Post by NancyMancy on Feb 21, 2013 17:54:35 GMT
Opening
Crunch, crunch, crunch. That’s the sound glass makes when you step on it. I bet you didn’t realise the crunch of ash sounds just like it too. Snow as well. The boots help, too. After all, you wouldn’t make the same sound wearing high heels or a pair of Converse All-Stars. Well, actually, you’d need one of those things… the snow, the ash, the broken glass; you need it to exist in the first place. And, well… I have the ash and glass. I doubt it’d snow in the middle of June.
Oh, wondering why I’m walking through ash? Well, it’s pretty simple. Humans, us fleshy things? We don’t react to burning well. Of course, this was less burning, more of an electrical discharge. A tonne of energy, whatever. The fact is that even flames don’t melt bones, enamel or other viscera and leave the pavements and car-filled roads intact. The glass is easier to explain. Shockwave. Blows out the windows and topples buildings for miles around. Pressure bomb did that. Not just once. Not twice. I think it might have happened a few times. A few, of course, being a number higher than fifty. I know that there are fifty cities, not sure on the approximate number though. What I’m getting at here is that a good number of people now know what the sound of metric tonnes of glass sounds like after it all falls out of the toppled buildings. I hope they know this sound is beautiful. The screams, the tinkering of crystalline shards and the far off crackle of fire caused by ruptured gas mains. All three combine like an orchestra conducted by Mephistopheles himself. I like that version of the Devil, don’t you?
Wondering something else? Is it to do with why these cities are pretty much gone? Why there are millions, perhaps billions, fearing for their lives? Why I know so much about a carefully constructed plot to prove someone wrong? If you can’t guess why I just gave the answer away, then you’re obviously deficient in the brilliant ideas department. I hope that people understand that yes, this was planned. It wasn’t a slip of fate, and it wasn’t intervention from a being or a faraway race. No, this was the ambition of just one person who managed to get lucky. That’s all it takes, to do something like this. Luck. Then, if you have the ability to roll with that luck, you become pretty productive. Very dangerous, so long as you keep being lucky. As soon as you slip up, make a mistake? Boom, there goes everything you’ve ever worked for. But no, if no one knows just how dangerous you can be, if no one checks out even the most minor thing, then you can carry on, adapting, evolving as it were. And the end result of all this planning? This exploitation of a coin flip, more or less? A silent fear. When you write someone or something off, there’s always a nagging doubt. A deeply guarded fear that the mind can’t erase. Yes, the result of this plan of mine? Everyone fears the weakest human, for they have done something no one else has managed in a good, long time. Oh, and a secondary result? Every law in every country has to change, or else the ‘weakest’ crushed underfoot might prove to be giant killers. And, after all this, the price will surely be worth it. Oh, I know I’m going to prison. Not for the attacks, actually. No, they only know of one thing I’ve done. I’ve murdered someone, a single speck in the universe. Who and why? My, dear reader, I can’t tell you yet. After all, what kind of story begins with the ending?
Crunch, crunch, crunch. That’s the sound glass makes when you step on it. I bet you didn’t realise the crunch of ash sounds just like it too. Snow as well. The boots help, too. After all, you wouldn’t make the same sound wearing high heels or a pair of Converse All-Stars. Well, actually, you’d need one of those things… the snow, the ash, the broken glass; you need it to exist in the first place. And, well… I have the ash and glass. I doubt it’d snow in the middle of June.
Oh, wondering why I’m walking through ash? Well, it’s pretty simple. Humans, us fleshy things? We don’t react to burning well. Of course, this was less burning, more of an electrical discharge. A tonne of energy, whatever. The fact is that even flames don’t melt bones, enamel or other viscera and leave the pavements and car-filled roads intact. The glass is easier to explain. Shockwave. Blows out the windows and topples buildings for miles around. Pressure bomb did that. Not just once. Not twice. I think it might have happened a few times. A few, of course, being a number higher than fifty. I know that there are fifty cities, not sure on the approximate number though. What I’m getting at here is that a good number of people now know what the sound of metric tonnes of glass sounds like after it all falls out of the toppled buildings. I hope they know this sound is beautiful. The screams, the tinkering of crystalline shards and the far off crackle of fire caused by ruptured gas mains. All three combine like an orchestra conducted by Mephistopheles himself. I like that version of the Devil, don’t you?
Wondering something else? Is it to do with why these cities are pretty much gone? Why there are millions, perhaps billions, fearing for their lives? Why I know so much about a carefully constructed plot to prove someone wrong? If you can’t guess why I just gave the answer away, then you’re obviously deficient in the brilliant ideas department. I hope that people understand that yes, this was planned. It wasn’t a slip of fate, and it wasn’t intervention from a being or a faraway race. No, this was the ambition of just one person who managed to get lucky. That’s all it takes, to do something like this. Luck. Then, if you have the ability to roll with that luck, you become pretty productive. Very dangerous, so long as you keep being lucky. As soon as you slip up, make a mistake? Boom, there goes everything you’ve ever worked for. But no, if no one knows just how dangerous you can be, if no one checks out even the most minor thing, then you can carry on, adapting, evolving as it were. And the end result of all this planning? This exploitation of a coin flip, more or less? A silent fear. When you write someone or something off, there’s always a nagging doubt. A deeply guarded fear that the mind can’t erase. Yes, the result of this plan of mine? Everyone fears the weakest human, for they have done something no one else has managed in a good, long time. Oh, and a secondary result? Every law in every country has to change, or else the ‘weakest’ crushed underfoot might prove to be giant killers. And, after all this, the price will surely be worth it. Oh, I know I’m going to prison. Not for the attacks, actually. No, they only know of one thing I’ve done. I’ve murdered someone, a single speck in the universe. Who and why? My, dear reader, I can’t tell you yet. After all, what kind of story begins with the ending?
