What you are reading is a collections of ideas, characters, and stories, scrabbled out and sorted for future books. I hope to keep this updated and current as sketches of what could be, but aren't, in here.
I'll also provide links to proper works, should they ever grow out of this.
Happy reading and all the best!
One handful of musty leaves and mud. Another inch forward. A trail of blood growing across my face.
ACAB! ACAB! ACAB!
The flank is collapsing and I only have a limited time to escape.
Gods, the noise!
My poor swelling head, pounding, ears buzzing; but I can't be caught. I pat my chest to ensure that the letters are still there.
I reach another hand forward.
Somewhere near my hip, a stick is poking me - fighting my progress forward. I roll and crawl and progress another few inches. Not an easy task with one immobilized arm.
Those cops, they must have been cops, that struck me off handed, must have hit a nerve. My left arm dragging limply along side my body.
Through the slow arch of time, the flame trilling through a parrabola, one of many bottles hurled by the masses, headed for armored bodies. Smashing, bursting forth in flame. Blinding for a moment a portion of the wall of attackers. A flare in the night.
I kick with my legs and inch forward towards the tree. Thirty more feet to go.
Guns ringing out in response. A scream rends the air. More groaning bodies fall on the forest floor.
I pull the scarf tighter over my face and stretch my shoulders, testing my numb arm. My fingers are starting to get some feeling again.
The rush forward, exhilarating in its daring. All those voices shouting as one, all those bodies pushing forward. The house within our grasp. Bullets shrilly screaming over our heads. Not close enough to give us pause.
I shouldn't have taken this mission. This is why I never go to protests. Who's plan was it to take the Mayor's mansion anyways? Probably an FBI informant giving bad ideas to ensnare the movement in the vague hope that enough of us would get snatched up, to not realize who the snitch was.
We have to keep an eye out for the adventurous and zealous. The feds have ears planted everywhere, that we are sure of; but it's adventurism taken up by their hands covertly, that we must really protect against. Their manipulations to divide or break us are laced with this.
A woman struggles to free herself. Non-descript men are bottling her in, hands firmly on her arms and shoulders, trying to bow and herd her.
A shout! The kicking fury of heavy boots, trampling and collapsing the knees of some of the woman's attackers.
Ten more feet and I am covered in grime. There's more than mud and leaves, sticks and rocks, here. Pools of puke and viscera soak into the ground slowly.
A flag is planted firmly, proudly on the other side of the front. Red as blood, as life poured out, it waves with claims of overcoming. Hands firmly holding it up, calling for others to join them.
Behind the house, I leverage the cellar door open. Fortunate that the owners hadn't locked it. I crouch and stretch my legs, stalking into the unlit room.
Turning on the flash for my phone, scanning the room, I search for a soft place to rest. I take the packet of letters out of my hoodie. Nothing damaged.
With only two hours left before my contact shows, I slump in a corner and weep.
Uniformed officers pour out of the forest, their aim a pile of limbs struggling over the liberation of their comrades from the grasps of the officers counterparts on the ground. They speed up, slamming into the group with their shields, shouldering in to build an aggressive formation around the arrested woman: occasionally snatching out to drag a protestor into their grasp, to arrest them.
There is a great creeping quiet growing now. The flag has been torn down, the protestors scattered or arrested. I close my eyes to the world.
Death explodes as quickly as a gun shot. Her head snapped back and body twists as a marionette does when some strings have been cut loose. The masses lash out in horror.
The truncheons fall like axes, chopping down one by one, those who tried to save her. Her murderers bully and brutishly rage.
As my head drops, I wake and read my orders once more.
"To those that find these letters, you have seen the cost. The state does not let the revolution grow easily. In here, are the signs of its demise. Copy them, spread them, take care of yourselves.
The revolution does not die here, it has just been born again."
I remember a day, traveling through the air, a future in my head yet to be born; being pulled through the earth in a filthy subway; walking the last blocks to the tenemant turned headquarters; fire flowing in my veins.
I remember being welcomed and introduced to my comrades; being shown around. To the printers, the editor, the secratariat, and the bathrooms.
I remember the many greeting cards and letters from our international, spilling across what used to be a borgiouses' secretary desk area. Congratulations from our comrades in China, mixed with letters of solidarity from Vietnam, Turkey, and so on.
I remember discussions amongst each other about this or that platrform point. The Green New Deal, where the workers could be reliably found, who are the modern proliteriate.
I remember taking calls from my co-workers - fixing problems that did not affect the revolution to come - while hammering out the details of new systems with comrades; of mixing the mundane capitalist worries, with ideas set to escape them.
I remember ducking out to get some food; some people around me with masks donned, wary eyed, keeping their distance, and moving beyond me as fast as possible; the lack of the usual city crush, the brightness of the sky.
I remember the fatigue; a catnap on the floor of a conference room, my hoodie for a pillow, lights off, but still pouring through the windows; sleep taking me.
I remember a night, wrapped up in a hoodie; strategizing with comrades on Discord; writing proclamations in html for an obscure site; feeling a confidence I had not earned.
I remember my first Vietnamese coffee - to fuel more meetings; the small kitchenette, open to all on the single floor; of covert hikes up and down the flight of stairs neighboring the building; the strangers brushing past in the alley.
I remember two comrades, having driven from entirely other states, and I, heads together to solve the problem of belated communication to new members.
I remember later of newer comrades, disgusted by the holdings of the party not being liquidated to provide for the social needs of the workers outside of our reach.
I remember the bed; a pillow case smelling of slight must; the blanket scratchy, but warm; falling asleep in my clothes; then morning.
I remember the warmth of fresh bagels; the hot breath of coffee; the muted noise of a large city waking up.
I remember the reverse trip of the day before; more masks on more people, scurrying to their places of work or errands; grabbing a slice and waiting for hours for the sub to show; it being dark by the time my flight lifted off.
I remember having been so caught up in revolutionary work, that I wasn't caught up on the news.
I remember JFK being shut down; news of a virus from another country.
I remember the first days of Covid, as a series of revolutionary actions.
And then I was home.
There are plenty of socialist and communist works that are generally against the subject matter; distopias, utopias, and the like (though more distopian than utopian as time passes).
Many of these written with the intent to scare people from being involved in the struggle, or to become even supporters of red ideas.
Red baiting is real and frequent in fiction as in the real world.
I'd rather lead through inspiration, than fear.
I am starting to put down socialist ideas through character driven stories. Instead of writing in a utopian setting, where we've already achieved our revolutions, the writing will be done through the pains of struggle, so that the achievements bare teeth - provide the readers with concepts that they can use in the struggle.