Bright
10:30AM
The door burst open, the brass handle slamming into the wood-paneled wall with a sudden bang!. In raced a young man, red in the face, short of wind and perspiring. While the Islands were hot, especially in the summer months, and humidity sat at a comfortable 90%, this man was born here, used to its weather, and so obviously had been running. Judging by the paper clutched tightly in his fist, he had come all the way from the newsprint stand two blocks down.
"Sir! Did you see? Did you hear? They arrested them! For sedition! Sedition! It's perposterous! What are we going to do? Sir? Professor?" The young man's voice trailed off. The man to whom he had been speaking, the only other occupant of the room, seemed to be barely even paying him any notice. The gentleman, for he indeed was gentleman personified, seemed to not even startle upon the young lad's rather violent entry into his living quarters.
He sat at a small simple, though spindly table with a circular glass top, upon a simple, though comfortable and cushioned chair. The man wore clean, simple, though elegant garb - light cotton gray slacks, and a simple white cotton polo shirt - the better to ward off the heat. He was bespectacled, though the presence of glasses seemed only to make him appear all the wiser.
Young, for his age, the man looked to be no older than thirty save for the streaks of silver in his otherwise jet black hair. In actuality, he had just passed his forties. His skin was tanned from a lifetime on the islands, though not so dark as his kin, as he had also spent a lifetime in studies, learning all he could of this world. A simple and clean, though full, mustache was all he would allow in the way of facial hair. But it was his eyes that captured people. Behind the golden frames of his glasses were two deep-set eyes as gray as a tropical storm, and just as fierce. Courageous and brave men could not stand to look too long into them if this man set his full attentions on them. They were very expressive, those eyes. Able to speak volumes when the man himself was silent.
Those eyes now focused on the old book resting neatly in the man's hand, laid calmly on his lap. It was a copy of Voltaire's Candide, a first edition, and a gift from a friend he had met long ago during his studies. There were three bookshelves full of similar volumes against one of the walls of his simple apartment. A priceless collection of the works of some of the world's most brilliant minds. On the table beside him were the remnants of breakfast: the rind of a grapefruit, a few crumbs from a light local pastry made from plantains and corn, and half a cup of tea, now cold and forgotten. The man preferred tea over coffee, even the locally grown and world famous grounds. he discovered it on a trip to Vangala several decades ago, and hadn't looked back since.
Also on the table sat the day's paper, discarded with the story the young man was speaking about facing towards the ceiling. The Young man's eyes were drawn to this by a slight twitch of the professor's foot, and he stood silent, hands at his side, an expression of apologetic bashfulness at the older man's silent reprimand.
"Have a seat, Jonathan," The older man gestured to a high-backed and cushioned chair against a wall. The wall that the entrance to his simple apartment was placed. The younger man, Jonathan, did as he was told. "I am well aware of what happened to our friends in St. Roberts. And just as I am aware of that turn of events, I am also aware that there is nothing I can do. You see, Jon, I was there yesterday when they were speaking. And frankly, their message was seditious. Had I known what they were going to say, I would have tried to stop them. But for better or for worse, they were arrested. But don't worry, I doubt the government will do anything drastic. Detain them, likely. Make their lives uncomfortable for the short term. But that's all. At least, I hope that's all."
"But what if it's not, professor?" The young man looked to the gentleman, seeking advice. Many people were, especially in these trying and changing times. The professor wished they wouldn't. He wished they would go out and seek their own answers, just as he did. Still, the question had merit, and was one he was hoping to avoid answering. And so he just sat silent.
The stillness was deafening, and audible over even the noise of traffic and voices coming from the street below, heard through the windows, opened to catch the sea breeze and hopefully cool the air. The professor stood, and began a slow pace around his apartment. Against one wall rested a simple cot with a thin, though comfortable matress. His desk pushed against another, with several papers and even an old laptop adorning it. Above the desk are a few framed certificates from colleges and universities all over the world. The diplomas spoke volumes about the professor's knowledge. A modern day polymath, the man had degrees in nearly every natural and social science, as well as four different languages and several art and history degrees. A triple doctorate by age thirty two, in Metaphysics, Philosophy and Political Science, the man was truly a genius right out of John Mill's On Liberty.
"Professor Mann?" the youth was hesitant to break the man from his reverie. The professor looked up at the man as if only just realizing he was there at all. He had been lost in his thoughts for a moment, and dwelled too deeply on the future. A Humanist, a philosopher, a progressive and a genius, the man had always looked towards the future and smiled. But today dark thoughts clouded that future. For the first time he could remember, Bartholomew Mann was afraid of what the unknown horizon might bring.
10:30AM
The door burst open, the brass handle slamming into the wood-paneled wall with a sudden bang!. In raced a young man, red in the face, short of wind and perspiring. While the Islands were hot, especially in the summer months, and humidity sat at a comfortable 90%, this man was born here, used to its weather, and so obviously had been running. Judging by the paper clutched tightly in his fist, he had come all the way from the newsprint stand two blocks down.
"Sir! Did you see? Did you hear? They arrested them! For sedition! Sedition! It's perposterous! What are we going to do? Sir? Professor?" The young man's voice trailed off. The man to whom he had been speaking, the only other occupant of the room, seemed to be barely even paying him any notice. The gentleman, for he indeed was gentleman personified, seemed to not even startle upon the young lad's rather violent entry into his living quarters.
He sat at a small simple, though spindly table with a circular glass top, upon a simple, though comfortable and cushioned chair. The man wore clean, simple, though elegant garb - light cotton gray slacks, and a simple white cotton polo shirt - the better to ward off the heat. He was bespectacled, though the presence of glasses seemed only to make him appear all the wiser.
Young, for his age, the man looked to be no older than thirty save for the streaks of silver in his otherwise jet black hair. In actuality, he had just passed his forties. His skin was tanned from a lifetime on the islands, though not so dark as his kin, as he had also spent a lifetime in studies, learning all he could of this world. A simple and clean, though full, mustache was all he would allow in the way of facial hair. But it was his eyes that captured people. Behind the golden frames of his glasses were two deep-set eyes as gray as a tropical storm, and just as fierce. Courageous and brave men could not stand to look too long into them if this man set his full attentions on them. They were very expressive, those eyes. Able to speak volumes when the man himself was silent.
Those eyes now focused on the old book resting neatly in the man's hand, laid calmly on his lap. It was a copy of Voltaire's Candide, a first edition, and a gift from a friend he had met long ago during his studies. There were three bookshelves full of similar volumes against one of the walls of his simple apartment. A priceless collection of the works of some of the world's most brilliant minds. On the table beside him were the remnants of breakfast: the rind of a grapefruit, a few crumbs from a light local pastry made from plantains and corn, and half a cup of tea, now cold and forgotten. The man preferred tea over coffee, even the locally grown and world famous grounds. he discovered it on a trip to Vangala several decades ago, and hadn't looked back since.
Also on the table sat the day's paper, discarded with the story the young man was speaking about facing towards the ceiling. The Young man's eyes were drawn to this by a slight twitch of the professor's foot, and he stood silent, hands at his side, an expression of apologetic bashfulness at the older man's silent reprimand.
"Have a seat, Jonathan," The older man gestured to a high-backed and cushioned chair against a wall. The wall that the entrance to his simple apartment was placed. The younger man, Jonathan, did as he was told. "I am well aware of what happened to our friends in St. Roberts. And just as I am aware of that turn of events, I am also aware that there is nothing I can do. You see, Jon, I was there yesterday when they were speaking. And frankly, their message was seditious. Had I known what they were going to say, I would have tried to stop them. But for better or for worse, they were arrested. But don't worry, I doubt the government will do anything drastic. Detain them, likely. Make their lives uncomfortable for the short term. But that's all. At least, I hope that's all."
"But what if it's not, professor?" The young man looked to the gentleman, seeking advice. Many people were, especially in these trying and changing times. The professor wished they wouldn't. He wished they would go out and seek their own answers, just as he did. Still, the question had merit, and was one he was hoping to avoid answering. And so he just sat silent.
The stillness was deafening, and audible over even the noise of traffic and voices coming from the street below, heard through the windows, opened to catch the sea breeze and hopefully cool the air. The professor stood, and began a slow pace around his apartment. Against one wall rested a simple cot with a thin, though comfortable matress. His desk pushed against another, with several papers and even an old laptop adorning it. Above the desk are a few framed certificates from colleges and universities all over the world. The diplomas spoke volumes about the professor's knowledge. A modern day polymath, the man had degrees in nearly every natural and social science, as well as four different languages and several art and history degrees. A triple doctorate by age thirty two, in Metaphysics, Philosophy and Political Science, the man was truly a genius right out of John Mill's On Liberty.
"Professor Mann?" the youth was hesitant to break the man from his reverie. The professor looked up at the man as if only just realizing he was there at all. He had been lost in his thoughts for a moment, and dwelled too deeply on the future. A Humanist, a philosopher, a progressive and a genius, the man had always looked towards the future and smiled. But today dark thoughts clouded that future. For the first time he could remember, Bartholomew Mann was afraid of what the unknown horizon might bring.