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- Mar 28, 2023
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- 330
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- #1
Golden brown, texture like sun
Lays me down, with my mind she runs
Throughout the night
THE BOOKS AND ARTICLES WRITTEN BY THIS AUTHOR ARE THE FOLLOWING:
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INFESTATIONS, VOL 1
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FIRST AID, VOL 1
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CONSTRUCTIVIST MANIFESTO
A triumvir without the other heads. A politician without an ideology to speak of. A holdover from times different, adapted to a new era like a parasite leeching to its new host.
The German. Remarkable in his ability to maintain cover and keep himself clear of suspicion. A talented press writer with a rational head on his shoulders. A great friend. Time and time again have I been vindicated in my denial of the law, letting him scurry free to do whatever he did as opposed to reporting him. It has brought us to this point after two long years.
Compatriot in struggles physical, mental and personal. One eager to indulge in his own vices alongside with the support of another. A fighter deserving of good rest and company after all he had done.
Compatriot in struggles physical, mental and personal. One eager to indulge in his own vices alongside with the support of another. A fighter deserving of good rest and company after all he had done.
Him. Him I do not understand nor comprehend. Why does he do the things he does? A walking mystery clad in a suit, preaching an ideology both extreme and essentially correct in its conclusions. A man so stubborn, so acknowledging of his circumstances and yet - he remains true to his beliefs! It is all too noteworthy, him being one of the few deathly loyal to something he espouses to the lower man.
The high of my career. The culmination of all advice I could offer to one, be it from education or lived experiences, finding itself in the vessel called Francis Augustine Erama. No monster, no human, merely the end result of the path that had started with the assassination of Elias Siemens. Worst of all - my successor.
The high of my career. The culmination of all advice I could offer to one, be it from education or lived experiences, finding itself in the vessel called Francis Augustine Erama. No monster, no human, merely the end result of the path that had started with the assassination of Elias Siemens. Worst of all - my successor.
A doctor, a keeper, a junkie, an alcoholic with an all too long history, some mutually shared with myself, and one of the few people I trust with my life. One with exceptionally low standards, proven as evidence through time and time again, now deciding to find a partner in me. The reasoning for such a feeling escape me, albeit I find myself reciprocating for reasons equally unclear to myself. Perhaps a mutual march to doom.
All these acknowledgements of her character, all this questioning of her motives, they chip away at me through the night. The idea of an honest, open and unconditional love wholly escapes me.
All these acknowledgements of her character, all this questioning of her motives, they chip away at me through the night. The idea of an honest, open and unconditional love wholly escapes me.
The living embodiment of selfishness, cruelty and the chasing of a high. In other words, the perfect doctor. One so detached, so fucked in the head, that thinking about her being an equal member of the human race unnerves me. Not much better than myself in terms of selfishness and cruelty, only with a different career path that allows her to do more damage. A useful asset, nonetheless, and entertaining company.
Due to her personality, the punching bag of every place she goes to. Once used by the Administration and the Party as a way to launder their sins and faults, as if she's going to die for their sins, now forced to watch as her very valid concerns are dismissed by mouthbreathers and lobotomites armed to the teeth.
The dog of the district that everyone had to laugh out at lest they feel societal pressure on their very necks. An intelligent punching bag that, for reasons still lost to me, found herself in the iron sights of Ministry and Party alike. Whisked away to places considerably better, considerably worse, for my own benefit that had never truly been a luxury. Such a bold move had earned me only unnecessary risk and a life of pain and paranoia.
Now under the same banner with the same leader. What used to be a cowardly dog is now a feisty woman capable of combat and the hidden vulgarity to make even the devil blush. The canals had taught her well.
Now under the same banner with the same leader. What used to be a cowardly dog is now a feisty woman capable of combat and the hidden vulgarity to make even the devil blush. The canals had taught her well.
One of the few intimately familiar with Geneva Uncensored and its publisher prior to the current societal schism. An interesting, fun and borderline child-like creature whom one would consider a mere citizen, only to be fooled by such an dismissed glance.
A hick with an ugly past and an uglier demeanor to boot, never having learned of proper etiquette or politeness. Swearing, spitting, coughing, bellying out the rudest of jokes like a seal, not too divorced from our Neanderthal ancestors. In other words, most certainly objective and unbiased, typical trailer trash. Yet I relate to him, I really do, and his philosophy is interesting even if lacking.
Those of older ages are exceedingly rare and that status only grows with the passage of time, never to be found again as one is hauled off to the clinic to be euthanized. Contrary to expectations, this old mutt had made it through the thick and thin. The industrial smog of Twenty-Four, the mob of City Eight, the frostbite of Terminal seven, the fabricators of the Civil Workers' Union, the suit of the Civil Protection -- all he had lived through and arguably even conquered. Blood flow slows yet he marches ever stronger.
An outlander with little respect for privacy, personal space or even polite conversation. More animal than man. A bug eyed freak that any sane person would consider to be a predator. All in all, it is figures like this who end up making history and deciding the conclusion of a war.
Fuhrer, as I like to jokingly call him, dressed in black leather and a haircut one could not be blamed for mistaking to be somewhere from the 40s - 60s. Contrary to his hulking appearance and garnered respect from all surrounding him, a person all the same. A person with doubts, with love, with negatives and positives, with an ugly history he'd be wise to bury and burn. The only Consul that I could, perhaps, see pardoned for his prior position. A realist even if he insists he's not.
An anomaly. An anomaly to put it in human terms. An anomaly that boggles even myself. A person who had gone through many stories, each nastier than its predecessor, yet one of the more rational and polite people in this band of nomads. Her past and mine fit in like a perfect puzzle, even if hers has one major deviation - an unfortunate one at that - which I truly feel sorrow for. A person that comes and goes. People like this are best kept close.
Judging by the surname, likely sincerely hated by his parents. Another former xenophobe with grand dreams that tend to collide with the current reality, idealism in its purest form. Outside of odd opinions regarding that of alien species and mankind, a rational person whom I trust not to snap and shoot someone or prove himself to be immensely incompetent.
Bitchy. Another member of Ludwig's traveling circus. A person with a character of her own. The word 'clueless' is what I would use to describe her. Nonetheless, good company just like the rest of the Doves.
Death by gunshot. Why? Why did you have to die like that? Why couldn't it have been Bradley or Tischer? So soon and without even letting me know. I wanted to know. I wanted to hear it. But you never told me, you took it to the grave, and here I am. If you had lived, if you had the spine to tell me, then this would've been averted. I would've been a happier person and you would still be alive.
Death by alcoholism or left behind in City 8. No difference to me. A rat, a worm, one that begged me when he needed personal help from a friend only to turn around once he got a new armband. Good riddance.
Death by suicide. Carried on the putsch I intended only to find himself with a barrel to his head. Always a prideful man who had thought he had more influence than he did, undoubtedly the factor which caused such a fate. I would be disappointed if I did not recognize what he was when I did.
Death by Ministry. Power got too much in his head and he continued on with his ways. Much like Nakamura, his old friend. Ended up in a grave of his own making. A deviant and a predator. A solid politician and a great artist.
Death by gunshot. Got to greater heights than I expected and paid for the price of it. The sole mentor figure I had, teaching me both on matters of politics and of writing. Without him, I doubt I would be the Juniper Stenhouse known today. Both a blessing and a curse. My lingering regret is that I did not get to speak to him once more.
Death by enlistment. Likely one of the many souls taken in the street fighting of Seventeen. Someone who knew who he was and who the others were, unafraid to speak it. A trait rarely able to be found in others. A great librarian.
Missing. Relocated and likely never to return to the Genevan heartland. Would be protege if given the time to mature. A smart, sociable man.
Missing. Relocated and likely hitting it up big in North Africa or the likes. An odd woman who entrusted me with a decent position. Both intimidating and not. Undeniably competent. The greatest employer one could ask for.
Death by gunshot. An ambitious officer with political ambitions and interest in greater power than being the lacky of a major in a penal battalion. Never given the chance to make use of his putsch due to his early death. Skilled and willing.
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