Rumor Hasn't
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Category:
Original - Misc › Science Fiction
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
7
Views:
822
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited
Chapter Five
I\'m still young by your standards. I\'m young by anyone\'s I suppose, but by yours especially. You who have seen so much time, and have watched so many seasons pass. You who have been the founder of so many strange and wonderful creations. And you who made this place for us. You said it was our promised land, the Holy Grail of our existence; you forgot to tell us that paradise is not paradise if one cannot get out.
***
We come together, for common purpose, for a common goal. There is something calling to us, something inside of us that requests we be here. That we accept one another, and that we show each other what we are made of, and how to be ourselves, truly. There are names here, true ones, that wait for no man or woman to claim them. They set their charges out and stake claims to people on their own. These are the worlds and the words. These are the presents and the pasts. These are the futures that we dare not reach for on our own. Believe in them, because we do, and what we believe in, must be real; how else might we dream?
"Where am I?"
It\'s a common question. We don\'t have to answer it, but we will. We always do, eventually. Here. This is where we are. We are here. Come join us. We have names for everything, everyone. Come, sit among us and taste the loveliness of being unique. Touch, taste, feel… Be.
I used to stay up until the midnight hour every night, staring at the ceiling. There were tiny flecks of light that circled around above my head. Sometimes I\'d reach out and try to touch them. Sometimes they\'d come so very close, I thought I\'d be able to just absorb them into my skin. But it was like trying to touch the moon in the middle of a pool; every time I reached out, the air would ripple, and the lights disappeared. Sometimes, I wonder if that\'s a metaphor for what\'s happening to me now. I keep rippling…and I keep vanishing. I come back, but sometimes, those lights that vanished didn\'t return. I wonder, am I going to vanish like that one day?
***
"Come here." There were no replies, no answers. There was no voice. Confused, Goldenrod stuck her head back into the white rooms, looking. The child was not there. "Child!" Goldenrod called, bustling about, in search of the horrid creature. The child had such a tendency to disappear at inopportune moments…it was a problem that warranted solving, at least to Goldenrod\'s mind. There were many things to occupy a child; vanishing was not listed among them. Therefore, vanishing was a bad thing for a child to do."Come here!" Goldenrod screeched again.
Several voices echoed back then, but none of them were from the house, and none of them belonged to the child. Distraught, she began to comb the house, from black to white and all shades of grey in between. No child. No one.
"Come here!" Goldenrod called. Again, nothing more but silence. The child was well and truly gone.
If I began to talk to you, would you look at me in surprise or would you talk back to me like nothing was out of the ordinary? I\'m not supposed to be able to talk you know; I think they think something\'s wrong with me. They come in and stare, and some of them touch me…but there is nothing from them. There are no emotions that escape these inhuman creatures. They have nothing to ordain them with a sense of responsibility or a personality. They are all members of a machine – well oiled cogs and wheels, set up for the sole purpose of running so that this life isn\'t too helter skelter. I wonder, sometimes what would happen if there were to be an organized rebellion of some sort. They would hardly know what to do. It\'s too much to hope for, of course; they wouldn\'t dare go against the designs laid out for them, but sometimes, as I lay here, pretending I\'m stopped or worse, I send out a little wish, one in each direction, and hope it reaches someone. Maybe someone will hear me. Maybe someone will come.
***
He had awoken in the middle of the night to find himself in the black rooms. Confused, he shook his head, trying to orient himself. What was he doing awake? Why was he in the black rooms? He looked around, wondering, but nothing was out of normal order. Everything was right… Mostly right. He was there – that kept it from being perfectly right. There was something slightly changed, and something that needed to be fixed about this whole thing. He ran a hand through his hair; a nervous gesture that seemed to echo in the reflections from the black room\'s walls and floor. The ceiling he didn\'t look at, but he supposed there was a reflection from the ceiling as well.
He needed to get back to the grey rooms, or the white rooms, and then he could go back to sleep. There was time for wandering, and time for sleeping. His steps carried him through the halls, into the grey rooms, and then into the white. He circled for a while, fighting off the sense that there was something he needed to be doing. Why would there be something he needed to do? There was nothing that he needed… Nothing that needed…him. Or…
Yet the feeling persisted, and he wandered through the rooms, from black to grey to white and back again, his feet pounding the hallways restlessly. If there had been anyone to find him, they would have pronounced him mad within an instant. He wondered himself if he was mad. It was possible. He could verily have gone off the center. Perhaps he was dreaming. That seemed a likely explanation. That was much easier to accept than accepting that perhaps he was just a shade too far to the right and hadn\'t realized it before.
If he was, they would stop him, after all. He hardly could bear to think of being stopped. It was a fate, some said, worse than death. And then there were others who said that being stopped was the closest thing to paradise. He never knew which it was. He never had tried it before. Stopping was such a dangerous task to manage on one\'s own. He never had the desire nor the courage; most never had the will to wonder what it was like. That alone made him an anomaly, and had set him apart for a time. When he walked into a room, sometimes there were faces that turned to him and words that halted. They knew about his curiosity, and how he once had asked what stopping was like. They condemned him for it, and he could not find it in himself to blame them. Perhaps if it had been someone else, he might too have though the same of them.
Who looked to a trance to solve all problems of the world? A coward. A fool. Someone without persistence and perseverance. Or…someone who was ingenious. Insane. Innovative.
Which was he, he wondered, pausing in the black rooms again. His face stared back at him, and for a time, he regarded it. There were no mirrors; he saw his face among the others every day, but never had he taken the time to look closely at himself in the shining floors of the entryway.
One hand reached out to touch the reflection. It broke away, blocked, and shards of light streamed into all different directions.
He shook his head. He should have known better.
When day breaks, there are two things that always happen, and three that never do. Can you guess? Will you tell me? I hear them talking about these things, every day, every day. The rising, the setting, the ending the beginning – but what does it all mean? I’m sure you could tell me. You look like you\'ve been places. You look like you might have a name. Do tell me your name. I\'m curious. I\'ve always wanted one, you know… And this might be my last chance.
***
She was curled up in the black rooms when she awoke. She shook her head, blinking. What on earth was she doing in the black rooms? No one came into the black rooms except when entering a building. Life was conducted in the grey, and the white. Mostly the white; it was easier to see in those, easier to breathe. There weren\'t so many things threatening to smother. Black held such a terrifying aura to it. She wondered how anyone could stand to have black rooms sometimes, except that it was the color of life and the beginnings. White, contrary to all expectation, was the color of exiting, and ending. She wondered about that sometimes. It was curious that no one else seemed to. Everyone else seemed to take it for granted; black was to begin, white was to finish.
But why was she in the black rooms? Her hands came together and she pushed herself up off the floor, careful to move quietly. Maybe her rustling clothing would wake someone by mistake. Such a thing would be regrettable, and she did not want to regret anything more tonight. Bad enough to wake in such a place.
Something caught her eye then, just as she was about to leave the black rooms. The mantelpiece was glowing slightly. Curious, and knowing that curiosity often got the better of even the best, she reached out, letting her hands graze across the surface. It brightened, as though a flame with a puff of air…and then died out, the air growing too tough for the weak beacon. Shaking her head, she withdrew her hands and clasped them together. It was slightly chilled in the black rooms. Another benefit of the white – it was comfortably warm there, no matter what.
Again she struck out for the grey and whites. There was another flicker of motion within the walls, calling attention, distracting. She paused, longer this time, and pressed fingertips against the air just before the wall, not touching, not doing anything overt. Light gathered in the wall, shining. She saw her face. Then she fled.
***
We come together, for common purpose, for a common goal. There is something calling to us, something inside of us that requests we be here. That we accept one another, and that we show each other what we are made of, and how to be ourselves, truly. There are names here, true ones, that wait for no man or woman to claim them. They set their charges out and stake claims to people on their own. These are the worlds and the words. These are the presents and the pasts. These are the futures that we dare not reach for on our own. Believe in them, because we do, and what we believe in, must be real; how else might we dream?
"Where am I?"
It\'s a common question. We don\'t have to answer it, but we will. We always do, eventually. Here. This is where we are. We are here. Come join us. We have names for everything, everyone. Come, sit among us and taste the loveliness of being unique. Touch, taste, feel… Be.
I used to stay up until the midnight hour every night, staring at the ceiling. There were tiny flecks of light that circled around above my head. Sometimes I\'d reach out and try to touch them. Sometimes they\'d come so very close, I thought I\'d be able to just absorb them into my skin. But it was like trying to touch the moon in the middle of a pool; every time I reached out, the air would ripple, and the lights disappeared. Sometimes, I wonder if that\'s a metaphor for what\'s happening to me now. I keep rippling…and I keep vanishing. I come back, but sometimes, those lights that vanished didn\'t return. I wonder, am I going to vanish like that one day?
***
"Come here." There were no replies, no answers. There was no voice. Confused, Goldenrod stuck her head back into the white rooms, looking. The child was not there. "Child!" Goldenrod called, bustling about, in search of the horrid creature. The child had such a tendency to disappear at inopportune moments…it was a problem that warranted solving, at least to Goldenrod\'s mind. There were many things to occupy a child; vanishing was not listed among them. Therefore, vanishing was a bad thing for a child to do."Come here!" Goldenrod screeched again.
Several voices echoed back then, but none of them were from the house, and none of them belonged to the child. Distraught, she began to comb the house, from black to white and all shades of grey in between. No child. No one.
"Come here!" Goldenrod called. Again, nothing more but silence. The child was well and truly gone.
If I began to talk to you, would you look at me in surprise or would you talk back to me like nothing was out of the ordinary? I\'m not supposed to be able to talk you know; I think they think something\'s wrong with me. They come in and stare, and some of them touch me…but there is nothing from them. There are no emotions that escape these inhuman creatures. They have nothing to ordain them with a sense of responsibility or a personality. They are all members of a machine – well oiled cogs and wheels, set up for the sole purpose of running so that this life isn\'t too helter skelter. I wonder, sometimes what would happen if there were to be an organized rebellion of some sort. They would hardly know what to do. It\'s too much to hope for, of course; they wouldn\'t dare go against the designs laid out for them, but sometimes, as I lay here, pretending I\'m stopped or worse, I send out a little wish, one in each direction, and hope it reaches someone. Maybe someone will hear me. Maybe someone will come.
***
He had awoken in the middle of the night to find himself in the black rooms. Confused, he shook his head, trying to orient himself. What was he doing awake? Why was he in the black rooms? He looked around, wondering, but nothing was out of normal order. Everything was right… Mostly right. He was there – that kept it from being perfectly right. There was something slightly changed, and something that needed to be fixed about this whole thing. He ran a hand through his hair; a nervous gesture that seemed to echo in the reflections from the black room\'s walls and floor. The ceiling he didn\'t look at, but he supposed there was a reflection from the ceiling as well.
He needed to get back to the grey rooms, or the white rooms, and then he could go back to sleep. There was time for wandering, and time for sleeping. His steps carried him through the halls, into the grey rooms, and then into the white. He circled for a while, fighting off the sense that there was something he needed to be doing. Why would there be something he needed to do? There was nothing that he needed… Nothing that needed…him. Or…
Yet the feeling persisted, and he wandered through the rooms, from black to grey to white and back again, his feet pounding the hallways restlessly. If there had been anyone to find him, they would have pronounced him mad within an instant. He wondered himself if he was mad. It was possible. He could verily have gone off the center. Perhaps he was dreaming. That seemed a likely explanation. That was much easier to accept than accepting that perhaps he was just a shade too far to the right and hadn\'t realized it before.
If he was, they would stop him, after all. He hardly could bear to think of being stopped. It was a fate, some said, worse than death. And then there were others who said that being stopped was the closest thing to paradise. He never knew which it was. He never had tried it before. Stopping was such a dangerous task to manage on one\'s own. He never had the desire nor the courage; most never had the will to wonder what it was like. That alone made him an anomaly, and had set him apart for a time. When he walked into a room, sometimes there were faces that turned to him and words that halted. They knew about his curiosity, and how he once had asked what stopping was like. They condemned him for it, and he could not find it in himself to blame them. Perhaps if it had been someone else, he might too have though the same of them.
Who looked to a trance to solve all problems of the world? A coward. A fool. Someone without persistence and perseverance. Or…someone who was ingenious. Insane. Innovative.
Which was he, he wondered, pausing in the black rooms again. His face stared back at him, and for a time, he regarded it. There were no mirrors; he saw his face among the others every day, but never had he taken the time to look closely at himself in the shining floors of the entryway.
One hand reached out to touch the reflection. It broke away, blocked, and shards of light streamed into all different directions.
He shook his head. He should have known better.
When day breaks, there are two things that always happen, and three that never do. Can you guess? Will you tell me? I hear them talking about these things, every day, every day. The rising, the setting, the ending the beginning – but what does it all mean? I’m sure you could tell me. You look like you\'ve been places. You look like you might have a name. Do tell me your name. I\'m curious. I\'ve always wanted one, you know… And this might be my last chance.
***
She was curled up in the black rooms when she awoke. She shook her head, blinking. What on earth was she doing in the black rooms? No one came into the black rooms except when entering a building. Life was conducted in the grey, and the white. Mostly the white; it was easier to see in those, easier to breathe. There weren\'t so many things threatening to smother. Black held such a terrifying aura to it. She wondered how anyone could stand to have black rooms sometimes, except that it was the color of life and the beginnings. White, contrary to all expectation, was the color of exiting, and ending. She wondered about that sometimes. It was curious that no one else seemed to. Everyone else seemed to take it for granted; black was to begin, white was to finish.
But why was she in the black rooms? Her hands came together and she pushed herself up off the floor, careful to move quietly. Maybe her rustling clothing would wake someone by mistake. Such a thing would be regrettable, and she did not want to regret anything more tonight. Bad enough to wake in such a place.
Something caught her eye then, just as she was about to leave the black rooms. The mantelpiece was glowing slightly. Curious, and knowing that curiosity often got the better of even the best, she reached out, letting her hands graze across the surface. It brightened, as though a flame with a puff of air…and then died out, the air growing too tough for the weak beacon. Shaking her head, she withdrew her hands and clasped them together. It was slightly chilled in the black rooms. Another benefit of the white – it was comfortably warm there, no matter what.
Again she struck out for the grey and whites. There was another flicker of motion within the walls, calling attention, distracting. She paused, longer this time, and pressed fingertips against the air just before the wall, not touching, not doing anything overt. Light gathered in the wall, shining. She saw her face. Then she fled.