You said the desert will eat us alive
I said I'll make the decisions, you just drive
~ Wolf Parade ‘Call it a Ritual’ 2008
I said I'll make the decisions, you just drive
~ Wolf Parade ‘Call it a Ritual’ 2008
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| The Offering ~ Paul Lewin |
The weather, like smells, can trigger the most powerful of memories. Primal; spiritual; the roll and clatter of thunder; the lashing matter of the rain on your shelter.
Memories are like heartache, they cut through everything you’ve learnt in the interval between then and now.
Silver and neon reflect upon rippling puddles dancing to the beat of the generators that roar within the confines of the hall situated directly below the market. The noise is reduced to white by the intermediate earth and steel reinforced concrete, and this residual further reduced by the hubbub of commerce being bartered, begged, borrowed and stolen in the market; only the vibrations remain.
Daniel and Alec negotiate the throng as the rain comes down hard; hoods up, rifles down their sides beneath wet slicks unbuttoned in readiness.
Nostalgia kicks Alec somewhere deep in the colon, nostalgia and anxiety both. These electric scenes claw at his senses, them being no longer familiar with this much light, this much movement, them grown used to the quiet clave life.
Back in the day, as they say, they used to laugh at the expression on the faces of the tourist, the pilgrims, the survivors; the Farmies who found their way into Bigmark; laugh at the expression that no doubt hangs on his own face right now.
‘Memry Hax, Scrn Crax, we’ll glu you tru’ says the holo above a steel box containing a cross-legged man in a head-rig, his hands ensconced in a fab-glove; tubes in and tubes out of his shrivelled body. A tru-Zombie lost in the single-mindedness of some game that inevitably leaves him wanting; and thus financing that want with craft.
Alec’s not a hundred percent sure, but he feels that not much has changed in the years since they left, a cluster of refugees from the biggest post-collapse crises in, for all anybody involved knew, the world.
Alec imagines that in truth this is nothing more or less than one of a myriad of markets that have survived, world-wide; the market that has, we’re told, existed in some form or other since the dawn of human culture; the market that litters our common fantasies and historical dramas; the market that haunts our dreams and our dogma; the market where we are tempered and tempted by the street food smoke laced glittering chatter and the promise of something new; something colourful and shiny.
“This way” says Daniel over his shoulder.
A micro-drone hovers at ear height, just out of arms reach, “Protein? Need protein?” it hesitates before buzzing a figure eight around their heads, continuing its pitch, “Protein is what you need, you look malnourished; I can get you protein, or a teen; or ten teens (although you probably couldn’t afford that) I can get you anything you need”
“Fuck off” says Daniel
The blinking dot in the corner of his eye indicates the boys’ location to be north, up-slope, toward the warehouse district that lies between Bigmark and the red mesa that cradles it lee-ward, sheltering it from all but the worst of the weather.
The drone hovers for a while then leaves vertically and abruptly.
Memories are like heartache, they cut through everything you’ve learnt in the interval between then and now.
Silver and neon reflect upon rippling puddles dancing to the beat of the generators that roar within the confines of the hall situated directly below the market. The noise is reduced to white by the intermediate earth and steel reinforced concrete, and this residual further reduced by the hubbub of commerce being bartered, begged, borrowed and stolen in the market; only the vibrations remain.
Daniel and Alec negotiate the throng as the rain comes down hard; hoods up, rifles down their sides beneath wet slicks unbuttoned in readiness.
Nostalgia kicks Alec somewhere deep in the colon, nostalgia and anxiety both. These electric scenes claw at his senses, them being no longer familiar with this much light, this much movement, them grown used to the quiet clave life.
Back in the day, as they say, they used to laugh at the expression on the faces of the tourist, the pilgrims, the survivors; the Farmies who found their way into Bigmark; laugh at the expression that no doubt hangs on his own face right now.
‘Memry Hax, Scrn Crax, we’ll glu you tru’ says the holo above a steel box containing a cross-legged man in a head-rig, his hands ensconced in a fab-glove; tubes in and tubes out of his shrivelled body. A tru-Zombie lost in the single-mindedness of some game that inevitably leaves him wanting; and thus financing that want with craft.
Alec’s not a hundred percent sure, but he feels that not much has changed in the years since they left, a cluster of refugees from the biggest post-collapse crises in, for all anybody involved knew, the world.
Alec imagines that in truth this is nothing more or less than one of a myriad of markets that have survived, world-wide; the market that has, we’re told, existed in some form or other since the dawn of human culture; the market that litters our common fantasies and historical dramas; the market that haunts our dreams and our dogma; the market where we are tempered and tempted by the street food smoke laced glittering chatter and the promise of something new; something colourful and shiny.
“This way” says Daniel over his shoulder.
A micro-drone hovers at ear height, just out of arms reach, “Protein? Need protein?” it hesitates before buzzing a figure eight around their heads, continuing its pitch, “Protein is what you need, you look malnourished; I can get you protein, or a teen; or ten teens (although you probably couldn’t afford that) I can get you anything you need”
“Fuck off” says Daniel
The blinking dot in the corner of his eye indicates the boys’ location to be north, up-slope, toward the warehouse district that lies between Bigmark and the red mesa that cradles it lee-ward, sheltering it from all but the worst of the weather.
The drone hovers for a while then leaves vertically and abruptly.
| Wolf Parade | ||
| Call it a Ritual | ||
3 comments:
there you go again... writing more great stuff!! LIKING this story and these characters.
this is really intriguing. i'd like to read more.
softermaniac: you can find the index page for the full story (as far as this episode) by either clicking the 'Index' link at the bottom of the episode or clicking the icon at the top right of the blog above 'Free Box Sets'
Hope you enjoy.
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