Brave, Bold, and Fearless

“She’s brave, bold and fearless.”

“And so are we.”

“But she is different. She must become brave, bold and fearless like us.”

“But how?”

“Don’t you know? We corrupt her mind.”

“How?”

“It’s very easy, actually. You’ve forgotten about the vault.”

That was what they were saying, but those weren’t the words they were saying ^^^ those were the words that they thought they were saying.

Here is the *actual* conversation word for word:

“She’s a natural beauty.”

“And so are we,” but she’d said it like a question. “For the most part.”

“She has a lot to learn. If she wants to be accepted in this world. We can help her.”

“How?”

“Easy enough. We show her what she hasn’t seen before.”

“How?”

“The optical device and a printout.”

“Yes, yes. That makes sense.”

“We’ll invite her to our Friday party. We’ll capture the picture there.”

VIOLET — the woman in question.

Young, barely nineteen.

She didn’t wear makeup, mascara or materialistic inclination.

She lived.

She woke up and ate a large breakfast.

She drank coffee and read books in the library.

Before lunch, she took her horse out and rode the grounds, fast and hard. She got lost often in the hills and valleys and in the woods.

Then a light lunch, which she usually took with her sisters or maidservants.

Then her studies and her work for the rest of the day until a late-night supper, which was usually soup of some kind.

Then she read stories until late into the night until many candles burned down.

She loved her life, and she didn’t think too often about it.

Today, a letter had arrived by courier inviting her to a Friday night ball. She smiled when she received the invitation. She’d often been told her smile was bright and daring.

She thought that was nice, but she never tried or tried not to smile.

She didn’t think much about it.

The letter was pretty and the paper smelled nice and the ball took place in the Castle Castile and she loved that castle. With the large tapestries against the brick walls and the long parlors and the many corridors.

She couldn’t wait to dance and get lost in those hallways.

In this world, you are looked upon as strange if you dabble in anything resembling technology. Technology was a thing of the past. Save for medical saving devices, all other forms of technology, even those that had to do with interconnectivity, like phones or messaging devices, were set aside for a more holistic form of living.

Most of the people in this current iteration of our world didn’t see or understand the appeal of the pesky devices that got in the way of living, and that included photographic devices.

This generation preferred real life, and same with the three preceding generations. They looked at the twenty-first century persons as crazy people who had prostituted their lives to time-wasting screens and less-than-they-could be.

And they could not fathom why anyone would want that.

That said, there was a small contingent that tried to, like a virus, infect others with this most deadly sin of technological use.

Sin being the thing that takes one off the narrow path: the path that leads to quiet rivers and long books and warm cups of tea and love shared and real-life connections created and cultivated: where the only talking is of the most excellent kind and not rambling rants: where time moves slow as a lazy river and diligence finds its truest course: this path that leads to REAL LIFE.

This contingent of infection spreaders was like a coven of witches and they referred to themselves as such. They had the power to make a person self-conscious — by introducing the person to front-facing camera phones and scrolling sites that allow you to post the pictures you take of yourself: this was the simplest way to create a slave. The most efficient. The deadliest.

If they could cast this spell over one person, the person would likely remain possessed the rest of their life.

And so the coven, the three women, dressed in shades of green this colorful ball of a night, plotted and scorned. They’d lost their way and had fallen under the darkest spells of their own doing — no longer did they read books for the sake of reading books. No longer did they go on long rides on their horses for the simple pleasures of the wind in their faces and the connection to the powerful beast and the freedom that followed in racing and riding.

They went on these rides now to take pictures and to post.

They’d been fatally corrupted.

And now they must spread this dark gospel with evangelistic fervor and emotional tricks.

Tonight, their target was Violet.

Violet was a sweet girl who barely knew her own beauty. She must be made to know her beauty and she must suffer.

And the three women stood on the balcony that night and saw Violet come through the door of the castle with a spring in her step and a most self-possessed and glowing curtsey to the fair gentlemen in the parlor.

The three women hated these particular gentlemen: yes, the men were handsome and spectacular and even full of courage. But the men had yet to share in the dark truths that the women had discovered. And the women resented the men for it. And besides, they said amongst themselves, the men must be made to like and admire them for their outer-qualities and yet the men were less moved by the external things and were looking for deeper character.

This was one of the reasons the women needed to spread their virus.

They must attract beaux with their siren looks because their hearts were far from strong character. But they were strong: in this:

They would drag everyone down to their circle of hell.

With the decorative masquerade masks over their eyes, they nodded to one another. And then they flew down the ringed stairways from their place in the balcony and intercepted the girl shortly thereafter.

It was easy enough to lure the girl away from the party. The girl’s innocence would be her own undoing. They appeared as angels of light, as benevolent things, and they took the girl down the corridors, running down as if they were playing a game.

Play was the last thing they wanted to do.

Life was much more than play, they’d come to learn.

It was dark and hard and you had to be ruthless to overcome the ruthless.

That’s what they knew in the darkest and deepest parts of their souls.

And they took her down the dungeon steps.

At least, the steps used to lead to a dungeon.

In its place they installed the new thing: in this vault: a photo booth.

And they positioned themselves in front of the camera, with the girl with them.

When the girl saw what was happening, she tried to raise a protest but it was too late.

FLASH!

The bright white light shone over them.

Now, for the fatal blow:

The picture printed.

The made sure it printed in vivid color.

One of the girls made a gallant show: reacting with great reaction to the ‘quality’ of the photo. “We all look so beautiful,” she said. “What is wrong with looking beautiful?” said another girl even though no one had said anything. “Surely, beauty is one of the attributes of God.”

With these words, the coven took down Violet’s defenses and Violet found herself coming nearer to the print-out. And nearer still.

Finally, she saw it.

A deep sadness like she’d never known fell over her person.

And, yet, a bright light came on:

The light of self-conscious living.

It burned bright and it was novel and good and maybe even the thing that in some dark place in her heart she’d always wanted.

Perhaps it burned too bright, like the flash of a camera.

The following morning, Violet woke up groggy.

She read her books but there was much agitation. She shifted as often in her seat as her mind drifted and she wondered how she looked and perhaps what others would think about how she looked. And she had a strong desire for others to know how beautiful she was.

She’d always known she was beautiful.

But now she needed others to know.

She even had a fear that others would not see what she could clearly see.

And she could clearly see that she was beautiful, yes?

Perhaps she should write it down to affirm it to herself, she thought.

And then.

She was angry at lunch and mean to the house staff.

She rode her horse but the entire time she couldn’t stop thinking about herself and she lost all of the joy she once had.

At dinner, she excused herself from the table and refused to speak to anyone.

She knew the day was going most unwell and she decided that perhaps a ride to the higher hills to watch the sunset would undo this tragic spell.

So that’s what she did.

She came up the hills into the bright, clear air and the disc of the sun began its descent and she watched it and maybe for a second there was a deep movement in her heart and soul, something that even the day before she would have been able to hold onto for a very long time.

Even as the violet rays fell across the girl, the poetry was lost on her.

Instead, she had a most novel thought:

“This is perfect lighting for a perfect picture.”