“Red Avalanche, Grey Envoy”, a book of fiction by B. Scott Williams.
Part one – “The Fjord”
Chapter one – Southbound.
The tall, overweight man stands with a dozen others, on the street corner, waiting for the next Southbound bus to arrive and take everyone to their suburban homes. He’s tired after a day at the office, typing away at his keyboard:
Type.
Type.
Type.
Click, drag, drop, click.
Swipe.
He remembers how it used to be when he was much younger, while in college, typing on a machine that you put Manila colored cards into, and out they came punched with random holes in them.
Supposedly creating a so-called computer program.
It was only ten lines of code.
“Hello. My name is Hal.”
The old man still types on a keyboard, but it’s a very strange keyboard.
It’s made of glass.
There are no keys.
The numbers and characters go off somewhere into the ether, the cards have gone the way of the Dinosaur.
Extinct.
Only to be seen in a far, far away museum.
Kids, upon being taken to this museum, ask their dad, “what’s that, Daddy?”
That, little Lailah, is something called an ALGOL programmer. They are examples of an ancient and extinct culture.
“Ogle programmer?”
No, AL…GOL. It’s a dark, and mysterious language only known to the lords, and knights of an older Realm called “Burroughs”. The Realm doesn’t exist any more – it died out thousands upon thousands of years ago. These lords and knights were the master’s of an old and ancient operating system called “The MCP”. No one has used it in over three thousand years.
“Wow! The ‘MCP’, you mean an OS like ‘IOS/10’? But that was released more than a hundred years ago! Man, I didn’t think anything was older than that OS! I feel so sorry for him”
[As I was saying…]
Extinct.
The way the tall, mostly overweight (and very tired) man feels now.
He remembers as a twenty something year old working with a few very smart individuals who probably were only in their forties. They used to make fun of themselves, saying “you’re older than dirt, Harry!”
The man is now well past his forties, and soon will be in the final quarter of his life.
Of course that’s assuming he lives to be eighty.
“The Final Quarter”
His last fifteen minutes of fame.
Fifteen minutes to be in the spotlight – again, one last time.
The problem is, there are no spotlights any longer.
Not at work. Not in the office.
The “he can do anything” man has been put out to rest in the back forty (acres), more than a few years ago.
No one listens when he speaks.
That is, while at work.
But, he’s found an audience – not a huge audience. Just a few select people.
Who like to read his ponderings.
They shall remain nameless.
Because, you see, it’s a capital crime to read thoughts of an ancient culture.
The men in the tower have deemed it to be unwise. They don’t want to awaken the gods of the universe.
[Especially the one called donald.]
The tired, self conscious, slightly overweight man is now on the bus, going over the river.
Not that river.
His route doesn’t take him anywhere near the great Mississippi.
The river he’s going over is known as the Minnesota River, and it’s more swampland than an actual river.
For some reason, the locals call this place “South of the river”.
He knows not which river they’re taking about. Is it the Mississippi or is it the Minnesota?
The man realizes he only has a few minutes left before the bus stops at the Apple Valley Transit Station, and so he closes out this chapter.
The first chapter.
Of his first book.
The book he hopes will be published very soon.
The intent is to write two chapters a day.
One chapter while going Northbound.
The other chapter going South.
Northbound chapters will tell of the success, the glory, the fame, the tears of happiness, and of joy.
[In other words, there will only be one Northbound chapter.]
Southbound chapters will be of gloom, darkness, sadness, and despair.
[but, who knows, the man may switch it up, just to confuse those few souls who feel it’s worth their time to read this man’s thoughts.]
The man thinks he has forty some odd chapters of stories to tell.
For his book.
This book that will be published posthumously.
You see, he only has three weeks left to live…
[To be continued…]
