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What? Weird...

Started by Mason, December 19, 2009, 11:51:52 AM

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Mason

A murkless sky careened into the morning and the vagueness of night quickly slipped away. The landscape of iradescent technophalia and rotting husks of mechanical

archaea were bathed in clothy-white light for a moment, perhaps an hour; before the day-storms crept in and smattered the whole scene with inky haze. The outlines of

the mechatotems sputtered and smudged, the day gave up to the storm and the sound of rustling metal and wire and stone mixed haphazardly with the organic rain.

This is how most days begin.  
 
  High above the drowning landscape of coils and weird, a lofty haven of inexplicable magnitute rises un-aided. Flying things with whirring engines, lost knowledge

laden craft commanded by stalwart pilots-hardy men who asked neither question nor quarter embark from these shimmering islets of light-

  -into the void of dark daylight, out of the circumference of the light-isles, the adventuresome leave this ring, searching for any sign of anything in the fading

world around them. They seek lost technoids, glimpses of the past, somthing to help them rationalize the state that mankind is presently in.

   They might find bizarre tribes of once-men, gathered in hollowed corridors that once housed cubicles and computers and watercoolers; They find these ragged men

huddling the hope of a hastily built fire, ensconced around the heat they chant their incantations ignorantly. They eat rats raw, and roast dog. They tried to

cultivate plants, but the soil is all gone. The concrete is thick beneath their calloused feet. They are left alone- they are hostile and crazy and pray to gods whom

no-one knows of, but themselves.

  Some will never return to their eden. Some will be smashed on the magnetized rock-islands that rip across a world that no longer wants their regrettable charge.

Others will fall prey to the siren like neon orbs of nothing, that vaporize metal and flesh with equal discretion.

 The sea- oh. It is terrible. An orchestra of maelstrom. A timultuous rippling thing like a thousand snakes in extasy. Your bones rattle, and your ears scream no-more,

for the sound of a thousand years of anguishing ocean is no sound one would wish to here. And they have heard it, and wish it a dead thing.  

   Great men have tried to mold this blasted landscape- men like Hugo South, who rode with his five hundred cohorts, men with painted faces and feathers that turned to

dust. From the deepest untouched jungles of Southland they rode on ancient metal craft,coaxed into mobility with strange rituals that required the life-blood of the

earth, armed with laser things and screaming-rockets, but found the machine-gods too immortal and they gave them that moniker even as there last  breath left their

very-mortal lungs. They all perished on the blasted plains of the Midwest, and no man goes their anymore.  


 

Superfluous Crow

Potential setting or just a visual you wanted to put into text? :)
Currently...
Writing: Broken Verge v. 207
Reading: the Black Sea: a History by Charles King
Watching: Farscape and Arrested Development

Mason

A setting would be interesting. Science turned occult simply for the lack of knowledge. Trying to picture primitive man in a future setting-but in this case primitive man is you and me. They would treat found weapons like p. man would fire. Not really sure how it works but when I do this- ah ha!