The Roads of Rome, Brian 1

The windows closed shut, sealed. A towel stuffed under the door. The smoke had nowhere to go, so it hung around, under the ceiling. Odor rich and thick, hazy.

A single lamp, hanging from a ropeish wire, was the only source of light in the room. Barely penetrating the smoke, leaving the room shrouded in a kind of light mostly reserved for opium dens. Which of course was not far off from the truth.

A small oblong object, having been lit, was now being passed from lip to lip.

Its effects were quite obvious. A slight incoherency was starting to prevail as all conversation turned to, well, mush.

“Right, well... uhm. Dude. Uhhh, like, ugh”

Purposeless. Each occupant stuck in his or her own little universe. One seeing more. One less.

A trickle of music came from one wall, nondestinct. Fluff.

In one corner a man sat rocking back and forth, only so slightly. Rocking. His eyes fixated on a spot on the wall. Whatever he was seeing did not please him.

His mouth moved, no words came out though, it didn’t really matter. He wouldn’t have had an audience anyway. It was quite clear that he had other things in his blood than what was on offer at the moment. He was, even by his own standards, thoroughly baked. Cooked. Boiled.

Wasted.

The name his mother had given him, no father in sight, was Brian. Brian Mendelsohn.

He is twenty-three now. He was twenty-three then. Sitting in that room, looking at that wall, coming down from his buzz, sobering up, he finally got enough. Enough of the cracked paint, the closed doors and sealed off rooms, enough of the forced crime. He thought of all the problems he had buying the drugs of his choice, soft or hard. And he had most definitely had enough. Cars killed by the hundreds, alcohol and tobacco by the thousands in the Heart of all Things alone, and they were not only allowed but seemingly state endorsed.

His thinking was flawed, of course, but all he could think of at that point in time was the fact that tobacco prices were going down. That alcohol was being sold to little children, marketed even.

It made him furious. His mouth stopped moving. His eyes blinked. And he looked around.

The scum of the earth, the lost children, the fallout of the nuclear families.

On the edge of the Sprawl, in a little pocket of fear and violence and sex. No one came here with good intentions, no one came here expecting not to be threatened and or accosted.

It was a hole in the ground, the ‘good’ - whatever that was - being sucked out of it.

And yet people kept fighting for it. Shooting each other and anyone in the way.

The only positive thing about the Clash, as the area was known, was the fact that one could hide here, anyone seeking privacy could easily find it here. At the cost of living standards.

Brian got to his feet. Everyone else was so far away that none of them noticed.

Went to the window, drew the ragged curtain aside. The streetlamp right outside flickered. Darkness, light. Briefly. A more steady source of light was easily found though. Either in the shape of the burning barrel two bums were using for heat or bended in neon on the sign of the massage parlor across the street. At first glance the street seemed deserted, but upon closer inspection figures could be seen moving about in the shadows. Just like the way you only saw the subway rats if you looked for them.

So many people. So much hopelessness. Frustration.

And that was what it boiled down to, frustration.

All that pent up rage, all that anger deep down. Maybe it could be channeled, maybe if it was just focused, if someone could focus it, all those individuals could work together.

Even if everyone was working for their own best interests they would still be a force to be reckoned with.

Brian didn’t quite know where he was going with his new idea, but he knew that the idea was not going to accomplish anything on its own.

His first concern would be to get the word around, to gather people.

Shouldn’t be a problem.

The Roads of Rome, Leon 1

Leon Trokewcy is trying to get the city to tell him a secret.

While he stands outside the noisy club, humming along to something that sounds vaguely like Watermelon man, he has his eyes and ears at the ready, his heart and mind prepared.

He knows that the secret is not the composition being played behind the closed windows and open doors of the club, his haunt, but rather something... else. Divine.

Leon Trokewcy knows that the city has a variety of secrets. That the city doesn’t tell two people the same secret, not if it’s worth something.

And sometimes it will tell different secrets at different times. And sometimes it will act like a best friend, begging you to tell it your secrets, to share your knowledge. Leon knows that anyone who tells secrets to so many people should not be trusted with his private thoughts.

The city, he thinks, is not as stingy with its thoughts as some people seem to think.

Most just don’t listen.

Mr. Trokewcy knows all of this because he his unemployed. That was unkind, rather,

Mr. Trokewcy knows all of this and is also unemployed.

He is not homeless, he gets by on little things, those little things that are only on order in a city, and even then only truly on order in the Heart of all Things. Enough small things so that even a sensitive man may get by.

Yes, sensitive. Leon is a wimp, a strange child - at least he was when he was a child, a sissy, a crybaby and oh so many other things.

He knows that it matters not what others call you, it is what you call yourself, what he calls himself rather, that matters. No person taught him this. No parental figure, no guidebook.

The city did. Leon waits now, outside, for the city to inform him of something new, something else. It has been a while, and he waits for something divine.

The city is Leon’s God. Here, in the Heart of all Things, man can finally pray and live at the same time without the two messing each other up. Praise, preach, pray and fornicate in the same place. The sensitive man waits for a word from the Lord, not above but around.

He has looked now for the duration of the bastardisation of Watermelon man. Turns to go back in, but is not discouraged. The city has told him no secret that night, maybe tomorrow, maybe not. He has touched God more than once, he needs no reassurance.

Leon Trokewcy is a lucky man. Not many can say that they have talked, directly mind you, to their divine entity of choice. Not many sane people anyway.

He reenters the club. His ears and eyes now resting. His heart and mind on ‘low’ setting.

This is why he almost misses out on the secret when it comes.

“Leo? Leo, it is you! Hi, it’s me Laura, from college remember?”

The Roads of Rome, Ober 1

A boy is walking through the Urban Rec.

Slowly plodding along at three in the afternoon. He should go home, all the other kids have gone home. But all the other kids, he muses, probably do not go home to what he does.

He is quite young, small enough to be dwarfed by the plentiful trees.

He goes to school where the Sprawl meets shopping. Upper-class.

Every morning he crosses the Urban Rec, usually by bus, and every afternoon he crosses it yet again, more often than not on foot.

He has no real fondness for the natural splendor around him, only rarely is he gripped by the majesty of it all. His eyes are usually transfixed on the path in front of him. Be it dirt or asphalt.

Cobblestones or gravel. He has developed a way to always tell if he’s about to walk into someone. He also knows what routes are the least populated at any given time of day.

A lot of his few years on this planet have been used in the Urban Rec. Going to or from.

Whatever.

Without looking up he instinctively knows that he is now next to the last pond before the last field. He is almost home. Instantly he starts replanning his route, starts measuring pros and cons. He ends up giving up on the lengthening bit, home is beginning to feel right.

Even if it won’t be when he gets there. Right.

His left foot steps idly on a thick twig hidden by some leaves. The right kicks it by accident, breaking it with a barely audible snap. Followed by a sound that causes the boy to look up.

A flock of seagulls have been spooked by the sound, two dozen or so of them. Now they’re departing, post hast. But still in perfect formation. The boy looks at them for a while, follows their trajectory, craning his neck to see them disappear in the unusually low clouds.

On its way down to his feet his stare sees the open field. One square mile, the smallest of the open spots. Bordering up to the high-class end of the Sprawl.

The field is known as Festival Place, being used for festive occasions at least three times a year. The boy knows that whatever else may be true about his life and his situation, he is lucky to live right next to not only the Urban Rec but also Festival Place.

The fog has not lifted, wafting over the field, turning something previously very open into something ambiguous and mysterious.

Considering how much the boy has tried to stall in his homecoming, he runs with quite a bit of speed across the oversize lawn. His small legs carrying him with little elegance but much acceleration.

He reaches the front door, exhausted but happy at his display of speed.

Unlocks and opens the front door, walks through with caution.

Before the boy has even had a chance to yell out ‘mom, I’m home’ he knows everything is wrong, that this will not be a good evening.

“Is that you Ober?” a voice slurs. “I’ve been waiting for you”

The Roads of Rome, Djill 1

Night came too soon and I can’t fall asleep.

You must understand, I’m a little girl, I’m full of energy, I’m growing. I can’t sleep.

Now I don’t know about you, but whenever I can’t sleep my mind gets to wandering. It’ll go places I don’t want it to go, places I didn’t even know it could go.

And whenever I try to stop it from going those places all I get instead is the struggle.

The struggle? You can’t hear it? The streetlamps fight with the darkness.

The silence of night fights with the murmur of a million souls. I mean people, of course I mean people. I’m only eight. I wouldn’t say souls.

And I know I shouldn’t feel the struggle.

But I do.

My name is Djill. I go to school where the Sprawl meets Shopping. Upperclass.

I live near the Urban Rec area. I live in the Heart of all Things.

Actually I don’t, not yet. I live on my street and I live by the two bus-stops I see every day. Going to school on my own. My parents love me, I’m pretty sure of this. I also think that this is why they’ve yet to let me see more of the city. Trust, a lack of trust, and love.

When I get on the bus I’m right there with a lot of my friends. And my enemies. I mean co-students, of course. I wouldn’t say enemies.

Windows, I always sit by the windows, look out at the streets, at the people, at the roads going to and fro. All those possibilities.

That, actually is one of those things that I try not to think about. When I can’t sleep, right?

I don’t really know what they try and teach me at school. I really am not sure.

All I know is that I’m supposed to pay attention to this person who stands tall above us.

When my mind wanders, I think about possibilities. What if I didn’t make the regular bus one morning? D’ya ever think about stuff like that? About ‘if’s?

All I seem to think about are ‘if’s. ‘Till I fall asleep.

Then there are no more ‘if’s. Or ‘and’s or ‘but’s.

Night came too soon tonight. I couldn’t fall asleep. What if I’d had a good run, played with one of my friends, fought with one of my enemies?

Then maybe I wouldn’t have told you all of this. Then maybe you wouldn’t know.

And knowledge is power. And power makes the world go around.

Something tells me I shouldn’t know that. But I do.

My name is Djill, and I’m just another little girl who takes the bus every morning.

But my eyes are open.

The Roads of Rome, Lucas 1

Hey, don’t look at me, I haven’t done anything. I never do anything.

I just stay out of the way, don’t talk too big, don’t ask for too much. You should never ask for too much. You just might get it, y’know.

So I just stay out of the way, I see you all walking by. Pants and shoes, sitting on the ground right, so all I see are pants and shoes. So many of you. So unaware.

So when they come, you’ll all pay, you’ll all be taken. And all your pants and shoes won’t help you then, you’ll be stripped bare of all those things you really love.

But I’ll be safe; I’ll be hiding away somewhere, like I always do. You don’t notice me, so why should they?

Once upon a time my name was Lucas Miller, and I worked and I lived in an apartment, I showed up on some screen somewhere as ‘citizen’.

Then, one night, I was hit by a flash of clarity. The creature lying next to me wasn’t my wife at all. She was one of them, one of the invaders. And I know I did the right thing, I don’t need anybody to tell me that I acted correctly, don’t need any medals. I wouldn’t have accepted it anyway, a medal I mean, ‘cause I stay out of the way, savvy? Of course I wouldn’t have accepted a medal, no one wanted to give me one anyway! It was a grisly business! What I did, I mean.

And I haven’t done it since. Once in a while though, when I stick out my cup and people don’t even think about putting something in there, then, I mean rarely, then I think about doing something, y’know, something for nothing. ‘Cause of nothing.

Your pants just slide by, like some, something else, or something.

I was never much of a poet. Neither was Lucas, Mr. Miller. He did things with papers and offices and desks, and he trusted the blue lights. Whenever they flashed Mr. Miller would stand proud and rich and think to himself ‘right now, some criminal is getting his comuppance’. He loved to hear that heartless roar of the siren. Now closer, now farther away.

Never once did he worry about the injustice. Never once did he think to get out and help his fellow man. Cold cold human being.

I don’t know much about the invaders, I mean, I know they’re evil and shit like that. But I don’t know what kind of order they’ll bring about. I hope it’s a fair and just evil. All those people that didn’t care, that were too busy with their own lives, they’ll get it first. And I’ll be hiding somewhere, out of the way, laughing my ass off.

Cup out, nice pants, food for the man on the street? Money, food, love, something?

Not a goddamn thing. Well thank you very much. How about you? Guy’s gotta eat, c’mon!

Thank you. Thank you kindly. Retract cup. Count, one two three lunch breakfast dinner.

Now alls I have to do is keep this from Timmy. Lousy drunk. He doesn’t know when to stay out of the way. I know they’ll hurt him real nice and early. And I’ll tip my hat, maybe even take it off, and if I’m not alone I’ll say ‘I once knew him, he was a companion, now he is dead’

And maybe I’ll cry. Why did they have to hurt Timmy he never did anybody nothing. He was just a drunk. Why would you want to hurt him? Me? Why?

Why!

The Roads of Rome, Introduction

The sun rises.

The sky responds by turning an Imperial shade of violet. Same answer, every day.

It is, once more, time for the day to begin. Time for the people to get up and about.

To go to bed and sleep the night off.

Time for the city to awaken.

This is the Heart of all Things. Its people are the Residents. They are all aware of this.

And they are all aware that the entire world is aware. This is the Heart of all Things. The planes that arrive, that have arrived all through the night, are not just machines carrying homo sapiens sapiens to some random town, they are syringes injecting the only nutrient the city needs, they are fuel pumps delivering the only form of energy the massive arrays of concrete, steel, glass and bricks will ever crave. The highways are veins the sidewalks nerve strings.

The Heart of all Things beats with the footsteps of millions and millions of people.

All roads lead here. All manner of goods can be purchased here, every street is a country onto itself, every block a continent. The people do not need to connect, they do not need to know that they cannot help but connect. Every living thing is connected here, no one person can stand up and claim leadership.

This does not stop them from trying. Humans will always seek control, especially over those things that they themselves have created. And humans will always seek not to be controlled by anyone outside of themselves.

The Heart of all Things was designed with the latter in mind, it is as anarchistic as a two-year old without his medication, as free as a bird and as destructive as a raging mob.

It is a raging mob, it cannot be anything else, it is a backdrop, an interactive environment, a just cause and so many other things.

Far beyond melting pot, far beyond good or evil, dirty old man or guardian angel.

Nightmare or dream, it matters not. Some are drawn, some are forced. Some commute.

Some are tourists. It matters not, the city, the Heart of all Things, doesn’t care. It feels only a footstep, a rhythm, a beat and a pulse, feels only human, cat dog cow bird.

Distinguishes only rarely.

Even though you think you are using it, to whatever end, it is almost certain that the city is taking something back. Your health. Your money. Your footsteps. Your children.

And after you die it will remain. After your funeral, after the speeches have been thrown out and a whole new generation has sprung forward and forgotten you, after all this someone will still write poetry about the city. Guidebooks. Novels. Short stories.

Even after it’s sunken into the ground and the last isotopes have faded away, even then humans will gather to talk about the Heart of all Things, and they will build a new city in its image. At this point you will have been dead for centuries and the world you knew will be gone.

But humans will gather, larger cities dwindle and smaller cities flourish as they receive the surplus, the excess population.

The sun has risen. It is now, not before and not after, but now. We can all relate to now.

This is home. This will always be someone’s home.

And someone’s dream.

One week break

Hey!

It's come to my attention that there are few non-danish readers. Hi!

To accommodate these people I'll be switching languages to english. So, that's done.

Now, as for the next thing to appear here, I'm thinking that it will be an old project of mine called "The Roads of Rome" which has some twenty short 'chapters' already done and is kinda calling out to me to be continued and, hey, who knows, maybe even finished.

So, next week keep an eye out for the first chapter of that.

Have a nice week!