Memorial (#2669)

(an instance of Generic Secured Post-Apocalypse Room made by donnelly)

     A jutting edifice of marble, standing apart from the rest of the graveyard in it's own plot. The ground around the Monument is clear, and the mist appears to part and flow around it. Writing covers the surface, cut neatly into the stone. A fence of wire surrounds the plot. There is a strange sense of expectation in the air: a vast blue aryan eye gazes impassionately down at you from a gap in the gathering storm clouds above. At the very top of the smooth marble tower, a satellite dish points directly into the centre of the eye.

You notice some details:
      A tall blank tower of marble, approximately fifteen feet high, and covered in neat writing.
      The eye appears enormous, hundreds of miles across. It seems to gaze down across the whole of Bellona. But then again it could just be an illusion. It is the colour of vast ocean trenches, the million shades of blue swirl in disharmony around the black void at its centre.
      And in the last days, we gathered together and burnt the bibles and the televisions on one great final pyre. The Modernists were first to the gallows, screaming injustice, but then finally, realising their impending matyrdom, celebrated this last act of alienation and coming as the ropes went tight. In the forgotten shards of the mirror, which never got swept up as was planned, shrapnel of dancing colours formed strange attractors. Invalids collected the bones from the ashes, the ashen impassionate of the judge: the foremost and least respected spastic in the whole court. It all shot back wildly, as if to reinvent a kind of dark ages, or middle ages, or some other reinvented age, but missed, the final irony. And in the end, we put up this Monument. Bored... all the reactionaries dead or absorbed... there didn't seem to be much else worth doing.

EXITS:
      [ e ] Graveyard. You turn your back on the vision and head back down the hill. From the bottom, it is gone - obscured by the tendrils of mist.

This place has a certain ambiance...
     The mists around the graveyard part breifly. Beat poets hang crucified from ebony poles, mouths stuffed with floppy discs. Blue fires singe their feet - no more walking the highways of a raped culture.
     Fleeting colours play across the Monument: a kaleidescope of forgotten sacrifices. Guns jam and breach.... helicopters fall in fused masses from ochre clouds... the orche of the monk in the park, all his soul into vapour as the petrol ignited. This is the true base of all grey, all marble, all memorials: a drive to forget detail.
     The clouds around the vast eye whirl and dance in the throes of passion: at last, nature dies and is born again as parasitical info-cum, the undeath of the elements.
     Cold fingers play at the veins on your forearms, looking for the easy points in the flesh for the soft injection. Never even noticing the impending rape of the organic, the clouds spin on.
     For an instant, you notice a dark crack running the length of the Monument - it could fall apart at the slightest provocation.
     The satellite dish turns slowly, a bastard hybrid of the weathercocks, a weathered cock on this phallus of marble. It turns into the ill wind and radiates its own smug self-desctruction.