Version
Crimson.4
Riveta
stared intently at the screen. The net-cafe was busy this morning,
emails getting checked, flash games played, clips watched. She had
been here since the place opened, as directed. Made sure she sat at
the right terminal. Logged onto the message-board using the account
she had been provided.
Reading
for hours, exchanges between posters about anti-oppression theory,
magickal practices, comic books, technological developments.
There was a long thread about a decision to ban one of the posters,
pages upon pages of text debating communication styles, scientific
methodology, language and identity. It was an argument, a
discussion, a lament, a challenge.
She watched the words on the
screen stream and interlock, conjuring patterns of meaning, mysteries
of intent, little pixelated sticks and curves summoning epic passions
and petty indulgences. Figures and grounds. The beauty of connection
and the terror of disconnection. The thoughts of dozens of people
spread across the planet, caged, transmuted, sent into combat with
each other. Agonizing contortions of principles and visions, to make
a determination of the future presence or absence of one current of
text on the message board. To silence or to manage, to embrace or to
resist.
How
could something so small feel so huge? she thought.
What
is it the Professor wants me to see?
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