NOVA
(a short story without an ending)
We knew we had to
abandon it. They claimed, they were on a hunting trip. Surrounded on five sides; a mountain was
proposed by the son; an irrational NOVA. But not as perfect as it seemed. Most of the boring citizens congregated
beneath cherry blossoms, awaiting its
death and their own. Fashion was
currency in NOVA and the citizens’ inhabitants
appreciated bird song and surface beauty.
While, and on the finest paper, the powerful of NOVA
documented pieces of war.
Ten years later the
upper NOVAs continued to write “right”. That’s when things started to go wrong. And it wasn’t long before all of NOVAs citizens began mourning
the morning. Regretting the future and
the next day, while hoping and preying for another. In echoes and colour surely only the
fragmented could survive this. Having
lost landscapes and seas the only citizen bearing a child looked up and then
spoke up. And with every word spoken the
sea seemed to crack. She held her unborn
baby in her arms and complexity re-began in NOVA.
Like most cities at
that time, NOVA was broken
with fear. The citizens talked of
“trust” and then stopped. The powerful
NOVAs also stopped; stopped talking and enforced a rigid and superior
hierarchy. They told the citizens sons
that “demi-gods get drunk on “gestures””.
NOVA had seen nothing like this before and
neither had I and thus a walled Pleasure District was established on the
other side of the mountain. Everyone in NOVA simultaneously turned
ninety degrees north-west and walked in unison into the cracked sea. Above the cracked waves a floating city was
then established, and below lay the see-sea.
It sucked ass. It proved
popular.
Slowly, a striking
form of celebrity inhabited the rocks, and rolls, and hills & caves around
the floating city. Excited: the government
tried to regulate this. Classify and
label it. Will you choose fear? With dog hair stuck to their teeth, the
powerful signed policies. They built
walls with other citizen’s hands and made profit a prophet. Soon all the mayors become us...
And without warning
sunlight drips from the tips of the hairs of the best citizens. Days and days passed. I just couldn’t take it. With smoke filled eyes all the suns began to
point at the moon and the cherry blossoms began to fall. Rapture would surely come.
I wandered and
wondered what was going on, inside, of him and her. And then an epiphany – I mean I know, but it
really does feel f-f-f-f-fff-f-fantastic -:
The citizens were categorised and divided as follows: the jumpers, the
deaf, homosexuals, the weak of stomach, those with flu, the unmotivated, those
who wore denim, the lonely, the “fit-for-work” and the sons (which included all
genders). With privacy settings intact
the sons set out to repair the weak of stomach.
The tallest mayor of
NOVA
declared a state of flux. He decreed and
de-lighted all celebrities involved in the transformation, he even said
“Belgium is blue!”. I thought to myself
and then forgot everything.
- I couldn’t even remember how to dry my hair.
- How to walk over “that” bridge.
- How to question and climb.
- How to dance and warm.
·
How to
sing and how not to approach bears.
I probably needed a
minute. Four little nothings wept and
all the sons eyes turned white, I feel strong right
now, like cotton, sheets...
by and copyright of
©Stiofan O’Ceallaigh (2017)
artwork by Stiofan
O’Ceallaigh and Ron Kibble
Fantastic. Thank you John. :-)
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