Orga
Orga
was once a normal city, though most would
still call it normal now.
The
Organs, the populace of Orga, had developed a
fear of viruses particularly from
fresh foods after a brief outbreak of
e-coli swept through the city and killed
dozens of elementary school children. The
Orga city council discussed possible
solutions and agreed that the best choice for
everyone was to allow and import only
prepackaged foods into the city as to prevent
any possible future viral breakouts.
The
Organs soon developed a sweet tooth for the
shrink-wrapped and vacuum-packed goodies that
were sold in vending machines and, as
the number of vending machines increased, so
did belt sizes around the city. By the
third year of the fresh food ban, the average
pants size in Orga was a whopping 70 inches.
The
plump, chocolate-sedated Organs didnt
stand a chance when the vending machines
attacked: the puft-up marshmallow men and
women were slaughtered like the pigs that
they had become.
Sterile. That is how most visitors to
the city of Orga might describe it if they
were to visit today. The germophobic
Organs got their postmortem wish: there was
no longer an e-coli threat with the vending
machine conquerors in charge of the city.
The vending machines became politicians,
school teachers, taxi cab drivers, and
vending machine repairmachines. These
snack-dispensing overlords took over society
exactly where the Organs had left off.
The
only virus that might plague Orga now would
not exist of microbes or cells; it would
exist as a string of ones and zeroes.
Demongate
Statues. Ever since the dawn of time,
human beings have been fascinated with
forging these effigies of themselves
there is something about these scaled
reproductions that enthralls humankind, often
becoming hypnotic, whether they are chiseled
Neapolitan marble golems or poured into molds
and forged into bronze metal colossuses.
The city of Demongate is much like most other
cities. It has, however, hundreds of
thousands of statues. A visitor might
be amazed by this total, but the citizens of
Demongate continue to add to their collective
statue collection by an average of at least
several hundred a month, if not more.
The outsider might view Demongate as a
bizarre yet cosmopolitan wonderland, rich in
the visual arts; in favor of the artist.
Unlike the avant-garde statues that adorn
most art museums, all of Demongates
statues are of the same design: shiny,
metallic human-like forms posed in a variety
of positions. A common pose among
Demongates statues is a heroic area
surveying pose; a poise and gesture
that might be seen in a painting of a
frontier hero or a commanding general
surveying his battlefield. Other forms
are posed athletically; others sit in
contemplative repose. There is no rhyme
or reason as to why certain statues are
forged in the poses that they possess. Thats
just how it is, locals will say when
asked. We have always put them
like that. We like it better that way.
Demongate has hundreds of public statue parks
to exhibit their collective, never-ending
public work. A visitor to any of these
parks will find them all remarkably the same:
seemingly-endless rows and columns of the
same type of statue. Most outsiders
will find the locals of Demongate very
bizarre in the manner in which they love
their statue parks: often lines just to get
into these parks exceed a mile long.
Statues can be menacing, yet, conversely, so
comforting. A child tiptoes down a
dimly-lit corridor past midnight, follows a
bend and proceeds down a creaking staircase
into the abyss, turns another corner,
scratches his or her eyes, then opens them.
In front of the child is a life-size menacing
bear statue and the child hears its primal
growl echo in his or her head. The
child cries and hides in a corner. Meanwhile,
a man or woman kneels before a spotless ivory
statue of a religious figure. A
comforting aura surrounds them and they feel
at peace. They have no fear.
The
statues of Demongate fit this duality. Locals
visit them daily, speak to them, cling to
them, love them. These statues glow
with peace and serenity to them.
When
in contact, outsiders are the child and
Demongates statues are the bear. Demongates
statues are not monstrous entities for the
locals. They are the corpses of
deceased citizens posed and coated in
metals for an eternity of public exhibiton.
Immortality is a physical impossibility for
the human body; there is no debate as to this
manner. Statues offer immortality to
their likenesses. That which is not
forgotten cannot truly die. The
citizens of Demongate have discovered this
little secret to immortality.
Solar
Solar the city of the sun; the city of
eternal darkness.
Gold-paved roads are now tarnished a murky
green; valueless. Creeping, black
tentacle vines consumed once-brilliant
structures, crumbling them to unsalvageable
piles of rubble, shattered mirrors as far as
the eye can see. It is now a nebulous,
deplorable bog where one is more likely to
see swamp monsters lurking in the muck and
quagmire, amidst the occasional grime-stained
human skeleton.
It was once a city that was destined for
golden greatness. Centuries ago, Solar
was founded by a group that shared a mutual
admiration: the sun. The only plot of
land available to these pilgrims was in a
swamp, but before the city of the sun could
be built, the pilgrims had to push back the
dinginess of the swamp a stain on the
land, as they saw it and damned the
swamp by damming its tributaries.
The
Solar town square had been carefully
constructed out of pure gold to serve the
purpose of a calendar and sundial. This
aurous agora was truly magnificent in and of
itself merchant carts crafted of gold,
all peddling beautiful golden trinkets
depicting a personified sun. Travelers
through Solar never hesitated to buy a
trinket. Solarians collected them and
wore different sun medallions daily as
benediction.
Beautiful artistic representations of the sun
adorned all of Solars breathtaking
gothic structures. There was no need
for a museum of art, for the city itself
served that purpose. It was not
uncommon for Solarians to break down in tears
at the sheer beauty of their creation.
It
was a truly priceless majesty; maybe only
comparable to Eden itself. Yet, it was
not enough the Solarians believed that
the sun deserved even more praise than that
of gold.
All structures in Solar were then plated with
mirrors to reflect the majestic radiance of
the sun to every possible location, from the
dark space under a bed to the nook underneath
windowsills. Virtually every imaginable
surface was coated in reflective metals.
Solarians wove resonant tunics and ponchos
and, too, became little walking mirrors.
Mercury rose from the intense rays of
reflective sunlight, bursting thermometers,
charring flesh. Many perished from heat
stroke; others developed skin cancers
but the Solarians believed these happenings
to be the work of the sun: a punishment; a
demand for even more praise.
The Solarians agreed to a meeting to discuss
an appeasement of the sun and unanimously
agreed to a solution: to devote every second
of their lives to the praise of the sun.
The following day, every Solarian gathered in
the town square at high noon as the sun shown
down from directly above them. On the
Mayors signal, they stared into the
sun. When the sun set, the Solarians
returned to their homes with sore and swollen
eyes. They repeated this process the
next day, and the next day, and the next day.
After a month, the now-defunct eyes of the
Solarians resembled fried eggs.
The obsession with eternal brightness brought
forth the punishment of eternal darkness; a
purgatory of blackness. The visionless
Soliarians were unable to maintain their
city; their majestic, golden creations now
frivolous forms in the darkness. The
golden roads became stained. Buildings
were overtaken by natures creeping
cycle. Dams broke and flooded the city,
drowning most Solarians. Those that
survived were eaten by the swamp monsters
that had swarmed the city in the events of
the great flood. Those that survived
the crocodiles lived bleak, shallow lives,
unable to live without their cornerstone
beauty.
The swamp had reclaimed its home, thanks to
the sun. Unlike humans, who shed
allegiances like dust in the wind, nature
remains harmoniously united even
between something as bleak as a swamp and
something as brilliant as the sun.