0015: Orange Car
I bought the Stevenson last year in an antique car
yard sale. It was one of those antique solar powered cars they used to
make in Africa back in the day, when solar energy was all the rage.
My girlfriend thought I was spending too much, but I liked to finally have something that belonged to me. I don't care how great our Neo-Communal living has worked out for us, I wanted something that belonged to me, dammit! Even if people called me a backwards Capitalist Sloth. Even if I could only drive it with a permit four hours a week down the only viable Highway. I got some nasty looks from the 'cyclists' and 'pedestrians', and realized that even those were words that were slowly dying out, along with eating barbeque or God-forbid smoking a cigarette.
I drove the Stevenson in a fury of 50 Kilometres per hour, listening to some self made experimental music that most approximated the heavy metal rock bands of the past millenia. I knew that back in the day the cars roared with the power and fury of good old American diesel engines, that the upholstry smelled like smoke and the beers kicked you so hard you woke up with hangovers, but those days are long gone in the name of clean energy and therapeutic moon songs and hangover-less ginger beers.
I suppose I know things are better now. I mean I'm not an idiot, I love my simple life. I am genuinely happy. But buying this orange car feels like one last rebellion, some oasis I get to enjoy even after The Advent.
---
"Warning" His internal AI informed him, "Your permit expires in three minutes. Please slow down your vehicle and park it at the designated garage, brother."
The calming music, the low level colour filters on his augmented eyes and phantom sensations of relaxed muscles almost gave him no choice in the matter, but he wasn't really looking to rebel or anything. He was fine. His four hours were up: He'd return to his family to his domicle to do more work.
He parked his car and walked his way back home, smelling the fresh air.
In the blue sky, the occassional glint of anti-grav ships floated.
And further up, framed in that blue sky was the shattered moon - a testament to a bloody age past - so small and picturesque in retrospect to the vast sky.
My girlfriend thought I was spending too much, but I liked to finally have something that belonged to me. I don't care how great our Neo-Communal living has worked out for us, I wanted something that belonged to me, dammit! Even if people called me a backwards Capitalist Sloth. Even if I could only drive it with a permit four hours a week down the only viable Highway. I got some nasty looks from the 'cyclists' and 'pedestrians', and realized that even those were words that were slowly dying out, along with eating barbeque or God-forbid smoking a cigarette.
I drove the Stevenson in a fury of 50 Kilometres per hour, listening to some self made experimental music that most approximated the heavy metal rock bands of the past millenia. I knew that back in the day the cars roared with the power and fury of good old American diesel engines, that the upholstry smelled like smoke and the beers kicked you so hard you woke up with hangovers, but those days are long gone in the name of clean energy and therapeutic moon songs and hangover-less ginger beers.
I suppose I know things are better now. I mean I'm not an idiot, I love my simple life. I am genuinely happy. But buying this orange car feels like one last rebellion, some oasis I get to enjoy even after The Advent.
---
"Warning" His internal AI informed him, "Your permit expires in three minutes. Please slow down your vehicle and park it at the designated garage, brother."
The calming music, the low level colour filters on his augmented eyes and phantom sensations of relaxed muscles almost gave him no choice in the matter, but he wasn't really looking to rebel or anything. He was fine. His four hours were up: He'd return to his family to his domicle to do more work.
He parked his car and walked his way back home, smelling the fresh air.
In the blue sky, the occassional glint of anti-grav ships floated.
And further up, framed in that blue sky was the shattered moon - a testament to a bloody age past - so small and picturesque in retrospect to the vast sky.
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