Plotlogs
Feral Forces Fight Frakking Pt 2 Sr Novel 241127
In the unfolding story set in front of the Starlight Lounge, a diverse group of individuals gathers inside a modestly appointed room, each carrying their own personal burdens and histories of pain. Among them stands Isolde, a figure of youthful beauty and intensity, who immediately captivates the room's attention with her earnest dialogue on the concept of paradise, responsibility, and the reality of the world's suffering.
The narrative delves deep into the contrasting ideologies of hope and despair as Isolde challenges the group to reject the notion of a paradise that absolves them of responsibility for the world's current state. She argues passionately against complacency, advocating instead for a proactive approach to understanding and righting the world's wrongs. Her words, echoing with empathy and a fierce desire for change, resonate with the group, drawing them into a contemplative silence.
As Isolde's rhetoric escalates to a call for proactive defiance – to "bring nightmare" to the gods as a means of fighting against an unjust status quo – the mood shifts dramatically. The once supportive audience begins to recoil at the sudden extremity of her vision, which promises conflict and upheaval without a clear path to the better world she initially advocated for.
The turning point comes as the man who had shown Isolde kindness and offered her an audience recognizes the dangerous fervor in her speech. His disappointment, devoid of anger but heavy with sorrow, acts as a sobering counter to Isolde's impassioned plea. As he firmly requests her departure, the group's initial openness to Isolde's message dissolves into a collective disenchantment, reflecting the broader struggle between idealism and pragmatism.
Isolde's parting words, a promise of continued presence in dreams, leaves a haunting impression as she vanishes from the scene. Her abrupt exit underscores the fragile line between inspiring change and inciting chaos, leaving the group to grapple with the aftermath of her visit and the complex realities of pursuing genuine transformation in a world fraught with pain and injustice.
The story concludes with a potent mix of disillusionment and unresolved tension, highlighting the profound challenge of seeking meaningful change without losing sight of the humanity and caution such endeavors require.
(Feral Forces Fight Frakking pt. 2(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Tue Nov 26 2024]
At the sidewalk in front of Starlight Lounge
The Starlight Lounge rises up ahead of you at the end of the sidewalk. The sign above the door baring the name of the establishment has a nebula of stars circling the lounge's name.
It is afternoon, about 50F(10C) degrees, and there are a few grey clouds in the sky.
Isolde stands like a ghost on a street idle with moving cars. She's dressed to run- which is ever so derelict to the future of the clothes. Without purpose.
Man already moves to oblige Isolde. The labcoat is peeled off, revealing his slim form. It's laid over the back of the coat. He settles on down and then - he gestures, the the center spot of the semicircle of this repurpose room. There's not much here, in truth. A folding table. Many folding chairs. A coffee machine with cheap paper cups and equally cheap powdered stuff that's then poured in the top and then heated. He settles down as his gaze looks over Isolde expectantly. "Hello, Kim," Echoes the chorus of voices.
There's a young man - sixteen, perhaps? His hands jittery and drumming on his thighs, brown gaze wandering this way and that, dressed in loose and wrinkled clothing. There's no jacket on the back of his chair.
There's an elderly woman, clutching her purse, her wheezing breath coming through the hole in her neck in signs of the long use of tobacco and the smell of it cloying and clinging to her form.
Someone with a tic, scratching the side of his cheek, often, all wild red hair and green eyes.
A gruff, bearded black man, in black and black from head to toe.
And yet their expressions are all the same. Tired. Hurt. Lost. A gathering of discrete few, who have all known pain, trying to find a new way.
The now no-longer labcoatted man responds gently, "I think we should listen to your tale and story first. You were talking about religion, Kim...?" Attention is now completely on her.
Isolde stands brightly like the image of what could be: Happy at the end of her youth. Beauty, the honest distraction, is ever deceptive in how it detracts from the meaning of the moment for God's created repetition. "Oh, I thought about it. I really did." She nods. She really did. She really does sit down as well, verily, friends, "but to preach paradise would be cynical, wouldn't it? It is a very excusative thing to say- We don't need not accept responsibility for the world as it is, and by extension, we don't need to do anything about it!" She leans forward, back from heaven, down to earth.
"But, sadly, the world that comes undergoes similitude: We will see the same life afterward as the one we're living through." Isolde nod poignantly.
Isolde says "What awaits us is a reflection of what is left behind! Darkness, ounces of sadness, and car crashes."
Extra chair snaps open and unfolds. It is bare and metal and cold and harsh for the butt, with softer, albeit thin, padding for the back. Identical to all the other compositions of aluminum pipes. And yet the focus, the gazes remain. Attractiveness has a way of doing that to people, even if such beauty is marred by sickness and a loss of life. There's a murmured assent. The shuffling. The click of phones and electronic devices gradually fading away. The slight smile of the man who brought her here. The slow nodding assent to Isolde's words. And at the end they are hooked. The reflection of faces, their own suffering, their own memories. It echoes with Isolde's own sentiments and voice. Some gradually straighten from their slouch. Palms on thighs. Some still nervously fidgeting.
"I defy this notion of paradise at the gates of pearl!" Isolde stage whispers, intense. "In doing so, I am given the opportunity to learn the ways of righteousness; the practice of sympathy and empathy, learning to understand that which sits above me. What are those Gates? Not for me, not for us- every mansion is set upon the same conceit: a place we did not earn, and most certainly do not deserve."
"And-" Isolde suddenly bows her head shy, "I know it's my first day, so sorry- but you have slept in the dirt- do you not dream of the Mansion? Of the old Oregen you never had the fortune to see? Of the hunts- the simple ways of life before great circles were carved into flesh?"
Stillness. Attentiveness. Things mingling together, drawn to the fierce intensity and pain all in one, their own empathy writ 'pon their features and sufferings. The shifts of posture and bodies. The occasional cough and clearing of throat. A group of disaffected beginning to listen. Snared by that voice. A burly man speaks up, his voice heavy, "Be nice if things were simple, but they ain't." Rumbles out. "Gotta try protecting folks best you can, anyway. Build our own futures, help each other." And there's assent to that, a sort of rising chorus, a greeting, an understanding. Down-to-earth people themselves as they fall into the projection that Isolde makes.
Isolde's cold Cheshire smile is the response to the man. "When you lay your head down they say we wake to Nightmare- but it is simply the similitude we seek. A colorless black to the gates of Dream. In this reflection is a beginning few have sought to currate- to learn, and it IS a promise.. For those that know- and those that walk, I tell you this: To White Oak. Mandrake- drink deeply and find the gates, enter- and see small snip-its of paradise. And then, truly, BRING NIGHTMARE!"
Isolde shoots up from her chair, young and spry and old and wise, digging frustrated anger on her face, shouting through voice, "Protect something bigger than yourselves! Bloody your hands in the dream for it does not kill- think not of the waste of life you make for there is none, but you WILL bring them hell. WE cannot fight gods but we CAN bring them NIGHTMARE! BRING NIGHTMARE!"
And now Isolde's gone off the rails. Some of them are drinking it in, but the once labcoatted man is frowning deeply as he's suddenly clambering to his feet, some of the soft-spokenness mingling with sternness and more than a hint of steel drawing into his voice as he gathers up his coat. "No. Don't do that." He says, suddenly, clearing the air, dispelling. "I think it's time for you to go." He cuts above the protests, stepping over to Isolde. There's no anger - but there's deep, pained disappointment as he regards Isolde, looking up at her.
The rest of the crowd is put off, too. The sudden call to strange action, the calling to paradise and madness doesn't land. The messages are too jarring, too contradictory, and the man who lead her here is more than displeased as he moves to grasp her by the shoulder and lead her out the door. Kicking Kim out.
"Thank you for coming and sharing your ideas." Comes the murmured words.
With a voice that one hears on their first dawn and their final dusk, she whispered, "Sleep. I will see you in your dreams." Isolde steps back into the door, then vanishes.
The narrative delves deep into the contrasting ideologies of hope and despair as Isolde challenges the group to reject the notion of a paradise that absolves them of responsibility for the world's current state. She argues passionately against complacency, advocating instead for a proactive approach to understanding and righting the world's wrongs. Her words, echoing with empathy and a fierce desire for change, resonate with the group, drawing them into a contemplative silence.
As Isolde's rhetoric escalates to a call for proactive defiance – to "bring nightmare" to the gods as a means of fighting against an unjust status quo – the mood shifts dramatically. The once supportive audience begins to recoil at the sudden extremity of her vision, which promises conflict and upheaval without a clear path to the better world she initially advocated for.
The turning point comes as the man who had shown Isolde kindness and offered her an audience recognizes the dangerous fervor in her speech. His disappointment, devoid of anger but heavy with sorrow, acts as a sobering counter to Isolde's impassioned plea. As he firmly requests her departure, the group's initial openness to Isolde's message dissolves into a collective disenchantment, reflecting the broader struggle between idealism and pragmatism.
Isolde's parting words, a promise of continued presence in dreams, leaves a haunting impression as she vanishes from the scene. Her abrupt exit underscores the fragile line between inspiring change and inciting chaos, leaving the group to grapple with the aftermath of her visit and the complex realities of pursuing genuine transformation in a world fraught with pain and injustice.
The story concludes with a potent mix of disillusionment and unresolved tension, highlighting the profound challenge of seeking meaningful change without losing sight of the humanity and caution such endeavors require.
(Feral Forces Fight Frakking pt. 2(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Tue Nov 26 2024]
At the sidewalk in front of Starlight Lounge
The Starlight Lounge rises up ahead of you at the end of the sidewalk. The sign above the door baring the name of the establishment has a nebula of stars circling the lounge's name.
It is afternoon, about 50F(10C) degrees, and there are a few grey clouds in the sky.
Isolde stands like a ghost on a street idle with moving cars. She's dressed to run- which is ever so derelict to the future of the clothes. Without purpose.
Man already moves to oblige Isolde. The labcoat is peeled off, revealing his slim form. It's laid over the back of the coat. He settles on down and then - he gestures, the the center spot of the semicircle of this repurpose room. There's not much here, in truth. A folding table. Many folding chairs. A coffee machine with cheap paper cups and equally cheap powdered stuff that's then poured in the top and then heated. He settles down as his gaze looks over Isolde expectantly. "Hello, Kim," Echoes the chorus of voices.
There's a young man - sixteen, perhaps? His hands jittery and drumming on his thighs, brown gaze wandering this way and that, dressed in loose and wrinkled clothing. There's no jacket on the back of his chair.
There's an elderly woman, clutching her purse, her wheezing breath coming through the hole in her neck in signs of the long use of tobacco and the smell of it cloying and clinging to her form.
Someone with a tic, scratching the side of his cheek, often, all wild red hair and green eyes.
A gruff, bearded black man, in black and black from head to toe.
And yet their expressions are all the same. Tired. Hurt. Lost. A gathering of discrete few, who have all known pain, trying to find a new way.
The now no-longer labcoatted man responds gently, "I think we should listen to your tale and story first. You were talking about religion, Kim...?" Attention is now completely on her.
Isolde stands brightly like the image of what could be: Happy at the end of her youth. Beauty, the honest distraction, is ever deceptive in how it detracts from the meaning of the moment for God's created repetition. "Oh, I thought about it. I really did." She nods. She really did. She really does sit down as well, verily, friends, "but to preach paradise would be cynical, wouldn't it? It is a very excusative thing to say- We don't need not accept responsibility for the world as it is, and by extension, we don't need to do anything about it!" She leans forward, back from heaven, down to earth.
"But, sadly, the world that comes undergoes similitude: We will see the same life afterward as the one we're living through." Isolde nod poignantly.
Isolde says "What awaits us is a reflection of what is left behind! Darkness, ounces of sadness, and car crashes."
Extra chair snaps open and unfolds. It is bare and metal and cold and harsh for the butt, with softer, albeit thin, padding for the back. Identical to all the other compositions of aluminum pipes. And yet the focus, the gazes remain. Attractiveness has a way of doing that to people, even if such beauty is marred by sickness and a loss of life. There's a murmured assent. The shuffling. The click of phones and electronic devices gradually fading away. The slight smile of the man who brought her here. The slow nodding assent to Isolde's words. And at the end they are hooked. The reflection of faces, their own suffering, their own memories. It echoes with Isolde's own sentiments and voice. Some gradually straighten from their slouch. Palms on thighs. Some still nervously fidgeting.
"I defy this notion of paradise at the gates of pearl!" Isolde stage whispers, intense. "In doing so, I am given the opportunity to learn the ways of righteousness; the practice of sympathy and empathy, learning to understand that which sits above me. What are those Gates? Not for me, not for us- every mansion is set upon the same conceit: a place we did not earn, and most certainly do not deserve."
"And-" Isolde suddenly bows her head shy, "I know it's my first day, so sorry- but you have slept in the dirt- do you not dream of the Mansion? Of the old Oregen you never had the fortune to see? Of the hunts- the simple ways of life before great circles were carved into flesh?"
Stillness. Attentiveness. Things mingling together, drawn to the fierce intensity and pain all in one, their own empathy writ 'pon their features and sufferings. The shifts of posture and bodies. The occasional cough and clearing of throat. A group of disaffected beginning to listen. Snared by that voice. A burly man speaks up, his voice heavy, "Be nice if things were simple, but they ain't." Rumbles out. "Gotta try protecting folks best you can, anyway. Build our own futures, help each other." And there's assent to that, a sort of rising chorus, a greeting, an understanding. Down-to-earth people themselves as they fall into the projection that Isolde makes.
Isolde's cold Cheshire smile is the response to the man. "When you lay your head down they say we wake to Nightmare- but it is simply the similitude we seek. A colorless black to the gates of Dream. In this reflection is a beginning few have sought to currate- to learn, and it IS a promise.. For those that know- and those that walk, I tell you this: To White Oak. Mandrake- drink deeply and find the gates, enter- and see small snip-its of paradise. And then, truly, BRING NIGHTMARE!"
Isolde shoots up from her chair, young and spry and old and wise, digging frustrated anger on her face, shouting through voice, "Protect something bigger than yourselves! Bloody your hands in the dream for it does not kill- think not of the waste of life you make for there is none, but you WILL bring them hell. WE cannot fight gods but we CAN bring them NIGHTMARE! BRING NIGHTMARE!"
And now Isolde's gone off the rails. Some of them are drinking it in, but the once labcoatted man is frowning deeply as he's suddenly clambering to his feet, some of the soft-spokenness mingling with sternness and more than a hint of steel drawing into his voice as he gathers up his coat. "No. Don't do that." He says, suddenly, clearing the air, dispelling. "I think it's time for you to go." He cuts above the protests, stepping over to Isolde. There's no anger - but there's deep, pained disappointment as he regards Isolde, looking up at her.
The rest of the crowd is put off, too. The sudden call to strange action, the calling to paradise and madness doesn't land. The messages are too jarring, too contradictory, and the man who lead her here is more than displeased as he moves to grasp her by the shoulder and lead her out the door. Kicking Kim out.
"Thank you for coming and sharing your ideas." Comes the murmured words.
With a voice that one hears on their first dawn and their final dusk, she whispered, "Sleep. I will see you in your dreams." Isolde steps back into the door, then vanishes.