A Bureaucracy of One

Grounded

(listen to this while reading)

While Jesselin rooted around for the tools she needed, Kembra did a slow turn around the needle-nosed interceptor that sat on blocks on the shop floor. Kembra brushed her fingers along the nose, past the cockpit, and could feel the singular purpose of the craft that writ into the sharp lines of fuselage. The underslung railgun pods had long been removed, their mounts now cut down and patched over. Where once there had been connection points for a warp pod, only exposed wires and scorch marks remained - grim scars of the once proud ship's final battle, or a poorly-wielded cutting torch. Past those were the massive thrusters, and Kembra paused there in her gyre, her eyes losing focus as she remembered the crashing hum of engines at full power; the punishing forces of high-g turns; and the silent coruscating of a dead ship as she boosted away, back to her carrier. 

A sound brought Kembra back to the present, and she looked around to see Jesselin scowling at a large section of plating that had almost fallen on her foot. Moving on to where various pieces of equipment sat scattered next to the ship, she sat down on step ladder to gaze at the vessel. Despite the shape, the interceptors had never been meant to enter a planet's atmosphere, and seeing this one here, ignominiously propped up on blocks in scrap yard's bay and forever kept from the infinite sky, engendered in Kembra a feeling of melancholy. Instinctively, she reached out with her implant to the shipboard systems, only to meet a blank wall. No murmur of hello from the rudimentary A.I.; no acknowledgements from automated systems; nothing. The ship was well and truly dead.

A soft curse drew her attention to the space under the ship, and for the first time she noticed a man laying on his back on a mechanics creeper. He was holding a tablet in his hands and muttering to himself.
    "Dammit, now what? I know I fully disconnected everything, so why it trying to..." The man's voice trailed off as he pushied himself out from under the ship. Sitting up, he spied Kembra still perched on the step-ladder.
    "Oh." he said. "It was you."
Kembra nodded as the man set aside his tablet and stood up.
    "A micro-nuke went off meters from her port rack," he waved in the direction of the sheared off stubs of the interceptor's leftside shield antennas, "And the EMP fried the A.I. and bolloxed every other system."    
    The mechanic pointed to a rag sitting underneath Kembra's seat. Tossing it to him, she spoke.
    "You know it will never fly again."     
The man nodded.
    "I know." He replied as he wiped his hands.
    "And yet you attempt repairs, anyway." Kembra's tone was curious.
A sad smiled came to the man as he sat back down on the creeper.
    "It gives me something to do." he said as he pushed himself back under the fuselage. 

 

 

picture by Levente Peterffy via Concept Ships

background music: The Nest That Sailed the Sky by Peter Gabriel.

Flying As I Fall

Flying As I Fall

There’ll be no statue of me
In the town square
No portraits in a hall shall you find
An eternal flame will not be lit
On a monument to me that is not there

I walked through this life
And left nary a trace
My Impact was small
In such a large space

So from the highest building
I will leap
Heeding a silent call
But shed not a tear for me
As I’ll finally be flying
As I fall 

 

The Dark Space Between

I have a dark place that I try to hide. 
We all do.
Some face we don't want to show to the world.
Some fear how the world will judge them.

I fear the harm I would do.

I wonder if the hurt I experienced as a child;
If the sense of helplessness that dogged my youth;
Is what sets upon me
Curls my lips
Narrows my eyes
And takes such pleasure in the pain of others
And of knowing that it was I that brought ruin to their world.

 

Firth and the Fairy Circle

The adventurers shifted uneasily, weighing the Fairy Maiden's words, as she simply beamed in impish beauty, afloat in her circle. Not one wanted to look at another as Fear, Pride, and Duty went to war in their heads, and chased each other across their features. Well, all but one, that is.

Firth the Mirth scratched at his beard, and then shifted from one foot to the other as he waited for the others to say something. Finally, he could wait no more.

"Ah, to the Hells with it - I'll go with you, lassie!" he said as he stepped forward, only to be brought up short by a gloved hand on his arm. 

"Are you completely insane, Firth?" asked the gloved hand's owner, her voice rising with each word. Still facing towards the Fairy Circle, Firth twisted his lips into his trademark smile. "Not at all!" he quipped and tried to take another step forward, just before getting slapped in the face by the gloved hand's partner.

"Bloody Hells, woman! What'd ye do that for!" he yelped, glaring down at his attacker, who glared right back.

"What? Really?! You just about hie off into a Fairy's Circle, Luck Be Damned, and wonder at why I tried to slap some damned sense into you?" The woman shot back. "You know what'll happen if you take even a single step into that Circle!"

Firth rubbed his jaw. "Aye, Han, I do know! Drinking and Dancing and a wee bit of Debauchery!" He said as he leered at the floating Fairy Maiden, who winked back.

Han looked at him aghast, and then quickly looked at the rest of their companions, all of whom studiously ignored her gaze. Firth saw the hurt look that crossed her features, and his expression softened a little. Gentlely he pried he fingers from where they still gripped his bicep, and held her hand in his two.

"Look, Hanners," he said softly when she looked up him. "One of us must enter that Circle so that the others may receive Raang's Torc. Now, I'm a lousy bloody thief and an even worse bard-". A round of coughs and snorts from his circled companions interrupted him, but he only raised an eyebrow before continuing. "-meaning I am the most expendable one here. And let's face it, the last time I got laid was eight years ago on my 30th birthday!"

Han facepalmed with her free hand. "Seriously? You're doing this just to get laid?" She asked, looking from Firth to the Fairy. Firth paused for a long moment looking at the Maiden, who smiled and coquettishly and blew a kiss, before replying.

"You're damned right I am." Looking back at Han, he continued. "And it's not just getting laid! It's practically every man's - and that of about one-in-ten women - fantasy to have sex with a Fairy Maiden! I mean, look at her!" he said pointing to the Maiden, who stretched languidly to show off her form.

There was a visible shifting among the other adventurers at this display, and Han rolled her eyes. "Oh, whatever!" She crossed her arms. "But cross that circle, and you'll be gone from the Human Lands for years, decades even!" 

Firth ran his fingers through his thinning hair. "Yeah, I know. And so what? I have no family, and no friends worth mentioning. The only reason I'm here at all is because the pay's better than busking all month down on Beggar's Notch." He shrugged a final time. "Look, I'm going!" He said and stepped into the circle.

The moment his foot touched the other side the Fairy Maiden grabbed his hand and started dancing him around the Circle. Faster and faster they went until the two figures were just a blur, and a whirlwind howled silently in the Circle. Then there was a blinding flash, and Firth, the Maiden, and the Circle were gone, and Raang's Torc was sitting on the forest floor.

Ten Minute Poetry Corner - Mother Nature Held a Party

Mother Nature held a party

To mark the passing of the torch
Of Summer's End to Fall's Begin
With Winter at the door

The clouds they gatheres from far to near
The celebration for to see
And the trees they swayed and danced
To Lightning's jig as Thunder's boots
Crashed the tempo on the floor

At length the party-goers left
Other venues for to seek
And the Moon's half-mast did gently glow
As the Sky she fell asleep 

Racerabbit's Poetry Corner - Audience Participation Required

The poem has come together, but its flow is fitful at best. Thus, I am going to post the parts and pieces of it and other poems, and have you, the reader, tell me which one to focus on. Yeah, I'm making you guys do some work for a change. C'mon, there are five of you - seven at the most! - that read this, and I need all the feedback I can get. Now, onto the poetry.

 

Unnamed Pet Poem

To say goodbye to a friend
Whose life you held within your hands
To hear their voice only in your memory
And know their touch no more
Letting go is the hardest thing
For you feel your need is greater 
Than their need to be free from pain

 

Unnamed Country Song

I try to say "I love you"
I try to say "I care"
But all you hear me saying is
"Our love is going nowhere"

I've tried to say "Believe me"
And I've tried to say "Hold on"
But all that I've been saying is
I can't wait until you're gone!

You said that you believed me
You said you love me, too
But your heart's been broken so long
And now you're only saying
we're done and through 

I used to say "I love you"
And I used to say "I'm yours"
But ten years on there's nothing
Except the closing of the door

 

Earthlight

The Earthlightstreaming through the dome
Lit our table with saffire, emerald, and
the purest pearl we'd ever known

We stood as one
And moved to the edge
Of the resturant's veranda
To stand with the other patrons 

With my arm around your waist
I felt your shudder as the
Horror of the Night The World Nearly Died
Welled up in your memory

Then someone said
"Say Cheese!"
And your doubt and pain
Fled from you face
Your shoulders relaxed
And you smiled
For the first time since
The sky rained lavender fire 

 

Broken Poetry

Broken stanzas on page upon page
Shatters and shards left undone
Echoes of Heartaches and Happiness
Odes and Eddas
Just begun
Singing words on parchment wings
Huddle forgotten in a spiral-bound cage

The scratching of a pen
Past midnight come the words
brought forth in a rush
By a dancing Muse on laughing feet
Drawn forth by the early morning hush

Years fly past and nothing's said
Of words written  in that book
Forgotten now
And never read 
Worlds that never were
And lives unlived
The Muse's boon forsook

let this not be your Life Work's Fate
Let passion overbound
Whether story, craft, poem, or paint
Allow those dreams be found
Spill them forth
For all to see

The Poetry in Rocket Launches

My laptop just glitched the eff out. Made like it was rebooting without me doing anything but using the touchpad. This coupled with it's new-found ability to overheat the wireless card and shut it down makes me think it might be time to invest in a new machine.

Looks like I picked a bad month to stop rolling drunks for spare change.

Now, the original meat of tonight's post was going to be some poetry that I have been working on for the last few months. I was going to use some of the downtime while at work to complete and edit some of them, but alas, it was not to be.

Not for lack of time, but rather for lack of effort I mean, yes, of course it was due to a lack of time! Haha! Really, I mean what else could it be? You see, the problem with polishing something to make it spiffy and neat is that sometimes a turd is a turd. These silk purses will not be turned into sow's ears anytime soon.

However, I do have something poetry-related to bring to the table tonight! Some months ago I posted a poem called Lavender Flames at Twilight. It was based on a dream I had (one of the few I managed to write down before it fled), and the image of the rockets lifting into the sky stayed with me for weeks afterwards.

Then about a month ago I ran across this link to the English Russia blog, and marveled at how the pictures of the Soyuz rocket launch matched so closely to my dream.  A few of the pictures are included below, but I strongly recommend you go to the site to see all of them. They are breath-takingly beautiful, and awe-inspiring.

That right there? That is a 34 ton javelin giving the finger to Earth's gravity as it hauls it's precious human cargo (and lots of supplies) to the International Space Station. And that. Is. Awseome.

Lavender Flames at Twilight

This is a loose translation of a dream I had a couple weeks ago. I meant to put it up sooner, but I've had a hard time coming up with a title. If you can think of one, let me know.

 

Standing on the back step overlooking the bay
You pointed out the rockets launching into the twilight sky
As we watched I saw two, then three, then four more
Burning for space

Caught in the majesty of the moment, the night's wine still on our lips
Your hand sought mine and we wondered at the spectacle
When simultaneously our eyes caught grey scale motion
Being chased by a pale flickering lavender flame

Muddle thoughts soaked in the night's activities struggled in my head
And as your grip tightened in mine we saw the missile split
And the warheads that had been cradled in its bosom leap for their freedom
Behind it, you mutely pointed, were three more
And yet still we watched, rooted in terrible wonder as death traced arcs against the ink of night

Icy dread presaged the realization that two of death's heads were heading our way
And with a terrible slowness I spun and pulled you for the door
As we felt the staccato pop of the bombs dispensing their payloads
My shirt, the one you had brought back from Mexico
Caught on the door frame, and time slowed further until it stopped

Then started again with the thundering roar of my heartbeat
And the ripping of the sleeve as it separated from the shoulder
You gasped at the blood that trickled from my arm, but I didn't care
I was panicked
Not at the thought that we wouldn't make it to cover
But because I thought my clumsiness might keep you from safety

Now past the damnable jamb that had stood vicious sentry against our entry
I whipped-cracked you past me and toward the door to the garage shelter
Using my mass to impart to you the precious momentum
Needed to carry you over salvation's threshold

Your scream of my name pierced me
As I threw myself under our kitchen table
The old oak had seen my grandmother's birth
My father's death
Our wedding feast
And now I hoped against hope
That its stout frame would withstand a little more

As the bombs started to roar.

 

Racerabbit's Poetry Corner - Lullaby

I don't actually have a title for this one yet, so I'm going with 'Lullaby' for now.

 

When the story's over, the lights dimmed low
And the fire banked to sleep
When the pale white mare rides the sky
Through constellations' velvet keep
 When Dreamtime's wonder is at the cusp
And morrow's problems penned
When your eyelids flutter and breathing slows
When another day is end

It is then, my dear, at Oblivion's line
That I'll lean in close to whisper true
The best three words I'll ever say

"I love you." 

 

That represents one hour's worth of writing and editing, and I think is shows in that last stanza. I'm going to need to work on that.

Racerabbit's Poetry Corner

Inspiration comes from strange places, or at least, a strange place. Last night I dreamt that the dachshunds we had when I was a boy were alive again, and they were so excited to see me that they wouldn't stop licking my face.  It was very bittersweet because I immediately knew that it had to be a dream, but I didn't care because they were there, and I was so happy to see them. This evening I was thinking about that dream, and in a sudden burst of inspiration I changed it from my dogs to a non-existent wife. The poem sort of wrote itself from there.

 

I dreamt of my wife
last night
Which is weird
Because
I don’t have one.

I’ve had girlfriends
and Lovers
And women who were friends
But she
was not any of them
And that is how I knew
She
Was my wife

She smiled at me
And said
“I love you”
and I woke myself
Crying
Because it was only a dream

Job - A Poem

For my friend.

 

Job

Job, he faces life
With quiet resignation
For little wounds that cannot heal
Give rise to quiet desperation

He tries he tries a thousand times
And there doesn't seem to be
A way to go - another way
A path to make him free

Each sunrise another day
What else shall lay in store
A good night's sleep denied to him
From insomnia's raging war  

For Job, he faces life
With quiet resignation
From little wounds that will not heal
And rising quiet desperation

Any other should have quit by now
Cursed their Gods and been done
But Job labors for his little loves
Their futures to be won

The little wounds that cannot heal
He takes upon himself
To shield his loves is his fair choice
Their happiness is his great wealth. 

Flights of Fancy - The Jetto J43SP-C

To say that the Jetto J43SP-C (Space Plane-Cargo) was atmospheric-capable would be to stretch the definition of "capable" to uncomfortable dimensions.  Sure, it had forward canards to balance the the tail-heavy ship's tendency to "sit up" on final approach, and many papers could be (and have been) written on the brilliance of the stacked rear wing design, and how robust and rugged it was.  The same could also be said for the OMS systems which were close cousins of those on the original Space Shuttle.  Simple and efficient, they made the J43SP-C pirouette like a dancer, but only in micro-gravity

Then there were the engines.  When Jetto was designing the the J43SP-C, they went in for simplicity and reliability over flash and glitz, hence their use of anonther Space Shuttle technology, an upgraded SSME, as the primary propulsion unit, with two JATO engines providing addition mission-specific thrust.  The genius behind those was that an expended unit could be jettisoned after lift-off (much like the Shuttle's SRB's), and new ones slid in and locked into place. Of course, since most companies only ever used the J43SP-C in microgravity environments, the JATO's were mostly considered to be dead weight and never installed.

So why was this light cargo workhorse mostly confined to LEO-to-GEO flights, or packet runs to the Lagranges? Because this was all too often the end result of a J43SP-C entering into any atmosphere denser than that of Mars.

 

 

 

All art by Dimitri Popov. Go here for his spectacular portfolio.  These designs were for a FPS, Exodus From the Earth, that was released in 2008, and then promptly vanished from gaming consciousness.

Writing Tips From a Wannabe-Writer: Oh God, What's that Smell?

I was buying fish in the store yesterday when a thought occurred to me. Being a self-proclaimed "idea man"¹  thoughts are always occurring to me, but this was a rare occasion when it became lodged in my general awareness like those pebbles on today's hike that lodged right under the ball of my left foot.  There it has remained a full twenty-four hours until I finally got around to writing about it (unlike the pebbles that were immediately removed, because I'll be damned if I'm going to hike two miles down a mountain with something that looks like a grain of sand, but feels like a damned boulder, digging into my foot!).

Train of thought...train of thought...what was I talking about before I interrupted myself? Oh right, post-apocalyptic scenarios and spoiled food!  But I hadn't actually mentioned that yet as I was too busy trying to be clever.  Right, so the thought I had while purchasing some delicious tilapia² from the local grocery store was about how none of the post-apocalyptic stories seem to deal with the over-powering stench and related health hazard that would arise from grocery stores once the power is turned off.  Not only would the frozen food displays all melt and rot, but the dairy, fresh fruit and vegetables, and beer would all start to turn within a day.

Okay, you might not be able to tell with the mainstream American lagers, but the microbrews would suffer pretty quickly.  However, I don't bring this up as a joke, but because I think it is a legitimate point that should be addressed in post-apocalyptic fiction.  This mass spoilage would be a serious concern for any would-be zombie survivors, resistance fighters, or people too selfish to just up and die once the eldritch horrors of old finally rouse from their slumber.  Given that grocery stores today all rely on massive HVAC systems for ventilation, going into one a week, a month, or even a year, after everything goes kablooey would result in you quickly being overcome by a foul redolence the likes of which would make the dread Cthulhu's eyes water.  And it would probably kill you.

So, whether you are planning on writing a short story about the pleasures of public sex after the Bomb, or a massive tome that seeks to completely redefine the symbolic paradigms inherent in the imagery of aliens harvesting the toe nails of humans, please remember to have you intrepid band of survivors/resistance fighter/post-atomic nudists wear gas-masks when foraging for canned goods in the echoing vastness of America's now-decimated grocery chains.

Thank you, and good night!  Or morning.  Which ever it is where you are.  Possibly even afternoon, I suppose.

¹It's just what I call myself to make me feel better about having zero follow-through.

²Forget tuna, tilapia is the chicken of the sea: it has almost no taste of it's own, and is delicious with nearly everything.

Shine On

You know what would be awesome?  If my brain were wired directly into a supercomputer that would allow me to intuitively craft and make movies by combining existing footage and images.  When I am listening to a song I love, I automatically start world-building and running music videos based on the current and flow of music and lyrics.  Some of them are even pretty good.

Take this song, for example: Shine On by Angie Aparo (or try this one: Download 06 Shine On)

I was born at the end of time
in the beginning
up on command post number nine
they gave me the living

As the song starts out, the scene opens  with a quick time lapse of a large scale construction project in space.  Suited figures and small utility craft swarm a much larger structure that gradually resolves into a gigantic space ship that dwarfs even the station where it is being built.  By the end of the first stanza the time lapse has slowed to normal speed, and we see the legs of a woman as she walks into what looks like a command room and leaves something on the only seat in the room, before quickly leaving at the start of the second stanza.

With my love in place
they sent me on programmed to remain
of another mother robot's son
with my love I feel no pain

Just as the door she left through closes, a figure enters through another door and sits in the chair.  As the screens around it come to life, we see the face of a cybernetic man.  The scene cuts away to the outside of the ship as it pulls away from the spacedock, and begins to accelerate away; as it moves we can see that it is covered with gun blisters, missile tubes, and other weapons ports.  Back in the cabin, the cyborg looks down at the paper heart he holds in his hand, with the words "I love you," written on it.

Shine on love
Shine on
Up to the heaven
Silver, blue, and red horizon
Shine on love
Shine on
Up to the heaven

As the ship heads out in the vastness, other scenes begin to play in a semi-transparent overlay showing that the builders are preparing to engage in some kind of conflict, and that the ship that left is the final piece of a Maginot Line-esque defense.  The screen then splits to show the cyborg and his ship arrive at their destination, as the camera shows the woman from behind witnesses the same thing on the command plotter back at the station.

I came down in a silver dream
Just to be given
the memory of your love for me

Years pass and finally the great ship returns home from where it had been stationed.  The space station that was once half the ship's size has grow to well over ten times the size of the war-torn vessel.  Upon docking, the ship is boarded by hundreds of personnel, with three of them making their way to the command room where the cyborg is stunned to find that over a hundred years have passed since he left, and that instead of a hero's welcome, his ship is to be stripped of all usable material, and then scrapped.  Shocked, the cyborg holds up the hand-written note the woman had left him, only to have two of the faceless figures look away as the third slowly shakes his head.

In this empty place
my circuit's done
just the cold remains
of another mother robot's son
with your love I feel no pain

The time lapse returns and shows the old ship once more swarmed as this time it is stripped of anything remotely usable, while a normal-speed overlay show the three figures deep in discussion with other officers over preparations for a final assault by the enemy.  All available ships have been recalled, but the numbers are pitifully few when compared to the number of enemy ships.  A third break-away shot shows the cyborg slumped in his command chair, listlessly staring at nothing, the paper heart still clutched in his hands.

Shine on love
Shine on
Up to the heaven
Up to the heaven yeah

The clock for the final assault begins to wind down.  The commanders know where the enemy has massed their fleet, but know that they are hopelessly out-matched.  As the hours tick down, the cyborg finally blinks his eyes and lets the paper heart drop from his grasp.  Settling his hands on his armrests, he takes back control of his ship and forcefully evacuates all remaining personnel.  He then breaks dock from the station and, ignoring frantic calls from his commanders, begins to accelerate his battered vessel to the outer system, where he initiates a hyperjump to where the enemy is amassed. 

My soul was only in disguise
yeah
underneath my robot eyes
yeah
now I know my love will shine
yeah, yeah
Up to the heaven yeah

In the alien system, alarms on the enemy ships go off, and flashing lights illuminate reptilian figures as they move to battle positions.  The approaching ship puzzles them as they expected the pitiful remains of the human fleet to face them, not a single ship.  Their puzzlement grows as the ship continues to accelerate, as its projected course will take it straight into the star the reptilian fleet orbits.  On board the battered vessel, the cyborg's face splits into a beastly snarl as he begins an overload sequence in the ship's hyperspace engines.  The feral grin softens to a genuine smile when he spies the paper heart on the deck where he had dropped it.

My soul was only in disguise
yeah
underneath my robot eyes
yeah
now I know my love will shine
yeah, yeah

Back aboard the alien command ship, the rogue human vessel's plan has been divined and frantic orders are being issued to intercept and destroy it.  However, the ship has piled on too much speed and it flashes past the picket ships before they have even warmed their guns.  In his command room, the cyborg stands and places the paper heart on his chair, exactly how it was when he found it.  Walking forward, he gazes at the large screen in front of him that shows his position relative to the star's turbulent surface.  Warnings start buzzing as the ship's already-weaken shields start to fail under the fury of the orange giant, but still the cyborg smiles.  The plotting on the screen shows him only moments from his target position, and as the ship arrives at that invisible point in space, he triggers a command that unleashes the pent-up energy of the overloaded hyperjump engines.  Time slows as the flash of pure white engulfs the ship, and as it does we can see the rest of the message on the paper heart; "I love you, Daddy!  Please come back to me!"

Back on the alien ships, the lizards can only watch in horror as a monstrous flare erupts from the surface of the star, and rages towards their armada.  The farthest ships barely manage to flee into hyperspace ahead of the wave of destruction, but in the blink of an eye over half the fleet is destroyed, and the rest too damaged to fight off the human fleet that arrives in the wake of the flare.

As the closing bars of the song ring out, we see a bright light with a figure walking.  Running towards it is the outline of a little girl who jumps towards the figure as the seen fades out.

Alas, much like any actual music or songs that come to me when I dream, I have no way of actually bringing those ideas to life.

Still as the Mountian

 On a day

Like any other day

In his chosen Paradise

He stopped for a time

 

Before was a curving slope

dotted with ski lifts

A red-tailed hawk

Drifting on the thermals

 

Below were two small lakes,

Still full from the late Spring melt,

A family picnicking on the shore

And a loon diving for fish

 

Voices drifted up to him

From the trails below

Distance and the rock faces

Drinking in the words

Until they were merely a light drone

No more intrusive

Than the buzzing of the flies

 And bees that investigated his shoes

 

Scooting down on his perch

He arranged his pack at his head

And leaning back

Closed his eyes

Letting the soft breeze tease

The hem of his shorts

And the sleeves of his jacket

 

Smiling faintly

He let himself

Fade from memory

Until his breath

And his soul

Were as still as the mountain

Today on Maury Povich – Princesses Who Love Princesses!

Today on Maury Povich – Princesses Who Love Princesses!

{camera pans over two women sitting next to each other, hands tightly clasped.  The one on the right, Princess 1, has her blond hair really short in a butch cut with her tiara perched haphazardly atop her head, wearing a Sonic the Hedgehog tee shirt, Carhartt’s, and work boots; her partner, Princess 2, also a blond, wears her hair very long and is wearing a flowing dress that has an intricate pattern sewn into the bodice.  Her ears, where they show through he hair, are pointy, and her crown sits proudly atop her head.  She maintains a very regal presence}

{microphone cuts in on Princess 1 mid-speech}
Princess 1:  -mean, have you seen him?  He’s short, fat, hairy, and has a huge ego!  He’s always going on about how “It’s a-him!”  It’s so fucking annoying!

Maury: But he protects you, and rescues you from danger, right?

P1:  Bullshit!  If he wasn’t constantly playing “Plumbers” {P1 uses air quotes} with that creepy co-dependent brother of his, then I wouldn't be constantly kidnapped!  And I swear.  To. God.  He actually hired that pervy bastard with the replica castles to kidnap me just so he could always rescue me!

Maury: Do you have proof?

P1: Well, no…but still, I hate always having to dress up in frilly pink dresses and long wigs just so he can gets his jollies!  But I don’t have to do that with Zee.
{Camera zooms in as P1 looks over at P2 with great fondness}

P1:  She loves me for Who I am, not for What I am!
{camera lingers over the princesses as P1 places her other hand over P2’s that clasps her other one, and P2 squeezes it affectionately}

Maury:  And Zee, how does your man feel about all this?

{P2 – Zee- shrugs}
Zee:  Why don’t you ask him?

Maury:  Good idea!  Joining us via satellite link-up is Ell.  Ell, how do you feel about all this?

{the face that appears on the screen looks young, but his eyes look old before their time.  The man-child is dressed in somewhat anachronistic clothes, and there appears to be the hilt of a sword protruding up behind his back}

{The boy/man shrugs at Maury’s question}
Ell:  Why the hell should I care who she sleeps with?  I’m only her bodyguard.

Maury: Only her bodyguard?  But you’ve been through so much to save her time after time!  There has to be something more there to risk so much to save her!”

{Ell shakes his head and laughs}
Ell:  Nah, man there isn’t!  She pays me a shit-ton of cash, and I haul her bacon outta the fire time after time.  Besides, everyone knows that I’ve been pretty serious with that farmgirl for awhile now!

Maury:  So, you’ve never been, ah, intimate with Zee?

Ell:  Dude, no!  A bodyguard never gets involved with his client!  Besides, butch dykes don’t do it for me.

Maury: So you’ve never been in a three-way?

Ell:  Not with Zee, no.
{a mischievous twinkle enters Ell’s eyes}
Ell:  But I did convince my girl to have a go with me and this hot foreign exchange student that was here from some dark continent, or dark land, or some such shit.  Man, that was hot!

{the crowd hoots and hollers at this, and Ell grins a huge shit-eating grin}

Maury:  Okay folks, we have to take a break now, but joins us after the commercials when a surprise guest comes on to confront our two lovely lesbian princesses!

{the camera pans back over the crowd before cutting to backstage and the image of a bunch of daisies sitting on an empty chair}

Perils of Modern Warfare

A shrill scream in his ear sent Jarl diving for cover just as three mini-rockets ripped the air where he had been.  Tumbling into a low ditch, he cursed as the impact made his helmet display go fuzzy.  Another sharp whack from the heel of his hand made the display sharp again, but now in black and white.  Repeated thwacks had no further effect, other than to make his hand hurt.
    Rolling over, Jarl stared at the sky, massaging his hand as he tried to reboot his helmet.  While the map overlays, GPS, broadband wireless, laser compass, HD video and MP3, integrated email and vbloging tools, and 500GB of personal storage were nice, Jarl really wished he had his old helmet back.  These new ones were flimsy, broke if you sneezed at them, and the software EULAs were obnoxious!  At least on the old helmet people could opt out of most of them.
    When the screen came live after the third hard reboot, Jarl noticed a message from HelmSoft stating that a patch was available for download that would dial back the sensitivity on the internal gyroscopes; the reason, their software imagineers assured them, for the helmet’s constant shutdowns from even the slightest impacts.
    Jarl snorted; he seriously doubted that was the problem as he had personally recalibrated the gyroscopes on another helmet back at base.  He had tested it out prior to his sergeant confiscating it, and screaming at him for voiding the warranty on the $300,000 piece of equipment, but found that the re-calibration had done diddlysquat for the helmet’s glass jaw.
    “What the hell”, he thought as he heard another barrage of mini-rockets scream over head. “I’m not going anywhere for a while”, and proceed to download and install the patch.

    Thirty-five minutes later, a scream of rage and frustration tore over the battlefield with such intensity that everyone quieted in awe.  In that moment of hush a battle helmet came flying up out of a ditch, arcing gracefully over the blasted landscape, only to be ripped to shreds by a burst of automatic gun fire.

    The lull broken, the war resumed in all it’s primal fury, while from a ditch Jarl cast a baleful eye on where the tattered remains of his bricked battle helmet lay.

Giving Form to Thought

As with most people I dearly wish to be able to bring to life those thoughts that rattle around in my head.  Whether they are kernels of stories that I wish I could write; scenes from an unwritten movie I'd love to direct; a music video I would love to make; or just a funny picture I wish I could draw.

Andrew Bell draws the creatures in his head, and does so with vivid expression that belies the simple lines of his art.  His little cartoons are also wicked wicked, funny.  I will leave you with one of my favorite, titled "...why does this keep happening?"

Great Literature is Timeless

In Ninth Grade I read a story that has stuck with me for the last twenty years.  Actually, I read several stories that have stayed with me for the last twenty years, but one in particular has become more and more relevant with each day.

It was a story about the end of the world, and about the hubris of Humanity.  It was a story of discovery and  also of ostracizing the curious.  Different and new were not accepted.  Only the old and stale could be tolerated.

Most amazingly,  this story was written in 1909.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you The Machine Stops by E.M. Forster.

Nieve de Mayo

Dear Friends,

This is an open letter to you all, and I hope you will take the warning therein to heart.  I have suffered through this, and I want no others to have to follow.  Forewarned is Four-armed and all that.

What I have to say to you is this: please, whatever you do, do not shovel snow in your sneakers or trail hikers.  You may look outside and say to yourself, "Oh, sure, there's only 7 inches of snow, I don't need my snow boots!", but you do.  Trust me, you do!

Your feet will get wet, and then cold, and your toes will go numb.  Your balance, already spotty because of the slick pavement, will become even worse and cause you to fall into the snow.  And were falling into the snow the only indignity you would suffer, I'd not even bother with this message.

However, hidden under the snow is the bear trap you set out two days previous when the weather was fine, with the intention of cleaning it and making it ready to receive the neighbor's incontinent poodle in its loving embrace.  When you slip and fall into the snow, your flailing hand with find the bear trap and it will snap closed, severing your arm just above the wrist.

For a moment you will not notice the pain.  The bitter cold that has crept in through your glove liners has numbed you to most sensations, but after a couple seconds your brain will process that which your eyes are seeing, and you will begin to scream.  The hysterics will overwhelm your civilized being, and you will run around waving the stump of your arm in the air, spraying your precious life fluid everywhere.  If you are of an artistic bent, you may pause briefly and marvel at the beautiful contrast of the brilliant red splattered Pollock-style all over the encompassing white canvas of your yard, but then the hysteria of losing your hand will kick back in again and you will resume screaming.

Fortunately for you, you will not bleed to death as your neighbor, the one whose incontinent poodle you had originally set the trap for, will do a flying leap over the fence, tuck into a roll, and then clothesline you on the way up.  Sitting on your chest, this 280 lb. former All Star offensive lineman will pin your arm to the ground with one knee while he skillfully wraps your clothesline around the severed stump of your arm, and cinches it down as a crude, but highly effective, tourniquet. 

Then, throwing your over his shoulder, he will sprint to the front yard where his trophy wife will already have their fully pimped-out $77,358 Escalade ready to go.  Diving into the back seat with you, your neighbor will not even have time to get the door closed before his wife, a former Trophy Truck drive for Chevrolet in the Baja 1000, lays down more rubber than you ever thought possible.  Laughing with manic delight as she swerves in and out of traffic, jumps medians, and terrorizes families of ducks trying to  cross the road, she gets you to the Emergency Room in record time, and without causing injury to anyone else.

There, alerted by your neighbor's call into 911, an emergency medical team is already standing by.  Acting with speed and surety, they whisk you into the operating room where you see, much to your surprise and dismay, that the head surgeon is your high school prom date.  You begin to really worry now, as you still feel guilty about the way you ditched her after the dance to go hang out with your buddy's older sister who was back from college.  The surgeon smiles reassuringly at you though, and tells you not to worry, that everything will be fine.  Then the anesthesiologist places the mask over your face, and you gratefully slip into the velvet black of oblivion.

When you awake, you notice an odd sensation where your hand should be, and in a panicked rush, it all comes flooding back to you.  The snow, and the ice, and the blood.  Especially the blood.  It really did look so beautiful against the white of the snow.  You start hyperventilating as you remember, and the machines attached to you sound alarms as your vitals go haywire.  The head nurse comes busting in, followed quickly by your ex-prom date surgeon.  As the nurse administers a mild sedative, the doctor takes you by the hand and starts speaking to you gently.  At first her words make no sense, but then you realize that the hand she is holding is the hand that was cut off.  Your eyes go wide, and you lift the arm to get a look, only to have a second start when you see the faint metallic sheen.

Still holding onto to your synthetic hand, the doctor reaches out her other and lays it on your cheek.  She tells you how the bear trap had caused too much damage for them to simply reattach your old hand, and that by the time the recovery team had gotten to your place, the porcupines and skunks were already fighting over the tatters remains of the flesh.  So, your neighbor called in a favor from a friend of his, and got a prototype synthetic hand flown in from Denmark.  The surgery to attach it was successful, and with therapy you will have 100% range of motion and dexterity.

Just as she finishes telling you this, the door to your room opens once more, and in come your neighbors and they have brought their two children to see their "uncle".  Throughout all this, your ex-prom date has not let go of your hand, and you marvel at how your ever could have walked away from someone so beautiful, for a college-dropout junkie with 38DD's.  The drug the nurse gave you begins to make its presence felt, and before you let the warm lassitude take you, you count yourself lucky to have such great friends.

That damn poodle is still dead meat if it craps in your yard again, though.

Define:Human

We lost it somewhere, some distant when.  Between the endless wars fought for reasons nobody can remember, it slipped away.  Vanished.  Swept away by the wind and tide.  It is said that it cannot abide the violence we do.  Violence for the sake of violence.  For the sake of others, but never for ourselves.

We catch glimpses of it every now and then, but we try to ignore it.  Like a snatch of an ephemeral dream; or a vision of some fantastical creature, we tell ourselves that it cannot exist and let it go. 

There are rumors, of course, of those who have found it and how it transformed them.  Tales told in the pubs, over beers -the tellers speak in belittling tones of the ridiculous antics performed by those unlucky souls.  Of how it changed them.  Of how it transformed them.  Of how it raised them up, and then destroyed them.

Others, speaking in quieter tones, with a tinge of awe in the voice, speak of the courage and strength of those so transformed.  Awe, and maybe a little envy, if the speaker is drunk enough.

All, though, speak in the past tense and with the friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend disclaimer.  None will admit that someone, somewhere, actually managed to find it, and make it their own.  None want to admit to holding a faint spark of hope.  Hope that one day they to will find what it is…

                …To be Human.

Anita Swetland: 1920 - 2007

My final grandparent passed away an hour ago.  She was a strong woman who battled MS for all her adult life; a woman who rarely bent, and who never broke.  If there is an afterlife, then she is finally someplace where she can walk again.

The poem below was written two years ago during my Thanksgiving visit to see her.  It is unfinished, and may remain forever so, but I give to you.

Hawk Hill Farm

The grey of Autumn soaks the land, and
leaches remaining color from the trees.
This farm of my youth has come to reside
Like this in my mind. 
The death of my grandfather has brought no
Change to the land, and the house is always as I
Remember it from my youth.
For one as me, the static remainder of the house is
Both reassuring, and unnerving.
Four years in Atlanta is the longest I’ve been anywhere
On my own, and to contemplate a lifetime in
One house is more than I can bear.

My grandmother is stone, weathered by the weather
and sharp edges smoothed by windy time,
She smiles to see me pull up for Thanksgiving.
Her inner strength after eighty-four years
Has not diminished.
Her age-spotted arms tremble as she lifts
Herself from her electric wheelchair, and
Sets herself into her favorite yellow armchair.
The dystrophy that struck so many years ago
Still cannot fully conquer her flesh, as her
Spirit burns and holds it at bay.

We sit at a card table, more than fifty years old,
Sorting pieces of a puzzle.  We speak of this,
And we touch on that, content merely to be.
I get up and make us sandwiches, only to be
Admonished for not putting mayonnaise
On both sides of her bread!

We sit in front of the cold fireplace,
And I remember being a child, enrapt
by the flames, as my grandfather stoked
The embers and fed the flames.

Forward, and I remember twelve years ago
Being on break from college and meeting
my family here for Thanksgiving.
Sitting in front of the same fireplace
Watching my grandfather stoke the flames,
And letting a hyper-kinetic puppy curl in my lap
And finally fall asleep.

And I remember that same weekend,
Holding my family close, and begging them
To never leave me, begging them to always stay.
Not being able to know that twelve years later
Would find us splintered and fractured,
But still whole and alive.  Stronger than we were.

A "Happy Ending"?

Ylla came out of the tent and faced the gathered crowd there.  Gasps and wolf-whistles greeted her and startled, she looked down at herself.  Blushing slightly, she pulled the folds of her simple dress closer about herself to mask her cleavage.  Looking up at the crowded faces of the troops she noted the leers and knowing winks that dominated the expressions of their war-torn faces.  Yes, that would be the first conclusion they would all come to.

Face twisted into a grimace, she stared down the clustered soldiers, quieting their salacious murmurs and squelching their ribald thoughts with the weight of her gaze.  One particular troopie didn't get the message, and gave voice to what she feared all his compatriots were thinking.

"Way to fuck'im into submission, Comm'der!" he shouted, and the scene degenerated once more into hoots and whistles.  Ylla growled, and in two quick steps was next to the offending soldier.  The stinging SLAP! her open hand made against his cheek sounded like cracking stone, and caused even the bigger Trorgs and Gigants to wince.

Grabbing the troopie's ears in her hands, she hauled his face level to hers, and then head-butted him to the ground.  As he rolled on the ground clutching his bleeding face, Ylla glared at the assemblage, but addressed her words to him.  "I can assure you, 4th Axe, that had I "fucked him into submission" that our cries of passion would have kept the camp up the entire night!".

She paused, and cocked her head to the side listening for something.  All became quiet as the watching soldiers strained to hear what she did.  As the camp quieted, a singular noise, unremarkable in an army camp, could be heard coming from the General's tent, and Ylla's visage slid into a twisted grin.

"And that sounds likes snoring to me!"

The tension in the group dissolved into laughter, and then the group dissolved into small clumps of troopers moving back towards their bivouacs.  Ylla sighed, then turned back to the General's tent.  Upon entering it she was surprised to find the General watching.

"Our cries of passion would have kept the camp up the entire night?" he asked softly, exhaustion unable to mask the amusement and interest in his voice.  Ylla groaned and then speared the General with her gaze.

"You are supposed to be asleep!" she accused him as she moved to his bedside and began adjusting his blankets.  The General sighed and nodded as he closed his eyes, then opened them once more and caught Ylla with his deep blue eyes.

"Aye, but how could I with such interesting things being said right outside my tent!"  Ylla finished re-arranging the blankets, then moved to trim the lamp wicks.  The General continued.  "Did you speak true?  Would we have kept the entire camp awake?" he asked.

Ylla wrinkled her nose at this, but otherwise ignored him as she continued about the tent.  The General sighed again.  "A topic for another time, then", he spoke softly, and Ylla waited for a several moments.  Once his breathing had deepened, she moved to his bedside and sat on the edge.

The General stirred, then lifted an arm clear of the blankets and taking one edge in his hand, he carefully wiped the drying blood Ylla's brow from where she had smashed the K'olbode soldier's nose with her forehead.  He then took one of her hands in his, and closed his eyes once more. 

After several long moments Ylla was certain that he was finally deep asleep, and smiled crookedly to herself.  As she had suspected the snoring from earlier had been pure theatrics on his part - material to allow her to bring an end to the confrontation outside without having it degenerate into a brawl.

Softly and tenderly, she touched her free hand to her lips then placed them lightly on his own.  She then freed her hand from his, got up from the edge of the bed, blew out the final lamp, and exited the tent.

That Distant Shore

As I sit and gaze upon the sea
(or does the sea gaze upon me?)
I often wonder what it could be
That washes upon that distant shore?

I ponder the currents that go to and fro
(from whence they come, to where they go)
And I query myself: Do they know
What washes upon that distant shore?

For it seems to me, from where I sit
That it truly matters not a whit
What the currents carry when they go
(with the waves waving to and fro)
All that matters is that they know
What washes upon that distant shore.

Noiseless Dreams

Every day Chad would get up, and every day Chad would go to work.  Day in.  Day out.  The routine was the same - never altered, never changed.  30 minutes to get ready.  20 minutes to get to the tram station, and 20 more to get to his stop.  7 minutes to walk to work.  Then it was 4 hours of answering phones, answering emails, and reviewing the progress of various projects over which he had no control. Following 1 hour for lunch was four more hours of customer complaints, coworker complaints, and the mindless drivel spewed forth by middle management, pretending they understood what upper management had told them.

He heard none of it, or rather, he processed none of it.  From the moment his clock radio went off in the morning all he heard was a low, steady, droning buzz.  When someone would speak to him, he heard the unintelligible wah-wah of Charlie Brown's teacher, and when he answered, his words were a sharp rise in the static hiss.  He knew what he would be trying to say, but to him his speech sounded as though it were being delivered by a serpentus ex machina.  What those he spoke to heard, he could only guess, but as it always seemed to satisfy them, so he had put it out of his mind.

Thus followed the way of his days - the warbling drone of people and radios, televisions and telephones, and his static hiss-screech replies.  But at night, when he was asleep, it was different.

7 minutes back to the tram stop, and a 23 minute ride back (the late afternoon tram was always slower), with 3 minutes to grab a hot-dog from the local street meat vendor, and then a 20 minute walk home. 11hours and 10 minutes total to get to this point, the reason he put up with everything else. 

Locking his front door, he would leave his coat on a peg by the door, his shoes in the hall, and his pants hung next to the pantry.  The shirt would go into the wash pile, and stumbling the final few steps, he would slip into bed.  The droning static that had been steadily building into a dull roar all day long, would begin to subside the closer he got to his bedroom, and would cease the moment Chad closed his eyes and his head hit the pillow.

With the abruptness of a thunderclap he would find himself falling head first through an endless clear, black sky, both observer and the observed, a smile creasing his face as his ears drank in the musical silence of the night.  The twinkling of the stars that surrounded him were a ten part photonic fugue that tickled his eardrums with the absence of their sound.

Forever he would fall like this, reveling in the crystal clarity of the multi-tonal silence, until finally he would plunging into the icy waters of a cosmic ocean.  Kicking hard, he would breach the surface and gasp for a lung full of air - each action accompanied by a splash the was felt, seen, but never heard.  Braced by the chill of the water, Chad would float on his back, grinning toward the heavens he had just fallen from, the heavens that were the sky that were the ocean that were the sky.

Thus, he would lay there, carried by the pantomiming waves, and caressed by the soundless murmur of the wind, until at last the tide would beach him on an endless shore.  Rising, he would be greeted by his waiting friends with shouts so mighty with joy that their absence would stagger him until waiting arms could steady him. 

They would all speak then, of how their days had gone, and things they had accomplished while awake.  Never saying a word, their lips would move and their eyes would smile.  Laughs were frequent, and a particularly amusing anecdote would cause gales of unuttered laughter to boom across the sand.

Gradually, the gathering would split up with knots of people drifting out, their unuttered conversations to keep private.  Even these groupings would dwindle out by ones and by twos until finally ,Chad would find himself once more alone, staring into the infinite sky.

Slowly, he would close his eyes, smile still on his face, as the sky would begin to imperceptibly brighten, until once fully closed, they were open.  Then he would shut off his alarm, and start his day again.