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"The Connection, a Story About the Truth" - Braxton Lowe

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Braxton opens the book to a random page.

"See human beings as though they were in an underground cave-like dwelling," instructs Socrates, "with its entrance, a long one, open to the light across the whole width of the cave." 


After reading the passage Braxton looks around and smiles, the cave he was resting in was just as Socrates described, long and dark with an entrance that poured light into the cave. The library a few days ago contained many interesting books, but Braxton always had an interest in books of a philosophical nature. Before the fall of the modern age he always intended to read the ancient classical texts but could never find the time, the current situation provided all the time he needed. The dark cave reminded him of himself. All the darkness of his true self and his lack of connection with who he really is. All he could feel now was isolation and it was disturbing, it was cold. It had been a few weeks since the massacre, but the memories still lay fresh on his mind, the mangled and twisted bodies littered across the camp, torn up by a raging torrent of bullets. True human nature has been revealed in this new era of humanity, or lack of. Braxton now felt that the only explanations for this true nature lied dormant in the classical texts of old, a time more relatable to the current barbarian age.

“Any one who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eyes are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light”.

Where was he? Was he coming out of the light and into the darkness, or was he coming into the light and leaving the darkness? How could he know he had reached the light? What even is the light? Sighing deeply, with even more questions than before, he closed the book and gently placed it into his bag. It was time to move, the road to the coast was long and he needed to make good time. It was getting dark and the road that was black in the day time just melted into the darkness of the night. When a car passed it's headlights were reflected in the water that lay over the surface, the people inside to concerned to stop and offer Braxton aid. There were street-lamps a long time ago but they had all been sabotaged for their solar triggers, it's how the local gangs arm their weaponry. They rig things up with dirt over the sensor and then after some rain whatever they have rigged up explodes. So the roads are dark and the days are anxious, who knows where they will strike next. One of the many reason Braxton needed to leave this land and move South.


He would continue to walk for some time, the long unmeasured pulse of time moved and turned the days into weeks with a single heartbeat. As the road bent up a hill a sign could be seen…. “добро пожаловать в Чернарус (Welcome to Chernarus)”.


Edited by Aeryes

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Love the allusion to Plato's Allegory. Can't wait to see how you develop this! 

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8 hours ago, AlyCat said:

Love the allusion to Plato's Allegory. Can't wait to see how you develop this! 

Thank you very much 😍

I have some good ideas for this character. I think this will turn into a very interesting story.

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Backstory Part 2:

The winter sky is a widow’s sky, bedarkened and weeping. The clouds are churlish and kraken-cruel. They cough out great spurts of water and balloons of sopping moisture. It teems down in a biblical deluge, flooding the rivers, drowning the fields and overflowing the dams. It is a Noah’s-Ark cataclysm of rain, an unending cataract of water sluicing from the sky. Trees are uprooted and entire villages disappear under a frothy lather of suds. The rain is incessant. It snaps and crackles like bracken pods in a bush fire. The flood-gates in the sky have been opened and no-one is there to close them back up, it seems. The winter sky is a fragile, pellucid-blue. The clouds are frail and angel-white. They are carried on a light, ruffling breeze. The soil of Mother Earth is titanium hard and in need of nourishment. A misty rain falls down. It is as frail as a Scottish smirr and its misty dew feels like warm butter melting on a face. As it falls, it unlocks the glassy fingers of winter’s frosty fist, one by one. Flowers slowly unfurl in the meadows and ripple like coral arms at low tide. The rivers exhale with a murmurous purr of satisfaction. If beauty is God’s signature, then rain is his final flourish.


Listening carefully Braxton could hear the front door make sounds as the wind swept under it. Sitting down he took out the book he had been reading. He had been reading “The Allegory of the Cave”,  a theory put forward by Plato, concerning human perception. Plato claimed that knowledge gained through the senses is no more than opinion and that, in order to have real knowledge, we must gain it through philosophical reasoning. It was an interesting read, Braxton felt as though he could compare and contrast quite well, with Plato’s reasoning and logic. Braxton was always a man of the senses, knowledge derived from false interpretations of the world. Knowledge could only be discovered through reasoning and the senses were a betrayal to this reasoning. In the Allegory of the Cave, Plato distinguishes between people who mistake sensory knowledge for the truth and people who really do see the truth, in its own truth Plato’s writing here shouldn’t be taken at face value, it requires a deeper connection with reasoning and logic to find the truth. A connection. A connection with what?


“SOCRATES: And if they can get hold of this person who takes it in hand to free them from their chains and to lead them up, and if they could kill him, will they not actually kill him? GLAUCON: They certainly will.”


The final paragraph ended on a relevant truth for this new world. You can free people from their chains but not their minds. Something worth remembering for the future. The turbulent rain had died down and an unsettling calm lingered outside, Braxton looked out the window. The sky was tar-black and the large clouds were moving away from him. He heard a tapping on the window and then it became a pitter-patter. Puddles began to calm as the rainfall became lighter. The roofs of the broken down cars danced with spray from the buildings they were sheltered by and Braxton could hear the murmuring of the rain through the window in the distance. It was time to move on, the coast was many more miles away. 


Edited by Aeryes

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BackStory Part 3:

The sign on the road had some strange writing on it, presumably Russian. “Выбор” (Vybor) is what it said. The town was just as dead as the others Braxton already came through. The dead could be seen scattered throughout. The sky was a dull grey, a cold breeze made howling sounds down the once bustling streets. Braxton took a seat in the bar just outside of the town square and decided to get some rest for the rest of the journey. He looked out at the roads that curved and disappeared over the hills in the distance. The roads had lain over the earth for as long as anyone could remember. It felt like so many years since the age of the car that they had been left for nature to reclaim in her own good time - and she had started in earnest. In the weathered cracks was gathered new soil, enough to tempt seeds to grow. Their roots grew in, their leaves a bright green over the grey, and the land began to breathe once more, healing the scars of old. Taking out his notepad he began to review the lyrics to the songs he was trying to remember.


"Daddy worked like a mule mining Pike County coal
until he fucked up his back and couldn't work anymore
He said, "One of these days you'll get out of these hills
"Keep your nose on the grindstone and out of the pills"




The song was called “Nose on the Grindstone”, it was one of Braxtons favorites. A song that allowed him to relive the more pleasurable moments of his life. He recalled his Father listening to this song on Sunday evenings, as the two of them would sing there hearts out. His father had a fringe of grey-white hair around his balding, mottled scalp. He had a wizened face and a back slightly hunched. With each movement there was the creak of old bones Time was coming to take him away, but he still had life. The lyrics kept repeating themselves in his mind, with no tune to soften their sound. Braxton looked out the bar window and into the darkening world. His mind slipped back to old times. The doctor wore that face he always did when the news wasn't good. "Look, you're developing Alzheimer’s like your Father."




Braxton's Father wrinkled face crumpled as he rubbed it with his spotted hand. "Pops got so violent. He wasn't himself anymore. Doc, I can't be like that..." His voice broke away as his chest heaved. The doctor shook his head with the tiniest of smiles. "A cup can only spill over if there's something in it. There's no anger in you. You're just not going to remember things so well, and it's slow, you've got a while." As Braxton left his thoughts of the past he began to think about his meaning, why he was trying to go to the coast, was there even a point to the journey?


“Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides son, that’s a line my Father told me and now I’m telling you”. His fathers voice echoed in his mind. A man of many words but little action, probably now dead. An apology, Braxton wished he could make an apology for all he had done before leaving his home. An apology for all the things he thought his Father said and did, things that no longer mattered.


 Life is learning to tame your inner demons: looking at your insecurities and fears and knowing that they only make you human – that they don’t define you. In a way however, Braxton couldn’t disagree more with his thoughts. His fears of betrayal and his insecurities about never been loved slowly turned him into a slightly colder person. Where there once was remorse, there was now impenitence. The actions Braxton now took, reflected the shape of his inner demons. In the hazy distance, down the grey street, a silhouette could be seen approaching his direction. The shape of a person but to distant to see their facial features. It couldn’t be a person. There were no people left, just Braxton, left here to suffer in the riddle of his mind. A closer look was needed, Braxton exited the bar with his belongings and walked up the street towards the figure.


“Hey, you over there, wait up”, he shouted, loud enough for the figure to hear but quiet enough for the dead to remain dormant. The figure stopped walking towards him, standing still and staring. As Braxton got closer he seen the clear image of a woman, unlike any he had previously seen. She stood tall, almost as tall as he. Her emotions were not easily hidden on her innocent face. Her pain was evident in the crease of her lovely brow and the down-curve of her full lips. But her eyes, her eyes showed her soul. They were a deep pool of restless gold, an ocean of hopeless grief. As Braxton looked into her eyes he knew, all the beauty of the universe could not even hope to compete with this simple thing: passion. Passion turned her eyes into orbs of the brightest fire, and in them he read clearly that she would fight to the very last tear for her life. She would not let the world break her. Sure she could cry, but she would never let them take her true self from her. She clung to it with passion. Passion that made her beautiful. She began to speak. “Hey, Im Circie”….. It was love at first sight……


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