Millicentia

Towers grow, like the mounds of certain industrious insects, from the smog and cables of Batmania City, and up into the cleaner cumulous clouds, reaching for the Sun.
In an apartment on the five-hundred and seventeenth storey of the Deroburton Tower, Millicentia Gravlington is sitting on the couch, eating hydroponic lamingtons, which contain no fat or sugar, because they are made of plastic. The bioengineered screen is turned on, automatically shuffling between channels. She’s not paying it much attention.


novel, story

In store

An awful lot of red dirt has blown in through the door. The shelves are empty.
‘Ghost town?’ suggests Crates.
‘Seems pretty dead.’
There is another door behind the counter. Crates opens it. There’s a flight of stairs. They seem to go up to the store-keeper’s quarters.
‘Anyone home?’ Crates calls out.
No answer.
‘See what’s up there,’ says Questionella.
Crates goes up the stairs. Questionella follows.


novel, writing

Bourton

The sun is setting. Questionella is now driving her car in the opposite direction. They are approaching what appears to be a town. That is, a general store and two houses. An old sign almost says, ‘Welcome to Bourton, population 12.5.’
‘Point five?’ says Questionella.
Crates shrugs.
‘I don’t remember coming through this town,’ Questionella says.
‘And it’s not on the map either.’
They park out the front of the general store and get out.
The windows of the store are covered in dust. The sign on the open door says the store is closed. Crates and Questionella go inside.


novel, writing

Questionella and Crates

A strange car, heading along a dirt road, into the desert. One strange thing about it is that most of it’s panels are made of corrugated iron.
There are two people inside. They left Batmania city early the previous morning. Questionella, who built the car, is driving. Crates, who watched Questionella build the car, sits in the passenger’s seat, holding a map.
‘Hey Questionella?’ says Crates.
‘Yeah?’
‘Neither of the places we’ve been through in the last two hours is on the map.’
‘Hmm. That’s weird.’
Questionella slows the strange car down. She pulls over and stops.
‘Let’s see the map.’


writing, novel, car, desert

Two cities

There are two cities. There is the City of Destruction. There is the Celestial City. Very different from each other. The confusing thing is that these two very different cities often appear as one city. They are superimposed over the top of each other, or mixed into each other, maybe. It can be difficult working out which of these cities you're travelling through. Weapons factories and prisons are built on the same blocks as art galleries and parks. Blessings and betrayals occur in the same room. Sometimes it's hard to tell, or perhaps it's hard to remember, which city you're a citizen of.
These cities share the same location, but they are heading in different directions.


novel, writing, cities

PDF version

From now on it might get a bit confusing reading this project in the order I blog it, so I've posted a PDF version, which I'll update as I write.
Oh yeah, it might not be called Prochorus much longer.

writing, novel, PDF

Reminder

‘What are you doing here?’ asks the old woman, who has been getting called Sumati a lot recently.
Prochorus doesn’t answer.
‘Aren’t you the same person who was going to leave all this stuff behind? What happened?’
‘Someone told me this way worked too. He was pretty convincing.’
‘What happened to your book?’
Prochorus goes to his study. He takes his book of clues and hints from the bookshelf. He looks through it. He is reminded of things. Working for things that don’t get old. Making the most of every resource. Taking risks.
Prochorus collapses on the floor and cries.
‘It’s not too late,’ says the old lady, putting her hand on his shoulder. ‘You can leave this sanctuary you made yourself. You can start heading toward the door again. They’re still waiting for you.’


writing, novel

Greater Suburbia

Prochorus gets a mortgage and settles down in Greater Suburbia. He manages to climb both the corporate and social ladders at the same time. He fills his house with stuff. Comforting stuff. Stuff one can depend on.
At three in the morning Prochorus is miserable. His anchor is heavier than before. The therapy has been little help.

writing, novel

Interlude

‘Good to see you’ve come to your senses,’ says Angryblocks.
‘Dunno what came over me,’ says Prochorus.

novel, writing

A Safer Way

Prochorus continues along the alley. His anchor makes it difficult. He squeezes between dripping pipes and ducking beneath damaged cables. He sees a middle-aged man in a business suit, walking towards him.
‘Hello,’ says the businessman. ‘Here’s my card.’
The man hands Prochorus a business card. It tells him that this man is Clyde Jossington-Reid, CEO of Corprotechnic.
‘Don’t have any business cards on me right now,’ says Prochorus. ‘I’m Prochorus.’
‘And where are you off to, Prochorus? You look awfully tired.’
‘I’m heading toward a door.’
‘Interesting. What for?’
‘Need to get rid of my anchor.’
‘Anchor?’
‘It keeps holding me back. It’s tangled up in the destructive way I’ve lived.’
‘Hmm. Wanting to redeem yourself, right?’
‘Yeah, I guess so.‘
‘Well, would you like some advice?’
‘If it’s good.’
‘Well, the way you’re going’s quite dangerous.’ He screwed up his nose. ‘I can see you’ve already been through the pipe. Anyway, there’s much worse things that could happen to you than getting stuck in a dirty pipe. There’s a lot of very powerful people who don’t want you to finish this journey.’
‘I’m not worried about that. Believe me, my anchor’s worse.’
‘I can’t see this anchor, or the chain that connects you to it. When did you first notice it?’
‘Not long after I started noticing the clues and hints.’
Clyde raises his eyebrows. Prochorus opens the book and shows Clyde.
‘Ahh. You’ve been getting distracted. Happens pretty often. People get all caught up in stuff they don’t understand. It leads them to do things they don’t really want to do, for reasons they’re not even sure of.’
‘I know what I’m doing. I’m getting rid of my anchor.’
‘Wait, I haven’t finished. I know a safer way to get rid of your anchor.’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘Become a fine upstanding citizen. A contributor to society. Move to the suburbs. Start a family. Go to church Sunday morning. And if your anchor still bothers you, there are professionals who know how to deal with such things. What do you think? It’s comfortable, it’s safe, you’ll have respectable neighbors who won’t bother you.’
If this is true, thinks Prochorus, why am I taking this difficult route?
Clyde opens a door in the wall. Old, yellow paint is peeling from its timber. Through the door Prochorus sees green hills. There are mountains on the horizon. The sky is blue. The clouds have only a hint of greyness.
‘Your new life lies just the other side of these rolling hills,’ says Clyde.
‘Thank you,’ says Prochorus as he steps through the door.


novel, writing, suburbs

Several maybes

Prochorus sighs.
‘What’s troubling you?’ asks Sumati.
‘Worried about my friends.’
‘Why?’
‘They don’t seem to care. They don’t realise how serious this is.’
‘Hmm,’ says Sumati. ‘Are you sure? Maybe they’re all on journeys as well. Maybe you’re just traveling from different directions.’
‘Maybe they’re just not aware of the journey yet.’
‘Maybe. Maybe you should give them more credit?’
‘Mmm, yeah.’
‘Anyway. You’d best keep going. Not to say that reflection’s unimportant, but you want to get to the door before it gets too late.’


novel, writing, journey

Sumati

Prochorus is back on his feet. He looks himself up and down. He’s covered in mud, dirt and cobwebs.
‘Who are you?’ he asks the old lady and he tries to brush some of the mess from his clothes and skin. ‘I don’t think I ever actually asked you that.’
‘That’s an interesting question,’ says the old lady. ‘There’s a lot of different way people understand me. I’m the wise old woman. I’m an angel. I’m the voice of God. I’m a grandmother. I’m a librarian. I’m a tour guide. I’m a pattern in the collective unconscious.’
‘Okay. What does that mean?’
‘Well, some say I’m something or other that’s been put here by the Source to help you on your journey.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘I’ve been called Sumati a fair bit recently.’


writing, novel, archetype

Sketchblog

Thought I should link David Martin's Sketchblog. He's been posting paintings and poetry inspired by Pilgrim's Progress.
painting, poetry, Pilgrim's Progress

Passage

‘I’m glad you’re coming too,’ says Prochorus as they crawl through the pipe. ‘I reckon the others’ll come eventually.’
‘Yeah. What’ll we find when we get to the door?’
‘Umm. It’s hard to put into words. I’ll try and tell you what I’ve been thinking though. We’ll be able to help pull the world out of the cycle of death and abuse and exploitation that we’ve created.’
‘What else?’
‘Well, seems like there more stuff that just what we see. Like there’s more stuff going on behind it all, making sure it all works. Everything’d fall to bits completely otherwise. There’s stuff trying to fix things up again, and we can help. I think that’s actually where all this came from. It’s the source of everything.’
‘Ah. How do you know all this?’
‘’Cause of the clues. Whatever’s on the other side of everything’s put clues all over the place. It gives people hints. Nuggets of wisdom.’
‘Like in your book?’
‘Yep. They’re the one’s I’ve found.’
‘Ah. Can we go faster?’
Prochorus wants to go faster. He feels his anchor dragging on his heart and his vertebrae, trying to pull him back home.
‘I’m trying to go faster.’
‘Okay.’
They continue crawling. The pipe begins to get narrower. Annelida stops.
‘Um,’ she says, ‘I think I’ll come back another day and try it on my own. I’ll be quicker that way, I reckon.’
‘Oh,’ says Prochorus. ‘Um, okay.’
Annelida manages to turn around inside the pipe. She begins to head back.
Prochorus continues slowly. He is gradually getting slower and slower. He can’t go any further. His elbows and knees give in, and he collapses in the tunnel. Muddy water fills his nostrils. He snorts it out again.
‘Hello,’ says the old lady.
He turns his head to look up at her.
‘How did you get in here?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘How are you standing up in here?’
‘I’m not, actually. It just looks like I am.’
‘Ah. Okay. I’m stuck.’
The old lady takes Prochorus’ hands and pulls him along the tunnel, and out the other end, into another alley.


writing, novel

Straight Ahead

Annelida peers into the opening in the wall. It’s a concrete pipe. Like a drain pipe. A bit of water trickles from it.
‘We have to go in there?’ she says.
‘Think so,’ says Prochorus, although the anchor inside him drags in the direction Angryblocks went.
‘How come?’
‘Angryblocks went the other way, so it must go back home. And I don’t want us to get lost. If we keep going straight we’ll know where we’re going.’
‘Sure it’s safe?’
‘No,’ says Prochorus.
‘You go first then.’
‘If it starts getting dark and yous aren’t back, I’m goin’ home alright?’ says Disfriction.
Prochorus stoops and crawls into the pipe. Annelida follows.

writing, novel