CardBox Politics :: 1.0
he noticeboard of the Republic of Cardboard Box had a new announcement.
“As all 373 of you had been informed through word of mouth – We, the Republic of Cardboard Box will be running out of resources in 39 days time. There will soon be NO MORE cardboard for farming, fuel, making soap, and of course NO MORE GOSSIPS & official announcements on notices like this. For such a dire situation, a random draw was conducted and Lights was honorably chosen as our noble explorer for the better good. Lights will survey the surrounding waters for new resources and living area.
Lights will set off tomorrow for the eastern waters. Kinsmen, please head to the northeastern harbor front at one hour after sunrise. Do not, I REPEAT, DO NOT crowd at the jetty! It will cause the jetty to collapse as the weight of all 372 enthusiastic Cardboard Boxians will have a devastating effect on the small surface area of the jetty.
May the Box be with Lights.”
At one hour after sunrise, there were around 200 chatty Cardboard Boxians gathered at the harbor front. The ground had given way a little but was still holding. This was the first time so many Cardboard Boxians were allowed at one place. The previous time when all 370 (before Mrs Grubby had her triplets) of them gathered at Grubby’s house to give her a baby shower, her floor gave way and half of the Cardboard Boxians fell into the sea while the other half got stuck at the hole.
Untitled :: Prologue
t was a cloudless night. A fair weather for an old man to take a breather in the vast outdoors.
The nurse wore a plain blue dress, sleeveless. Her hair tied up in a bun, the professional kind. On her face was very light makeup, and it was very flattering on her young and fair complexion. The knee-length dress proved to be a convenience when she helped her patient out of the car. Recovering from a stroke, her patient did not help himself, nor her, much as he exited the car. He was around 70 and age had carved itself on his face. Once upon a time, he was one of the most eligible bachelors in town, with both his looks and wealth. His father used to own an established recording company and he was among the elites in the music production community. However, all was gone. Still, life had been fair to him. After getting his share of the inheritance, he kicked off a new business with his wife, venturing into the world of Publishing. He was one lucky man. The business made it big, and his publishing company got famous, attracting many talented journalists and writers to want to be recruited under his wing. With the blooming operation he had at hand, life had gotten even better than before. Finally, at the age of 62, he announced his retirement, sold his share and landed himself a huge retirement dough to spend with his beloved wife.
Sitting in the wheelchair, the nurse strolled him down the new flea market. Time and time again, he had to bend over the sides to check what had caught the corner of his eye. There were many rows of stalls. Some were selling second-hand goods, the others doing their antique trade and there was an entire row selling new inventions. Goods were laid on the ground for customers to view, and only a narrow pathway between every two rows was left untouched by the goods strewn all over the market. The wheelchair was taking up the entire pathway, and the old man felt bad about it.
“Let’s leave this place. I’ve had enough. Let’s go back.”
As they turned right to leave at the end of the row, the old man thought he saw something familiar. Looking left, he saw a very familiar face staring back at him. Illumination was one problem in night flea markets. He could not see nor make out who the familiar face was, as “it” was hidden at the back of a corner stall.
“Triey, left!” He gave the instructions, clear and firm.
As they made their way past Stall [665] …they finally reached Stall No. [666]. After going through what seemed like a tadpole swimming against the ocean currents, the old man was able to take a closer look at “it”.
“Caught your eye, didn’t it?” The stall owner startled the nurse, but not the old man. He was too focused on “it”.
“Last that you’ll ever find, I dare say. I had a hard time getting it twenty years ago, and if not for the debt I have, I wouldn’t to sell it.” He looked at the old man, and explained.
“How much?” His eyes still focused on “it”.
“I’ll usually let it go for 120, but for you … Sir … You can have it at 100.”
“A hundred?” The old man finally looked away from “it” and faced the owner, eye to eye.
“It’s a reasonable price for something like that. It’s very well kept, and this is…” He unlatched “it” from the wall, and brought “it” to the old man, prompting him to verify his words. “It” is a picture with the foreground of a beautiful man, in white robe stained with blood. Behind him was four other, face unclear but wore similar clothes. In background, it was a mass of fire and dead bodies, in a colossal house – it was as if a war had taken place. The word “Hannibal” stuck out at the right hand corner.
“G’s poster for his finest album, Hannibal. If not for the ‘incident’, G would have been the greatest music maker in the world.”
“A hundred it is.” The old man took the poster and motioned for the nurse to wheel him back to the car.
“Last that you’ll find, I dare…” The owner’s words echoed in his mind. The old man chuckled to himself and recalled the time when the very same poster could be seen everywhere.
"The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn..." 