Sunday Comix (Journal Entry the 2.5th)
2000-07-25 - Written 2000-2-6
Thoughts:
The Roger Jolly (part 1) (so far, there is no part 2)
He walks with a think air of nonchalance, his combat boots softly thudding down the hall. He tilts his head back to get the last drops of flat Coke down his throat. When he gets back to the barracks, Roger unstraps his 60mm, removes his trench coat, kisses a picture of his favorite redhead, and continues his monologue entry�
"March 15, 2036
Patrol Duty. No one uses infantry anymore. When the Chinese tried it in 2034, they lost over half of their population, and their whole government structure. That day the world had been taught a final lesson on nuclear power. Of course, the Chinese had ordered their own strikes, but Russia and Lebanon were the real nuclear threats, and they bombed all sides of the conflict to "regain peace". Most people believe there wasn't peace to begin with. America defended herself better than the other countries, but went into its third economic depression due to the government's increased tax rate during the "conflict". That's what you get for electing a double Y leader, some said. The world's been on a sharp downhill slope since genetics became legalized, with vivofracture, superhumans, and the prospect of eternal life. Now, governments use biological weapons, and freelance droids to take what they want. Some governments started taking things from their own citizens, and the citizens fought back, forming factions of humans and stolen SOLDIERs (Somataton Organic Lambda Droids for Internal Exercise Runs). Some humans still fought for their freedom and property 40 years later. That's why I'm on patrol, to watch out for genetic machines, programmed to destroy anyone who doesn't have a valid ID or valuables to confiscate. So far the faction is doing well, we have enough weapons to distribute, and we're located near a underground well in case we're under siege. We still have to steal most of our hard food supplies, but one truck will serve the faction for a week. This journal will be a dialogue for the people of the future, when they may have forgotten why they're still fighting the government of their own country. Greed is the reason, greed is the key to why the governments collapsed. The factions fight blindly, but they have no idea what they will do if they win against the corporations. But life will be better, we'll be able to start over, without the influences of monopolies or absolute control�"
At this point there is a knock at the door, and Roger, still lost in thought, carelessly opens it. Some say that It's the bullet you don't see that kills you, the one time you let your guard down that your opponent hits his hardest.
"It's a good thing" he thought to himself, "that I'm not a splatter on the wall now for my stupidity. It's a good thing it is only Falmur at my door."
Only Falmur. It was probably the only time in his existence he had been thought of as "only Falmur". Falmur dwarfed most humans, which made the movement through the filthy tunnels below the surface hard for him. He smiled his sharp-toothed smile, and produced a large tin of thalmoglobulin, which he occasionally sipped from as he spoke.
"So, what's up?" he slurred, as he stumbled into the room and passed out, his pointy ears still twitching with the force of his fall long afterward.
Peppermint, Cinnamon, Lights and Love
Growing up in a small town with a poor family, I never considered myself unfortunate. I never truly considered myself lucky to have been born into that situation, but it had its high points. Like Christmas. There was a distinct feel that I got in the weeks prior to this, my favorite holiday. I associate the excitement with the smells that were always present this time of year, peppermint and cinnamon. My mother, although not rich, would always manage to afford a small bag of peppermints, which would drive the think smell of smoke from the kitchen and give us something sweet to pop in our eager little mouths. Of course, we would always finish them off quickly, and she would end up buying another bag or two, but she was happy to do it, happy to please us in whatever way she could. It was one of the rare times I saw my mother smile, and it was a time each year I could depend on her to smile.
On Christmas Eve, it was cinnamon. My mother would always have cinnamon cocoa for us when we came in from outside, after a long day of festive romping in the snow. I've never liked the taste of cinnamon, but I enjoyed the smell, so she would still make me my very own cup of cocoa. I would sit at the table, and huddle around my cocoa like it was a frog that might jump away, deeply inhaling the aroma from the mug. And when I was done, I would always offer my undrunken cocoa to my mother, because she would never make some for herself. She never ended up drinking it either, even though she did no dislike the taste. She would give it to one of my sisters, assuming they wanted it more, and wanting to give her children everything she could. Sometimes I think she gave too much.
And on Christmas Day, there were the lights. Every Christmas, my older sister and I would rush downstairs like we were drunk on sleep that we got very little of. Each Christmas, we spun around the corner of the stairs, and stopped just before we reached the living room. It always struck me how stunningly beautiful and large the tree looked, with it's tiny blue lights and seemingly antique plastic decorations. We stood and stared, for several minutes, contemplating the beauty of this tree, which had been removed from our field out back only days before. There were seldom expensive presents under the tree, and it never looked as if we had stumbled into some vast treasure trove of toys. Whatever we got was fine, and we loved it just the same. Seeing those lights in the morning was our real present, and that's all that really mattered.
After starring at the tree, we would go and wake the others up, so they could share in its splendor. We woke up our little sister, and then my mother would be woken up by three pairs of baby-sized feet, jumping on her bed, and three little mouths blabbing incoherent sentences about "waking up", and "Christmas Morning". She would eventually awaken, and we would play games by the tree and in the snow util we passed out. Mother would tuck us in, give us each a kiss for protection, and sent off to the lovely realm of childhood dreaming. Love was the one thing she had plenty of.
That is what Christmas means to me: peppermint, cinnamon, lights and love. So if she's reading this, from over my shoulder or some cloudy paradise: I love you mom.
