotten to see her body, yes… but kissing the lips of your mother’s corpse in a morgue, seeing her blood on the hands of the surgeon that had removed her organs – for people that would use them well, of course – it just wasn’t the same as a real goodbye.
Jeremy squatted, to further inspect the body. It was too far decayed for any sort of facial recognition, its death-darkened skin blistered and warped.
“He got a wallet?” asked Brendon. Jeremy shook his head, disgusted.
“Check him yourself,” he snapped, sharply.
“I’m not gonna nick it, you ass.” the shorter replied, scowling. “Am I honestly that much of a dick?”
Jeremy looked up at his friend – Brendon’s expression, whilst annoyed, was sincere.
“Sorry,” he muttered. Brendon shrugged.
“I just wanna check for ID. I don’t want to get in trouble for wasting police time over an ineffect.”
Jeremy nodded, pulling a pair of gloves from his bag.
“Don’t ask,” he said, before Brendon’s mouth was even open. He may have been the ‘favourite’, but if Brendon was to find out that sometimes, after he left, Jeremy would stay and rescue animals from the sludge, he would be toast. Brendon just shrugged.
“D’you want to do it, or should I?”
And it wasn’t a test, like Brendon would give to the others; he actually cared, but Jeremy still felt the need to prove himself, sometimes. He was younger by only a couple of months, but he seemed the perpetual ‘little brother’ figure in the friendship. He pulled on one of the gloves, but was startled, nearly dropping the second when he felt Brendon’s hand on his shoulder.
“Dude, seriously. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”
And this was the make or break moment – the one they seemed to have every time they were alone together, where Jeremy knew that if he treaded wrong, it would end badly, for both of them.
“Don’t be such a fag,” he replied, jokingly, a false grin plastered across his lips. “I’ll be fine.”
That was his ‘back off’; a gentle reminder to Brendon that whilst Jeremy couldn’t care less if he was gay – and he didn’t shrug the hand off his shoulder – the others would. Not just their friends, but society: they’d get rid of him, just like they did to all the useless faggots. Or, worse – they’d torture him until he was ‘straight’.
Brendon stood there, for a minute, still touching his friend. Then he nodded, stepping back. Jeremy pulled on the other glove, gently rifling through the corpse’s clothing.
“No ring,” he thought aloud, pulling the man’s jacket away. “He’s got a wallet,” he announced, pulling it from the inside pocket.
Catching a glance of a cashcard – blue; he was middle to higher class – he withdrew the Personal Identification card from the wallet, quickly shutting it, feeling like looking at anything further would be an invasion of privacy. Sure, he was dead, but it was still his life – looking at his PID card was bad enough; they contained most of their owners’ personal information anyway.
“He was young,” Jeremy said, sadly, eyes scanning the small piece of plastic.
Name: Richard Stenz; Age: 27; Sexuality: Heterosexual. There was a small, red asterisk next to the word, and Jeremy’s heart sank – it means he was a suspected homosexual, and the police would do nothing to investigate his death. It infuriated him that just because They assumed someone was gay, they didn’t matter any more. Not to say that he was biased; the fast that society found it okay to kill anyone at all disgusted him, especially considering the fact that most of the ineffects needed help, not hindrance.
But this hit close to home – Jeremy knew all too well what happened to people suspected of being homosexuals. His life before Brendon had been a daily roster of different beatings from different people. It could be as shallow as his looks (“Fucking faggot. He looks too much like a chick to like 'em!”) or something as important to him as his writing ('Poetry! The fag’s got poetry! Fucking little cock-sucker.') but they always found an excuse to push him around.
It was funny, because Jeremy didn’t even think he was gay. He couldn’t be sure, not just yet, and especially not with the situation with Brendon. But women were beautiful, and he was sure that someday he’d love to have a wife and children. Perhaps it was just what he’d gone through – no matter how thick-skinned you are, after being told something a number of times, it’s hard not to start believing it.
“Grab his wallet. We’ll take it to the police.”
Jeremy nodded, silently. He slid the card back into the wallet, before pocketing it.
--
The interview didn’t last long. The police asked the two boys basic questions, and scanned the cashcard, to ensure there hadn’t been any recent activity. Once their innocence was confirmed, the boys were released.
The day, however, was as good as ruined. Aloof as Brendon’s façade may have been, Jeremy could tell how shaken he was. It would have been obvious even to someone who barely knew him; tightly grit teeth, hands in his pockets and muscles tense, the confidence that radiated off him suddenly bitter and dark.
They were silent for the short walk back to Brendon’s house.
--
“It is to be duly noted that the council bear no responsibility for any incidents, legal or otherwise, occurring on previously owned land. We deeply regret the recent deaths, but remind land owners that they claim full responsibility for purchased property.”
-George Parkinson, board member 011, head of Property and Assets Related Affairs of section A-19.
Rating: M for language and themes
Author: Mikey
Status: Chaptered/incomplete
Warnings: Blood, gore, very graphic descriptions of death and disease, mature themes, violence, murder.
Summary/Excerpt: There was an apocalypse.
The stench of death hung heavy and thick over the city, mingling with the searing scent of smoldering flesh and the inescapable odour of human waste.
There was a takeover.
If you spoke of anarchy, whether for or against it, the Council would find you. The people who were caught never spoke like that again.
Now, it's time for a revolution.
--
anti-utopia; n. [an-tie-yoo-toe-pee-uh]
A dystopian society in a form of masquerade as a utopia.
-The Discovery-
-The Introduction-
A dystopian society in a form of masquerade as a utopia.
-The Discovery-
-The Introduction-
Nobody noticed the corpse. It was black and bloated, half-covered by decaying seaweed and the dark, grey-green sludge that streaked a line down the beach, toward the water. Joggers with dogs and families with children would rarely happen upon this area, avoiding the pollution like it was the plague. The surfers and swimmers were reluctant to stray from the flag-marked zones, even for the promise of better surf, fearing how far the waste could spread through the water. There were those, however, who found a form of macabre amusement in the hideous piece of land that the Council had so readily sold off to factories and developers.
Bored school children, unsure of how to squander the first days of their holidays, spent their time tormenting the defenseless animals sucked in by the all-consuming sludge; beggars and homeless chose it as a place of refuge. You could see them, sometimes, emerging from the rocks to try and catch dinner, or scab food or money off unsuspecting beachgoers. They were always disoriented; high from the fumes that the pollution exuded. It was only a matter of time before the Council disposed of them – that is, if the sludge-sickness didn’t get them first.
Today, the stretch of land was occupied by a couple teenaged boys. They wandered aimlessly around, thick boots protecting them from the damage the sludge could do to bare skin, and thin bandanas over their faces to protect from the fumes: whilst the high the waste gave one resembled a state of nirvana, it was short-lived, and few were willing to risk the backlash – not only the reactions of their families and friends, but the days of vomiting and exhaustion. Sometimes, sufferers were so fatigued that they fell asleep and never woke up. Entertaining as the sludge was, neither boy wanted to deal with such repercussions; they took the necessary precautions.
The shorter, stockier one was dragging a piece of driftwood through the sludge, piling it up before a beach rat. The poor creature squealed, terrified, trying with all it’s might to struggle away, limbs dragging painfully slowly through the waste matter that enveloped it. The chemical burns were obvious, its once velveteen skin now red and blistered.
Brendon, however, lost interest in the poor thing when he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eyes – something much more interesting. He jogged over, staring, in awe.
“Jeremy, oi!” he called. The younger one, kneeling down and trying to dissuade a small hermit crab from returning to its now sludge-filled cave, lifted his head, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah?”
Brendon beckoned him over, nudging the cadaver with the toe of one of his boots. Jeremy rose, intrigued, forgetting the crab and burying his hands in his pockets as he made his way toward his friend.
“Jesus,” he mumbled, when he realized what they had stumbled upon. Brendon grinned, sadistically, grabbing a thick piece of driftwood. He prodded the corpse’s head, roughly, and an eyelid fell open. Fluid gushed out, pooling below its rotten excuse for a nose, and Jeremy clamped his mouth shut, determined not to retch.
“Keep that thing the fuck away from me,” he muttered, bitterly, as Brendon waved the driftwood in his direction – the rotting flesh and fluid stank, and he had to cover his mouth again as it was whipped past his face.
“Wimp,” Brendon scoffed. It was good-natured, though; Jeremy would give him that – cruel as he could be, Brendon would never really aim to hurt him. The shorter looked down, snorting a little.
“Probably a faggot anyway,” he continued. Jeremy nodded, silently – he knew which discussions he should take part in, and which he shouldn’t, and regardless of personal beliefs, he knew it was wise, in this situation, to simply keep his mouth shut and let Brendon mock whomever is was that lay before them.
It wasn’t illegal to kill, any more – not as long as your victim was mentally retarded, disabled, past sixty five, a rebel, a homosexual, terminally ill, infertile, or anything or anyone else deemed to be an ‘ineffect’ by the Council. If you couldn’t work or reproduce, then generally, you were useless to them, and if they didn’t need you, then they didn’t see any reason to keep you alive. Not that they’d do anything too rash – as long as you kept paying your taxes, they usually couldn’t be bothered.
But they stopped other things. Jeremy had experienced it first hand; the Council had stopped all funding towards terminal cancer sufferers. She could have lived for years more, with treatment – she’d died alone, and in pain. They wouldn’t even let him out of school to see her – the last words they ever exchanged had been cordial, before-school goodbyes. He’d gotten to see her body, yes… but kissing the lips of your mother’s corpse in a morgue, seeing her blood on the hands of the surgeon that had removed her organs – for people that would use them well, of course – it just wasn’t the same as a real goodbye.
Jeremy squatted, to further inspect the body. It was too far decayed for any sort of facial recognition, its death-darkened skin blistered and warped.
“He got a wallet?” asked Brendon. Jeremy shook his head, disgusted.
“Check him yourself,” he snapped, sharply.
“I’m not gonna nick it, you ass.” the shorter replied, scowling. “Am I honestly that much of a dick?”
Jeremy looked up at his friend – Brendon’s expression, whilst annoyed, was sincere.
“Sorry,” he muttered. Brendon shrugged.
“I just wanna check for ID. I don’t want to get in trouble for wasting police time over an ineffect.”
Jeremy nodded, pulling a pair of gloves from his bag.
“Don’t ask,” he said, before Brendon’s mouth was even open. He may have been the ‘favourite’, but if Brendon was to find out that sometimes, after he left, Jeremy would stay and rescue animals from the sludge, he would be toast. Brendon just shrugged.
“D’you want to do it, or should I?”
And it wasn’t a test, like Brendon would give to the others; he actually cared, but Jeremy still felt the need to prove himself, sometimes. He was younger by only a couple of months, but he seemed the perpetual ‘little brother’ figure in the friendship. He pulled on one of the gloves, but was startled, nearly dropping the second when he felt Brendon’s hand on his shoulder.
“Dude, seriously. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”
And this was the make or break moment – the one they seemed to have every time they were alone together, where Jeremy knew that if he treaded wrong, it would end badly, for both of them.
“Don’t be such a fag,” he replied, jokingly, a false grin plastered across his lips. “I’ll be fine.”
That was his ‘back off’; a gentle reminder to Brendon that whilst Jeremy couldn’t care less if he was gay – and he didn’t shrug the hand off his shoulder – the others would. Not just their friends, but society: they’d get rid of him, just like they did to all the useless faggots. Or, worse – they’d torture him until he was ‘straight’.
Brendon stood there, for a minute, still touching his friend. Then he nodded, stepping back. Jeremy pulled on the other glove, gently rifling through the corpse’s clothing.
“No ring,” he thought aloud, pulling the man’s jacket away. “He’s got a wallet,” he announced, pulling it from the inside pocket.
Catching a glance of a cashcard – blue; he was middle to higher class – he withdrew the Personal Identification card from the wallet, quickly shutting it, feeling like looking at anything further would be an invasion of privacy. Sure, he was dead, but it was still his life – looking at his PID card was bad enough; they contained most of their owners’ personal information anyway.
“He was young,” Jeremy said, sadly, eyes scanning the small piece of plastic.
Name: Richard Stenz; Age: 27; Sexuality: Heterosexual. There was a small, red asterisk next to the word, and Jeremy’s heart sank – it means he was a suspected homosexual, and the police would do nothing to investigate his death. It infuriated him that just because They assumed someone was gay, they didn’t matter any more. Not to say that he was biased; the fast that society found it okay to kill anyone at all disgusted him, especially considering the fact that most of the ineffects needed help, not hindrance.
But this hit close to home – Jeremy knew all too well what happened to people suspected of being homosexuals. His life before Brendon had been a daily roster of different beatings from different people. It could be as shallow as his looks (“Fucking faggot. He looks too much like a chick to like 'em!”) or something as important to him as his writing ('Poetry! The fag’s got poetry! Fucking little cock-sucker.') but they always found an excuse to push him around.
It was funny, because Jeremy didn’t even think he was gay. He couldn’t be sure, not just yet, and especially not with the situation with Brendon. But women were beautiful, and he was sure that someday he’d love to have a wife and children. Perhaps it was just what he’d gone through – no matter how thick-skinned you are, after being told something a number of times, it’s hard not to start believing it.
“Grab his wallet. We’ll take it to the police.”
Jeremy nodded, silently. He slid the card back into the wallet, before pocketing it.
--
The interview didn’t last long. The police asked the two boys basic questions, and scanned the cashcard, to ensure there hadn’t been any recent activity. Once their innocence was confirmed, the boys were released.
The day, however, was as good as ruined. Aloof as Brendon’s façade may have been, Jeremy could tell how shaken he was. It would have been obvious even to someone who barely knew him; tightly grit teeth, hands in his pockets and muscles tense, the confidence that radiated off him suddenly bitter and dark.
They were silent for the short walk back to Brendon’s house.
--
“It is to be duly noted that the council bear no responsibility for any incidents, legal or otherwise, occurring on previously owned land. We deeply regret the recent deaths, but remind land owners that they claim full responsibility for purchased property.”
-George Parkinson, board member 011, head of Property and Assets Related Affairs of section A-19.
Last edited by chesterSHIKARI on Mon 27 Oct 2008, 10:34 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : checked. chester.)
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN- Administrator.
-
Number of posts : 3875
Age : 31
Location : living the street rat nightlife -
Re: (c) The Only Difference Between Futurism and Realism is How Many Lies You Believe (M)
by the lover. Fri 24 Oct 2008, 11:52 pm
Thank holy Jeebus in the sky that this is chaptered/incomplete, 'cause I love it.
You and writing go together like Michael Jackson and music - just without the paedoness and the creepy theme park.
You and writing go together like Michael Jackson and music - just without the paedoness and the creepy theme park.
the lover.- Red Scare
-
Number of posts : 661
Age : 29
Location : HR3 5QD -
Re: (c) The Only Difference Between Futurism and Realism is How Many Lies You Believe (M)
by . Sat 25 Oct 2008, 2:52 am
Yeah.
Um.
So.
That time when you were all "you're better than me at everything."
LMFAO
That's a funny joke because no lie your writing is FUCKING MINDBLOWING
>.<
it's really astonishing.
and makes me...so jealous.
Um.
So.
That time when you were all "you're better than me at everything."
LMFAO
That's a funny joke because no lie your writing is FUCKING MINDBLOWING
>.<
it's really astonishing.
and makes me...so jealous.
.- Administrator.
-
Number of posts : 367
Age : 30
Re: (c) The Only Difference Between Futurism and Realism is How Many Lies You Believe (M)
by Sponsored content
Sponsored content
I am Revolution :: Words :: Stories :: Original Fiction
Page 1 of 1
Permissions in this forum:
You cannot reply to topics in this forum