Dreadlocks and Castles

He walked the streets every orange moon with the sole purpose of reminding the lifeless citizens of Marinpol that they were not – nor had they never been – alone in their gray world; that he was there, pacing with a vigorous intensity somewhere behind the gates of their semi-consciences as well as their boulevards on this one day out of the 257 in the year, growing ever more unstoppable and ever more wild as they, growing paler by the decade, retreated weakly into the comfort of a droll and domesticated life. The physical co-existence between this vibrant man and the city dwellers was, as it always had been before, either ignored or considered obsolete by the latter party with the mangled idea of ultimate domination of over the former through the rigorous practice of their own artificial reality; in short, by blotting out the man’s existence with their own.

From the moment they were born into the sterile hands of a depressing midwife, the next generation of Marinians, the generation I am going to break in a few chapters, have disciplined to be obedient and submissive; courses were draw up and structurally sounded by scientists in white lab-coats while the day’s lessons were taught by the dullest and most unimaginative of woman nurses, and were expected to voluntarily surround themselves with orderliness (disobedience would be noted by the Council, too many of such incidents would result in confinement, quarantine, or vocal isolation) and work to preserve the high society all their faded lives until they died a slow death (the average lifetime broke a century) orchestrated by the so-called “wonders of modern medicine” (meaning a roomful of machinery kept the body going on superficial fluids and replaced parts until boredom struck the final, merciful blow).

Thus, an entire city lived and fed and perished on a routine lifestyle only technology and a cold society can engineer.

To the members of this highly controlled society, our character is considered mere fiction. Indeed, it would be hard for anyone to believe in him without visual proof, logical explanations, video footage and maybe an interview with Opra Winfrey. For one, his eyes were mismatched – one blue, one green – whispered to be the devil’s eyes between city dwellers. He also had wonderful dreadlocks that stuck out like porcupine quills: thin, black twisting spires striped by rivulets of deep orange, an effect that emphasized and magnified his wild nature. He walked barefoot with powerful strides, his soles and soul rough like the treated leather of a trapper’s goods. On cold winter days his breath was a fog that spilt over his lip and was quickly collected by monkeys with small wooden bowls. When he cried, for the earth and for his loneliness, his tears would harden into crystal orbs and bounce seven times on the ground, before rolling away into the dark to find nicks and corners in which they could blossom large flowers whose petals of flame smelled wonderfully of cinnamon.

It was not uncommon for these flowers to be found. Children, forbidden by their mothers, would every noon and evening run about the town square searching for that sweet wift of cinnamon closely followed by the beautiful auburn-and-rust shades that never failed to accompany its fragrance. When a blossom was found, the children would gather ‘round to hide its brilliance from the adults and watch – silently, quivering with delight and anticipation – as it slowly withered in the hands of the lucky girl or boy.

It would burn – first from the broken part of the stem, then towards the blossom – leaving a pile of angelic blue ash to replace the iridescent green fibers. The heatless flame would consume, ever so slowly, the single delicate leaf: an intricate web of veins, semi-transparent but for the lines that traced its surface before they were lost to the fire. Upon reaching the head of the flower, the children would hold their breath for fear of breathing in smoke as the heat ate its way through one petal after another, until the entirety of it resembled a large burning ember.

As the embers cooled the children breathed again; instead of the fine blue dust there remained a small, life-like statue of a stone frog with twisting black spires radiating from its head in the way of wild dreads frozen by a harsh and icy wind.