B21 imagined her spinal cord. It was as straight and unflinching as a six lane highway reaching into the sky.
She was one of The Simples.
They are a special breed. The Simples. A freak breed. A well done breed that is very rare to come by. They respect linearity. Not out of choice. Had they done that, they would have been like any other ordinary men and women taking a call. They are wedded to the straight and the straightforward because they know no better. Or different.
In a world contorted with convolutions. In a web that is world wide. In a cosm writhing with twisted isms. They are the indefatigable champions of the long, straight, yellow brick road. Their chins held out to the sun. Their faces flagging the passing breeze. Their eyes cartographically scanning the horizon.
In a laboratory buzzing with mutated mutes. In a petri dish crammed with curated cultures. In a flask brewing homogenous hemlock. The Simples are the winds of change. By remaining staunchly the same. They are the benchmarks. They are the minorities. They are the substrate. On which hope floats.
B21 imagined her look. It was burnished steel. Forged over a blue fire. Neither malleable. Nor ductile. But anachronistic. And, if it came to that, brittle.
She was one of The Simples.
B21 imagined her gait. Not the padlocked shuffling of the overpaid serf. It was the impaling choreography of the libertine. Insteps in step with the rhythm of the drumbeats. Played by wolves under a sliced watermelon moon.
B21 imagined her goodbye. Full. Final. Fatal. And, fabulous. The kind of goodbye that other byes want to grow up to become. A goodbye tumescent with memory. Dripping thick white strands of moonbeam. A goodbye full of the ferocious fangs of illogic. Distilled entirely out of meaning.
She was one of The Simples.
(This is an excerpt from a much larger experiencescape.)