10-21-2019, 09:16 AM
When the Sun finally went down the whole city just seemed to get louder. The filth poured out of the factories and into the streets, it yelled and howled. Screamed and ranted. The sound of it breaking glass. Swinging fists outside of dimly lit bars bathed in the warm glow of neon. The sound of pigs bashing away at the filth whether it had done anything or not, just to keep the filth in line.
Yes the city got very loud when the sun went down. And Bo knew it.
The stench arose as it tried to drag out its meager existence, passively submitting to command by those that are conditioned to feel Superior. A stench Bo desperately tried to drown out by filling his nose with nicotine. Smoking down cigarette after cigarettes as he desperately pushed pens to paper.
Bo was not like them. Not part of the filth that flowed out of the rapidly constructed concrete mausoleums known as apartment buildings, and traveled by the sewage canals known as Subways down to the factories and then back to their tombs with a machine like regularity, so precise that you could set a watch to it.
No.
Bo was smart. Not smart enough to have been able to get out of his unlucky status at first. Not smart enough to pass the civil service exam and be accepted into the bureaucracy. No nothing so lucky. He was smart enough to be in the worst position anyone could be in the Empire. Smart enough to dream but not smart enough to have any path to achieve it. The only thing he could do was push his pen to paper. Bo fancies himself a writer. Carving out individual segments of the filth and giving it personality and purpose beyond simple servitude in his fiction.
It was his only means of expression. His only way of silently resisting the world he found himself in. Bo lacked the intelligence to get into the bureaucracy. He lacked the sociopathic single-minded ambition to move to Biaking, and end up behind a desk. Being another cog in this machine personally offended him. Not another generation in quiet servitude like his father. A man who silently sneered at his worthless son who wouldn't go out and get a job and start his life like everyone else his age was supposed to do. Only protected by the overt compassion of his mother.
Their nightly screaming matches we're just another part of that disgusting symphony that rose out of the filth and assaulted his ears. Only stopped when fascist goons dressed as officers of the law pounded on the door demanding to be let in at ungodly hours of the night because of noise complaints.
After that he had left, the last bit of his Creative Energy was usually worn up. The would be wrighter would remove a brick from his wall and carefully slide his unfinished fiction inside. Hiding away unorthodox ideas about how those on the bottom were forced to live. Preparing for another day living amongst the filth
Yes the city got very loud when the sun went down. And Bo knew it.
The stench arose as it tried to drag out its meager existence, passively submitting to command by those that are conditioned to feel Superior. A stench Bo desperately tried to drown out by filling his nose with nicotine. Smoking down cigarette after cigarettes as he desperately pushed pens to paper.
Bo was not like them. Not part of the filth that flowed out of the rapidly constructed concrete mausoleums known as apartment buildings, and traveled by the sewage canals known as Subways down to the factories and then back to their tombs with a machine like regularity, so precise that you could set a watch to it.
No.
Bo was smart. Not smart enough to have been able to get out of his unlucky status at first. Not smart enough to pass the civil service exam and be accepted into the bureaucracy. No nothing so lucky. He was smart enough to be in the worst position anyone could be in the Empire. Smart enough to dream but not smart enough to have any path to achieve it. The only thing he could do was push his pen to paper. Bo fancies himself a writer. Carving out individual segments of the filth and giving it personality and purpose beyond simple servitude in his fiction.
It was his only means of expression. His only way of silently resisting the world he found himself in. Bo lacked the intelligence to get into the bureaucracy. He lacked the sociopathic single-minded ambition to move to Biaking, and end up behind a desk. Being another cog in this machine personally offended him. Not another generation in quiet servitude like his father. A man who silently sneered at his worthless son who wouldn't go out and get a job and start his life like everyone else his age was supposed to do. Only protected by the overt compassion of his mother.
Their nightly screaming matches we're just another part of that disgusting symphony that rose out of the filth and assaulted his ears. Only stopped when fascist goons dressed as officers of the law pounded on the door demanding to be let in at ungodly hours of the night because of noise complaints.
After that he had left, the last bit of his Creative Energy was usually worn up. The would be wrighter would remove a brick from his wall and carefully slide his unfinished fiction inside. Hiding away unorthodox ideas about how those on the bottom were forced to live. Preparing for another day living amongst the filth
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