Post by jonnymc on Oct 16, 2011 8:07:57 GMT -5
This is a working progress, so be gentle with the criticisms ;D
Farce
A tale of infinite impossibilities and uncertain actualities.
Before we can enter the socially backward world of farce, you need to understand how it came to be. Farce is one of an infinite number of worlds, or "realities" that arises every time someone perceives life in a different way. Most worlds are very similar to our own, full of the same architecture and people, however every once in a while someone is born who lacks a certain a grip on reality and makes no attempt to find said grip. These people are described as "wrong". Whoever perceived reality to be farce was by all accounts wrong and therefore farce, by its very nature, is wrong.
Jefferson is an inhabitant of farce, more precisely, a civilian of the floating city, named aptly for the fact that, not only does gravity not exist there but also that the city itself follows the currents of the sky. It was quite common in the early days of the city for its path amongst the heavens to be marked by a trail of corpses on the ground below, as the inexperienced could not judge correctly the angle from which to jump to reach the front door of their house. They would just keep on floating; straight out the cities limits, and into a sizable drop with an entirely predictable sudden stop.
These days, people have gained an almost seventh sense of direction (the sixth being instinctively knowing where beverages are left unattended) and there has not been a limit drop victim for almost Forty years.
Chapter one
The wayward scholar
Jefferson is employed as the city's border patrol; originally this job was intended to brief anyone trying to enter as to the change in physics and also to stop anyone from floating over the edge. These days however the city is much less popular, immigration is at a dead stop and due to the more competent nature of the current populace, nobody tends to float away anymore. So now the job merely entails pushing disorientated birds out of the city limits, and stopping rubbish from dropping to the ground below to prevent any countries sewing for damages to the environment.
Anyone employed in such a position soon becomes complacent, and Jefferson is no exception, often using the opportunity to catch up on sleep after spending the night drinking in his favourite haunt; The vagabond.
Owned by a delightful woman named Ria, the vagabond has seen many an inebriated patron over the years. At first glance, the venue would seem shabby and unkempt, the outside peeling green paint save for the circular front door which was black. The windows could not be seen from the outside and if it weren't for the noise, nothing could betray the presence of liquor and the people so intent on consuming it. The inside however was richly furnished; the largely unneeded tables and chairs dotted all four walls, the ceiling and the floor. A globular bar with six tenders ran regular circuits around the room, almost an embodiment of the city itself. The customers were the social elite, not because of money or class but for the simple warmth they held for all people. Never in the pubs history had a fight broken out, and any petty disputes were simply waved aside by the very people arguing them. It was a place of comradeship, of good honest people and friendly faces.
It was in this very place Jefferson and I first met, I was sat in the corner, eyeing the room over the rim of my glass staving off bouts of nausea. I hadn't been in the city very long and the absence of gravity did not do well for me. Although in retrospect the heavy narcotics did nothing to help either. Jefferson glided in, the black door closing automatically behind him, like the lazy swirls of a dying whirlpool, at the time he wasn't well known and nobody seemed to pay attention to him or his dull attire; a brown trench coat over black trousers and a white shirt, adorned with a simple black tie.
Breaking another capsule of biascine under my nose and bracing for the euphoria, I watched as he bought a bag of rum and looked around for somewhere quiet and less boisterous to drink. I suppose he saw the self satisfied smile on my face and assumed I was laughing at him as he came over to challenge me.
"I don't mean to be rude sir, but, well, I guess I'm some-what paranoid that, and not that I mind, that you, are having fun at my expense, your not are you?" he stammered.
"Of course not my good man" I replied, full of good humour from the biascine and quite aware that this paranoid man was on the most horrific of come downs, "I am simply smiling to myself, I hope I caused no grievance? Please, sit... or at least hover, I am some-what incapacitated and it is unseemly to appear in such a fashion on one's own!"
He looked me in the eye and knew something was up, he could see I was harmless but knew I wasn't compos mentis.
"I think I will" he says "although may I ask what has caused such mirth?"
With a heavy wink and a roguish grin I beckoned him closer and closer, until I could whisper in his ear, then quietly, as quiet as any man ashamed of his addictions, I spoke.
"On the surface we call it biascine, however I have yet to find someone who can supply up here. I fear that within the week my stock will run dry and I will have to content myself with simple alcohol"
"I consider myself a less than sheltered soul" he laughed heartily "but I daresay that in this case I have done well to avoid such poisons!"
"Aye!" I smiled in response, "it is a terribly difficult habit to keep and much more so to give up, although I daresay I will be fine, okay, and downright clean within the month! I am Tiberius! What's your name sir?"
"Jefferson" he said, and after taking a long draft from his rum, he raised one eyebrow and smirked "So, Tiberius? A very high class name, you must be a scholar of some sort"
I raised an eyebrow back, and we both keeled over into three sixty rotations in hysterics.
Farce
A tale of infinite impossibilities and uncertain actualities.
Before we can enter the socially backward world of farce, you need to understand how it came to be. Farce is one of an infinite number of worlds, or "realities" that arises every time someone perceives life in a different way. Most worlds are very similar to our own, full of the same architecture and people, however every once in a while someone is born who lacks a certain a grip on reality and makes no attempt to find said grip. These people are described as "wrong". Whoever perceived reality to be farce was by all accounts wrong and therefore farce, by its very nature, is wrong.
Jefferson is an inhabitant of farce, more precisely, a civilian of the floating city, named aptly for the fact that, not only does gravity not exist there but also that the city itself follows the currents of the sky. It was quite common in the early days of the city for its path amongst the heavens to be marked by a trail of corpses on the ground below, as the inexperienced could not judge correctly the angle from which to jump to reach the front door of their house. They would just keep on floating; straight out the cities limits, and into a sizable drop with an entirely predictable sudden stop.
These days, people have gained an almost seventh sense of direction (the sixth being instinctively knowing where beverages are left unattended) and there has not been a limit drop victim for almost Forty years.
Chapter one
The wayward scholar
Jefferson is employed as the city's border patrol; originally this job was intended to brief anyone trying to enter as to the change in physics and also to stop anyone from floating over the edge. These days however the city is much less popular, immigration is at a dead stop and due to the more competent nature of the current populace, nobody tends to float away anymore. So now the job merely entails pushing disorientated birds out of the city limits, and stopping rubbish from dropping to the ground below to prevent any countries sewing for damages to the environment.
Anyone employed in such a position soon becomes complacent, and Jefferson is no exception, often using the opportunity to catch up on sleep after spending the night drinking in his favourite haunt; The vagabond.
Owned by a delightful woman named Ria, the vagabond has seen many an inebriated patron over the years. At first glance, the venue would seem shabby and unkempt, the outside peeling green paint save for the circular front door which was black. The windows could not be seen from the outside and if it weren't for the noise, nothing could betray the presence of liquor and the people so intent on consuming it. The inside however was richly furnished; the largely unneeded tables and chairs dotted all four walls, the ceiling and the floor. A globular bar with six tenders ran regular circuits around the room, almost an embodiment of the city itself. The customers were the social elite, not because of money or class but for the simple warmth they held for all people. Never in the pubs history had a fight broken out, and any petty disputes were simply waved aside by the very people arguing them. It was a place of comradeship, of good honest people and friendly faces.
It was in this very place Jefferson and I first met, I was sat in the corner, eyeing the room over the rim of my glass staving off bouts of nausea. I hadn't been in the city very long and the absence of gravity did not do well for me. Although in retrospect the heavy narcotics did nothing to help either. Jefferson glided in, the black door closing automatically behind him, like the lazy swirls of a dying whirlpool, at the time he wasn't well known and nobody seemed to pay attention to him or his dull attire; a brown trench coat over black trousers and a white shirt, adorned with a simple black tie.
Breaking another capsule of biascine under my nose and bracing for the euphoria, I watched as he bought a bag of rum and looked around for somewhere quiet and less boisterous to drink. I suppose he saw the self satisfied smile on my face and assumed I was laughing at him as he came over to challenge me.
"I don't mean to be rude sir, but, well, I guess I'm some-what paranoid that, and not that I mind, that you, are having fun at my expense, your not are you?" he stammered.
"Of course not my good man" I replied, full of good humour from the biascine and quite aware that this paranoid man was on the most horrific of come downs, "I am simply smiling to myself, I hope I caused no grievance? Please, sit... or at least hover, I am some-what incapacitated and it is unseemly to appear in such a fashion on one's own!"
He looked me in the eye and knew something was up, he could see I was harmless but knew I wasn't compos mentis.
"I think I will" he says "although may I ask what has caused such mirth?"
With a heavy wink and a roguish grin I beckoned him closer and closer, until I could whisper in his ear, then quietly, as quiet as any man ashamed of his addictions, I spoke.
"On the surface we call it biascine, however I have yet to find someone who can supply up here. I fear that within the week my stock will run dry and I will have to content myself with simple alcohol"
"I consider myself a less than sheltered soul" he laughed heartily "but I daresay that in this case I have done well to avoid such poisons!"
"Aye!" I smiled in response, "it is a terribly difficult habit to keep and much more so to give up, although I daresay I will be fine, okay, and downright clean within the month! I am Tiberius! What's your name sir?"
"Jefferson" he said, and after taking a long draft from his rum, he raised one eyebrow and smirked "So, Tiberius? A very high class name, you must be a scholar of some sort"
I raised an eyebrow back, and we both keeled over into three sixty rotations in hysterics.