The Black Book -- No. 1

Day 4,975, 05:39 • Published in USA USA • by Pfenix Quinn
PQ's Black Book -- No. 1

No: 50 Day: 4975 or so


Dear readers,

This is the 50th issue of Radio Free Dixie!

In celebration, we commence publication of an amazing literary discovery.

The once lost but now found Black Book manuscripts of Young Phoenix Quinn are ready for you!

We hope you enjoy these excerpts. While eRepublik may be an e-jungle, perhaps the sharing of ideals, dreams, and creative approaches and patterns for perceiving can make it a bit less (or a bit more) of a mystery?

The Black Books lack any indication of when they were written. As best we can tell, the first section was penned sometime around Day 100. Not too long after PQ had just been dropped into the New World.



Do you sense it?
The duty of the e-world?
From sphere to sphere, party to party, country to country
it needs to sow grains
it brings us the light of the world
sprinkling bits of electronic seed as if from a dark filter
it broadcasts love, love, love
from dusk to dawn, from pole to pole.


I dreamt I had a conversation with the anima of the New World.




The ultimate solitude stands before us. Do you hear it?

"I take notice and I consider."

What are you considering?

"The causes of solitude."

How do you credit it?

"In multitudes. Some in me. Some in you. Some in other players."

And?

"What one must give in order to win the game is love."

I'm drained. I have none to give. Everyone is against me. All they do is complain.

"Why don't you deliver?"

It seems to me I provide enough.

"Even to me?"

I try to hand out as much as possible to you. It's not much. I don't know how to give any more. I don't know where to find it. There is a small ebb in the darkness. But is it intentional? Must we feel solitary?






"Silly questions."

I lose my animation. What will happen?

"How should I know?"

Give it a try. Perhaps you can achieve something.

"Your formulas are tedious. I just try to grab onto something."

Peer into it. Focus your attention.

"That was hellish. I see a stinking kid."

How does that make you feel?

"What can I say? It's a blur. Your gifts are misty. And a little nasty."






"It's either a farting child or a harmless image of Satan. What will you do with it?"

I am bewildered and downhearted. What is the point of your stinking vision?

"It reeks from afar. Fart proudly. Glory scatters all around us."

Seems like a disgusting glory.

"It's your circus, my Romanish friend."

Your mockery is unbefitting.

"Not so much. It comes from solitude. As you know, one starts to smell..."

Stop. Your human jokes are devilish.

"Do you not like to be bothered by players?"

I could do without this suffering. Why not go bother some other game? You make me want to crawl back inside my self.

"You cannot. You are both the atoner and the scapegoat, kid."

This is almost unbearable.

"Almost. Not absolutely."

Must it be so?

"What is the game if you do not also take part? Slaughter and being slaughtered."

Truth. But why does it smell so much like human blood? Does it have to be like this?




"You have childish illusions. Sharpen your knives."

You are incredibly harsh.

"No e-day breaks without the slaughter."

So. What then?

"Slaughter whatever you can grab onto?"

That is impossible.

"Just grab a knife and start making some sacrifices. Otherwise you'll do yourself in."

But the inhumanity!

"It's your game. Kill your brother so that you might live."

But my brother's life is dear to me.

"If you don't value your own life, you will lose it. Live. Others can look out for themselves. Don't be a fool. If you lay down your blade, they'll treat you with insolence."

Isn't this kind of play a terrible injustice?

"Then shall we not play at all? Who shall play if we don't? Your kindness is absurd."

Your language is savage.

"You suffocate me."

You must obey me. Stand and deliver! Or I'll suck your credit dry.

"Are you finally telling the truth? Food for thought."