Welcome to Manifesto, my fantasy/sci-fi/dystopian novel.
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Read with a nice fantasy mix.
“Shawn, tell me, ever gave ideas a second thought?” said Pat Spraggings, head of the mycology department at Manchester University, smoking his red sandalwood pipe in the office (despite the strict prohibition). The pipe was handmade and had carved ornaments on its side, which Shawn could have only described as, fungal warriors, men with mushrooms growing out of their bodies.
Pat was in his late sixties, and his middle long wavy hair, as well as his generous beard, were grey, some of the hair turning white, making it look dirty. He had thick eyebrows, also grey, and his nose, rather a chimney than a nose, bulbous and voluminous. Shawn always thought he must be getting a lot of air through that pipe. Pat’s face was wrinkled, his light blue eyes sitting on top of big bags, looking at him, one could see the youthful spark in his eyes, dismantling his imposing title and age. He had an old pair of glasses with brownish frames, complementing the brown vest he daily wore, likewise, a sapphire blue shirt under his vest, which went really well with his hair and eyes.
Shawn wasn’t sure whether it was by accident or by Mr. Spragging’s design, he didn’t seem like the type to care… for anything else than mushrooms, that is.
The smoke was rather mellow, a pleasant plum scent, engulfing the not-too-spacious office, but spacious enough to walk around without bumping into things. The part of the building they were sitting in had its exterior overgrown with vines, which were visible through the half-open window shades. A few sunrays seeped through, illuminating the dancing smoke. The shelves were decorated with various wooden statues, most of which had something to do with fungi.
Shawn had taken a special liking to a weird one. On its label, it said —the fumungous. a fungal ogre with tiny eyes and a tiny mouth. Its body was smooth, and its proportions were round and chubby. Despite its creepiness, it came off as cute. Shawn had a fascination for speculative biology and couldn’t help but ponder “what if” questions. During their work in the lab, they often talked about what organisms would exist on Earth-like planets.
Shawn stood in the doorway, stuffing away the document that Pat had signed for him. It didn’t take long for Shawn to admire Mr. S., his lectures were goofy and strange, but somehow he felt that mycologists should be that way. They had worked together during one of the courses, but their relationship was still too fresh for Shawn to know what Mr. S. thought about him. He felt unsure and insecure about whether he felt he had potential or was working hard enough. However, Mr. S’s playful demeanor eased him.
“What do you mean?” Shawn replied.
“Well, where do ideas come from? Ever thought about it?”
“Uhm… no, not really.”
“Never mind,” Mr. Spraggins said and chortled, “just the ramblings of an old man.”
“Anyways, thank you for the signature, Mr. Spraggins,” said Shawn. “See you on Monday?”
“Sure, don’t forget the report you owe me.”
“I won’t. Have a good weekend.”
Before he left, Pat remarked, “Oh, and Shawn?”
“Yes?”
“Please call me Pat. Or I’ll go mad if I hear Mr. Spraggins one more time.” Then he quickly added, “Although, I might be already.”
“I’ll try!”
When he left and walked down the hallway, he stared absently at the floor. He felt happy about the request to call Mr. S. — That’s what he called him in his head — by his name because it meant they were getting closer, but he still felt uneasy about the question he asked him.
Where do ideas come from?… What did he mean by that? It was just a simple question, but somehow very fundamental. A scientist, whose bread and butter it is to validify sources and information, should have at least once thought about the origin of ideas, the part of him, that wanted to become a solid scientist, feeling exposed.
He was making his way to the dormitory over Cavendish Str., which was right next to All Saints Park, where all the students walked from class to class or munched away their snacks, sitting on the grass. It was late summer, and the temperatures sank. However, it was still warm enough to hang out in a shirt. When he passed a group of commuting students, he felt uneasy.
Everyone is looking for something…but what is it? Is it meaning? Is it a person? Is it experience? He was like an animal in one of those experiments where they placed a mirror in the middle of a forest. Some of the animals attacked their reflection immediately, just like some people would, however, some animals looked intently and pondered. They knew something was off, but couldn’t figure out what, as if trapped by some invisible boundary. Shawn was one of those animals, seeing his reflection in everyone else around him.
He couldn’t get to the bottom of it. Nonetheless, he never gave in. He kept thinking and knocking on those boundaries relentlessly and obsessively to the point of frustration. At times he felt he was going mad — and maybe he was — but he couldn’t help it. Breaking through that barrier was what was going to change his life for good.
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Thank you for reading.
Very good, Hans. You've got a knack for vivid descriptions that weave through the writing. I'm intrigued.
There's probably a few minor things I'd hack away at if I were editing, but I really like this. Good work 👍