An Experiment...

When I was reading League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, I got an idea. I hope they don't sue me for this. Presenting yours faithfully's second person narrative, with all due apologies to Duforts, Elisa, H. G. Wells, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen and fathers, mothers and others of SteamPunk. #GoingToHellForThis.

Madam Dufort sits sipping her tea. Oh yes! She sips tea. She likes green tea. It is indeed very becoming of the rich folk, and I daresay, madam Dufort drinks tea because she is rich. She doesn't like the taste, the poor rich madam wants regular Earl Grey with more creamery, but no. Green tea is more becoming of the rich folk.

"Elisa," she calls to you in her strong voice, chiseled with nicotine vapours from her silver holder and chipped with her medication.

You walk without making a sound. Some unrest makes you feel that your apron is tightening around your waist. You hold your hands together, bow your head in a courtesy, and not utter a word. It is improper of you to speak, when you are not expected to talk.

"Elisa, I want you to prepare my ink and quill for the letter I am to write to Sir Hill," she takes a pause sips her tea. Oh, don't look up! She doesn't like you meeting her eye. "Also, tell Smith that Mrs. Fonde will be paying us a visit."

"Yes, Madam," you say.

You are aware of madam Dufort's eye for detail. That's why you keep your dress as grey as it is supposed to be and bleach your apron and headrest whenever you have a chance. "And Elisa," she says, "did you wipe your hands with your apron again while cleaning the book case?"

Oh dear! Madam told you she likes uniform to be proper. "Yes madam," you confess. A good servant must be honest, Elisa. And you are good, aren't you? God save you!

"Well, Madam Fonde might not find it graceful. Tell Smith his orders, and you brush that up, clear?"

"Yes, madam," you say, clearing up the tea tray. You make your way past the halls, trying to remember what day it is. And your gaze wanders outside. Sir Samuel is practicing archery. Aye, that does feel something, doesn't it, Elisa? Had you been not a servant, how blessed would it be?

"How blessed would it be, dear Elisa?" you hear a voice call out from behind you. You turn around to address it. "How very blessed would it be?"

"Who is it?" you say turning behind you.

"You obviously don't know me Elisa," calls out the voice. Oh, it is so very near, yet you cannot see.

"Well, are you man, God or beast?" ah, dear Elisa, too late to hold your tongue, aren't you?

"Ha-ha-ha!" he laughs! "Oh, simple servant girls know not what to say! That's so very dear of you, sweet Elisa. Yet, you know not who I am?"

"Bless you, no! I cannot even see you, how can I recognise you if I don't see you?" now, when did you last talk to voices with no face?

"C'est moi, Elisa. You may refer to me as, 'that man' or 'shadow' or 'the unseen'... haven't you heard of me ever?"

The unseen... is it? "Professor Griffin?" your eyes light up. The lesson in sciences when you still had a family... oh how could you forget your own teacher?

"Yes, dear child, it is I," he says, "but you haven't really fared well, I see."

"Elisa," a voice calls you from a distance. It is Mr. Smith, the butler.

"I shall talk to you later," says the voice.

Smith comes to you, "are you alright?" you nod to the old butler's concern.

"The Madam wants me to inform you of Madam Fonde's arrival this evening, and I must go and prepare her ink and quill. She is to write a letter to Sir Hill." You say as you go past him, through the great hall to the study. Sharpening the quill, and preparing the ink solutions, you let thoughts go in your head. What is your professor doing here? After faking his murder, the poor gent was given immortality by Gabriel. And how he convinced your father to train you in pagan sciences... and how your approach became so very unlike a true Victorian Christian. Dear! You did read the fate of Hyptia, now, didn't you? You wouldn't be her! That is why you agreed on serving the rich when your family died in an accident along with your teacher. Isn't it? Oh, the immortal can never die, Elisa, professor might have survived. And he managed to find you here!

There ought to be more of his allies around, of course. It is unlikely of him to... "Elisa," you here his voice again.

"Yes, professor?" you say. The part of your instinct so trained and thorough in warfare speaks.

"Whatever became of you, dear?"

"Oh, professor, Lord knows what has happened!" you cannot refrain from the pain it brings, good Elisa, "the fire 'twas! The fire that consumed mother, father, brother, Margarette, Heffer, you! Oh, professor... the fire 'twas that burned my life down!"

"Now now," says Griffin putting his hand on your shoulder, "I was there when it happened, and it was no fire, I tell you."

"But the estate was down to ashes!" you say.

"Elisa, the estate was burnt, yes. But your family's burial was ensured in Pagan tradition by me, I swear! Oh, no good, no good! They were murdered Elisa, and I tried to save your father, but the bullet passed through me... I couldn't stop it, though I tried! The black veiled isn't distracted, and I saw the Bearer leave. And when he set the estate on fire, I knew I had to escape! I did the best possible preparation for the corpses to go to heaven, Elisa. Lord knows they rest in peace."

You shed a tear. You can't help it. "But that doesn't answer my question, dear girl," he says.

"Elisa," calls a caustic voice, Madam Dufort. The ink is ready, the quill is chipped, you wipe your tears and straighten your face. "Ah, it is ready! You've even laid out fine paper!" you drop a glance at it. Surely the professor did it, "thankyou, dear. Bless you!" says madam Dufort as she sits to write. You drop a courtesy and leave.

Though royal parentage, you are a servant now, Elisa. You deal with truth as you've learnt from your teacher.

You make your way to servant quarters, now you must change your apron. "God, they make you walk so much!" says the voice behind you.

"I wouldn't complain, professor. Just like you taught me to."

"Very well. Now tell me..."

"The Duforts are Christian like everyone in this town, professor. We dislike them, truly. But without a family, and being too proud to beg, I went to the older estate in Gastonbury, only to learn that it has been forcefully acquired by the extremists who survived the Third War. I couldn't fight them with nothing in my hands, professor. I went to Belgium to master all that I could about dynamics and motion. And I did fare better than what they could ever expect. But my pagan identity was revealed and I fled back home to safety. The Duforts were looking for a servant, when they hired me. And one day, Smith recognised me for who I am. Without the surname, sir, I'm as good as any servant named Elisa. I do need someone to prove my identity."

"So you do, dear child, so you do," he says comforting you. "But what if they discover it?"

"Oh no, I cannot handle another war... I would move to somewhere again, of course!"

"But that's no good, is it, dear?" says Professor Griffin.

-Neetzi

Psyche: An Introduction

Hello folks! I'm just showing off my writing skills. Do tell me what you think of the idea. Now I don't know what it is. And plus not all of it is in compilation. But here's what I can provide. I have been forming this idea for some time. Waiting it to be big. For more on the same, check out my post, Smoke: A chapter preview. It's pretty much part of a same. Apart from The Writer, it's another one of the narratives of my alter egos. Hope you enjoy it.

She took two steps back. It was the familiar pain. The usual peanut butter textures. After all, it was an intelligible thought to not stop for water… But she had an excuse. Training one to be self sustainable wasn’t easy. As long as it was possible, it won’t stop her from trying. We are caught in a time which is the doom. The earth is paved with the remains of once silicon kingdom. Human race degraded its intellect much before than it was supposed to. Why was she left out? She loved to indulge in this stream of consciousness while doing her usual rounds.


“Hello, what do we have here?” she stopped at a sign, of a usual diner.

Her stomach made that peculiar sound again. “Okay, okay. Be quiet. I’m going,” she spake to herself in a manner as one would to a nagging persistence. She went in a diner. The diners of this era are pretty much of the diners as known in the twentieth and early twenty first century. Except for the services are robotic. Under the new law, only robots can be in service lines. Humans only do programming. The law was aimed to stop the corruption of robots and also to avoid the imperfection of human kind. But there wasn’t any law for the hooligans to stop behaving stupidly. How she hated life.

This one robot was primitive. A head which was pretty much like the television sets of the earliest kind, bearing a photo of someone she read about… a certain Martin Luther King Jr. What she could infer was that this robot was one of the recreation projects. She ordered a glass of water and a loaf of bread, gave a payment of a hundred scores, took a book from her bag and started reading it. A gentleman, with looks of a student, noticed the book.

“Excuse me, but what is this?” asked he.

“A book,” she replied without looking up. She wasn’t interested in conversations, especially not with strangers, especially when she was out on business.

“What is a book? Never have I seen one.”

“In earlier human times books were prominent. They were a means of transfer of knowledge, and things.”

“Such massive size… it must contain quite much!” he commented upon the length and breadth of it.

“On the contrary,” she smiled, forcing herself to a conversation, “just a little amount of what your reader can provide.”

“NO! Really?!” he spake in amazement.

“Evolution of information didn’t take place in a day,” she said. Finally, this conversation could close.

“Can I touch it?”

“Alright,” she said, handing over the book, adding, “be sure not to pull the pages or force them to fold. It’s very delicate.”

“Yes, I see,” he said, observing the mechanism of turning a page. “It’s strange. Didn’t they feel that sliding, or some such would be easier?”

“They did have scrolls back then… But they were too cumbersome. Books were easiest to carry.”

“What is this made of?”

“Trees,” she replied. The moment she replied, she could feel the pain of being plunged to another conversation. Now she’d have to explain what trees are.

“Trees… I have heard the word. It’s the first oxygen filter… Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, “they also had other uses.”

“Maybe that’s why they were cut down…” he could sense the stupidity of human race. “I’m Vincent Von Taylor,” he introduced himself to her.

“Psyche Von Fedora,” she replied telling her name.

And such is the streamline of thought. Waiting for criticism.

PEACE!

-Neetz