TIME AT THE CITADELLIA
I’ve always enjoyed reading; the way words can take you on varied journeys is powerful to me. The following short story, Citadellia, written in 2012, is one of my first attempts at writing. Like most of my work, it was created in a freestyle manner—I allowed the words to flow one after another, much like I allow the pen or brush to move on its own when drawing.
This passage thrusts the reader into the middle of a conversation between the Cart-man, an enigmatic guide, and the storyteller, a first-person observer. It almost feels like an interruption during their walk from one destination to the next, while their world continues around them. The concept of time, with its apparent malleability, intrigues me, and thus, time as a theme dominates this story.
-5:37
CITADELLIA
“The way of now is the real form of how things are, and for things to go far, they must first begin,” said the Cart-man as we walked along the gated walls of the citadellia.
He spoke of a journey that began tomorrow and is near to end yesterday.
In other words, lastly, the journey started when it ended at first. “The road we were on was correct on a level, but there are many levels to this trip. our calculations were off at first, and when the occurrence was seen, it was all about…”
“time,” I answered for him.
He went on as he did without care for the rot around us. “If you could take your thought-mind and send it off to Vicarious on a boat of luminance and allow it to swim near one of the time dead spots… you know, like on the first year vocals at the harbinger base, the ones from first lesson Zed?… you could, in essence, experience this and that at once!”
A starcross flew above us, announcing and dictating once again. Its massive thrusters, pulsed and rippled at the sky. “–TIME… GIVE NOW AND FOR ALL–” roared the faceless voice within the flying vessel. This timelet of day, the second moment of daylumin, was always crowded in this section of the citadel. The work shifts were rotating, replenish trucks and drink cans were everywhere. the smell of burning meatware drifted with the exhaust from the machine plants. This is and was The perfume of Work Area Cainon at second daylumin and again at 6th evenaught. “–WAYS TO THANK THOSE WHO DO–” some of the workers looked up in fear, their non-eyes fixated towards the heavens. Others looked down in shame, glancing up quickly every now and then. Most ate their meats in what appeared to be silent reverence.
The starcross moved coldly above the populace in a grid-like fashion.
“–EVIL IS THE WAY…” this time the sides of the starcross showed the face of the Inter-Alcate, pixelized and digitized on large panels. “…FOR THOSE WHO SHALL BE CAST ASIDE… THERE IS NO-“
The soundfull wonder flew southward, methodically cleansing the soiled masses as it went. the vessel traveled toward the Center of our grand concourse till I heard it as a mere metallic whisper, quiet but always present.
All the while, the Cart-man remained speaking.
“If we leave now and speed off on a light ship to this very instant, did we leave?… These things are one and the same.”
“It happened and not,” I agreed.
An alloyed mongrel, rusted and oily, picks at something on the sidewalk across from us… is it a doll?
The more we walk along, the more he speaks in a manner that makes me feel as if I am floating in fat, lazy layers of light, and time folds into itself. he has a way of doing so, but I think he is no more aware of it than time is aware of us.
“There is something to this,” I replied at nothing in particular.
the walls around us, pushed on as far as the eye could see, with their slutty stains, dripping with the sour familiarities of the vermin. Slogans of bravado and propaganda medias splattered and pasted for all eyes to see.
The Cart-man was named Alit Yarrison, but he is the Cart-man, and this is of uppermost importance to know. He wears a smoothified top hat and white gentleman gloves, the kind the first Alcate wore the night of his assassination. His blood-red velvet coat glows like twilight dew in the outersphere here.
His duckbill-shaped mouth is wooden like most Cart-men, but his is made from old wood from the Round Forest, a white mark near the middle of his lips shows he is in remembrance, a chip near the front of his top lip, a genetic marker passed down from “his 12th power great grand-fadrentarian,” he would tell anyone he caught looking at it for too long.
Something in his eyes said that he had seen things most are not meant to see.
He could dictate like the best programmer of thought if he chose, but it was easier for him to speak in fangled fables and twiddle-daddled mosh-words.
“…spiral! in a circular, undulating manner, the emptiness travels so momentous that time is swung this way and that way. speed! a masterful dancer can guide time. the faster the movement, the easier to hold on to and direct her. I tell you what of it, the first moment we opened the doorway of the spiral, we received a coded message. from our futural selves!” he chuckled the last word, his chuckle became a loud crackle, the workers near us looked over and glanced away quickly.
“What did it say?” I asked.
His laughter died off as he tilted his head in my direction, “you’ve heard it before,” he whispered. we walked for a third of a moment in silence, if you could call the second moment of daylumin in this part of the citadellia, silence.
We neared the Westward Fence and signaled for the watch-hand.
This part of the citadel was always empty except for the vermin. Seven moments we walked to reach here. The sun was nearing its departure, and its rays washed over us, blanketing every wall and barrier, every turret and walkway, in an orange so vibrant we shielded our eyes from its glorious splendor.
‡
