Homunculus
By David Brennan
Homunculus is a fictional series being written by Vermilion’s Fiction Editor, David Brennan, that will be released in five installments. The series focuses on a man named Norm, who must navigate a world defined by its degeneracy and survive with each new encounter.
What a well ordered chaos, Norm thought to himself as he walked down the street examining each building as he passed it. He examined their shapes, squares stacked on rectangles connected to adjacent towers occasionally capped by stepped pyramids of concrete. Ornamental columns carved into the sides of some, others appeared to be conglomerates of rising rectangular towers fused together into a geometric pattern of indents and protrusions. Each was different from the last. Each structure was a different puzzle of distinct lines and hard angles. Yet, they were quite geometric. Quite intentional. Quite symmetrical.
Hard black soles and sharp red heels smacked against marbled moonlit floors.
“Norm? Norm is that you?”
A hand tugged at Norm’s arm, clasping it from behind.
A tower of bronze and concrete stood erect, casting its long shadow on the street below. Within the tower, on its highest level, was a penthouse that spanned the entire floor. It had high ceilings, decorative columns, several bedrooms, an extensive collection of art, and a vast main room with a row of windows providing a view of the city. A marble statue was placed in the center of the room, surrounded by luxurious couches, exquisite chairs and tables, all designed for relaxing and examining every inch of the fine art and majestic views.
People were walking all around me. To their work, their families, their friends, their lives. I walked amongst them aimlessly. I wove between the crowds. I looked at the sweat on their brows, the grime on their cheeks. It churned my stomach. Yet I walked among them all the same. I looked at their figures. The perspiration gave their skin a certain glisten. Perhaps I could reach out to one, touch their shoulder, caress their hand, just a little. Disappear with them. If it wasn't for the sweat.
I’m writing this down so that someone may remember my life. So I don’t fade into the dark obscurity of lost history. Isn’t that a scary thought? For all one’s life experience, every moment, every fear, pain, smile, and hug, lost to time. Everything you ever were to become nothing, to never have existed. Perhaps I am my father. But that’s unimportant.