David R. Bunch

Moderan by David R. Bunch

Quaint they were, these records, strange and ancient, washed to shore when the Moderan sea finally thawed. Played in the old-fashioned machine way we, the beam people, the Essenceland Dream people, easily divined, they told of a very different world, a transition world, if you will, between what we are now and the death and defeat these people hoped to overcome. New-metal man! It does have a ring. MODERAN! It did seem pretty great in concept, I’m sure, and, who knows, perhaps it had a reasonable chance for success. But all societies, all civilizations, all aspirations it seems must fail the unremitting tugs of shroudly time, finally, leaving only little bones, fossils, a shoe turned to stone maybe, a bone button in the sea perhaps, a jeweled memento of an old love. In this case, tapes were left, wherein a great “King” had set down his story of hopes, fears, wars — yes, WARS! Perhaps this “King” was a writer of some skill, a kind of doomed King James. His prose does have a flair, although sometimes it turns tedious, I’m afraid; sometimes he belabors the obvious and becomes vague when he needs to elucidate; sometimes he’s fat when he needs to be lean, lean when fat would be better. Or at least it seems to me these things are true. But then, I am the true machine efficiency, here as essence man, my perfections against his human flaws — quite unfair!

Moderan

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