A brutal-optimism smirks from the neon flooded streets of Electric City. In this city that never sleeps, beneath the allure of its deceptive glow, minds unravel. The people succumb to their restlessness, allowing a designer-drug by the name of Reverie to usher in an age of lunacy. Plagued by masochistic longings, its users eviscerate one another. Perceptions falter, coating what should be torturous memories in fur and fuzzy feelings. Streets boom with the roars of revelry as Reverie glimmers, snickering at those stricken with gluttony. The alleyways hum; the sound of enflamed-passions sizzling eardrums. One would be wise to tune them out. The def should count themselves fortunate.

              With a piercing yawn, night transitions to morning. But in this twenty square-mile subterranean-den of avarice driven insomnia, who’s to know the difference? In-between narcoleptic-winks, nocturnal-afterimages skip across the reflective architecture. Joule is forced to avert his gaze in order to steel his resolve. A sharp resilience cuts him from the murk. He thinks to himself, ‘just keep moving.’

              Desire’s heat makes a mirage of this town. A trance-like webbing binds men; entangling them in its silky-veneer. The advertisements glow; soliciting intrigue. ‘Look at me,’ they whisper with temptuous tones.

 Even havens for the hardened-hearted have been bathed in soft-light. Inside of these backwards chapels, morally vacant congregants pray for prey. Amongst Reverie fiends, innocence is a delicacy. Perhaps they intend to devour the youth that they’ve squandered.

              Unlike the drugs from before, Reverie’s effects grow stronger with each use. It’s quicksand; men sink deep into psychosis by trying to escape with another dose. As vacant pupils follow Joule as if asking for change, he sorrowfully treks onward. He then sees a familiar face. Pauperized and destitute, his ex; Aura, is now a specter of the woman he once knew, a mere visage he needn’t remember. As far as he’s concerned, the past is dead; and so too is Aura.

              Not much further,” he mutters. Home, it’s just a block away.

Staggered steps carry him over and around dereliction. When a skeletal-hand, twisted and unwashed, paws at his boot.

              “Can you see me?” asks a man, lost in his memories, buried beneath Reverie’s remains. With an erratic laugh the vagrant’s eyes then rollback in his skull as he’s raptured in ponderous-oblivion, becoming one of many ghosts lining this skid-row of horrors.

              The plaza walkway is a haunt of poltergeists. Their fiendish convulsions never fail to rattle Joules nerves. He shutters as heads bob and sway, as hands lift and shake like they’re enacting a seance. Wheresoever he looks there are Reverie worshipers attempting to bring carnal dreams to life, lucid-sleepwalkers who’ve made the mistake of believing their eyes. But Joule, he sees through their glamorous disguises, seeing them for the ghouls that they truly are.

               With every fluorescent-flicker he glimpses beyond the immaculate neon-lighting to see the sunken-cheeks and bulging-eyes beneath their pompous expressions. Their gilded-garments shine as though covering something of exceptional beauty, draping the diseased in elegance.

               As Joule see’s, they watch, more disgusted by him than themselves. So as not to be seen, he then tucks himself behind the dumpster of which he calls home.

              While settling-in, stray voices mock and taunt. He turns-off his mind and closes his ears to the onslaught. A loud bang then quickly jostles him from solace. The transparent red-flesh of his illuminated eyelids is all too familiar. He hopes, ‘maybe if I keep my eyes closed, they’ll go away.’ But, they don’t.

              It was only a matter of time before his lounging ran afoul of the law. Four patrolling peace-wardens shout, one after another, “no sleeping...no sleeping...no sleeping...get up!” Although Joule opens his eyes, the fourth warden still bangs on the dumpster twice more. The wardens then huddle around an exhausted Joule, restricting his movement. Boeing their chests out, they dare him to stand without making contact.

              Given but a sliver of breathing-room, It’s a near impossible task. That Joule succeeds, infuriates the deputized addicts. Their inept attempt at ruffling his feathers is exasperating. As their skin crawls, itchy with failure, brutish-squirms and shoulder-rolls make the tension palpable. A loose-jaw is all it would take to send one over the edge.

              Forgoing pride, Joule tight-lipped and stiff-chinned, rises from his squat and tottles-off into the luminescent-haze. Truly drained, he wobbles and tilts, curiously retaining his balance. It’s as though his body is being upheld by strings, carried by a benevolent-puppeteer. He experiences but a moment of reprieve, but before he can bask in it, cackling pierces the calm; like needle through balloon. Like razors, flippant-tongues wag, scrapping his flesh to the bone.

              Irrationally so, Joule has peace in the midst of this. Opposed to drowning, he surfs. Step by step his teetering posture solidifies as the uproarious-waves crash around him. Joule’s wearied-steps trigger a tidal-wave of laughter. The higher he lifts his head, the louder the laughter becomes. It’s as though he’s the moon, and they who laugh are trebled-waters.

              There’s a gloom, an abrasive-ambience spilling out of Reverie users, and it’s thicker than gravy.  The hips of women sensually stir honey into the trebled-waters, creating an ambience which grasps at the heels. Joule’s devout-shrugs cause onlookers to question his sanity. He trudges atop concrete as though marching through mud, and then he bellows, “I’m not going back!”

 No-longer slave to these chemically-induced-fantasies, Joule rejects the tease of Reverie’s advance. And, as his thoughts begin to double-back, he’s reminded to press-on by the echoed chant of[1]  his previous statement.

              Joule doesn’t yet know where he’s going, only that if he ever wants to experience a free-life that he can’t stop here. Aimlessly he roams, treading on grounds that have been trampled daily for the better part of two-decades.  To say that it’s disheartening would be an understatement.  Still, he sorrowfully treks, devout in his relentless-pursuit of freedom. 

              Driven, Joule wards off depression with a stomp, when he then stumbles on an unfamiliar crack in the pavement. A crack of which he doesn’t recall being there. Spastically he then flings his arm in the air, flustered by what many would consider a minor-inconvenience. For Joule, it seems as though nothing in his in favor. It takes only a short-distance for his faith to collapse. That crack, was his breaking-point.

              As the life within his eyes then begins to die-out, he spots another, and then another. Some of these are foundational-fractures, having splintered and spread, kissing the cities barrier. Joule, though he should be terrified, is rejuvenated by the discovery.

              He’s jubilant, walking as though it were dancing and spinning in circles, all while stomping as he goes. So far as he can tell, his cage is not long for this world.

              As Joule then grows tired, a prayerful sigh worms its way up from his belly to his throat. The breathy-plea is then asphyxiated by dense-chatter and raucous-wailings. As Joule sips oxygen as though sucking it through a straw, he falls faint, and then falls before falling asleep.

              Dreams of his childhood bring to bear a time when he was unencumbered by societies lofty-expectations. He longs for a nostalgia that persists, for an eternity clothed in the aroma of his grandmother’s gumbo. It would waft outdoors, tickling his nose, letting him know that love was inside awaiting his imminent return. It’s the first dream he’s had since evading the governing-bodies mandatory sleep-suppressant injection. Even though he’s awakened by the outrage of spectators, zeal slingshots his arthritic-bones upward. 

              Again, he tries to walk, but those in the vicinity impede his path. “Move!” he pleads. “Or join me,” he insists[2] . His cries then evaporate upon reaching the fiery barricade of Reverie enthusiasts. On either-side of Joule, crowds bark and squawk for police-intervention.

              When Peace-Wardens catch wind of the disturbance Joule attempts to flee, wriggling through his opposition. But, like a lamp in a darkened hallway, his presence goes unhidden.

              The untimely apprehension costs Joule his autonomy. Sleep-suppressant beads along a syringe before being injected into his tear-ducts. The sting of metal gliding betwixt skin doesn’t compare to that of his lifelong hope being deferred.

              Immediately, upon his release, he can see that the cities-cracked foundations have been remedied.

              As Joule now wander, repulsed by his trappings, his vision is impaired by glints of Reverie as it sparkles throughout the Power-district. Were he to revert to his days of old and conjoin with this debaucherous horde; relief, though damning, could be purchased on a whim. Pleasure, albeit a duplicitous-amalgamation of joy, could placate his anguish. But, were he to embrace such platitudes, he would be embracing defeat.

              To be numb, oh how its appeal weighs on his dejected soul. It would be a courteous release from the aching-uncertainty of a future littered with what-if’s; a sweet swan-song to his misery. Were it not for freedom roaring within his gut, gnawing at his loins, Joule’s dream of eternity would by blinded by the glitz of today’s Reverie.

              Vision be damned, he begins, marching towards a goal that has no-sibilance of a finish-line, sharing his dream with anyone who will listen. As the days stretch, rumors of his exploits result in infamy. Jagged-chirps and muttered-slights season him with pessimism. They’re slung at his backside, leaving it peppered in bruises.  While, the few encouraging words he does hear are slanted to the point of being pity-adjacent.

              For weeks the inefficacy of his actions is met with boastful-ridicule. Never do the jests have the intended outcome; Never do they sap the bounce from his stride. In fact, they have the opposite effect; venomous-quips act as an emboldening-elixir, causing Joule to see victory in the shallowest of surface-abrasions. As the pathway slowly wears brittle, crackling beneath his feet, he envisions this gleaming-prison crumbling down around him. However farfetched his machinations may be, Joule’s senses tell him that this cities beauty is just an elaborate veil, used to conceal its fragility.

              Before long, pandering replaces the aforementioned ridicule. As a stratagem rejection is renounced in favor of crude-enticements. Bullheaded, Joule ignores the lascivious-pacifiers, trampling them underfoot. As talons clasp to his torso, he bucks. “Let me go!” he hollers, unleashing a wealth of angst from its sheath.

              As soon as the pitchy rebuke shoots from his mouth, the city blinks. Within seconds the back-up generators hiss and hiccup, bringing the artificial-lighting to a warm-whimper of its former glory. In the dim-hours which follow, as authorities scour the grid for a solution, Electric City’s Reverie usage triples.

              Dose by dose emotional-invalids indulge as a means of quailing their fright. And as Reverie coaxes fear into flying bravery’s banner, Joule is subdued by an offshoot of belligerent blame-slingers. They then bind him to a bedazzled-lamppost. Inquisitive, a mob quickly begins to form around the spectacle. Without so much as an ounce of proof Joule’s captors tout, “he did it!”

              After hearing of Joule’s dream, the accusations against him rile the mob furious. After then concluding that he couldn’t have done it by himself, a manhunt is launched in search of suspected collaborators. During the ludicrous-inquisition they wrangle the likes of Samantha Watts, Dominick Ampere, Ezra Volt, and Ohm Armitage. Together with Joule, the handful of dreamers are forced to stand trial before an unjust-jury of their peers.

              The verdict; guilty, before a question is asked.

              After being beaten and demoralized their jaws are pried open. and Reverie is callously poured down their gullets. Unabashedly, the mob gloats over a victory that’s yet to be won. Their hedonistic-camaraderie sours the air, as a parade of what could be loosely described as celebratory-cannibalism riots through the streets.

              Crushed, Joule weeps. Seemingly severed from his dream, his eyes bleed. In unified merriment, his accusers then lop-up the tears. When suddenly, an energetic jolt singes their tongues, repelling them backwards.

              Heat surges from Joule’s pours. Moist and steaming, his skin appears to be boiling. Like smelted-metal or perhaps a tungsten-filament, it burns a yellowish-orange. Mysteriously, this applies to all who stand accused .

              For a brief moment, it then looks as though serenity’s gentle-touch tempers their torment. With a buzz and a flash, their battered-bodies then rapidly dematerialize; their iridescent-souls climbing beyond the cities fabricated-firmament.

              Following the lights sudden ascension, the city’s ever-breaking dawn becomes dusk.  Ghastly-figures, once only visible to Joule, have no further need of their disguises. Teeth are revealed to be fangs, nails are revealed to be talons; people, are revealed to be creatures. Frenzied-masses tear through their respective districts, setting buildings ablaze. Elongated shadows leave just-enough-room for shameful deeds to find shelter.

              None can be bothered as the city’s barrier ruptures. Scars, like veins, swim along the walls, creaking in distress. With every moan and celebratory “woo!” the cities integrity synchronously squealed its grievances.

              Until finally… it gave way.

 

Once dazzling, a cautionary crater is now all that remains of Electric City