Times may have become tough for early twentifirst century Paragon, so any newspaper would declare, although the television news was slowly showing symptoms of decadence and terror, rather than reporting it bleakly. Who wishes to see heroes beaten bloody over and over again, with rare victories, almost always gathered through guile and superior might rather than virtuous strength? Once upon a time it was different, before Superidine stilted the learning of young folk who would otherwise be the bright eyed gentry of the corner five and dime, before the rituals of the Circle of Thorns cast the nightmarish haloes like an apple-green seatide flooding over rooftops and drowning Perez Park. Now, the people turned the television dials to tune in to happy dramas where violence and viciousness was justified by simple lies. Only the newspapers were honest.
Newsprint will tell us part of why our cities are growing in their everchanging forms; but other clues can be seen in the world around us. Once, children were happy, and the adults were trusting and merry folk, cooperative and full of wise craft. The suburbs of Paragon city in the seventies were daydream gardens. Tussels did happen, but when two people wrestled, it was a spry spectacle of playfulness, as when Perlarosero was found covered in mud gripping the wrists of his best friend Shiarin, both laughing hysterically over the patterns that the splattered soil left in their t-shirts. "It is our experiment in modern art," shouted Shiarin, the intelligent scholar of the pair. "Nonsense," retorted Perlarosero, "we are training to be professional wrestlers, so we can be famous and wealthy!" Since no straight story could be taken of the two, it was assumed they were testing the strength of the human form, and subtly structuring the power of their friendship.
Shiarin and Perlarosero were youth who dwelled in the suburbs of Paragon City, the zone once referred to as Pennyfountain Paradise; the reason for its name was due to a festive habit of the populace to adhere polished coins along the paved thoroughfares and cobbled roads in intricate patterns and constructing decorative sprinkler "fountains" to spread water over these designs. A spiral of NASA comemorative golden coins decorated the sidewalk outside city hall, and even until 1981, no one would seriously consider thieving these shining discs of solar metal.
Perlarosero would stroll happily across the golden coins, singing his favorite song
Before the dawn we awake to a silver moon
Floating with poetry of ancient tide
Fly with me through stories amid life's typhoon
And meet me on life's other side...
While Gary Wright had penned *different* lyrics to the song Dreamweaver, which Perlarosero was attempting to sing from hearing it over a static mouthed radio, none seemed to want to correct Perlarosero's childlike emulation of an Irish alto. The misprisioned lyric Perlarosero sang was fit for a city whelmed with water and mist, streets paved with gleaming coins and wishes.
In the golden shimmer of dawn colored hills overlooking the waking churches and temples, twelve year olds sat in the late Spring break, watching the crow-path of jets stream white over their homes to the distant Paragon military airbase. The Star Spangled Banner was on their tongues and in their hearts; no care who was voted, it was always a good man who headed the nation; no care of taxes, for all recieved their hearts' fond desires for life, liberty, and serendipitous happiness. Shiarin's father, a reformed criminal, was indeed reformed -- and spoke before the Unitarian congregation of his old life, a criminal life but devoid even then of murderous hate.
"I would never slay a single person nor desire to. I stole happily from people I'd swear in my heart to pay one day; and so I did pay, spending my time in prison working honest trades." spoke he, and the congregation applauded. No, it was not license plate grafting, it was honest trades that produced immediate goods that others could use: socks, ties, belt buckles.
Perlarosero sat in the dewy hill grass, watching the jets roar overhead, his best friend Shiarin seated in meditative posture beside him, chanting. Green hills dappled gold, apple trees swaying in the near valley grove behind the hills, children singing a soft patriotic hymn til breakfast time came. Perlarosero decided to stray a bit, and wandered the hills into the apple grove with Shiarin, discussing the irreconcilably variances in Judaism and Hinduism.
"Of course the Jews don't like idols and gods, and the Hindus do. Yet you see Sri Aurobindo and Rabbi Mendolitz shaking hands on NBC." said Shiarin, "The New Crusaders of Superchrist may have frightened nations, but all agree that religious freedom is tops."
"Tops," said Perlarosero, "that is a cool word. My grandfather used to say certain things were the tops; but what you say about Superchrist: why talk about it? Superchrist nearly brought our nation to war with itself. Don't you remember the radios saying, `Stay in your homes, this is an emergency,' and then the special broadcast stating that Protestant minister Superchrist was attacking places of worship and people based on religious differences?"
"I remember that and even my grandchildren will hear about it." said Shiarin.
"You have grandchildren? Where do you hide them? Where are they? Wait, there they hop among the trees, white and tiny."
"Those are rabbits, you numbskull!"
"Hunt the wabbit!" shouted Perlarosero and fled the opposite way of the meandering bunnies, who fed on the windfallen apples. Shiarin gave chase, and the two fled into the dissipating mist -- and fell into the moon itself. For all became white light and softness and strange visions.
Posted
Very good. I'm keeping an eye out for part 2. I hope it's coming soon!
Times may have become tough for early twentifirst century Paragon, so any newspaper would declare, although the television news was slowly showing symptoms of decadence and terror, rather than reporting it bleakly. Who wishes to see heroes beaten bloody over and over again, with rare victories, almost always gathered through guile and superior might rather than virtuous strength? Once upon a time it was different, before Superidine stilted the learning of young folk who would otherwise be the bright eyed gentry of the corner five and dime, before the rituals of the Circle of Thorns cast the nightmarish haloes like an apple-green seatide flooding over rooftops and drowning Perez Park. Now, the people turned the television dials to tune in to happy dramas where violence and viciousness was justified by simple lies. Only the newspapers were honest.
Newsprint will tell us part of why our cities are growing in their everchanging forms; but other clues can be seen in the world around us. Once, children were happy, and the adults were trusting and merry folk, cooperative and full of wise craft. The suburbs of Paragon city in the seventies were daydream gardens. Tussels did happen, but when two people wrestled, it was a spry spectacle of playfulness, as when Perlarosero was found covered in mud gripping the wrists of his best friend Shiarin, both laughing hysterically over the patterns that the splattered soil left in their t-shirts. "It is our experiment in modern art," shouted Shiarin, the intelligent scholar of the pair. "Nonsense," retorted Perlarosero, "we are training to be professional wrestlers, so we can be famous and wealthy!" Since no straight story could be taken of the two, it was assumed they were testing the strength of the human form, and subtly structuring the power of their friendship.
Shiarin and Perlarosero were youth who dwelled in the suburbs of Paragon City, the zone once referred to as Pennyfountain Paradise; the reason for its name was due to a festive habit of the populace to adhere polished coins along the paved thoroughfares and cobbled roads in intricate patterns and constructing decorative sprinkler "fountains" to spread water over these designs. A spiral of NASA comemorative golden coins decorated the sidewalk outside city hall, and even until 1981, no one would seriously consider thieving these shining discs of solar metal.
Perlarosero would stroll happily across the golden coins, singing his favorite song
Before the dawn we awake to a silver moon
Floating with poetry of ancient tide
Fly with me through stories amid life's typhoon
And meet me on life's other side...
While Gary Wright had penned *different* lyrics to the song Dreamweaver, which Perlarosero was attempting to sing from hearing it over a static mouthed radio, none seemed to want to correct Perlarosero's childlike emulation of an Irish alto. The misprisioned lyric Perlarosero sang was fit for a city whelmed with water and mist, streets paved with gleaming coins and wishes.
In the golden shimmer of dawn colored hills overlooking the waking churches and temples, twelve year olds sat in the late Spring break, watching the crow-path of jets stream white over their homes to the distant Paragon military airbase. The Star Spangled Banner was on their tongues and in their hearts; no care who was voted, it was always a good man who headed the nation; no care of taxes, for all recieved their hearts' fond desires for life, liberty, and serendipitous happiness. Shiarin's father, a reformed criminal, was indeed reformed -- and spoke before the Unitarian congregation of his old life, a criminal life but devoid even then of murderous hate.
"I would never slay a single person nor desire to. I stole happily from people I'd swear in my heart to pay one day; and so I did pay, spending my time in prison working honest trades." spoke he, and the congregation applauded. No, it was not license plate grafting, it was honest trades that produced immediate goods that others could use: socks, ties, belt buckles.
Perlarosero sat in the dewy hill grass, watching the jets roar overhead, his best friend Shiarin seated in meditative posture beside him, chanting. Green hills dappled gold, apple trees swaying in the near valley grove behind the hills, children singing a soft patriotic hymn til breakfast time came. Perlarosero decided to stray a bit, and wandered the hills into the apple grove with Shiarin, discussing the irreconcilably variances in Judaism and Hinduism.
"Of course the Jews don't like idols and gods, and the Hindus do. Yet you see Sri Aurobindo and Rabbi Mendolitz shaking hands on NBC." said Shiarin, "The New Crusaders of Superchrist may have frightened nations, but all agree that religious freedom is tops."
"Tops," said Perlarosero, "that is a cool word. My grandfather used to say certain things were the tops; but what you say about Superchrist: why talk about it? Superchrist nearly brought our nation to war with itself. Don't you remember the radios saying, `Stay in your homes, this is an emergency,' and then the special broadcast stating that Protestant minister Superchrist was attacking places of worship and people based on religious differences?"
"I remember that and even my grandchildren will hear about it." said Shiarin.
"You have grandchildren? Where do you hide them? Where are they? Wait, there they hop among the trees, white and tiny."
"Those are rabbits, you numbskull!"
"Hunt the wabbit!" shouted Perlarosero and fled the opposite way of the meandering bunnies, who fed on the windfallen apples. Shiarin gave chase, and the two fled into the dissipating mist -- and fell into the moon itself. For all became white light and softness and strange visions.