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Alegria
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 Posted: Wed Aug 13, 2008 6:07 pm Post subject: The World Spins Silently On [chapter 5 now up] |
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This is a new sci-fi peice I already have several chapters on, so I'll post them all first.
Prolouge
2062 a.d.
The breeze came softly through the door, carrying with it the smell of salt, the cool air, the sound of the tide, the feeling of dreams.
Ashton walked across the wood, feeling the smooth grain on his bare feet, marveling at the softness of the wood he walked on, reveling in the breeze that blew through the three open French windows, the breeze that delicately played with the sheer hangings that adorned the wall space between those windows. The French windows, doors, actually, danced on the breeze, swaying back and forth, their white paint slowly being baked off by the heat and the breeze.
Ashton smiled and shut his eyes. The breeze brought in the late night of a summer, the air felt wonderfully warm, a warmth that can only be understood by those who have felt it, a comforting soothing warmth that played with his skin and the little hairs on his arms. Ashton never felt so alive as he did when this air, this temperature caressed his skin. The breeze made him feel as if he could do anything, made him feel relaxed, made him feel alert. Ashton looked through the windows to the scene outside, past the stately, gracefully tall pillars that supported the balcony on the second floor of the large, white bungalow. The scene was pure magic. There, on his family’s private beach, was the white sand he loved, sand that seemed to glow, reflecting the moonlight. There, further still was the ocean rolling in, the source of the salt on the air, clear and beautiful, reflecting the moon, also.
Ashton stood in the door for a moment, wondering at the glories of South Padre Island.
He silently looked at the water longingly. There were floating lanterns in it that illuminated the water for about a foot, a soft glow that did nothing to diminish the reflection of the moonlight. Ashton looked across the beach and silently removed his shirt, a plain, loose cotton garment, pure white, tossing it behind him as it floated to the ground, ruffled by the wind. He looked down at his skin as the breeze stroked it. He was in shape, like everyone he knew, and the long summer at Padre Island had made him tan, an attribute that would fade away once he got back to the glistening city he called home. He then silently padded across the wood floor in his loose jeans.
He drifted through the floating curtains, through the dancing doors, and onto the beach. The sand was warm beneath his toes and made his footsteps silent, a natural safeguard against any noise intruding on the night. Ashton stared at the beckoning waves as he watched, his hazel eyes going over every wave as the wind did the same to him
A palm tree grew beside him in a strange manner. The trunk went up, but then sharply turned to the side, then went up again, making a small L shape. It also, Ashton thought, made a perfect shelf. He silently removed the rest of his clothes, placing them in the crook of the tree. He continued his short walk to the sea, listening to the crash of the waves. The distance closed.
He stepped into the water, his eyes fixed on the lanterns that bobbed up and down, and felt the water swirl around his feet and ankles as a wave came up to greet him. He then slowly walked into deeper water, feeling the breeze and the tide on his body; contented with the perfect world he lived in.
Last edited by Alegria on Tue Aug 19, 2008 12:19 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Alegria
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| Posted: Wed Aug 13, 2008 6:12 pm Post subject: |
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1
2010
Mr. Leonard walked to work from his home. He picked his way through the ever expanding crowds of New York City, avoiding the pickpockets and holding a scented handkerchief to his nose. This was not an odd thing to do; several other New Yorkers did the same. It was a new practice that had many advantages. The handkerchief kept out pollutants, some anyways, blocked the stench of the gas-fume cloud hovering over the city, and disguised the reek of the Hudson, a smell that now infested every corner of the overpopulated, overgrown city.
Mr. Leonard’s job was quite a ways away, blocks, actually, but with gas at a new record of $14.93 a gallon, paychecks getting lower and lower, the dollar continuing its earlier dip into a nosedive, and a never-ending war going on, it was cheaper, and much better for the economy to walk, and a lot cheaper. Such was the world of the year 2010. Mr. Leonard, however, tried not to think of the economy, even though it was his job to do so. Jackson Leonard was not your typical middle age, designer wearing white male. Mr. Leonard was the CEO of the New York Stock Exchange, the most lucrative stock exchange in the world, the stock exchange that foretold the economic problems of America, and thus the world.
Mr. Leonard hated his job.
The position of CEO was, of course, a cushy job in times past. The director merely had to sit back, watch the economy, and do everything in his power to make sure the sales kept on going at reasonable prices to avoid a depression, or worse, a crash.
Currently, it seemed, the CEO was blamed for economic hardships. After the Republicans and Democrats had both failed to fix the economy, the people had decided that the Liaise Faire system was the root of the problem and that the government should closely watch the NYSE, maybe even integrate the two powers together. It wasn’t the most sensible or plausible explanation for America’s economic problems, but the market served as a good scapegoat due to its arrogant belief that it did, indeed support all of the American economy. Thus the falsehood and unjustified fear lived on with no one to deny it, not even the defendants (much less the judge or jury). This same unjustified fear made Mr. Leonard very worried and very stressed.
In response to the angering of the public, the Stock Exchange had made the CEO promise to gather economists who had been studying this crisis to come to a substantial theory about the future of America.
That is where Mr. Leonard was currently headed. His meeting. He turned onto Wall Street, and stopped dead in his tracks.
There was a large mob sitting docilely in front of the Stock Exchange, bewildered police officers standing around, trying to figure out if they had to stop a riot or not. The crowd turned to look at him, one by one as word got around. Mr. Leonard nervously walked down the sidewalk and towards the crowd. His face was nervous. For all he knew the crowd could be here to murder him, but they let him pass through easily enough. Some even moved to make an aisle way to the front doors.
He passed a security guard and leaned over. “What’s with the people?”
The guard looked at him as if he was surprised. “They’re here to find out what the future holds. You’re sorta like the world’s fortuneteller now, buddy. Let’s hope you tell a good one.”
Mr. Leonard swallowed and smiled. He used his most reassuring voice, though it quavered a little. “I’m sure it will be. The American economy can hold up much through much worse than this. I have faith in it.”
The guard looked at him with a cynical smirk. “Well let’s see if the guys inside have as much faith in our good old American economy.”
Mr. Leonard’s face looked worried. “Who’s inside? No one’s allowed inside now but the stock traders. You know that.”
“You’ll see.”
Mr. Leonard sighed and walked into the large building.
_________________
A writer doesn't solve problems. He allows them to emerge.
-Friedrich Dürrenmatt
 
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Alegria
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| Posted: Wed Aug 13, 2008 6:13 pm Post subject: |
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2
The NYSE, which was usually filled with the teeming shouting of brokers trying to get the right price for the right stock for the right client, was silent as a tomb.
They sat in the floor. They watched him come in. A silent murmur ran through the crowd.
“The CEO is here! The meeting is going to start soon!”
On any other day the floor would have been teeming with people and parasites, shouting over each other as they tried desperately to get the right stocks at the right price for the right clients. Today they were cold as stone. The great building, the great altar to American capitalism, was silent as a tomb. The worshipers were all sitting on the floor, waiting to see if the worship of deals and bonds and stock would even be worth anything anymore. They waited to see if they should bother.
The CEO walked across the marble floors, his footfalls the only sound in the empty room, seeming a cacophonous noise to the silent watchers.
Most were brokers who would regularly be working, wondering if they were out of a job. Many were worried investors; pettily fretting about the corporations they had invested in. Then there were members of the UN who had been in New York anyway. They were waiting to report to their various governments. They would report about the future of America, relaying the information to the officials who would decide whether to pull out of the American business giant or whether to hang on.
They didn’t realize there was no pulling out. The world relied on the American economy too much for it to fail.
All were completely silent, waiting for the verdict of their lives. The CEO crossed the floor nervously. Someone started giggling hysterically. The two guards on either side of the doors to the conference room opened the doors. The CEO went through.
The doors closed.
What lay on the other side of those doors would decide the entire course of the world.
_________________
A writer doesn't solve problems. He allows them to emerge.
-Friedrich Dürrenmatt
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Alegria
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| Posted: Wed Aug 13, 2008 6:16 pm Post subject: |
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3
Mr. Leonard sighed as he put his black leather briefcase on the large mahogany table. He did not sit in the large leather seats, but instead stood and face the panel of economists. His personal assistant, Jonathan Smith, was waiting.
Jonathan’s face was usually carefree and young, a handsome face at his 26 years of age that made women fall for him. Today, his brown hair was messy, his dark eyes were flitting around restlessly, and his usually melodic voice was shaky. He too was concerned about what would be divulged in this meeting. He turned to his boss and introduced the economists.
“Mr. Leonard. May I introduce the panel of economists? This is Dr. Zhou Lao.” An Asian man stepped forwards and bowed, his hair short and his face round. “Dr. Rasha Shanti.” An Indian woman with the bindi upon her forehead, “Dr. Roger Wolfther,” Wolfther was an American; it was evident from his clothes, with a strong German accent. “Finally, may I present Dr. Linda Crane?” A British woman stepped forwards and grasped Mr. Leonard’s hand firmly. “These four economists are the best in their fields and have done their research. Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Mr. Leonard.”
The CEO smiled a warm smile, still somewhat wary. “Please, call me Jackson or Jack.”
Jonathan looked around the room. “Can I get anyone coffee? Tea?” Dr. Lao was about to say something when Linda shook her head and cut him off. “Nothing for us. This won’t take long. You may want to get something a little stronger for Jack here, though.”
Jackson swallowed again and fidgeted with his moustache. That statement did not bode well for him.
Jonathan went out of the room, hoping that Mr. Leonard would fill him in on everything later.
Dr. Crane smiled a frosty smile. Her blouse perfectly complimented her red hair and her make-up was expertly done. She looked at the CEO and began.
“You called us a year ago with an interesting request, though not one we did not all know would eventually come. It was difficult to chart through all the various twists and turns that the economy could go through, but we got together and took to it nonetheless. We had only two things to guide us, as we do on every forecast…”
Dr. Shanti interrupted. Her eyes were warm and her voice was soft, a contrast to Dr. Crane. “The events of the world and American economy in the past and the basic law of economics- the economy repeats itself. It is a cycle. I used to joke that besides Hindus and Buddhists, the only people who believed in reincarnation were economists.”
Now was Dr. Lao’s turn. He spoke with a thick accent making him hard to understand. “Of course, no one had ever tried to forecast the economic future of an entire nation before that we know of, especially not in the modern age of international commerce.”
Dr. Crane again. “We all knew the fundamental problem, of course. We’ve known it for a long time. Oil. Petroleum. Fuel. The problem is that every aspect of the United State’s economy is based on the idea that with fuel, we can ship anything anywhere. We tried to limit our usage of fuel in the past few years, realizing that it was running out, but it’s too little, too late.”
Jackson sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I know all this, already. Just tell me what’s going to happen.”
A deep, throaty chuckle erupted from Dr. Wolfther. “Patience. We just wanted someone to know how hard this was to pull off. When my father moved my family and me to America in the 70s, you were in a similar predicament with fuel, but not nearly as serious. That was an embargo. There was plenty of fuel; they just weren’t giving it to you. Now it is the opposite. You can get all the fuel you need, there’s just not much left.”
Dr. Crane continued in her brisk manner. This time, no one tried to interrupt her. “All attempts to make alternate resources practical will take too long to delay the point where we run out of oil. Here’s what we think will happen. You must remember that politics and economics are mutually important to each other, and each affects the other greatly. We will continue with this economic recession for a little over a year and a half. The event that will end it is simple. The other nations will run out of crude oil. By the time that happens, gas will be around thirty dollars a gallon. Then, the United States will open up Alaska and its emergency oil reserves. For three months the entire world will come to us for oil and we will be the most prosperous nation, we will see the greatest economic spike the world has ever known. Then, it happens.”
Jonathan walked back into the world with a bottle of bourbon and six glasses. “What will happen?”
Dr. Wolfther cut Dr. Crane off. He seemed to want to break the news; maybe he didn’t like Dr. Crane’s brusque presentation manner. “There was an old book back in the 60s called Dune. You may remember the movie in the 80s. In it, the entire galaxy was dependent upon a resource called Spice, and if it were ever to stop flowing, the galaxy would collapse. That is how we are with oil. Once the oil runs out, the United States will crash, going from the most prosperous nation the world has ever known to the poorest in a day. The rest of the world is already too invested in the United States. When we go, so does everyone else. We are not talking about the fall of the American government here; we are talking about the fall of capitalism, which means the fall of the world. Even the communist nations are somewhat capitalist. The world as we know it will fall apart into total anarchy.
Everyone was silent at this, no one breathed. Jonathan moved first. He opened the Bourbon bottle and poured five glasses, ignoring his own and taking a large gulp from the bottle. “When?”
Dr. Wolfther looked sadly at Jonathan. “When Mr. Smith? It is certainly ironic. If we have to put a precise date on it, I would say four days before Christmas, 2012.”
Dr. Shanti looked around quietly, suppressing her natural instinct to comfort those around her. “So, a year and a half of hardship, a few months of wild growth, and then doomsday.”
Mr. Leonard gulped down his Bourbon. “Well, those few months are going to be a hell of a time to be alive.”
_________________
A writer doesn't solve problems. He allows them to emerge.
-Friedrich Dürrenmatt
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Alegria
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| Posted: Wed Aug 13, 2008 6:17 pm Post subject: |
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4
And thus the two years to come ensued. Out of the ashes of the year and one half rose the three months of untold prosperity. The world’s billions stared enviously and desperately at the United States of America. They simultaneously hated the nation more than they ever had, while they bowed down humbly in an effort to get cheaper gas. Pride was no longer important. Commerce was important. It was well known that the economy exists to support the people and without the people there was no government. In frenzied, unavoidable desperation China, the European Union, Russia, Japan, and the rest of the world all turned to America, flinging aside pride in the name of self-preservation. America had the world at her feet.
It was her dreams come true.
The citizens of America, starved for so long of their earthly wealth, of their precious materialism, came gluttonous to the table of prosperity, eager to feast on the offerings of the desperate nations. They rode upon a wave of vulgarity and desperation, thinly veneered by the trappings of high society. They acted like children in a candy store, grabbing at everything remotely justifiable they could, not bothering to check such unimportant things as prices and whether or not they truly desired what they were buying. Such things were for the old times, the times when the Americans did not have money. Now they could afford clothes, jewels, cars, houses! Nothing was out of reach, nothing too much, nothing too gaudy, nothing to useless that the American people couldn’t live without it. Money changed hands like never before; every family had a car per person, and every person had their own cell phone. Cooking was an unnecessary hassle- you could just buy a meal at a restaurant easily. The cost was immaterial. The poor pretended they were as rich as anyone else, even the homeless lived above their means. It was a time of bright lights, entertaining shows, wild dancing, greed, and corruption.
Then came the crash.
On December 21, 2012, Mr. Leonard could be seen pacing the floor of his office, staring remorsefully at the throng of busy brokers below. He had told no one but the President of the economists’ discovery; they had decided it would be better not to let the people know the world was about to end. It was easier this way. It would hurt, but it would be quick, like ripping off a band-aid. To Jackson the two years had held no fun; it was like the world was slowly deteriorating and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Now, the dreaded day had come. The President had just informed him that the oil was gone, every drop. He had to tell the brokers, had to tell the world.
During the past two years, the government had given into the people’s demands and incorporated the NYSE into the treasury, making it the Department of Stock. Unsurprisingly it had fixed nothing, but it made it appear that the government was doing something. Mr. Leonard was now director of the Department of Stock, so he went out to the pressroom to consult the people of America.
Bulbs flashed quickly in the room. The reporters were buzzing with excitement, the hardships of just three months ago all but forgotten. All they knew was that they had received an urgent call from the Department of Stock’s director’s assistant and right-hand man, Jonathan Smith, to come to the NYSE building quickly for a press conference. They looked expectantly at the empty podium.
Finally, Jonathan came out. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Director.” Polite and apprehensive applause greeted Mr. Leonard.
The Director cleared his throat. He hated public speaking most of all. He went into the Stock market to work with numbers and prices, not people. He was sweating, but that was understandable given the conditions. “Ladies and Gentlemen…” His throat was still dry. He cleared it once more. Someone coughed. “I regret to inform you that the United State’s oil reserves upon which our recent economy has been dependent upon have been depleted. Our economy is now going to be virtually nonexistent, which means our nation will soon collapse…” He trailed off, becoming very silent. He couldn’t think, just go through the motions. He leaned over to the microphone once more out of some habit of social grace. “Thank you.” He then got out of the room quickly before the reporters erupted.
All press conferences in the exchange were shown on monitors throughout the building. Mr. Leonard walked past people who had frozen in the middle of what they had been doing. Only Jonathan followed him, faithful to the last. They walked through the doors of Mr. Leonard’s office, the doors closing behind them.
Finally, in the main trading area, someone moved. The man shouted into his walkie-talkie at his employees scattered throughout the exchange. “Sell anything you can at any price! Sell it all! Sell!” Others repeated the cry as the value of stock plummeted to unprecedented amounts, amounts not even seen in 1929. More shouts got came from outside as the world heard the news of its imminent demise. People all over the nation and world rushed banks to get their money out. A mob descended upon the former NYSE as the police stood and watched, angry to the point of tears with the government and the world.
Mr. Leonard looked outside through the large windows at the mob flowing into the building. He knew this would be happening all over the world, but the purpose was not the same. He knew the mob’s one purpose. He looked at his young assistant. “You don’t have to stay here. Go home and be safe.”
Jonathan squared his shoulders and stood resolute. “I’ll stay here with you. I have no one to go to, anyways.”
Mr. Leonard nodded and sat in his chair as he waited for the mob to kill him and his friend.
_________________
A writer doesn't solve problems. He allows them to emerge.
-Friedrich Dürrenmatt
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Alegria
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| Posted: Wed Aug 13, 2008 6:18 pm Post subject: |
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Well that's all for the first batch. The next is to come soon, though at a normal rate of one chapter at a time.[/code]
_________________
A writer doesn't solve problems. He allows them to emerge.
-Friedrich Dürrenmatt
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Thu Aug 14, 2008 4:47 pm Post subject: |
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started reading it
will finish.
(*couldn't finish due to a general scrambling of the brain due to ummmm... let's just say sleep deprivation*)
(°SLEEP DEPRIVATION*)
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Alegria
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| Posted: Tue Aug 19, 2008 12:18 pm Post subject: |
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5
He rode his bike through the small… the citizens of the place had not created a word for the small encampment. It was too small to be a town, too large to be a village or hamlet. Those words implied permanent structures of wood or stone, anyways. Wood and stone were now scarce and precious commodities, almost impossible to get a hold of with no trucks or trains or planes to ship them. If the man looked in a history book he would have noticed the cluster of building’s similarity to an old Hooverville, but the past no longer mattered to humanity, nor did the future. All that mattered was learning how to survive in a world without major transportation.
It had been two years since the crash.
He walked around the dismal place. The cardboard houses rustled in the wind as he picked his way through a dizzying combination of asphalt and mud. It was time to visit the king.
The palace was up ahead. It used to be a University, actually, and though the old university buildings still remained in place, they were only used for “official government departments.” The palace was a large building with a big tower in front of it. It was a medieval style with brown bricks and lighter stonework. Beside it there was a decrepit sign that only read “INCE ON.” The place had once been beautiful, but now many of the windows were shattered by marauding bands and remained broken with no replacement. Glass was expensive and difficult to make and the kingdom had other concerns.
The man held his threadbare jacket close against the wind. With no gas to fuel the heaters, people were either building clumsy fires or freezing to death. Already most of the old wood paneling inside the silent buildings was torn from the walls. Outside was even colder than the inside due to wind. Yes, the man was grateful for his jacket, no matter how thin. It was more than most had.
Inside the palace a fire was crackling in the large fireplace. The man rubbed his hands and tried to warm them. A door opened. The king entered. He wore a coat of furs over a sweater he had raided from one of the many shops that lay abandoned. On the chest there was a picture of a sketchy moose. The king also had on gloves, underneath which rings poked at the material, a scarf, and boots- status of his wealth and the prosperity of his small nation.
The king looked at the man through bushy eyebrows. “So you’re the nomad I’ve heard about.” His voice was scratchy as if he had a sore throat. “Well what wares have you brought to sell my kingdom?”
The trader pulled objects out of his pocket- an iPod, DVDs (the king snorted. There was no electricity anymore to use the items), an old marble statue that once sat on a table in a mansion, various foodstuffs, and finally what the king was really looking for. Medicine. The king looked at the items carefully and pushed away the iPod, DVDs, and statue. “How much for the medicine and the food?”
The trader smiled. “A months worth of wood. I want to build a sled so I can carry more in the winter. I also want some nails and a hammer.”
“What? That’s outrageously expensive!”
“It’s medicine. Medicine was expensive even when the labs that made it still had power and we had cars to deliver it. My price still stands. How’s that sore throat of yours coming along, your highness?”
The monarch looked calmly at the trader, pulled out an old pistol, and shot him in the head. “I’ll just take it for free, thank you.” The king looked at the body and looked at the pistol. A man’s life was a small price to pay these days to get medicine and keep precious things such as wood and nails. Those were scarce, and trees were hard to cut down. The king looked out one of the broken windows and spoke to the empty palace.
“Someday I’m going to unite all of the United States again and get things going. They made a society back in medieval times somehow, we can certainly still do it now.”
Another shot rang out as the trader’s guard stepped into the room. The king slumped over dead, a pool of blood spreading on the floor. “And someday I’ll have wings,” he grunted. The guard then gathered up the items and left the palace, pausing only to grab a burning stick from the fire.
He walked to the edge of the town and got on his bike. Before he left, he touched the flaming wood to one of the tightly packed cardboard houses and watched it start to burn.
By the time the guard had gotten to the nearest freeway, the little encampment was gone.
_________________
A writer doesn't solve problems. He allows them to emerge.
-Friedrich Dürrenmatt
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