Being Coy

Her name was Gertrude Windef. It was an assumed name. It was necessary, or so she thought. She was a headhunter. She found people to join the cause. Her job was necessary. She was the best in the business, any business. She was necessary.

The building she worked in was only a small part of the cause. It, like her, was deceiving in nature. As the recruiting director, she wasn't directly effecting the cause, but the people she hired probably would.

She picked up her morning paper, an unnecessary, or so she thought, habit she guiltily harbored, and read, with surprise:

Council of Youth (CoY) threatens Mayor

She scanned the rest of the arcticle before calling El Baño, the head of the organization.

If she had been listening hard, she would have heard the click of an old fashioned analog camera. If she had looked very hard she would have seen the oddball photographer. But, she didn't. She just returned to her computer screen and got back to work.

On the other hand, I, Tom Ionel was just getting finished. I was dressed in a sharp fedora, trenchcoat, and stood out here in the '90s (2090's to be exact), like a thumbtack in a barrel of monkeys. I pulled out a pack of Coacs, cigaretted made from caffeitine, a hybrid of nicotine and caffeine, all the strengths, none of the weaknesses, and it wouldn't kill you. I used my Zot brand circuit based heating device, lit it, and took a drag.

Finishing the cigarette, I hopped into my car; a nice Millenium Skimmer design, the Ennium Feop. The Feop was the nicest peice of junk on the market, and my 2087 model was no where near death. My motor crackled to life, and I ...

The First Story

A vision came, as expected. The Ponderer's quill lightly brushed the parchment. Liquill ("The Bodyguard") watched the Ponderer from the grasses behind. The Ponderer's own eyes were unfocused, and staring off into the distance. His strokes of the quill almost robotic in the automatic flowing to the parchment. Over time (how much, unknown, as timekeeping devices were unknown in this sector of the world), the Ponderer finished his work on the parchment. The vision now gone, the Ponderer picked himself up, slowly at first, as if getting out of a daze, and decidedly more hurried. The Bodyguard, silent as ever, fell behind the Ponderer as they took the long hike back once more to the village.

When the Ponderer arrived at his village, most of the men of the village were already gathered near the Meeting Hut ("Arliq"). The women rounded up the last of the children, and all were seated in the Meeting Hut. The Bodyguard disappeared into the ranks, and the Ponderer placed his parchment upon the Ceremonial Log ("Glaj"). A Man of Rank ("Ofk") silenced the loud Meeting Hut, and then reseated himself. The Ponderer surveyed the group.

A few moments later the Ponderer cleared his throat. The vision, as written on the parchment, was read out loud, slowly, deliberately at first, slowly gaining volume, tempo, and force.

On a world very much like our own, a Man, not of rank or noble house sat in front of a Changing Parchment. His fingers flew over a similar parchment covered in moving bumps. His task was to put together the first story for a book of parchments. This book was to be as everchanging as the parchment he used, and this book was to occupy no physical space at all, but exist in a nether region ...