Guide to Contents
untitled
A World In Decline
A World In Decline
Author: RJ Palton
Publisher: Revolve Publishing
Editor: Catherine Yuh
Copyright 2016 RJ Palton, All Rights Reserved.
The Ferris Wheel of Bureaucrats.
The Ferris Wheel of Bureaucrats.
In the center of a small corner of space stood a spinning disk, rotating slowly and constantly in different directions.
A central piece of the government’s luxuries was known as the unity club. It orbited above the settled planet, below which was covered with destitute underlings. Next to this spinning disc orbited an immense bureaucratic station, a constellation of halls and offices, connected in the middle of space.
The unity club contained a massive luxurious ballroom with an open ceiling. It was not cheap, but was home to the finest cuisine the new union had to offer. It functioned as a place for societal planners to relax and be content with themselves after a long day’s furrowed decision-making.
It was today’s and many days’ practice that many of the more well-off bureaucrats scheduled a dance to pick a mate for their future in the sky. The restaurant stood as the testing ground for this potential mate.
The men found their ways to the tables as the first round of underling women was readied by staff at the wings. The men sat individually at small tables with beautiful linen, wearing expensive plain suits.
The Unity club suddenly began to spin like a top as the first round of underlings descended from every direction of the circular wings. They flowed through the satellite restaurant, some twirling or gliding like fairies on dusted carpets, painting the night sky above with majesty and wonder.
The women wore costumes of colors and shapes unimaginable, exuding bright flamboyant colors made up of shapes and fashions from euphoric to bizarre. Colors from every combination of every spectrum of the rainbow were displayed as royally as possible. The women’s chests and shoulders poofed out extensively in their loud dresses, and they had bedazzled their faces and bodies with as many extravagant-looking accessories as their meager budgets could afford. They circled between the tables, desperate to meet their assigned date.
The room was filled with pastels of every hue imaginable, as the women eagerly circled among the tables to meet their potential escape from dire starvation. The male bureaucrats sat coolly with demeanors ranging from relaxed to annoyed. The women paused before the tables until the men gestured that they could sit; they then curtsied in unison and took their seats.
The menus were immediately placed in front of the women, who all hunched over to carefully study the menu options. Absurd outfits awkwardly attached, the women’s internal war would now begin as their starvation ate at them from within. Remaining calm and attentive enough to win a man’s heart would mean unshakeable focus and gesturing. The prospect of food became a tension that began to fracture self-image, as the women began to detach themselves from their costumes to reveal mere glimpses of the horrors of the new union. All the while, the bureaucrats sat back, casually peering over their menus at the women. It was a circus of power at its finest.
The women sat in outfits as eccentrically-made as possible, wearing any old colorful makeup they could dig up, and flaunting hair done up in styles from bizarre times, all to try and impress the high-powered government workers for a chance at a better life. The arranged date was simple; if the man chose the woman they would go into one of the restaurant's bedrooms and consummate their newfound affection, then plan the next date if he saw fit. If the girl was seen as unfit or poor in nature, the man simply pressed a button below the table, and she would be escorted back to the new union to her poverty-stricken lifestyle; a girl on standby would then be brought in.
Their smiles were wide and flamboyant, but hollowness lay beneath. Makeup and fear were the only things disguising the horrors of the new union from the out-of-touch bureaucrats. Beneath the caked-on makeup there were undoubtedly scars, bruises and protruding bones, a mere sample of the horrors the new Union had to offer.
Sarah waited in the underling area in the corridor with nervous anticipation. She hoped to get this mating ritual over with; she was so upset with herself she could nearly scream. She wore a simple, plain, white satin dress. The ride on the transporter had made her stomach churn like all hell. She could feel her whole body shaking as she stared plainly at the wall, observing only with her peripherals.
Her stomach churned. Underling women dressed in large bird-like outfits pranced around the small hall of the waiting wing. The women wore all colors of the rainbow; some wore complete rainbow-colored outfits with shawls protruding from their shoulders. Some wore vibrant yellows and greens that were more modest, but all wore tons of sparkling paste that sparkled like crazy when hit by light. The waiting wing looked like the runway from the most bizarre fucking bullshit market ever. The women were demonstrative in every way, shape, and form. Wearing colorful outfits of all shapes and sizes, they showed off massive skirts that had been bleached and dyed and partial coverings on their chests that sometimes puffed.
The waiters served the bureaucrats both food and potential wives.
The women’s clothes were sparkly and light, beautiful and bright under the night sky as the women were slowly escorted to the contrastingly simply-dressed men in suits. The women’s clothes exemplified their body parts in all the right or wrong places, and hid the terror and malnutrition of the new union. The colorful, magnificent women walked in high heels and heavily caked-on makeup, flaunting themselves around the back stage as the best of the flock. The colors of the women’s clothing were uncanny, making the room look like some sort of lazy, disorganized, spinning pastel painting.
Large feathery outfits were common; however not common was the simplicity of Sarah’s outfit. She stood in a simple tan dress that had been shoved away in her mother’s closet for a special occasion, and had done everything in her power to clean up for this momentous day, an occasion of spectacle and joy. She hoped that the man did not like her; she hoped she could just go back to her house. All of this gave her a nervous sickness as she waited in silence with all of the women, who practiced their acts, their lines, and their quality language skills as she stood quietly feeling like she would die inside with every passing minute.
What if he asked her to the back?
That was the goal, wasn’t it?
She could feel her insides almost burst, and the ship’s rotation made them tremble even more. Every time she felt normal for a second, the rotation would switch directions. She thought of Jon, and a single tear rolled down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away and was grateful no one had noticed.
No....
She had to do this; this was what she had waited for. She had to make the sacrifice to save her mother. Jon was a fine man, but he was as incapable as an underling. She swallowed the lump in her throat as they called her name. She strode out.
The room was well lit, with ample numbers of hanging chandeliers. She stood still.
Across from her at the closest table to her at the time, a man sat; he was well-dressed with a limber posture. His fingers crossed, his elbows on the table, he waited patiently in a normal black-collared shirt and stared at the table. Sarah fought back tears of discomfort as she choked, and before he had time to look up and notice it was her she strode forward as if anxious to get the encounter over with.
Once she reached the table, she saw that the man was temporarily stunned by her appearance. She looked at him briefly, smiled weakly, then nervously took a seat, all while saying nothing.
Hanzen sat comfortably, and curiously a few more seconds passed with nothing being said between them. He looked at her and found her so unique and so beautiful that his eyes began to winkle and he completely lost interest in his half-eaten food. Suddenly he caught himself almost drooling.
She sat calmly, looking at all of the white satin-like table cloths made from some strange fiber. She did not say a word; she was completely petrified.
At tables all across the dining hall sat the prettiest makeup-saturated bimbos wearing only the latest in recycled slut-wear, staring their suitors in the face amorously. They wore everything from incredible velvet carpet-like gowns to intrinsically multicolored flamingo-like masterpieces with headdresses of all shapes and colors. It seemed like some sort of freak show to an onlooker, especially to Sarah. But nevertheless this event was taken quite seriously and sanctioned by top government officials to create an allusion of joy and future for the bureaucrats, who planned the operations below.
Sarah sat in silence. Finally Hanzen broke the silence, quite floored by the simple honest beauty of the woman who sat in front of him. “So…. How do you like the evening?” he asked. She sat calmly and responded, “I like it quite a bit.” She replied while trying to control her trembling lip.
Hanzen was not used to feeling the need to impress his potential suitors, but something about this girl seemed far from ordinary. She was far too beautiful to out right away. He looked at her for a moment, becoming more and more smitten every second.
“Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?” he asked. She stared blankly and murmured, “Okay, no problem.”
He stared at the transparent ceiling and looked for the words he did not want to have to conjure.
The ship’s constant circular movement was giving her a headache. All she could do was look at all of the insanely colorful clothing the women wore while sitting so flamboyantly with their simply dressed suitors.
She wondered, how were they all so comfortable with this?
“I’m… ommm, a carpenter,” Sarah spat out, not wanting to give this man any information he didn’t already seem to salivate for.
Hanzel paused and stared. “A carpenter.” He raised an eyebrow.
Everything was just too bizarre for Sarah to comprehend all of these men with simple outfits and brainless questions. Yet all of these women in the most flamboyant outfits were sitting and relishing in it.
Colorful scarves of yellow and green people dressed in all yellow or purple and everything else crowded the area. Just a complete mess, Sarah thought. Sarah wondered what Jon was doing at the moment; was he eating? She wondered what he would think of this. She felt almost sick. The food arrived, and Sarah found purpose in it. All of the portions were incredibly exquisite, many made of foods she had never seen before. All of it was very small.
She started to eat very quickly. But then she stopped and tried to pace herself so as not to look completely like an underling. She began to eat slowly and had trouble doing so. Remaining calm, she looked around the dining hall and saw many women in multicolored outfits with extravagant makeup now sitting with their tails between their legs, trying to seem dainty amidst ravenous hunger.
The dining hall slowed and switched directions, then back in the next direction. Sarah wanted to puke.
Hanzel was very delicately nursing his food. He wiped his mouth with the white linen napkin matching the table cloth. He smiled at Sarah, then looked away as she looked up from her food at him, looking up at him like a wolf staring away from a feast at a potential thief.
The next few courses were equally uncomfortable. Sarah wondered if he had lost respect for her; she didn’t care. She just wanted to leave. Her nervousness returned and did not vanish. She looked at her fourth course, some sort of extravagant purple dish. The portions were so small her stomach churned. She felt famished.
Hanzel finally looked up at her with a poorly placed grin on his face, still chewing. “So any plans tonight?” he asked.
Sarah looked up now, thoroughly sick of being churned about all night by this place. She wanted to fucking leave. She saw several women drunk on slight sustenance, strolling in their colorful garb as their suitors guided them to the back rooms. Sarah winced.
“I’m fine; I have to take care of my sick mother.” She smiled forcibly. She was fighting back the urge to just jump out of the chair.
He looked back as if he was about to strike her in cold anger, which was now flushed across his previously admiring face. He controlled himself and looked back at his plate. “You had better go,” he said, and pressed the button under the table. She was quickly escorted by two waiters to the exit.
A bike lock without a chain.
A bike lock without a chain.
An underling beat through the desert streets of the New Union on a bicycle, bloodshot rage fueling every pedal.
He would get what was his today- no matter what. He would need every bit of energy; shop owners were well-fed and strong. He stared with pure conviction. Biting down on his lip, he tasted his own blood to remember his mortality, to remember what was at stake. The pain sharpened his focus even further.
He could feel his heart, every moment pounding with fear and anticipation. His mission would be unnecessarily difficult today. Still, his conviction knew no bounds, and his brain shone clear at destiny. He would get what was his today; today the individual would reign loud and clear as king once again.
His face remained focused and intentional; he paid attention to every detail around him no matter how minute, even as sand slowly made it harder and harder to breathe or see. Anything was possible in the New Union.
Rust covered the bicycle frame, yet the bicycle did not squeak once. His heart now wanted with all its might to pound through his chest, but it remained a calm pace at his command, and steadily fueled his desires. He could perceive every detail of this barren landscape.
The bike and he seemed one. It listened to him, responding to his slightest guidance and suggestions. If you saw him from afar, the loose sand would give you trouble distinguishing the two, and instead you would see some strange beast charging to victory.
The wind, raging across the desert-like landscape, soothed his overheating frame. As he rode towards the market in the single hour of daylight allotted for the underlings by the bureaucrats, he felt at one with his bicycle.
Raiding at night was surely safer so as to not get caught. But today was all about the spectacle.…
Even larger swathes of sand now swung across the controlled desert, like pure sheets of obscurity. He rode on, peddling through the now sparse groups of weak underlings, which all moved slowly towards the marketplace mecca that stood like an ominous desert palace, fearful and inviting. It was a necessary oasis underlying such despicable evil. People migrated while covered in dirt-soaked blankets, praying internally to achieve their goals of some semblance of sustenance for the day.
His heart now became calm and continuous, bringing extraordinary focus to his brain. Few people utilized such strategies of bicycle transportation. As the coarse sand kicked into his face he could hardly breathe, but he sputtered back at it with relentlessness. He bit down on his lip just hard enough to taste his own blood, as if to remind himself of what was at stake. He grimaced, and his fury now grew pure and powerful. The bike’s speed rose.
A few people peering through draped shawls remembered him from the month earlier, and scattered in fear. He paid no attention; his temple stood risen now, directed furiously at his goal. The last thief of the New Union had awoken once more.
His chest and whole body felt in sync with the bicycle; even as the rust of overuse covered the frame of the bicycle, it steadied.
Few of his fellow underlings dared to challenge the state-run establishment. It seemed little could be done without the state, and man had been, for the most part, castrated in the wake of ‘necessary state safety implementations.’ He would probably steal even if it were an affluent time, but of course affluent times were long gone.
He was homeless, but never considered himself poor, for he was the wealthiest man alive in ideals. He continuously fixated on how he could gain more. In his bag were three cans of spray paint he had stolen a while back. He would change the color of his bike between thefts and constantly switch stores and parts of the city to try to maximize both his efficiency and his own blind attempt at influence. He rode for love, for valor, for living for himself. He rode for everything his society rejected, and everything that his body and core would not seem to give up.
The dust intensified, creating a massive trail behind him and obscuring him from view.
He could not take the main road the whole way there; they would inevitably know he was coming, and the recent edition of efficient 'energy-saving' cameras had him a little more nervous than usual.
He saw the shop in the distance and ducked behind several of the abandoned, dilapidated food trucks.
There was no time for prepared food in the New Union; no one could even begin to afford it. The trucks only opened when the government came to audit, and their only supply of food was whatever tokens of energy the families could muster to pay for food to serve their expenses. The new colony was nothing more than a mere large popup shop with a train between it.
He dusted himself off and took a few deep breaths in preparation, taking a few glances in between to see if there was an ambush in process.
He re-saddled and rode on as newfound anger and inspiration welled up inside him. He rode behind broken-down car shops that failed almost right after the doors opened two years ago in the new colony. He made it behind the last two shops to the store houses; there he had to wait. It would not be easy to make it out of here today. The cameras had swift exposure, and the dust and rusty bicycle were his only assets. The second a shop owner hit the warning siren, there would be less than a minute to make it out alive before perishing in a hail of government-issued bullets.
He heard a shop owner yell out of a banana stand to another owner. “I may have to raise the price a bit; I’m running very low on supplies,” said the other de facto government worker, slowly gauging the number of starving people trying to put together a reasonable intake for the day.
He sat, patiently hugging the corner of the storage facility adjacent from the marketplace entrance. He could smell meat and dark greens inside the food facility, just outside the market. It contained reserves of unsold produce from the day, yet the facility was virtually impenetrable unless it was being stocked during nightfall. Greens and meats were not cheap or easy to come by, and he had honestly never seen anyone purchase them, let alone consume them. The exception was the well-off government-sanctioned shop owners, who would gladly take home whatever was left of the most valuable, nutrient-laden produce and meat and chuck the rest to keep demand as high as possible. It was absurd that they provided such a vital purpose to the people, yet they rationalized throwing away thousands of energy tokens’ worth of food, which would supposedly then be recycled with perfect efficiency into the New Union’s energy ecosystem.
The store was large and ominous; cemented directly into the sand, its circular walls went up an immense distance far longer than the space within. Right triangles cut off the top surrounding the open ceiling. The shopping bazar was quite crowded and immensely cramped all the time during the light hours, the only time it was open.
Jon waited a brief moment, peering out the corner of the food facility at the enforcer. Then, when his time was ready, he re-saddled his bike and shot towards the store.
The government enforcer stood carelessly with a clueless look at the small open entrance of the enclosed shopping circle, surrounded by overpriced goods that no one could afford. Jon’s brain traveled a million times as fast as his bicycle as he saw the strapped-in gun on the lazy government worker, who half-napped as he waited to bust the starving from pettily stealing nuts. Jon rode as quickly as he could, and without even feeling the difference, the half-asleep cop’s handgun was removed and he was executed on the spot with one shot. In less than a second, it was all over.
The entire place erupted in fear and heightened anticipation that were all directed toward him. Now Jon could focus on his main mission, the public. Of course he cared not about the people’s wellbeing as a whole, but more the idea he was sending. The bike glided forward at close to thirty miles an hour; the lack of wind resistance meant that only people would be in his way. Jon's frontal lobe heated like a
Impressum
Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 17.09.2020
ISBN: 978-3-7487-5779-5
Alle Rechte vorbehalten
Widmung:
A man of unquenchable desire sits against the broken boards of an old shack. He feels his body withering and merging towards the earth beneath him, and feels at one with the world around him. There is exhaustion in his eyes, which are caked with dirt underneath, further exemplifying his features. Not even sleep can quench his endless rage