Prologue

The phrase “The Literature Rebellion” used here and hereafter refers to a series of events that led to the outlawing of literature, and the persecution of anyone pursuing said art. The events all started in a laboratory in the year of 2092, where a baby was bred who within seven days of life was walking, talking, reading, writing and painting. On the seventh day of its existence it painted a copy of the Mona Lisa, so perfectly that the art critic there to mediate the experiment began to weep.

And so it came to pass that those of the rich upper class could choose talents for their children. And some of the rich, and even the working class paid for cybernetic enhancements of the same nature for themselves. And suddenly everyone was a poet, a painter, a musician, or a storyteller. And they were good at it.

Once this was fully understood, the trouble began.

In 2095, a school dedicated to the further teaching of the arts to the cyberneticly enhanced youth burst into flames in the night. Two men were apprehended, known only as “Codename Poe” and “Codename Byron” to the public. They amassed a world of enemies in a night, as well as a small, but motivated cult following of so called “Natural Writers’. Two nights after the school bombing, this cult following, calling themselves the Literati, stormed the prison where Poe and Byron were being held. No on was harmed, as with the school bombing, and all escaped safely enough.

In an effort to draw out the Literati, literature in every form was made illegal within the United States. Still, the Literati and their fugitive leaders could not be found. Those writers in the group shed their birth names, adopting instead those of more classic literary figures, or no other name at all.

By 2099, the nomadic group of poets and storytellers had achieved the status of folk heroes, and they were known to wander the Southern U.S. as said region was much less sympathetic towards technology, and much more so towards the arts. They offered performances for towns in exchange for a few nights of peace, warm food, and traveling supplies.

The United States government had those ranking highly in the Literati placed highest on the FBI’s most wanted list, but corruption in the government due to the nation’s poverty kept the FBI from functioning well in the poorer South, which stood yet again on the verge of secession. The South’s “Old Fashioned” style had become an issue with the growing popularity of cybernetic enhancements. The majority of the South thought they were “unnatural”, and refused the business as a whole. The business, though, was the centuries greatest, and because of their refusal to deal in cybernetics, the South fell into a financial deficit, and then finally a depression, as the North offered them no help. The South didn’t mind so much, having always been made up of men and women willing to die before submission to an ideal not their own.

So, in October 2099, on the very doorstop of a new century, the Literati were on the run, the FBI, on the chase, the South was nearly ready to secede from the Union once again, and harbored the Literati to anger the government, failing all other motives. Literature and all those who pursued it as their craft were outlawed. Those unable to stay the call of the quill traveled to South, to find and join the Literati before the government found them and forced their reform.

Over all, it was safe to say that things weren’t doing so well.

Chapter 1

The man we all knew only as Poe was an odd man. He was part poet, part storyteller, part philosopher, part revolutionary, and part hero. He had been known on many occasions to say that the first sign of a poet’s lament was an adjustment in his hygiene, that adjustment being its disappearance, as the body took the back burner to the poet’s overactive mind.

There was no better example of this than Poe himself, when his wife was away. His form, perpetually clad in black, baggy clothing, seemed to grow even more slim than it already was, the hair upon his head and face, usually kept relatively tidy, seemed to grow unkempt the second he saw his lover’s back. He wrote more than he usually did, a considerable enough feat no matter the motivation, and always seemed to be exhaling cigarette smoke and clutching a tall glass of absinthe X in one hand or the other. And his wife, whom we all knew as, appropriately, Lenore, had only been gone two days.

Poe was worries because two days was a long time given her mission, and we were under the constant threat of capture by the ever-vigilant FBI, though they weren’t around much in the South. Lenore, not being a writer, was instead charged with making arrangements for our performances with towns near our camp. We would perform in that town for as long as we felt our welcome remained, in exchange for room and board. Next to Poe, stood Byron, a tall, dark and brooding man who fit his namesake just as much as his good friend Poe. Byron seemed to own, in the manner of clothing, that is, nothing but suits tailored to his specifications in scarlet in black. He sat at a makeshift table made of a tall, relatively flat rock, indulging in a glass of absinthe X himself. Another of the Literati close to Poe and Byron was quick to join them.

Of average build and distinctively kind features was their friend, Lovecraft, though one glance at his writings told a different story, revealing the demented mind within such gentle a casing. Lovecraft sat down next to Byron, entering himself into their conversation as he poured the swirling violet and emerald liquor into a tall glass, diluting it seconds later by pouring cold water from a pitcher hastily over a sugar cube that lay across his glass upon a silver absinthe spoon.

“So, what, then, my friend, separates me, from any one of those wretches that follow us? That even now could clasp my Lenore?” Poe asked no one in particular, though it was another senior Literati member who answered. Tall broad and growing old, it was the Literati’s own Southern gentleman, Twain, who could not resist exercising his considerable wit.

“A monochromatic wardrobe?” Twain replied, pushing past several of us to take place at the rock-table amidst our careful laughter. Twain drank whiskey from a flask of his own ownership, being a bit too old to properly recover from an absinthe X binge, and they continued their discussion as we gathered around them to watch. Poe laughed his hollow laugh he laughed when the laughter came from his mind and not his heart, and smiled crookedly at Twain. “The bloody feds wear more of a solid color than I, with their red outfits and those blasted red masks.”

“Aye, “for their protection”.” Quoth Byron, with his ironic smirk which didn’t fade a bit as he continued. “Indeed, if they went maskless, they’d never be safe, with the South being in the state it’s in.” Lovecraft then spoke for the first time in quite some time, saying, “Yes, but the FBI is hardly in the South. If they were, we would have been captured a long time ago. No, I think there is something more sinister about those masks.”

Several of us that formed a circle around the debating foursome and their stone table nodded in agreement. We dared not join in the conversation, we were still Nameless, which meant we had not earned full status in the Literati. That didn’t happen until you proved your ability as a writer and earned a name like the others had.

The group continued their discussion for a moment more before Twain rose with surprising speed for his age from the log he had been sitting on, drawing from beneath his somehow immaculate jacket a refurbished, but still worn, six-shooter. Though it was outdated compared to the automatically-aiming weapons of today, he pointed it towards a thicket of trees, speaking: “You, there. Speak your creed, or die.”

“Master to the loyal Nameless

‘Tis us who shame the shameless

We’ve risen though the ranks

And owe none but ourselves thanks

And until I lie dead in the soil

To the Literati, I will remain loyal.”

Each of us breathed inward in relief as we heard the soft voice of Lenore. Poe jumped up from his log as well, walking towards his wife, who wore a long, flowing black dress, complete with a black and crimson corset, an article of clothing many of us had only heard about before meeting Poe and Lenore. Lenore’s walking motion matched well with Poe’s in some strange way, as though one could tell of the love between them by the way they walked, even. She strode forward slowly, in almost sneakily measured steps, very much like a cat. Poe had an odd and slightly creepy manner of movement. He moved with a certain awkward grace and fluidity that reminded me, every time I saw him move, of an animate corpse. They embraced for a moment more before Lenore pressed her black-painted lips against those of her husband, then he spoke.

“So, will they have us?” Lenore smiled at her husband, then turned to face the crowd. “Aye. They said they would have us until Halloween.” Here, a slight cheer and a whisper moved through us all, for two reasons. One, it was merely the third of October, which meant we were looking at a little less than a month of relative security, a huge relief considering we never stayed in one place longer than a few days. And two, our performances on Halloween are among the most entertaining we put together, but we had not been able to find a host town for the last two years. “But,” Lenore continued, the crowd falling silent. “They expect their first show at dusk. So let us hurry and prepare.”

Not one of us hesitated.

Chapter 2

We were walking slowly. Poe and Byron were up front, leading the way, chattering among themselves, planning the show for the night. Byron strode forward with his elegant stride, using animate hand gestures along with his words, and then, without warning, he pointed to me.

“You, there. How would you like to open tonight’s performance?” I froze, and was nearly run over by those walking behind me, before I managed to stammer, “What? Me?” “Aye, you.” answered Byron with his ironic smile. “Read the opening lines I have written for you, here.” He pressed a bit of paper into my hand, after I took a few strides so that I walked near enough him for him to do so. I didn’t even look down at the paper, I simply nodded once and fell back into line.

Poe pointed to another individual with whom I’d never spoke before, and then spoke the lines that I knew changed that man’s life. “Tonight is your night.” The man he pointed to fell back as I did, but his surprise was far greater than mine. Every so often, the Elder Literati allow one of the Nameless a direct chance to earn their Name, and give them a chance to actually perform.

Every performance they allow one of the Nameless to read the opening lines, and being chosen for such usually means that you’ve a favorable chance of getting a Name soon, but it’s nowhere near the honor as is being given the chance to read a personally constructed piece, and I admit, I felt a small bit of jealously towards the man chosen, but I was over it quickly.

We reached the edge of the town square after little less than an hour. People were lined everywhere, staring at our dark-colored attire that marked us as the Literati. Children looked exited, as did a few of the elderly people. Some of the adults looked vaguely amused, some looked frightened, and yet some looked even more spell-bound than the children.

Dusk approached quickly, so we began to set up our things in the town square as soon as we arrived there. We worked in silence, while Twain told humorous stories for the growing crowd as they waited, which was all Twain really did anymore in his failing health. I was busy attempting to memorize the lines for the opening and closing that Byron had written for me, and I noticed that the man chosen for the solo performance was no where to be seen.

I would, if I were he, have been going through everything I’d ever written in search of my very best. I hoped he was doing the same. It is frustrating to see someone get an opportunity that you want, but to me, it is far more frustrating if they don’t make the best of it. Confident in my memorization of the lines, I placed the rolled up piece of notebook paper into my back pocket. The verse I was supposed to read seemed to be basically about the symbol of the Literati, a celtic cross with a skull within the circle. I was impressed with Byron’s words, as I usually was, and again exited that I had been chosen to read them. The sun finally fell, and darkness enshrouded the town square, nothing could be seen. It was time for us to start.

With a flash of brilliant orange, I fire burst forth inside a ring of stones sat down by various Nameless. The fire stood in the middle of a city block, blank of anything else save for the crowd around us, and the tent erected which we stood inside. Byron nodded once at me, and I stepped thought the crimson tent flap, starting my sentence a scarce second before I’d stepped out of the tent.

“May the cross of the Celts

Adorned with Death’s head

Loom high above you all

Until you lay down, dead

And may the moon look down upon you

On this dark, majestic night

Never, ever, forget you these words

Never forget to fight

‘Tis my duty to welcome you to the party

And to bring you…the Literati!”

With my final word, out strode Poe, starting already to read a work of his own, leaning upon a black metal cane adorned at the top with a pewter version of the emblem I had just read a poem about, making eye contact with and intimidating each of the crowd members nearest him with naught but a glance. He began to pace in front of the crowd, every word he spoke with such an angry passion that it took one aback;

I used to wake up inspired, on the dawn

And reach for the tools of my trade

The parchment, my unshakable shield

The quill, my ever-eager blade

But these days I wake

With a start and a scream

Now all it seems I can escape to

Is nightmare more so than dream

So, join me, if you will

In my melancholy requiem

For those fair yet far-gone days

When I still dared to dream.

Without further word, Poe turned and walked back towards the tent in his corpse-like manner, surrounded by complete and total silence of the best kind. The kid of silence that seems to fill solid things, that kind of introspective silence that greets the reading of a poem that does its job. I, standing near the entrance to the tent, even still, was perhaps the only living being that saw him smile as he reentered the tent.

It was the Nameless that came out next, looking dreadfully nervous as he stepped out into the open and took a place, standing still before the fire. He spoke in a voice that seemed to know its own truth, as though it was inconceivable to him that he shouldn’t be where he was, despite even the nervous nature of physical appearance.

“There are dark times

Upon us all

And yet I fear

This is just the Fall

The coming Winter

Shall be yet colder

Still, you men

Grow no bolder

I don’t recall the last light I saw

So I yearn for but a spark

Even though it’s all I’ve ever known

I’ve grown to fear the dark

Though I am much more

Acquainted with the night

Still I’ll always know

When the time is right

When we must finally fight

Before the winter snow”

Again, silence greeted his words. But it was a different silence. Different isn’t always bad, mind. In this case, it wasn’t, the silence he heard was that of a crowd of people attempting to decipher a message from veiled verse. Which also means that the poem did it’s job. The man turned and walked back inside the tent, where I heard Byron’s hand clap his shoulder, and Poe’s voice said, “Acquainted with the night, are you? Well, in honor of the coming winter you speak of, sir, from now on, you are to be called Frost.” There was a small cheer though the tent, even myself smiled. He was no longer Nameless, he had done well, and earned a name as I hoped to some day.

After this, both Poe and Lovecraft came from within the tent. Poe walked his dark-clad figure to a pole of the tent and leaned against it, facing the crowd, and he spoke

“Leaning against the wall
My form clad in black
'Twasn't long before I felt
His eyes upon my back”

It was Lovecraft who spoke next, in an odd drawling voice that seemed to drip with eeriness.

"What a sight you are, sir
Dressed so dreary
With those dark circles
You look so weary
You look fit for a funeral
And that, friend, makes me leery"

Then it switched back to Poe, who spoke next, turning away from the pole to face Lovecraft, leaning still upon the cane mentioned earlier as part of his attire.

“Next he inquired
Whom had died
And to his words
I darkly replied;

"Listen well, friend
To these words I say
Each and every one of us
Die a little constantly, in some way
So there's a funeral for me, sir
Each and every single day

Morals are sacrificed
And laid down to rest
Human heart is denied
In favor of what's best
So I dress for death each day,
Call it a personal quest
To remind all of you
Of each day's death, lest
We all, as a whole, forget"”

Lovecraft appeared as though he was attempting to digest the words, his countenance in concentration mimicked that of a murderer trying to decide the most convenient way of body disposal. His sinister appearance was added to by the flame-shadow licking at his apparently tortured features, and Poe finished the poem.

“And in utter silence
He turned from me then
A frown sat upon his face
But upon mine, lay a grin. “

Silence greeted the pair of them, same as with the two before. Poe gave a small smile, then threw a powder from his hand which caused the fire to flare up immensely. The rest of the Literati poured from the tent, then, as Poe gestured towards the waiting crowd. What happened nest had always been my favorite part of performances. Literati moved everywhere to meet the town people. Some wandered around, reading their works to all that would hear them. Others sold trinkets and such that they made to secure a bit of extra money. Some people offered personalized poems and the like, there were a few painters and artists inside the Literati that traveled with us for this reason.

Senior Literati made conversation with their newest companion Frost, and began telling stories inside the tent to a paying crowd. They didn’t charge much. The best poets, they say, write for free. But, in these times, one becomes even more aware of the fact that the best poets must eat as well.

I wandered aimlessly, I read a few of my own pieces to passing people to a mediocre reaction. I ended up with a glass of absinthe X and a pack of cigarettes, asleep in the clearing where our performance had taken place, scarcely a foot from where I stood during its entirety, awaiting the dawns first rays to wake me.

Chapter 3

When I awoke I had found that someone had moved me inside of a tent in the night. The senior Literati were discussing something religious, though I couldn’t yet decipher exactly what they were discussing with the previous night’s absinthe X weighing so heavily on my mind and body. I did hear the voice of the senior Literati known as Milton, which meant they were no doubt discussing religion.

“Surely, the South, at this time of near-rebellion, would have respect for my counter culture literary works, and I think it is high time I was allowed to perform again, Byron.” Milton spoke in a loud carrying voice much more fit for giving a sermon than arguing. I remembered, then, the incident in which they were arguing about. A few months before, Byron had stopped letting Milton read his work aloud in the South, for his portrayal of religious ideas had nearly started a riot before.

Poe added his own thoughts. “I do not agree with censorship at all, Byron, you know this. So, I am afraid to say that I agree with Milton.” Faced with the fact that his own partner was against him on the issue, Bryon nodded gravely and spoke again. “All right. Tonight, you will have your chance once more.” Another senior Literati moved into my range of hearing, right about then. His voice was loud, and proud, and I recognized him instantly as Malory, a Literati writer of Medieval Romance. “I would like to read something tonight as well, Byron.” Byron turned to face him, smiling. “I thought you had been having issues with writing lately?” Malory nodded some himself before he replied. “Aye, I have been, but I have something, now.”

Byron nodded once more, speaking afterwards. “It sounds like we’ve got tonight’s show lined up, then.” I chose that moment to stand up, and Byron smirked his sarcastic smirk right at me. “He lives! We’ve got some news for you, brother.” I looked from him to Poe, who smiled darkly and said “Tonight’s your night.” A cold, numb sort of glee erupted through my form at his words, as without further questioning I began mentally going over my poetical works in search for the perfect poem.

Poe simply laughed and returned to his conversation with his friends, allowing me to be alone with my thoughts. I moved to my chest, each member of the Literati had a small wooden chest in which to carry their personal belongings, and began to sift through yellowing papers and bits of poetry scribbled on scraps of paper, looking though my works to find the one most suitable for the performance tonight.

Never had a day faded so fast in the entirety of my existence on earth. It seemed it was growing darker before I even chose my poem, and it was not long before I, from the inside of the tent, heard another of the Nameless reading aloud the opening line that I had read the night before. Soon after this, Poe moved to me, smiling. “You’re up, mate. Get on out there.”

I walked out of the tent with numb legs. The clearing was arranged the same way it had been the night before, but it seems that the crowd had grown in size since the night before. I walked in slow, measured strides to the fire in the middle of the clearing, doing my damnedest to not show the nervousness that seemed to replace my blood itself. And then, trying hard to keep my voice from cracking, I spoke.

“There is no difference I can see
Betwixt pain and ecstasy
There's the same vocal reactions
And muscle contractions
The same facial expressions
And hurried evocations
Of long dead deities
And both feelings seize
The vast collective mind
Of all of us, of humankind.”

Silence greeted me, as it did the others, though I was unsure as to what type of silence it was. I turned from the crowd before me and returned to the tent, and I passed Milton on his way to perform his poem. Even from inside the tent, I heard his carrying voice that seemed aglow with authority and sternness.

“You don’t want to see the world I see, your will’s too weak

Only in ignorance can you find the simple-souled solace you seek

This is my wraith’s breaking point, pinnacle, peak

Remember, my friend, this world goes to the meek

This world, to me, is dark as night

But all you seem to see is the light

Thus, a rift grows, and causes our plight

And because of this rift, it seems we’ll fight

Not over, even, who’s wrong and who’s right

It’s much more than that, it’s who’s dark and who’s light

Look, I don’t need your God, I’ve got my own

And I don’t care what you do and don’t condone

In truth, everyone of you sicken me to the bone

Nor do I care if I live this life alone

Void of all the seeds of hate you’ve sown

Because, at the least, I’ll die my very own

You don’t want to see the world I see, your will’s too weak

Only in ignorance can you find the simple-souled solace you seek

This is my wraith’s breaking point, pinnacle, peak

Remember, my friend, this world goes to the meek

Yes, welcome to my world, feel free to run and hide

From the little slice of hell in which I reside

I want you to remember, now, each time you’ve lied

And think of all the people, that for you, have died

Like that man, who died on a cross for your soul

Now you deceive him, do you think that was his goal?

Think of where you are now, the fire, brimstone and coal

Now you’ll pay the piper, friend, now you’ll pay your toll

Run now, slither along, back to your little hole

But answer me this, now who’ll save your soul?

You don’t want to see the world I see, your will’s too weak

Only in ignorance can you find the simple-souled solace you seek

This is my wraith’s breaking point, pinnacle, peak

Remember, my friend, this world goes to the meek”

Silence greeted him as well, and I saw Byron and Poe share a look of relief between them as Milton reentered the tent. I awaited Poe to come and tell me what I’d be named, but he hadn’t yet, and didn’t still, even as Malory walked out of the tent to read a work of his. His voice seemed to echo, to boom with a righteous passion for his own work, as he read a long selection from his work.

“I rapped thrice upon the window pane

At first I heard naught

Instead of the lady I sought

And I turned to leave, with obvious disdain

But just as I neared the horse's stable

I heard a word

And nearly drew my sword

Before I saw it was she, sitting at an outside table

I moved to her, then, a smile upon my lips

Her hand in mine

Was where I drew the line

Still, from her mouth, a contented sigh slips

I pulled her up from the table

We walked past the horse's stable

We walked as far as we were able

Before stopping to lay upon the grass

Where I embrace her, wondering how it came to pass

Aye, wondering what I'd done to deserve this perfect lass

In my arms on this night.

Holding her tight

In a dark embrace

There is no light

But I can see her face

As we lay in this field

Beneath these stars

I pull her closer

And I whisper in her ear

That I had chose her

And now she was all I held dear

As we lay in this field

Beneath these stars

When I tasted her skin

I knew she'd never be replaced

And when we first tasted sin

I knew I'd never forget the taste

As we lay in this field

Beneath these stars.

I promise

Upon this night

Beneath these stars

That now harm shall come upon you, my dead

No, no one shall touch you other than I, my dear

With your father's blessing or without it, my dear

You will be mine forevermore.

And should anyone or thing take you from me

I shall not rest until they cease to be

Should anyone harm you, they will see

A completely different side of me

They'll see

Just how brutal

I can be

This I promise;

This and more

I promise to you

The one I adore

If only you'll agree

To be mine, forever more

And in a second of bliss

We shared a kiss

That seemed to seal my promise.”

Applause was actually what followed his overly dramatic reading, and a smile adorned his face when he returned to us inside the tent. Poe walked out next, though he didn’t perform. He simply threw the proper powder upon the flames, and allowed the rest of the night to start. I moved out of the tent with the rest of the Literati, joining the crowd of people. I had just acquired a glass of absinthe X and began contemplating the occurrences of the night, worriedly wondering if I was destined to remain Nameless forevermore, when a woman approached me.

She wore white, which meant she definitely wasn’t Literati, who were known for their dark and out-dated clothing, still she spoke to me, speaking in the fast-spoken English that dominated the day. “I really liked your poem. I thought ‘t was the best t’night.” I smiled at her, softly, and replied. “I thank you sincerely, dear.” She spoke again. “Wha’s your name?” “I do not have one, my lady.” “You haven’t a name?” “No. I’m Nameless.” She stared at me as though really confused before she smiled some. “I’m called Alice.” I extended a hand, and she took it, though when I placed a kiss on the back of it, she looked right surprised.

But, she seemed an interesting enough human specimen. And I spent the rest of the night speaking with her, thankful from the distraction from my own self doubt.