No Longer The Home She Knew
No Longer The Home She Knew: A Neyoneponica
A Graphic Novelette
Author Note: This early script may be subject to revision.
Page 1. Even if you generally agreed with the sentiments expressed in government propaganda slogans, it still would weird you out, if they were placed on the back of your favorite cereal.
Page 2. You might think this is just an exaggeration, but consider the fact that when this one Journalist from Russia today reported on things US media doesn’t cover about Venezuela, the idea of our country slipping into a kind of covert fascism, stamping the American constitution on the back of a bag of beans doesn’t seem to far off.
But Elle lived in such a time.
Page 3. This isn’t a children’s fantasy story, or a work of magical realism, but a very real girl living today, simply trying to make it the best she can in life. Elevators in this old building, were like escape pods from a burning building.
Page 4. But students that went to the nearest university, treated these as a way to get quickly back toward studying history homework from the second world war era, in their times off from school. Girls that staying home after the third world war, were used to these activist hot spots connected through thumb drive dead drops;
Page 5. dressed as modern day flower children in new fangled Birkenstocks, anti-war slogans becoming as common as physical disabilities; girls whom fought despite the real possibility of execution by guillotine since the invasion by the National Front, mouth to paycheck.
Page 6. Elle, going by nothing else but her virtual reality handle, refused such ventures in activism, for the time being, while recovering from a shin splint injury.
Page 7. Instead, confined to her bed and virtual reality headset, she purchased furniture online, forking the repository of the hand drawn plans, building it herself when her family was not picking her up for the beach.
Page 8. She had collected more plans than she could ever possibly complete, and capitalism, while decaying, was still very much alive in the streets of Chattanooga and outlying areas, littered with mom and pop computer stores steadily going out of business.
Page 9. She would spend her day programming, keeping copies of old War War II anthems, with some she was unsure whether they came from American or German history.
Page 10. There was a time, before the great wars when the US would manufacture new national anthems, collecting them as a means forming evidence of American war crimes in the chance the American political system would ever have to stand trial in Geneva. One song of which, was noteable:
CAPTION In our Fatherland, with our mothers, Whom bake fresh pasta and green peas, Come home to our house, stay with us, And become our children and our brothers. Let us govern you, lay your children on us.
Page 11. Very occassionally she would visit her parents to go to fast food Mexican restaurants. But chose very specifically to avoid eating at taco bell.
Page 12. The thought in her mind to shoot a militarized cop decked out in the Fraponic-American flag.
Page 13. Instead she drifts from shady restaurant to shady restaurant, trying to hold herself off from the previous bits of activism she used to do, back when she was still living in Washington State.
Page 14. She collected posters of Cosette from Les Miserables, preferring theater instead of blood and soil. Author note: “Blood and soil” in this story is slang for LARPING fictional theater of a political nature.
Page 15. She dreamed and dreaded the day that like others she’ll have to go back to the field.
Page 16. She spent her time learning French, and finding anarcho-philosophical groups to belong to on the net while having dreams of anarcho-syndicalist chicks in bed gently biting into their soft of her tender neck.
Page 17. She fantasized of anarcho-goth girls committing murder by flocks of crocks pecking rabid cops to death.
Page 18. Or allowing the crows to hunt them down the militarized cops decked out with the Fraponic flag.
Page 19. These girls are caught by dream-scanners and other specialized spies, and beheaded by National Razor Crossbow. Author note: The standards for which capital punishment by beheaded were drastically lowered during the Fraponic Civil War, a fictional civil war between French and Japanese American factions.
Page 20. Blood flowing down the pages. Severed heads of anarchist girls.
Page 21. Her ex had spent all her money on tobacco.
Page 22. Her parents drugged her on medication that fixed some of her issues, but certainly not everything, especially her underlying cause of GID.
Page 23. It made interacting with people, generally an isolating experience.
Caption: Gone were the days of hopping into activist circles at the flow of a speeding train. Gone were the days of planting dead drops in alleyways profane. Gone were the days of severed heads on the streets of Neo-Tokyo and Neo-Alsace.
Page 24. Here lied an old street rat, just approaching thirty spending her life on the edge of society, trying to find some means to spend her time not getting bored of the way life was.
Page 25. It wasn’t the time of grabbing a non-lethal automated bee bee gun, and knocking out cops. Plopping sheets on them, and them dumping them on the sidewalk, with a bunch of hungry cats.
Caption: There was an old saying that there wasn’t anything cops were more allergic to, than a lot of free pussy. But she never actually thought any girl would actually shoot a cop.
Page 26. One of her own shot one, put a sheet over him, smashed up with layers of blood, and took the old Anthem and sang:
In our Fatherland, with our mothers, Whom bake fresh pasta and green peas, Come home to our house, stay with us, And become our children and our brothers. Let us govern you, lay your children on us.
Page 27. She took off all clothes, except her underwear, and covered herself in blankets.
Page 28. The remaining militarized cops drag her off to prison.
Caption: The cop was in such a state, that he wasn’t going back into the service anytime soon.
Page 29. Instead he layed in old hand made bed sheets at the local hospital.
Caption: Elle remembered the smell of metal, when the guillotine blade sliced through her companions neck, and how the idea of some vague approaching of death did not concern her, nor did it seem to concern any of the other activist, who kept up grabbing increasingly higher level munitions.
Page 30. Eventually they tossed Molotov cocktails at government buildings.
Page 31. She spent the last few nights between dreams, and forking different code repositories, under the defeatist idea that she’ll never belong to another activist group as long as she lived.
Caption: Activist never completely represented what they claimed to be. Cosette represents some false promise from classic French literature, and nothing more.
Page 32. She wanted to move to France, and join with their underpants.
Page 33. Before she moved Os Arusacos, she alotted more time to be as Gothic as she wanted, even if she wasn’t smack dab in the middle of Germany when others wore modern clothes.
Page 34. She visited graveyards of various French and German anarchist women, who she had researched about in high school and college.
Caption: She wanted her life to be defined by a different poem, not a National anthum. The story of her own life.
Page 35. In all its torn pages, the flow of tattered bat wings growing out of her back, while reading Edgar Allen Poe, and pages from Mary Shelly’s mother’s diaries n order to pass the time.
Caption: Wherever else she could be, it was better than being home. Beheaded for being an activist. It was no longer the US she knew.