Welcome to Manifesto, my fantasy/sci-fi/dystopian novel. If you’re new here, you can go to the beginning here.
Quick recap: Shawn and Ruby took a train to Gallie and finally arrived.
Read with a nice fantasy mix
New Galloway was a rural town, not even having a train connection. However, it had its charms. On sunny days like this one, the fields shone in bright green, the mild breeze made the leaves jingle and dazzle, and the well-taken care of houses and lawns gave it character. Shawn got out of the bus in a somewhat better spirit, happy to see the scenery he so loved. Anywhere he looked, he'd have a memory to recall, such as scouting Ms. Fraley’s—the local newsagent’s—backyard or taking care of lost kittens. He stopped for a moment and took it in.
I miss this in the city, thought Shawn.
He made his way home and absorbed his surroundings. The heavy heart he carried made him appreciate the good things more, oddly enough. He took a deep breath. He could think only so much before his head started to buzz, but feeling rejuvenated by the fresh air. So nice. Almost tickles my lungs a bit. It didn’t take long until his mind paced again. His anxiety came back thinking of what awaited him at home. He shook his head, trying to shake off the thoughts when Mr. S. popped up in his mind. Ever gave ideas a second thought? “Ever gave ideas a second thought?” he imitated him. What did he mean? I swear the old man is like Rafiki from the lion king. Wouldn’t be surprised if he had a tail waggling from under his lab coat. Then he laughed out loud. “I’d really want a tail too.”
He tried to think about it systematically. Okay, there are two options, either ideas are man-made, meaning I am the source of the idea… or… they aren’t. The second one seemed too irrational to even consider. However, after all those magic mushrooms he ate, he was rather open to irrational.
He now pictured society and how great thinkers and scientists became obsessed with an idea and readily gave away decades of their life chasing it. He thought about artists. Now artists are really.. “odd,” he finished aloud. They are constantly swimming in a pool of ideas. Pulling them by their feet, trying to manifest them in the material world. Scientists are bound by laws, by logic, by protocols. Artists are limitless, although… limitations… some people would swear that limitations imposed upon art make it beautiful. Well… they are limited by their capabilities enough, aren’t they? “Where am I going with this?” he said out loud again.
It was not unusual for him to talk to himself. It helped him think. He pictured society and people, trying to take a step back, seeing it as a whole. “Ideologies,” he nodded to himself. Why do people get so obsessed with ideas? Then he thought of religion. Maybe they need something to believe in. Maybe life is too much without belief. He thought of monasteries and how corrupt they became over time, and how people were manipulated and exploited in the name of god. Isn’t that what our governments are doing? Aren’t people with firm beliefs constantly exploited? As if the beliefs, the ideologies, were a handle… a grip? He felt he was getting somewhere.
He was so deep in thought he almost ran into a lamppost. As he recovered from the close call, he noticed a bright-green shieldbug on his sleeve. “Well, look at you, Mr. smelly bug.” Pralomena prasina. He took it on his finger and extended it toward the grass, which grew abundantly on each side of the road. The bug didn’t budge. “Sorry to bug you….,” he laughed, then continued, “may you consider taking a leave… or a leaf” he laughed again. “God, I'm horrible.” The bug flew away, and in disappointment in himself, he said, “Right… they can fly… nice try, Woodward.”
Almost home, he tried to finish his analysis. Where was I… Right. Ideologies as a handle to manipulate. He thought for a moment and imagined masses of people being drawn by an idea. A set of words or images. Oddly powerful, he thought. If those weren’t man-made, that’d be “creepy as hell,” he finished aloud again. He now stood in front of his house.
It was a sunny day, but now he felt like there was a cloud above him. The house was not visible from the road. It was at the end of a crooked path covered in lush green. Bushes, tall grass, and trees.
One of the bushes had vibrant yellow flowers on it. The yard was separated from the road with a wooden fence, which was more symbolic than useful, for it reached maybe up to the waist. Shawn’s steps felt heavier the closer he got.
It was a typical orange brick house with brown clay tiles and a chimney on the roof. He could see the curtains were closed. He didn’t like when people blocked the sun from coming in. Somehow, places like that always made him uncomfortable. There was a saying he thought of now, where the sun can’t reach, the doctor goes for a visit.
There's a little tear in my eye. To think that you spun these words out of thin air. This is not someone I know, you're a stranger now.
👍