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- Deep Monkton
26th October
Around Monkecia time ebbed, and never flowed. Ebbs and eddies, swirls and counter-swirls, never moving straight for more than a crooked second, never settling, never steady. Until tonight.
Tonight, time stopped ebbing and started flowing. First it was a blazing torrent washing everything away, then a gush cleaning, scrubbing, fixing and sorting, then time was a flow, supporting, nurturing, reviving.
Tonight, the clocks went back.
And what once was, was no longer;what may have been, now won't be; and what should be, again is.
Monkecia had grown up. Though, ironically, the first day in Monkecia's history that was exactly 24 hours long should have been 25; but that's another story. "Tempus mortales subsannavit".
And where does that leave Monkecia and her bewildered, battered, starving population? Let's recap and work out where time has taken us...
Many long years ago Monkecia was a little, virtually unheard of backwater. A blot on the map. Almost entirely uninfluential, ignored and avoided since ships no longer needed to stop on a trade route by the early 19th century, Monkecia's fierce and noble population lived and breathed as the lowest population in the world. Owned by rich nations, mined by the glorious and trodden by the powerful, this was a little country, the butt of a great empire, Monkecians sweated away making, but never enjoying, luxurious products sold for high prices. In another world, this might have been called a slave colony. The diamonds and gold produced was held for never more than a week before it was taken away to be sold. The fine cigars were never smoked, the exotic fruit and sugar grown never sold in the local shops.
That all changed in 1940. Vivo sub los revolucia. Liberatio Moncesya! The socialists swept to power and the nation found a backbone. A very small one, but after kneeling for so long, this was progress. Schools were built. Hospitals opened up. Workers took control of the mines and factories again. The refined culture the rich landowners surrounded themselves with in their fortress settlements was distributed to the factory workers, the pit heavers, the diamond cutters. Slowly and surely, Monkecia joined the modern world.
And at the helm? Antonius Vladimir Ffyllos. Philosopher. Artisan. Politician. Fighter. Ruling with the gun in one hand an a bill of rights in the other, he was the government. Those who had a lot and found themselves much poorer hated him. And those who had nothing and now found themselves with something loved him. The loathers left and returned to their European homelands. And plotted. And plotted. And plotted.
1947. "The year of the Red Horse". It took less than 45 days for all but two of the cities to fall. The socialists retreated back to the mountainous jungles, back to the rural parts where the people loved them the most. The cities were governed by one administration, the country by another. City vs country. Brother vs brother. A barbaric civil war, neither side able to win, neither side willing to lose. Colossal support from the old world propped up the invaders in the cities, themselves under constant attack from the enemy that could do so much with so little. A bombing here. A shooting there. Chaos, confusion and strife reigned.
And then invaders realised that the old world had moved on. The search for gold had become the search for oil. The powers that be realised they'd never make the money they once did, that everything had changed, that the people were never going to be controlled again. The support stopped. Those that were left created barricades around their self-inflicted rich-man ghettos. The civilian government stumbles on with the little help it can get. The socialists are relentless, but lack the weaponry and international support to finish the job to retake the islands. The war drones on and on, and for five long years the brutality and carnage has sucked the life of the islands, banished thoughts of peace, extinguished almost every flicker of hope the people have...
Around Monkecia time ebbed, and never flowed. Ebbs and eddies, swirls and counter-swirls, never moving straight for more than a crooked second, never settling, never steady. Until tonight.
Tonight, time stopped ebbing and started flowing. First it was a blazing torrent washing everything away, then a gush cleaning, scrubbing, fixing and sorting, then time was a flow, supporting, nurturing, reviving.
Tonight, the clocks went back.
And what once was, was no longer;what may have been, now won't be; and what should be, again is.
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was gone, the time - the straight time, this time - was 1953. And everything was resolved. In a flash, the smallest parcel of time, Monkecia was restored, time became time again, the years could be counted, normality returned.Monkecia had grown up. Though, ironically, the first day in Monkecia's history that was exactly 24 hours long should have been 25; but that's another story. "Tempus mortales subsannavit".
And where does that leave Monkecia and her bewildered, battered, starving population? Let's recap and work out where time has taken us...
Many long years ago Monkecia was a little, virtually unheard of backwater. A blot on the map. Almost entirely uninfluential, ignored and avoided since ships no longer needed to stop on a trade route by the early 19th century, Monkecia's fierce and noble population lived and breathed as the lowest population in the world. Owned by rich nations, mined by the glorious and trodden by the powerful, this was a little country, the butt of a great empire, Monkecians sweated away making, but never enjoying, luxurious products sold for high prices. In another world, this might have been called a slave colony. The diamonds and gold produced was held for never more than a week before it was taken away to be sold. The fine cigars were never smoked, the exotic fruit and sugar grown never sold in the local shops.
That all changed in 1940. Vivo sub los revolucia. Liberatio Moncesya! The socialists swept to power and the nation found a backbone. A very small one, but after kneeling for so long, this was progress. Schools were built. Hospitals opened up. Workers took control of the mines and factories again. The refined culture the rich landowners surrounded themselves with in their fortress settlements was distributed to the factory workers, the pit heavers, the diamond cutters. Slowly and surely, Monkecia joined the modern world.
And at the helm? Antonius Vladimir Ffyllos. Philosopher. Artisan. Politician. Fighter. Ruling with the gun in one hand an a bill of rights in the other, he was the government. Those who had a lot and found themselves much poorer hated him. And those who had nothing and now found themselves with something loved him. The loathers left and returned to their European homelands. And plotted. And plotted. And plotted.
1947. "The year of the Red Horse". It took less than 45 days for all but two of the cities to fall. The socialists retreated back to the mountainous jungles, back to the rural parts where the people loved them the most. The cities were governed by one administration, the country by another. City vs country. Brother vs brother. A barbaric civil war, neither side able to win, neither side willing to lose. Colossal support from the old world propped up the invaders in the cities, themselves under constant attack from the enemy that could do so much with so little. A bombing here. A shooting there. Chaos, confusion and strife reigned.
And then invaders realised that the old world had moved on. The search for gold had become the search for oil. The powers that be realised they'd never make the money they once did, that everything had changed, that the people were never going to be controlled again. The support stopped. Those that were left created barricades around their self-inflicted rich-man ghettos. The civilian government stumbles on with the little help it can get. The socialists are relentless, but lack the weaponry and international support to finish the job to retake the islands. The war drones on and on, and for five long years the brutality and carnage has sucked the life of the islands, banished thoughts of peace, extinguished almost every flicker of hope the people have...
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