Historia, Parts I & II

I've never posted a true work of fiction on this blog, and by that I mean a story that I'm writing, but I'm going to give it a shot with this one. I just started it tonight, and I figured I'd try it out on a few internet forums to see what kind of reaction it gets. Enjoy.
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Clifford Jenkins, like any sensible man of 40 years, knew for a certainty that the world had been flat until the moment Columbus had jumped on board the HMS Beagle and set sail from Plymouth. Columbus, of course, could be blamed for pretty much every problem that plagued mankind. He’d introduced disease, war, and nihilistic Euro-fashion to the Japanese.

But Clifford Jenkins also knew that every ounce of that history was, well, just that: history. That was life, living in the small town of Nostalgia, a border province of Historia. Everything was over, and nothing could be done to change it. At least, that’s how it was in Nostalgia.

Over the mountains, in Historia, it was said, history was a living thing that constantly changed. Word had reached Nostalgia just that morning that the Vikings had launched an assault on Guevara’s guerillas. Of course, Clifford, like any sensible man of 40 years, doubted if Columbus or Europe had ever existed to begin with. Sometimes, when the world was crashing down the crapper, the people needed a scapegoat. Just so happens they made up Columbus.

And we all know that any good scapegoat needs a land to come from. The mythical Plymouth, smack in the heart of Germanic Europe (don’t ask me how a ship set sail from the heart of a continent, much less how the people knew that Europe was Germanic at the time, or even how they knew Europe was a continent) was created in turn, and had been home port to the HMS Beagle, the HMS standing, of course, for Huge, Massive Ship.

Clifford leaned against the high-backed chair that sat at the corner of the piano. He was playing guitar, strumming out the chorus to Auld Lang Syne, but singing the words to Silent Night, a local favorite. Timey’s Bar was crowded for a Wednesday night. Or maybe it was Friday, one could never tell what those idiots in Historia had done to the week.

“Cliff, play Old Man River!” That was Timey himself, of course he was more than intoxicated (a condition the locals called kershnockered).

“And what should I sing, oh great Timey?” Clifford Jenkins called back.

“Try Yellow Submarine...” Timey trailed off, a tendency among the kershnockered, especially at this late hour (4:15 p.m.) of the night.

Clifford began an upbeat “Old Man River” and through in Yellow Submarine, with a short chorus of Lucy in the Sky, just to please the patrons. He looked outside and watched the sun setting over the mountains that separated Historia from the everything else. And it was at that moment that Clifford Jenkins, sensible as any man of 40 years, realized that he had to leave Nostalgia behind and journey to Historia.
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The next morning, or night, again, you never knew what those idiots in Historia were doing, Clifford Jenkins gathered up his things. He packed the old travel bag (it had Samsonite imprinted on the latch, but that word had long since left the language) with a few changes of clothes, the necessary toiletries, and some assorted canned foods and dried meats. Like any traveler on the road in these days, he bundled a towel onto the end of a stick (he’d seen pictures of what the old timers called hobos carrying them, and then he noticed every traveler through Nostalgia had one, so he made himself one). In this bundle he stuffed a few extra guitar strings, a block of cheese wrapped in leafy-paper, and a pocket knife that had all kinds of extra do-dads on it. The elders called it a Swedish Navy Knife, or something to that effect.

He thought more than once about carrying the knife in his pocket, as it’s description would imply should be done, but then he wouldn’t have had room for Schrodinger, his mouse.

And so, with travel bag in one hand, stick-and-bundle across one shoulder, and guitar strapped to one back, Clifford Jenkins began walking toward the Mountain Pass that led from Nostalgia, through the Antique Mountains, and into the land of Historia.

So it’s here that you, the reader, should be told about Historia.

Historia rests between two mountain ranges, the Antiques to the East, and the Conveniences to the West. It is an arid rain forest whose capital is a pyramid crowned with what we know of as the Statue of Liberty. Of course, the Statue’s upheld arm was replaced with a cannon long ago, and it’s head no longer looks like a woman, but more like a fictional villain of some science fiction story (a black helmet, I think that gives it away with breaking copyright laws).

Around this pyramid is a city that looks like someone from our time chopped up a map of London, New York City, Washington DC, the Vatican, Ancient Nineveh, New Nineveh, and the small town of Buford, Georgia, United States (circa 2008), and then spliced bits and pieces of them together, radiating out from the statue-topped structure.

Historia was founded sometime before Europe realized that they had feet, or so said the Historians, as they called themselves. Their ruler called himself Father Time, but everyone knew his real name was Ted. Of that everyone, only a select few knew that Father Time was dying. Old age was ruled out immediately, as Father Time is only 42 years old.

But I’ve drifted away from telling you about Historia. The land of Historia is bordered on the south by a great Ocean (some say it was once the Gulf of Mexico, but no one knows if Mexico was a real place or not) and to the north by the glaciers. Historia is the name of the land, but also of the city itself.

Clifford Jenkins will eventually find himself in the city. And yeah, I know that takes away a lot of the suspense of his journey, and I could probably skip over that part in the telling now, but it would cause you, the reader, to miss out on a few fun and interesting people that Clifford meets along the way. And, I never said if Schrodinger the mouse reaches Historia safely or not. You’ll have to read on to find out.