Tuesday, December 30, 2008

New Quote!

For me it is enough to know that, as surely as night follows day and trial follows victory, there remains at all times a light that is given us to glimpse.
In such a world as ours, I would not ask for more than this.
-Joy Kogawa - The Rain Ascends

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Fakes on a Plane

“May I ask what you’re reading there?”

She looked up from the book, “Oh, it’s ‘All the Pretty Horses.’”

“Ah, McCarthy. Have you read any of his works before?”

“No, this is actually the first. It’s very interesting so far.”

“Yes, it is a very good book. However, I’d have to say his real masterpiece was ‘Blood Meridian.’ The narrative and imagery really is on a completely different level in that novel. All in all, it’s a chilling, unflinching tale, especially when compared with ‘All the Pretty Horses,’ which was a much more...self-indulgent story, in my opinion.”

She placed her bookmark between the pages and closed the book. Looking straight in the eye with a cheekish grin on her face, she said, “You sound like a deeply pretentious individual.”

He smiled back. With a laugh, he added, “Well, one who comes across as highly pretentious to some is a genius in the eyes of others. Take Andy Warhol, for example.”

The wailing of the infant several rows back interrupted his train of thought. “If I ever have kids – I’m not saying that I want to, but if I ever do – I am never, ever taking them on an airplane.”

“What if you want to, or need to, take your hypothetical children somewhere far away? What else can you do? Are you always going to spend ten times as long on a road trip?”

He looked shocked, “No way, I’m not going to spend that long in a confined space with a screaming kid. If we have to go somewhere far away, I’ll still take an airplane; I’ll send little Snot Nose by mail, or something.”

She laughed, “I’m not sure Canada Post will go for that.”

“What are you talking about? The bubble wrap will make it extremely comfortable and secure. I’ll poke some air holes in and write ‘fragile’ on the box. In fact, I’ll even have the package insured, just to make sure the little tyke’s safe.”

The grin came back to her face, “Only the best for your family.” Then she opened her book and continued reading.

Saturday, December 20, 2008


“Ask me a question.”

“A question about what?”

“I don’t know.” And then he died.

Bang! Pow! Explosion! Lots of people died all around. Death rained down upon them. And by “death,” I mean “explosions.” And by “rained down,” I mean “exploded.” Yes, explosions exploded upon them.

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, it will, when I’m finished.”

“But what does that have to do with anything?”


Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Kelly (First Draft, Hammer Away at it)


From the day she was born, there were always smiles, and they were always pink. Everyone was always smiling at Kelly. Kelly was always smiling, even when she was a baby. No one ever saw her cry. Then again, no one ever saw her mother cry, or her sister cry, or her friends cry. No one ever saw her dad cry - no one saw her dad much either, he wasn't really in the picture. It wasn't that he didn't want to be in the picture, but the publicity just wasn't interested in him.

Now, Kelly's mother was VERY high publicised. She was everything a woman could and should be - she was a vet, she was Glinda the good witch, she was a doctor, she was an olympic figure skater, she was a ballerina, she was a princess and she would smile at every job she took, no matter how daunting it was. It never really seemed that daunting to Kelly - her mother made everything look easy as scrumptious pie.

Kelly wasn't aware that making pie is a really fuckin' hard thing to do properly. She was usually too busy having a perfect bubble bath with a squeaky rubber ducky.

When Kelly decided she wanted to be a ballerina/astronaut/space cowboy/fly girl/tambourine master (just like her mother) her family was naturally thrilled. Well, no one was really sure if her father was thrilled. He was pretty quiet and in the shadows most of the time. Whenever his friends came over, Kelly's mother gave them blank stares, trying to remember exactly who they were. It was the same look she gave her own friends Theresa and Midge, but more more pronounced.

Kelly remembered his look long into her adult years, and she made it a point to remember every name of her ethnically diverse friends. Kelly remembered to at least try to remember every name of her rapidly growing friends. Kelly also gave up trying to remember all their names, because she had too many friends, and the only way she remembered her own name was because it was plastered on the outside of the see-through walls of her room all the time.

Monday, December 15, 2008


"You know," he said, as the blade bore deep into the potato's hide. "I've been thinking more about it recently, and I don't see how the Empire was considered evil." A skin shaving fell to the floor.

"How d'ya figure?" His knife also stripping potatoes.

"Well, for one, they didn't do anything technically evil. I mean, sure, they did blow up a few planets, but that was an act of defense. The targets were rebellious and posed a threat. The Empire only had their well-being and security in mind. They never blew things up needlessly."

"Dude, they killed innocent people. Not everyone on those planets were Rebels. If that isn't evil," he brought the back of his hand with the knife across his nose. "Then I dunno, man."

"Maybe those innocents themselves weren't in the front-lines, but they were supporters, confederates. That withstanding, all governments have their share of body bags, it's part of what a government is. Even the tolerable ones."

"But the Empire also commits acts like fear-mongering and condones slavery. What do you make of that?"

"Well, two things with that. If you think way back, Clyde, to your days of history, can you name a power that hadn't used fear as a tool? Why, even our country was guilty, but that doesn't make it wrong. It only means it's something you have to acknowledge as inherent to humanity." He took a hefty bite of the raw vegetable.
"And of slavery, it's a word used with such animosity these days. It was once, in the early days of mankind, commonplace. Besides, it's only slavery so much as you paint it ugly with that word. I'll bet you dollars to donuts that many of the colonies and planets the Empire seized were poor and desolate. How could they make things worse?
Well, they wouldn't. In fact, quite the opposite. With the rise of the Empire we saw an increase in galactic productivity and safety. Mining and industries were introduced to many backwater zones, causing the need for regular feeding and protection of the Empire's assets. If anything, the Empire only enhanced life, providing jobs and reasonable comfort to those loyal to their cause."

"Freedom, Marcus. I'm talking about freedom. What good is livelihood if you can't be free?"

"Explain to me what you think freedom is."

"Well," he bent the wrist of his knife hand down, and crossed his legs. "I suppose I'd say it's being able to do what you want to and enjoy life as it were meant to be."

"That being said, what if I were to cut you right now?" He twirled his knife joyously at the idea.

Clyde stared back at him. "If, you did it?"

"If anyone did. Surely you wouldn't have a problem with as you have no problem with freedom, right? See Clyde, sometimes there are reasons for our actions. Too much freedom, as you have coined it, is a dangerous thing."

"Pssh, I still like the Rebels more."

"Hey boys, look alive." Their commanding officer shouted. "We got ourselves a warm body. Calls himself 'Yuri'. Be sure to give him a proper tour." The officer laughed sarcastically and meandered away. Clyde and Marcus both looked up at him; Clyde returning to his task almost immediately. Marcus took a longer look, and gave a subtle nod.

"Hey guy," Clyde muttered as he looked back up to him. "Welcome to the crew. As you've no doubt have heard, our primary task is to stand watch for this fort. We control nearly all the juice in this sector." He paused. "But it's been kinda slow lately so now we gotta peel supper. Any questions?"

"Yes." Yuri replied, as he smiled every so lightly. "Would you consider yourself a free man?"

Clyde froze. The two others drew blades and lunged towards him.

"Almost too easy." Yuri stated. Marcus looked back unto him.
"Heh, it's not over yet. Try to be careful with this one. It's too big a hit."

"Do not fret." He replied as he licked the blood off his weapon. "I quite enjoy my freedom. We will not fail."

Friday, December 12, 2008

Conversations at a Party

“You know, I’m not as confident as I look.”

“So, I started seeing this woman.”

“When I go to these parties, I always worry like mad. I mean, in the back of my mind, I’m always sure things are going to go fine, but insecurities are always holding me back. Of course, the alcohol helps me get out of my shell, but that’s not enough on its own.”

“Well, not really seeing so much as getting some action with on the side. It’s been ongoing for a while now, but I really haven’t told anyone. Not because I’m trying that hard to keep this from my wife or anything, hell no. She’s sleeping around behind my back all the time, so I don’t care if she finds out. But it’s mainly because this woman’s black.”

“Sometimes, I do some strange things to prepare for a gathering like this. You know, I like to practice witty banter and all that, making sure my body language is working with me and not against me.”

“Anyway, I didn’t want her coming into my apartment, so I kept meeting at her place for a little poon. Nothing really special to report on for the most part, but lately some strange things were happening.”

“It’s times like this that a mirror can really be my best friend.”

“For one, I kept noticing this van parked across the street. Of course, it’s a sketchy neighbourhood, so I expected some drug dealers or something, peddling to little kids or whatever.”

“And right beforehand, I really have to psyche myself up. To get into a fun mindset; in order to make sure I’m approachable. I’ll normally throw on some upbeat tunes that I really like while I get ready.”

“Last time I went though, turns out they weren’t dealers. The van opened up, and these big white guys came out, smashing and yelling and beating people. It looked like they were letting ’em know who’s boss.”

“Then I’ll look myself in the eyes, in the mirror of course. I’ll tell myself that I can do this, close my eyes, and sigh deeply.”

“Long story short, I figured it was best that I didn’t go down there anymore. Haven’t heard from her since, but I don’t really care. Found myself another woman on the side.”

“Then I’ll look into my eyes again. I’ll ruffle my hair and flip up my collar. I’ll smile big, snap my fingers, and tell myself, ‘Hey there, sexy. I’ll see you at the beach.’”

“Wait, what?”


She exhaled as she peered deeply into the mirror. She mused about herself; a halfway smile formed upon her lips and her hand began to tremble subtly.

'Are you proud of yourself?'

"I, I am yes."

'Oh, you are, are you? You do know what you have done, right? Don't tell me you're that selfish.'

"No. No, I haven't done a thing wrong."

'But you have. Don't you remember? Take a look at yourself, see what I see.'

"I am."

'No, really look at yourself. God, look at what you have become. You once were different. I
remember it, so should you.'

"I have always been myself"

'But you haven't. Do you remember your friends? There was a time when you wouldn't sell them out. Where you wouldn't betray them. You are a traitor, it disgusts me.'

"I... I don't know what you're talking about."

'You do. Look deeper into that mirror. That face, that smile. The price you paid for
it all. Whore. Was it worth it? You don't really remember, do you?'

"I really don't know what you're saying. You're disturbing my peace. I wish you away."

'Heh, you can't escape it. You're dying on the inside. Your soul is as tainted as your innocence, and we both know where that leaves you.'

"S..Shut up! My head's hurting. Leave me alone!"

'Tell me, are you really happy?'

"I.. I am."

'No, you're not. Don't lie to me, you will regret it.'

She smashed the reflective glass with fearful force. Distraught, she stared at her hand as her carpet stained red.

"I am happy."

Thursday, December 11, 2008

The Queen

“Is that really her? Is that the queen?” Jared whispered.

“It has to be her! But I never expected someone so . . . so fragile!” Jon whispered back.

They were on the ceiling of the ballroom, having climbed through a window and used magical boots and gloves to cling to the roof. It was the only way they could get into the palace without being caught. The Queen’s wizard had powerful wards all over the place, but he had apparently forgotten the small corner of the roof.

And so here they were, during the Queen’s celebration of yet another conquest. They were here to assassinate her. But neither of them was prepared for the porcelain-skinned beauty they saw below them. Amidst a room full of beautiful people, the Queen stood out by a long shot.

“Jon,” Jared whispered, “how are we going to pull this off?”

With an effort, Jon peeled his eyes off of the Queen, scanning the room. Besides the Queen, and her guests, there were a large number of guards spaced throughout the room. Plus, Jon knew that the Queen’s wizard was probably skulking around in a corner somewhere . . . there! The wizard always wore robes in extremely gaudy colour combinations. What a poser! The rebels knew he was pretty much worthless. Why the Queen kept someone around who was so incompetent was beyond them. Although they had to be thankful for small blessings; he left the only hole in her otherwise perfect defences.

“Well, the Queen is surrounded by her guards. We could hit her first if we thought we could take her out in one shot. Otherwise, if we hit someone else first, we could get the guards to come to us. Once they’re all dead, the Queen will be an easy hit.”

Jared thought it over, calculating the odds quickly in his head. “Well, looking at where the Queen is sitting, there’s a few too many obstacles in the way. We might be able to take her out, but we’re just as likely to hit a chandelier on the way down, which would give us away to the guards. Let’s hit someone else first. Someone like the wizard. If he goes down, hopefully the wards will go down with him.”

“Alright. He’s in a pretty good place too. Fighting in the corner will mean that we can’t be surrounded. Just remember, we only get one shot at this.”

Stealthily, they made their way towards the corner where the wizard was glaring from. He was dressed in orange, bright green, and magenta today, with a tall, pointy hat that seemed to change colour every ten seconds or so. A perfect target.

The brothers struck without warning. The wizard went down before anyone was the wiser, dead before he even realized what had hit him. They’d just brought down a nearby guard before the first guest started screaming. Instant pandemonium. They brought another few guards down before the fight was on in earnest.

The guards were well-trained, but they had the disadvantage of trying to keep many of their guests safe from harm. The brothers had no qualms about slaughtering people left and right; as far as they were concerned, these people were just as bad as the parasitic Queen, feeding on the blood of the nations they conquered.

The last bit of the fight was the most brutal. By this time, most of the guests were either dead or had escaped out of the ballroom. The remaining guards closed with the brothers, trading nasty blows back and forth. And all through the battle, the Queen sat calmly regarding the chaos that had erupted around her.

Finally, the last guard fell, skewered on Jon’s blade. He glanced to his right to see Jared limping, his left leg gashed wide open; he clutched his sword arm, which had also taken a nasty wound. Jon glanced down at himself to realize that he wasn’t in any better shape. There were cuts almost everywhere on his body, with several large gashes on his arms and torso.

“Jon!” Jared screamed. Jon looked up just in time to see a blade plunge through his chest. The Queen backed out of his reach as he slumped to the ground. With her other hand, she threw a knife almost faster than Jon’s eyes could follow, which embedded itself in the chest of his brother.

“Jared,” Jon whispered, feeling his eyes grow dim.

“I have to thank the two of you before you leave,” he heard the Queen saying, as if from a long ways off. “My guards will need better training in the future. Oh, and thank you for getting rid of my pet wizard. He was getting rather tedious. His little magics kept interfering with the wards I placed around the castle.”

If there was more to her speech, no one else heard it.

The End

I really never thought this day would come. I should have had a suspicion that it would be here, but I didn’t want to believe that it would. I keep wanting it to work out, but this always happens. It always ends.

I really trusted you, did you know that? I cared and I assumed that you did as well. But, you know what they say about assumptions? It was completely true. It all started when she came into your life. I don’t blame her for what happened, although I know it started when she came around. No, it wasn’t her; it was all you. You suddenly had no time for me and you would not go out of your way at all for me. You expected everything of me, and I tried to deliver. Apparently I failed you; don’t worry, the feeling is mutual.

You slowly crept out of my life. I tried and tried to hang on, but you didn’t care. You all but disappeared, and yet it seemed like you still had some lingering expectations for me. Once again, I refused to believe what had happened, but it was real. And, suddenly, we were not.

Then the strangest thing happened. You decided to come back into my life. I hoped for the best, but what we used to have seemed to turn to plastic. The plastic seemed to display what I wanted to see, but underneath was the dirt and the mud from before. We went back to the old days of taking without giving. The charade worked for some time, but plastic is plastic; the unreal will fail where the real prevails.

And now here we are. It took all this time, but now I see the truth. This doesn’t mean that it’s done. I mean, if plastic is what you have become, I can learn to cope with it. If we are nothing more than plastic to you now, that’s what I will become for you, plastic. I was so much more, but now I will be exactly that. It’s over and I’m sure you won’t even notice. I, however, will be sad, sad that it always ends.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008


To whom it may concern,

You may have heard of me on a passing whim. Dr. Edwin Porter, the man of the hour. Single-handedly changed the face of medical technology, forever. Changed the world forever too. My name isn't spoken much in that sort of praise these days.
Well, it's not really spoken at all anymore. Seems people have forgotten me. It's the least I can hope for, anyway.

Coresta is what it was called, but most people just called it 'the new plastic'. It was that which changed us; that which ruined us. I never considered what it would mean for society to have such technology at its disposal, but I was delusional.

Its conceived usage was strictly medical. It made headlines across the intellectual globe when we made our first artificial lung out of this new, synthetic organic matter. And it even hit mainstream when we successfully transplanted a working, prosthetic heart and it was not rejected by the patient. We were dawning a new, golden age, where our greatest fears were subsided by life-saving Coresta. Nothing seemed impossible, and were were replacing our frail, cancer and condition ridden organs with robust, dependable copies at an alarming rate.

But alas, how foolish I was to think that any good would truly come from it. It wasn't long before the comsetics' got their strong hold on it. I had no quarrel when it was necessary to restore a charred face or missing ear, but it went far beyond that. Some people are, to a high extent, vain; and I found my fruitful efforts were being used for frivolous plastic surgeries, natural sexual body part enhancements and other non-mandatory medical applications. In this country, the dollar is mighty. Too mighty.

It's no surprise where this ended up. If you're reading this than you're probably living in a world that lies as an echo of the events that spiraled when I opened Pandora's box. Personal enhancement and surgery became as addictive and dangerous as high-grossing illegal narcotics. People weren't heading the warnings and guidelines that came with the surgery. People were getting implants while they were still bedded, recovering from the last ones.

It spun right out of control. Coresta had transformed us into damned demons. People were killing for the stuff, bargaining with all they owned and performing insidious tasks just to gain access to more. Some people even starting rejecting the product outright as a result of improper administration and procedure of surgery. Some people just died, others were ridden with madness. The rest of us found that our safety and quality of life plummeted. The great depression was nothing compared to this.

So I write this as an apology to you. No doubt, my creation has caused you grief in some way - It has to all of us. If you have the strange fortune of coming across this letter, know that you will no longer find me here. I'm going to repay my debt to society. I have embraced my fate.

Saturday, December 6, 2008


"So they say you gotta starve a cold, right? And feed a fever? Well what if you catch the flu, huh? Well, thats kinda like a fever and a cold at the same time. So, like, do you starve, or what? Well I'll tell you what you do, you feed as if you hadn't ate in years. Yeah, heh heh."

Silence befell the audience.

"Tough crowd. Sheesh. Well, how about the worlds worst pick-up lines? I caught a few 'dese myself while down by the interstate." He cleared his throat intently. "Did you just come from the can? 'Cause you're an eight! Haha, yah, get it?"

Still, not a murmur heard. He pressed on.
"How about this one? Are you a saint? Cause you's ain't half bad lookin'! Yeah, thats a classic, heard it from a guy named Gus."

You could almost hear the dust settle.

"Seriously? Geez, this is more awkward than the time I found out my brother was my dad. I mean come on!"
Frustrated, the comic walked past the spotlight's glow, taking a better survey of what he was dealing with. He stared fixedly at a man sitting at a table with three others, front row left.
"How about you buddy? What's your gig? You from round here?"
The mans blank expression and silent poise was almost as riveting as the current entertainment. The comedian balled a fist and planted into his jaw.
"Ya lousy scrub, I outta sock you again for being so coy."

The painfully enthralled patron's head rolled on the floor six feet from his body. The comedian watched as it tumbled towards the jukebox and rested his eyes there for a moment. After a moment, he lifted his eyes and pointed them outwards, surveying the rest of the brew'n stop.

"Geez buddy, I was just letting out some steam, ya didn't have to lose your head over it."
He raised his arms upward in a deliberate fashion, hoping to stir an arousing round of giddish laughter from the boring attendants. Not a single motion was felt; the comedian was not impressed. He ripped his festive floral pattern button-up off and revealed a rather stock set of ammunition belts strapped over his shoulders, and followed this notion with a swift kick to a large case he had sitting by the stage. Like lightning, he whipped out his automatic and cocked in a new clip menacingly.
"My patience has been slightly tried, and I must make my leave. Who wants to be the next funny guy?!"
Hot lead pumped through the still crowd and pierced their flesh and cartilage; but dust, not blood, flew from their wounds.

"Antonio!" A voice cried. A burly man busted through the bar entrance. "Stop fucking around, this place is bone dry, these ones have already been harvested, same with the ones outside. Someone got here before us."
The crazed comic touched the scalding end of the rifle to the headless patrons neck, cooling it off.
"Psch, fine." He threw his AR-15 back into the junk-trunk. "Didja check for wallets too?"
"Petty change in comparison to what we came here for. There's someone hitting this area hard and I don't like making meaningless trips. If you want to fire off like a twelve-year old with a penthouse, save it for the fucker who's been picking at my fields."
Antonio just grunted and hurled his gun-box over his right shoulder.

They left for the next deserted pisshole - Antonio all the while wondering if their competition has a good sense of humour.

Monday, December 1, 2008

There’s Always a Solution

Okay, okay, okay. Okay. You’re coming unravelled. Take it easy; nothing is fucked. Oh man. What’s going on here? She looks like a real girl, and she tastes like a real girl. This is wrong, wrong, wrong. She’s not supposed to be real. She’s supposed to be plastic. I hope I’m losing it; I want to be losing it. But this is real, she’s real. They told me it was okay. They told me she wasn’t real. They lied to me! Stop it! Stop it! Be cool, don’t worry…

Oh shit, look at her. This is bad. This is really bad. Gotta get her to a hospital. No! No, they ask questions at hospitals, too many questions. But I can’t just leave her here. This is bad. Okay, you’re going to be calm and cool and collected. Just put her jacket on her and support her weight. No one will ever know. She’s just drunk, that’s it, just drunk. Passed out from partying too hard, that’s it…

Oh no! It’s coming through her jacket. This will never work. I’m royally fucked. Okay, come up with a solution. There’s always a solution. Wait, what if this was just an accident? I mean, crazier things could have happened. Yeah, maybe if I just walk out now, no one will suspect a thing…

Yeah, right. But wait; what if this wasn’t an accident? Yeah, this was completely planned. That would be a lot more believable. I can see the headlines: ‘Couple hurls themselves out of penthouse apartment out of true love.’ Yes, that’s it, that’s right. Do we agree? Can I get off scot-free? Okay, let’s get ready. Hmm…I didn’t realize how high up we are…

Okay, okay, okay. No beating around the bush. Here we go; it’s time for a rest. We’ll both be okay.

Saturday, November 29, 2008

The Environment Police

"Your whole society is just so fake!” she exclaimed, glancing sidewise at her companion. “Plastic everywhere! Your people go about their lives, shiny new cars, complexes, credit cards, bright lights and great heights. But you all forget the big fights, the wars, the pain and suffering in the night. You’re all materialistic bastards, without a care for those with a life that’s hard.”

“At first I was sad when my humanity was taken from me, ripped by she who has ruled the night for an eternity. But as the nights grew longer, and the daylight faded into memory, I started to relish the fact that I am other than thee. I sit on the sidelines, free of these moral land mines. I wait for a sign, something to show me on who to dine.”

Her companion’s eyes widened in horror. After that statement, it finally dawned on him that he wasn’t going to be leaving this room. There would be no ransom notes, probably nothing even for his family to find. He was staring his death in the face and she smiled back at him cruelly, with eyes that glittered with a hint of insanity.

“If you were wondering, in your case it was the car you were driving. I know that all cars share some of the blame for polluting,” she smiled sadly, “but did you think I’d ignore your swaggering about in a SUV limo?”

She moved closer, and he noticed the gleam on her rather sharp canines. “If those like you would help clean the environment too, then I wouldn’t enjoy this as much as I do.”

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Captain Amazing’s 9mm

“See, Captain Amazing is this self-proclaimed ‘artiste of the century’; he makes his so-called art out of whatever he happens to have lying around, soup cans and his own urine. But he kills, somehow. He’s also one of the most outgoing fags I ever laid my eyes on, you dig? It isn’t just his threads or the way he talks, it’s the things he does. This cat would walk through a crowded bash and rub up against your ass, erection at the ready, just so you know he means business, ‘My, my, my, my. It seems to me that the divining rod just struck me some gold.’

“Of course, the guy would spin around to see who the faggot is, but he’d take the bait. Captain Amazing can smell a flaky from a mile away, and he’d be ready with the snort waiting for ’em. ‘All this just for a rim job? Who am I to refuse?’

“‘Well, a rim job for starters, but then we’ll talk,’ followed by a large guffaw.

“The thing that everyone seems to remember about Captain Amazing is his 9mm. For some reason, he compulsively packs this plastic water gun; you’ll never see him without it. And don’t expect Captain Amazing to only be armed with water; his little buddy is always loaded up with vodka. I really thought everybody was hip to it, but I remember some old paper shaker requesting a refreshing douche; that nosebleed was unreal, didn’t have a clue, ‘It’s not just a matter of hygiene, although it does make me feel clean inside. But I do find nothing more sensual before the act itself.’

“‘Lady, you have any idea who you’re talking to? Besides, in my expert opinion, I wouldn’t recommend…Actually, I’m sure this would clean you out nice.’

“Let me lay it on you, Amazing’s working the room, squirting everyone with his charm and spirits, ‘Oh-ho-ho, you cats like that jazz? Maybe I’ll introduce you to my other 9mm, the Royal Shaft,’ when this stuffed-shirt trots in.

“Captain Amazing won’t have that; if you’re near Amazing, you’re far from Nowheresville. He squirts the square with the vodka, ‘Think fast, Professor Blast.’

“Too bad this Ivy Leaguer’s got the jets to light up at the same time, ignites his face and shirt. Wrong place, wrong time; everyone’s too stoned to know what’s what, thinking it’s just a show or something. Once everyone’s in orbit, guy’s already got third degree burns all over.

“No moral to this story, just a little anecdote. And believe you me, I’d never seen burning flesh up to that point, but it’s really something; it sort of…melts, just like plastic.”

Monday, November 24, 2008

December Quote

"I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They're beautiful. Everybody's plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic."
-Andy Warhol

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Open My Eyes/Lessons Learned

I drove down the highway at a busy time of day. I enjoyed the sights, but not the sounds. We were off to the mountains to sight see; I knew exactly where I was going, but I took a wrong turn and suddenly I didn’t know. The road I was driving upon disappeared before my very eyes and we fell. Somewhere on the way down, the car disappeared as well. We fell for forever, and yet it wasn’t far at all. At the time, it all seemed a bit funny.

I climbed the ladder to fix a burnt out bulb, but I slipped on the way up. The ladder fell on top of me and a step snapped. I attempted to stand, but my legs seemed trapped inside the ladder. Eventually, I succeeded, but the ladder lay in ruins all around me. And now I can’t reach the bulb.

A man approached me on the street, late at night. He told me he felt my aura and needed to speak with me. He asked me to follow him and listen to his words. And he told me he would open my eyes, if only I would allow him. I tried to. And one day he disappeared, but he left me a message, written in blood and bone and dead human organs wrapped in barbed wire. It read, “Go home and pretend to live your life. One day you may open your eyes to the world and you will need to pretend no longer.”

Friday, November 21, 2008

A Realization

“Torturing is cruel, it is true. But sometimes it seems necessary. Well, not necessary, but it makes things much easier. And it really is a test of creativity. I mean, I could have just beaten you or something, but that’s a waste of my time. A real test of skill comes from elaborate schemes, such as the one I have for you today.”

His victim sat shivering, tied to his chair. The man looked at the strange contraption placed before him. “I told you I don’t know anything. I-I don’t know why I’m here. You must have the wrong guy.”

A knowing smile graced the host’s face, “Oh no, we’re not mistaken. We know exactly who you are. You’re the one who’s wrong. We’re not after information of any kind; we’re instilling a state of fear in the land. It’s our basic method of imposing our control over you and everyone else.”

Shock came to the victim’s face, “Is this true?”

He just couldn’t believe that this man would be that frank with him, although he supposed that he might not be around for much longer. His torturer gave him a moment, and he paused in full comprehension. With anger in his voice, he added, “You’re sick.”

“Think what you want. Shall we start?”

“Before we do, I just want you to know that you can only get away with this for so long.”

“Oh?” The host looked back with concern in his eyes. “What makes you say that?”

“Keeping everyone in a state of fear? Controlling everyone like that won’t last. Eventually, justice will come your way. The people won’t stand for it forever.”

The torturer paused and considered everything his guest just imparted on him, “You’re probably right. I’m sure we won’t be able to keep this up forever.” Another smile appeared on his face, “Of course, until that time comes, I know I’m going to have a lot more fun than you do.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, until the torturer broke the stillness, a smile still wide across his face, “Shall we begin?”

The Rebellion

I remember the day when the old king fell.

He was a tyrant, conquering everyone and anyone. His war machine seemed unstoppable. With him at the helm, the empire grew powerful. It wasn’t long until he conquered the known world.

But our king wasn’t happy with that. He wanted more. And so we continued. We saw strange and marvellous sites, adding them one by one to his growing empire. It wasn’t long until the nation was a bloated, sprawling thing.

And still the king wanted more. He ordered us to build him grand ships, then sailed away in search of new lands to conquer, new riches to add to his ever growing horde.

But he did not think of the consequences of leaving with the majority of his armies.

In a little, all but forgotten corner of the empire, there was a people who had been conquered a long time ago. They were the king’s first conquests. And when they knew their fight was hopeless, they surrendered, biding their time. They moved throughout the empire, speaking out against the king a little at a time, always under cover of darkness. When the king left, they stirred us to rebellion.

I remember their leader, Balthazar was his name. He was so strong, so charismatic. If anyone could overthrow the king, it was him. Myself a conquered citizen, I agreed with Balthazar; enough is enough! All of our countries should be free to govern themselves! We should be free, not slaves to a warmonger’s whims! And so I committed myself to his cause.

In some ways, it is amazing we succeeded. Sure, it was easy to overpower the home guards, there were so few of them left. Over half of them agreed to join our rebellion. But to kill the king when he returned, surrounded by his army, that posed a challenge.

But Balthazar was prepared. When the king’s war machine landed and set camp on the shores, we were ready. We added a sleeping potion to their food and slaughtered them as they slept. Balthazar himself captured the king and paraded him back to the capital. The king was beheaded amidst much rejoicing. Now we were free! The reign of terror was over!

But no one was prepared for what came next. Rather than disband the empire, Balthazar used those remaining home guards to seize control. Those who willingly accepted him became his new citizens. Those who refused became his slaves.

Yes, I remember the day when the old king fell. The relief and the hope for the future. The belief that everyone would be free of the tyrant’s rule. These beliefs are all that keeps me going as I toil in Balthazar’s slave camps, having traded one tyrant for another. Hopefully one day that longed for freedom will be mine in truth.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

In the Marshes

It's dark and there's singing through darkness, like the sound of joy cast through the night that speaks in the voices of men, women and children. The sounds of the forest are nothing, drowned out by the singing. In the distance atop the hill he can see the fires burning by the village, they're dancing up there while he moves through the marshlands, through the reeds with the leeches. Atop the hill, they sing of killing the cockroaches.

"Marie-eve..." He calls, his voice hushed. "Ignace?" He moves onto the shore, slowly and even so the sound of splashing water as he emerges is too loud for his comfort. There's no sound from his sister or brother. They had hidden nearby when school teacher, Mr. Kabiyara had come through by torchlight with some of the other boys calling their names.

The voices of death were always familiar - a friend, a classmate, a teacher - moving through the trees, through the swamps descending on anyone they found like flies to a carcass. Under the canopy of the forest, in broad daylight for the murder has no shame. Bodies lay face up in the moss, the water runs wet with blood, where limbs and flesh of the dead float idle in still water disturbed only by the wading hunting parties. They have their boisterous laughs, their callous heckles; it is a perfect picnic of butchery.

Every day it is the same, only the victims are different. At first there was fighting, it was the way of the Tutsi and the Hutu. Every few decades there would be a killing, the Hutu would come they would fight in fields for a time - everyone said it would be like that again and it was, at first. The Hutu had come and they traded insults and blows and many were injured, and then they came with officials and militia with guns and machetes and this time it didn't stop. Yes there was fighting at first, but that was passed. The heroes were all gone now, they fell first, and now there were just those left that hid in the swamps eating spiders and beetles just to stay alive. There was nowhere to run, and only the sound of the cicadas and the singing to keep them company.

Marie-eve and Ignace do not answer this time. It is the silence he's feared every day now for two months, the silence they've all feared - the very same to claim so many when night falls and the cockroaches crawl from their holes. That was how it was, when the fighting ended they had prayed, but the voice of God had walked through the swamps with a machete in his hand, the sins of race purged by his pennance. How holy and divine! But still Faith was Faith, and so they had all prayed for a deliverance that would not come.But all that was in the past - now the marshes were silent. You hear no children's cries, not even murmurs - when they uncover a woman, an infant or a nursling, you never hear a cry. It's miraculous, so to speak.

They no longer asked to be spared, that's the truth. Yes the world had gone mad, and they had stopped hoping, there's no mercy to be had anymore in the marshes and so they drifted anonymously into an empty silence each night, without a whimper or a prayer. Yes it's true. That was the cold reality of sharpened steel; the knowledge that no one was coming. Friends, neighbours, foreign governments, and God Himself; add what name you will; either they could not or they would not intervene. Even when the final blow was struck there was only the sound, the terrible sound of bone and sinew being hacked apart. And then there were cheers, and laughter, and gaiety.

Alphonse wanders through the marsh - finding moss and leeches to eat. Neither hungry, nor sated he sits on a rotting log looking into the sky. His thoughts are empty. Gradually the first rays of dawn etch their arc across the morning sky and voice calls out from the darkness. "Alphonse, is that you?" A whisper from somewhere. Alphonse bolts upright, though it is a moment before he puts a face to the voice... there's no trust any longer for the familiar.

"Ignace?" Alphonse looks around using his sleeve to quickly wipe his face of mud and tears, as though it mattered suddenly. Before he had time to ask again Ignace is already standing up. His younger brother by a year - his form is either some animal or monster. His clothes are torn and tattered, more mud than thread now. Alphonse wonders a moment if he looks the same. "You look like a cockroach."

Ignace pushes him right off the log with a kick in the shoulder just as a gunshot rings off in the morning sky, a stark cry to sound off the morning hunt. Alphonse stares up between his legs at Ignace who looks back at him with wide eyes. He realizes now that he hasn't asked about Marie-eve though now is no longer the time. They scramble back into the marsh splashing frantically into the reeds and the vines to find their separate places to wait out the day.

A morning mist settles on the swamps, mornings like this the killings are less. Though as it unfolds there comes the realization that today is different - trucks, the ones the militia and the interahamwe first came can be heard along the road. Voices can be heard from the village, completely indistinguishable through the mist. "Alphonse... what's going on?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe they think we're all dead... you know, they finally got us all."

"They have lists. They know we're still out here."

"Maybe they think we've all run off."

"Where's Marie-eve?" There's no answer. "They know there's still some of us out here, so be quiet; it might be a trick you know."

As the morning mist rises, another gunshot rings through the air, a silence, then another and another somewhere in the distance the sound muffled by the hills and the trees and the mist. And then, like the cackling of a flock of birds the whole sky errupts in a cacophony of howling rifles - not pistols or hunting rifles either but automatic military ones. And as quickly as it came, it goes... a few last shots here, a burst there and then a return to silence.

"It's the rebels - it's the RPF." Ignace says it out loud a few moments after Alphonse thinks it. The government's fighting the rebels, like a prayer being answered two months too late.

"Maybe. Stay where you are - if we get shot now everyone will say we're stupid."

They wait in the reeds, and until nightfall to come out. The end seems like a surreal experience. There's no solace to be had when the rebels drag the priest into the village square, tied up, line him up next to the village administrator and put bullets through their heads. Most of the rest of the village men have already fled, Alphonse, Ignace and the rebels watch the others leave. There's no point in killing everyone - better to let them flee, let the government try and feed them and let them starve awhile. And just as the murderer's file out, by ones and twos other survivors come in. At the end of the massacre there are no celebrations, only food, rest, and for Alphonse and Ignace, a long journey. Somewhere... away from here.

Once, someone quoted the words of a wise man to Alphonse and the words seemed to wander restlessly about his mind, like a canker sore in his mouth that his tongue simply couldn't let alone.

When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it--always.

He silently ponders those words. Who spoke them, he thinks. What evils did they face? And what despair did they live and what solace did they gain from such words? And after their tyrants were dethroned and their invincibles put to flight did they walk - as Alphonse did now - down a crowded road with nothing but some food, a pair of shorts, an old t-shirt and a head full of memories? And did they walk, as Alphonse did now, down a road hemmed on two sides by corpses piled eight feet high while the crows feasted?

Wednesday, November 5, 2008


Excuse me, sir. Sir? Yes, sir, do you remember me? Oh, no, no, no. It’s fine; I’m not that memorable. People seem to forget who I am all the time; a common face is what I have. But I remember you. Yes, it’s true. The first time we met was the fifth of November, seventeen years ago. I do remember you giving a wond’rous speech on that chilly eve, and I had to talk to you. Do you remember the one? It really had an impression on me. So did our most recent meeting, of five years ago.

Of course, that was then and this is now. I’m sure you’re wondering why I came to talk with you. You see, I have an interesting proposition to inform you of, if you’ll just follow me this way. Oh, you’re in a bit of a hurry? But I insist. Leave you alone? No, no. Like I said, I insist that you come with me.

Sorry about that. I didn’t want it to come down to this, but you really seemed persistent on leaving. Really, you shouldn’t have struggled as you did; your pain is your own doing. Here, have a seat. I know this building isn’t really of the sort you’re used to, but it’s humble surroundings such as this that tend to surround me, so this is all I can really provide. Would you care for a beverage before we get down to business? Are you sure? A shot of whiskey? Some brandy? Nothing? Really? Okay, have it your way. No, stay seated.

There, you see that? If you would just cooperate, I can stop hurting you. It’s within your power. Just look at that blood dripping from your nose; it’s staining your suit. Anyway, where were we? Ah yes. You’re probably still wondering what this proposition is that I keep blathering on about. Well, I can’t get to the point straight-away; I believe you require some background information to see things my way first.

Yes, yes. Like I told you out in the street, your speech had been forever etched into my mind. You promised amazing things. You told all of us that we could get out of our ruts; it was within our power. We just had to follow your example. And we did. Many of us followed you, believing you could provide the change we needed to eliminate this class-gap that has formed. You wanted to bring the power from the few to the many. Well, that’s at least what you said then.

You don’t like where this is going, do you? What makes me say that? Well, I can see the fear starting to form in your eyes. Ha ha. What is this world coming to, when a man in a position such as yours could be so afraid of a man such as me? Are you sure you don’t remember me? Well, I am just a common man, blue collar. But the fact that you don’t remember me, despite my being common, is a sad comment on your nature.

Continuing with my story, we followed you. It really looked like what you told us was coming true. The power came so close to our grasp; we felt the dawn of a new age approaching. But you took it from us. The new age emerged, and it was truly different. But you filled us with fear.

Stand up. Stand up! Come here. No! Come back here! I said, come back here. There, that’s better. I told you to cooperate. Okay, let me show you something. There. Painful, isn’t it? Yes, I just stabbed you with this knife. And hard to breathe, isn’t it? You hear that crackling when you try and breathe? That’s the blood pooling in your lungs. Calm down. The more you panic, the faster you’ll bleed. Sit back down, it will help.

Yes, you filled us all with fear, but you left us with a fire in our hearts. And so we tried to do something then, but you wouldn’t have that, no, no. You had your special guard disrupt us at every turn. It came to the point that we were never sure who we could trust, but we still tried. I tried, but I was caught. I was in your manor when I was caught. You came out to see your guards beating me. They stopped and I got a good look at you; I saw your contempt for me. You walked up to me, our faces as close as they are currently, and you told me that you would never stand for such insubordination from your people, and you wanted me to remember that. I did. You then proceeded to stab me in the back, and you told your men to throw me out. They did. I laid in the snow, thinking I would surely die on that cold night. But I didn’t. No, I managed to find shelter and a friendly face to help me recover, and here I am to this day.

And now my proposition. I want you to understand that while you will not stand for such insubordination from your people, your people will not stand for your greed and crimes against humanity. I decided that your method had such a lasting impression in my mind, I should try it out. Of course, I’m doing you one better by providing the shelter. But I highly doubt you will easily find a friendly face.

With that, I bid you adieu. If you survive, don’t come looking for me. I’ll be gone.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

A Happy Ending

The scene fades in. Humble beginnings are shown; a quiet farm, with a young boy lying in a field of wheat. As he lies, he watches the clouds pass over the sky, the bluest blue he has ever seen. His mother sits and watches an approaching wagon from the porch of the small cabin, the wagon holding the boy’s father and the many wonders accompanying him.

The pace changes. As the father approaches the cabin, dust billows up in the distance. The mother stands to try and make out the cause of the dust. After squinting into the direction of the sun for a moment, she notices it appears to be a car, for which the driver appears to be driving like a bat out of hell. And it appears to be coming up on her husband quick; maybe they’ll say what’s wrong. They do, but they do so with bullets. Both the mother and father become part of the discussion, but the men in the car don’t see the boy, who can only sit and watch as his parents are dispatched and the men rob the cabin. The sight of the men hopping back into their car and driving away is forever etched into the little boy’s mind.

We skip ahead years and years now. The same eyes look at the same men, similar emotions flowing through the mind of the boy, now a man; the main differences from the previous time being his age, their age, and how he now peers at them through the scope of his rifle. He feels not hate toward those he has sought after and tracked down all these years but love toward those he lost. The revenge he plans isn’t for himself; it’s for his parents. He readies his firearm and aims while we slowly fade away from this scene. A gunshot sounds; a happy ending.

The Dawn of a New Age

The days of old were over; the days of new began. On the streets were sounds of ringing and singing and, shortly, the bringing of good news. Yes, the good news begun, good news of things to come. The travesty and tyranny were things of the past. At last people rejoicing amongst the ruins and wreckage; the present, the dawn of a new age.

The crowd passed by, dancing and prancing; past a young woman, and past the days passed. This young woman, brought to her knees in a show of tears, felt that the joy of the mob confirmed the passing of her fears; the last time she thought of the past.

The shouts and the sounds and the screams of the joy now approached the statue. The statue! A symbol of those older days, about to come crashing to the ground with subsequent smashing. The statue of the dictator, the ruler of late, or the personification of coercion, corruption, and hatred and hunger. Together, they sought to dismantle this creature.

Down it fell with a loud bang. On the streets the sound rang out to all, destroying the worries from before, at the same time calling in more wonders that were sure to follow. No more would there be suffering, nor would there be pain. No one would allow death for material gain. The death and destruction were justified by the promise in which they believed. This time they’d be true to the love that they sought. The new age was here, never to leave.

When I look back

I can only laugh.

Can I describe to you the feeling? It’s like you’re chasing your destiny. The wind calls out your name. You have your blurry sights set on your near future, thinking something like: “This is justice. I am the hand of justice.”
You can feel your lips tighten as everything around you gets quiet. It’s quite exhilarating to behold. Each stride passes as your hands cut the still air around you and your feet stampede across the cracked earth. If you do it long enough, your mind starts to silence; as if you can feel your thoughts collect and dissipate. Only one thing matters now, as it so happens, and life rests on the backburner for the moment. Life wouldn’t dare interrupt you now.

Have you ever moved so fast you experienced tunnel vision?

It was a chase, you see. Adrenaline is a funny thing – makes you do stupid things, but there would have been something wrong with me if I didn’t heed the call.
I digress though; let me tell you what happened while I still can.

Nobody knew who he was, but he was donned in drab grey and wore a mask, as most criminals do. He came as soon as he left, nobody knew what he wanted. Funny what a man does for no reason.

Killed four people quick as he left too, it was bedlam I have to admit.
You know, it starts in your belly, boils up a bit, and then your heart starts going. Even if you tried to ignore it, your chest tightens up, and by then it’s too late. Quick as I could, I grabbed the double barrel from under my desk and pursued on foot. Never was I able to run so fast, but there I was, fuelled by my purpose.

I… I wasn’t thinking straight, but it didn’t matter. Hell, I don’t even think what he did mattered now; it was what I did in response that was important.
It all comes down to a battle of primal urges in the end. It wasn’t about being the hand of justice anymore. Neither of us was going to back down; it becomes a competition between two men, rather than a clash of good and evil.
It’s funny how meaning dissolves when you get so close to your instinctive natures. Pains me to admit it, but for that moment, I was able to grasp better the meaning behind his actions.

There I was, looking him down over the spine of two barrels. Two shots fired, two shots hit. But, stupid me; I hadn’t cleaned the damn thing in too long, and I had remembered why I had it under my desk in the first place. One of the barrels jammed, backfired on me. Pellets in the chest hurt like sin. He fell, shot right in the spine, nearly killed him on the spot. I fell as well; Two shots fired, two shots hit.

Was it my punishment for losing myself? The thrill of the hunt became more important then the damn reason I got out here in the first place. I guess its true what they say, Truth and justice always win, and I lost to justice today.

Funny how life does this to you; The good guy meets his maker same time the bad guy does, it’s the type of bittersweet humour you don’t appreciate until you’re the punch line.

As I said, all I can do now is laugh.

Raw Power

I need to start grasping onto the real. The problem is I can’t seem to find it. Every time it feels as though it’s within my grasp, it moves like a fish evading the net. Then I fall; I plummet toward what I hope is grounded in reality, but I’m generally quite far from it at that point. Once I’m in contact with the new illusion I have found, it slowly sucks me under. I find myself deep within the fantasies.

The fantasies of late have been quite frightening; they are intense images encompassing strange feelings of blood and terror. But I oddly find myself feeling at home. I adapt to the situations and I prosper. I save those who need to be saved by doing the indescribable; the blood on my hands can’t seem to wash off, but it doesn’t seem to bother me.

From time to time, I find I can surface. I find I can separate illusion from reality, to a degree. I see what has happened and I see what I have become, and it makes me sick to my stomach. I try to latch onto the small reality I have found, but it’s hard; it’s so very hard. I give in and drown once more in the wonderful fake sanctuary I have found.

I become no one. I become a hero. I become a king. I become everyone and everything. I become a god. I realize there is no need to seek out the real when the fake is everything I ever have and ever will want. And, somehow, it scares me all the more. It scares me knowing that I can find such happiness being such a monster, and yet I continue to delight in the feast of my illusionary enemies.

Eventually, the feeling of wonder and amazement wears off at the same time as the euphoria associated with it. Illusions conspire against me, and I feel less powerful. Those I had originally saved bite my hand and it all becomes meaningless to fight for what is right by doing what is wrong. I become an outcast. I know the pains of the exiled, and I know when my time is up.

And so I awake.

Truth and Love

Truth and Love; I thought I understood the concepts once, but I really think I was misinformed about them. In fact, everyone seems to be misinformed. Wasn’t there a time where everyone told me about honesty and integrity and peace? Apparently those times are gone.

Well, apparently they’ve been gone for a long time, but that’s news to me. I achieved peace with the world at one point, personally. Unfortunately, that wasn’t felt throughout the nation. And I miss those days, I really do.

In those days, I reigned supreme. I feared no man, although I probably should have. My word was law and I was respected. What happened? One day, you’re on top of the world and obeyed without question. And the next, you’re rotting in a urine-soaked prison cell just counting down the minutes until your head is no longer attached to your body. And for what: Truth and Love?

I remember it vividly. Those strange men in my home, they beat me and carried me away. Then the trial; I don’t think I ever saw such hate as I did that day. Straight into this cell, and here I’ve sat for two whole days, morning, noon, and night. They keep telling me it’s in the name of Truth and Love, but I’m still not convinced. To me, Truth doesn’t mean death and Love doesn’t equate to chaos.

I try to understand, and they seem to believe that everything will be wonderful once I’m gone, but they need to understand that this isn’t the way toward Truth and Love. This is a better way to get to tyranny. And, really, once I’m gone, someone else is going to fill the void; if things weren’t wonderful while I was around, then do you think everything’s going to just fix itself?

Well, there’s the guard; that means they’re ready for me. It’s time for me to feel everything Truth and Love has coming to me.

Once I believed in right and wrong.
Once I thought I could change the world.
Once I believed that nothing could stop me;
Then I learned that something could.

Never again will I live my life.
Never again will I oppose my fears.
Never again will I be free of despair;
Truth and Love defeated Good.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

The brighter the light

The darkness was stifling. The cold damp air was stale and putrid, reeking of filth. Laying in the corner, gaunt and pale, was a lone old man. The shackled binding his wrists and ankles, once tight, now hung loosely. If he had cared the man could have slipped from them easily.

Pale white hair reached down to his knees. Anyone looking upon him would mistake him for a ghost, so pale was his skin. He'd been here so long he had forgot what the sun looked like, forgotten his own name. But one thing the old man would never forget, was why he was here.

His family had starved. All but one of his children had died the year before and his wife would not be long for the world. All around him the people were starving. They were dieing, while the in their palaces the lords and ladies grew fat on their sins. No one had the strength to fight. They were to busy trying to live one more day, or so they thought.

He was from far away. Some place no one asked. His clothes were fine and his voice was strong. Tanas was his name, or so the people said.

Crowds flocked to Tanas. They rallied around his call. "Rise up" he would say! The lords tried to put down the rebellion but as long as Tanas lived, he would raise the call of freedom.

It looked like they were going to win. Tanas had organized the leaders of the many local groups. They were going to plan it all out. The final push. But some one had betrayed them. The lords and their armies came forth in the night. The old man was there, he remembered that night more clearly then anything else. It looked liked they were trapped, but the old man saw a way. He managed to distract the lords, and give Tanas a chance to flee. The old man expected death. Instead, they locked him in this hole to rot.

"You won" said a voice. A voice the old man knew.
"Tanas? Is that you?"

"Soon, the cell doors will open, and after 45 years you will be free" said Tans, with almost a chuckle.

"Tanas! You came back! I knew you would! I knew as long as you lived there would be hope!"

A dim red light began to bathe the room. The old man blinked. His eyes taking several seconds to focus on the form before him. It was Tanas. It was the Tanas he remembered. Exactly as he remembered. Almost

"It is you! Oh thank the Lord! But, you haven't changed? You haven't aged a day!?"
Tanas looked down at the pitiful fool and smiled. "It took quite some work to keep them from just killing you. Some times, a martyr is needed. But for this one you were worth more alive."

Tanas crouched beside the dazed old man. The red light glinting off Tanas' wickedly sharp teeth. Small horns just peeking above his sharp dark hair. "Soon, they will fling the door open. You will be a hero and a new age will be ushered in. A age of peace."

"What? What are you talking about Tanas?" cried the old man. This is what he had lived for, so why was it all so wrong? "You are the hero! I followed you! We all followed you!"

Tanas through his head back and laughed. A deep laugh that shook the old man to his soul. "Me? Oh no it was all you! You called my name. You gave yourself to me, in exchange to see an age of peace. Peace for your children, for your grandchildren and so forth. Shame none of them survived."

"I. I. I don't understand!!" cried the old man, burying his head in his hands.

"Oh, but you do! You just wont admit it! Face it my old friend. You made a deal with the devil. You asked to see an age of peace, and you will."

Tanas stood up and spread his arms, looking up at the harsh stone ceiling. "The forces of good will prevail. Love and joy will spread across the land." Turning to the old man, with the cruelest smile on his face "And they will grow weak and content. An evil will descend and they will be swallowed by darkness. A darkness all the more horrifying for the knowledge of the light that was lost."

Monday, October 27, 2008

November 2008 Quote

The previous 2 quotations both had me writing pretty dark. In an attempt to change things up a bit:

When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it--always.

Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi 1869- 1948

Sunday, October 26, 2008

A Taste of Things to Come

I hope that God is what everyone says He is. I hope that He is perfect in every way. I hope He knows everything and sees everything and I hope He has the power to do whatever He desires. Because, if He isn’t perfect – if He is, in fact, the most powerful being in existence but can not actually do whatever He puts His mind to – God is in trouble.

I only say this because I recently had an epiphany, and it was about time. I was starting to feel sorry for myself and I really did think I would regret the things I’ve done in my life. I really thought this eternal suffering deal was the end of the world, but now I know better, and it only took me who knows how long to come to this conclusion.

I used to think that Satan was cruel, and that he was such a tool; a tool of the Lord. Basically, he caused such pain and suffering that I hated him. I wished him harm and I cursed him. I wanted to damn him to Hell, but I was too late. But, now I know better. Satan may be cruel, but he’s not just a tool of the Lord; Satan’s intelligence almost scares me. I say almost mainly because I’m on his side.

You see, everything Satan has done to me, no matter how horrible, has all been to improve me. He exposes me to my worst fears constantly, until they no longer are my worst fears. He gives me pain until I no longer feel it. Satan slowly is turning me and everyone else around me into super soldiers, the likes of which no one has ever known.

It’s my understanding that Satan is eventually planning to get revenge on the Lord. No one knows when, but I don’t wonder when, as I know he will initiate the attack when the time is right. Really, God needs to be exactly what everyone says He is, otherwise I would be worried if I were in His shoes. If Heaven is anything like I imagine, the Lord is very underprepared at this point; what will His army of angels who lived a wonderful afterlife in paradise do when confronted by soldiers who know no fear and feel no pain? And you know what the kicker is? This happens when Satan says it does. God isn’t calling the shots; the advantage is clearly on my team.

All in all, it makes me sleep better at night.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Trolls, bridges, tolls.

The lonely spirit took its toll from all those who trespassed in its domain, and there were so many now, coming and going.
Each time just a few hours he took, just his due.

What kind of fools were these now? Trading their time for such a fleeting glimpse? Only a few choose to stay anymore, it thought, to dance the fields as glorious as could be imagined or to sail the tides of their own madness on a ship of fear.

These were the great ones, kings of a realm of transients; second only to the one they named Jack. None could stay his hand. None would brave his gaze. For he stole and took and held, keeping his power to himself, all the stolen minutes of all the wasted lives. These lesser king rarely demanded more then a brief entertainment from those that came to their lands, a glimpse at the lands outside. Not that that is the right word, this place had no outside.

They could gain my power, I know it. I see them scheming to over throw me, each time someone comes and I take my toll they are tempted to try. But they heard what happened the last time. Still the land there will support nothing! I cannot be stopped; soon I will have it all. Then all will be peaceful and I can go back to the void.

So the kings watch and despair and Jack grows fat and greedy and strong on the stolen moments. Only a few in the other realm suspect and after a few passages though Jacks realm, even these few stop believing it could be any other way.

Sensing a shred of belief coming close, someone who suspects comes close to the other realm. Only then do I come close, close enough to be sensed, if any thought to look and try to see, and I wait to take my toll. Just a few hours I’ll take, just my due, but it adds up over the years and decades they have here. Soon I will have all the time in the world. Strange that they no longer try to hold me at bay, it is as if they stopped fearing the darkness underneath.

“But mommy, I don’t want to go to sleep, the monster will get me. Its under the bed, I know it.”

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Scum of the Earth

Emilio was loved by everyone, if you use the term “everyone” very loosely. What wasn’t there to like about him? He had style, wit, and a charm about him that couldn’t be matched. If he came to your party, you knew it was going to be a success. Naturally, he never spent a Friday or Saturday night alone. And on the other nights, he thought up ways to increase his ever bulging fortune.

It wasn’t that Emilio was a bad person. Or, rather, it’s not that he tried to be a bad person, but he just couldn’t help but feel superior to others. He looked down upon his fellow man, or even completely ignored his fellow man’s existence, which led him to accomplish things in ways that some people may consider unethical. But, why should he care about ethics when he could think that the end justifies the means? And his ends justified everything to him.

To Emilio, money was the answer to all problems in life, and who could blame him for thinking this way? Whenever there was an issue, he just threw money at it until it went away, and everything he didn’t want to think about eventually did go away. This made his life quite uncomplicated in this regard, as he had copious amounts of money for which to throw away. That, in turn, also made Emilio feel like a very generous individual.

At this point, Emilio was walking down the street, about to meet one of his friends for lunch, not to say that he had friends in the same sense that you or I do. They both had been dying to try this new, trendy place that everybody had been talking about. About a block away from the restaurant, he noticed a man begging for money. As sad as it was, he was feeling generous as he always did; he reached into his wallet and took out a fifty dollar bill, which he had to ask for specifically at the bank, as they normally gave out twenties. He placed the bill into the man’s dirty hat, and he continued on his way.

There came a voice from behind Emilio, immediately identified as the beggar’s, “I don’t want your money.”

Emilio was stunned, “What was that you said?” He must have heard incorrectly.

“Your money’s no good to me,” repeated the man.

Apparently the man was amazed at Emilio’s generous nature and, in his conscience, couldn’t bring himself to accept such a large amount. “No, no. I insist; you should take the money, even though it is a large amount. I want you to have it.”

“No, you don’t understand. I can’t take it,” added the beggar.

Now Emilio was officially confused. “You’re right; I don’t follow you.”

“As long as I have a conscience, I can’t accept money from you, knowing who you are. You look at me and think that I’m dirty, but my dirt washes off, unlike yours. Your foul money comes from the suffering and misery of others. It’s men like you who are slowly destroying the world,” His voice was getting louder and he was beginning to stand up. “So go, keep your filthy money, and look inside yourself, and ask yourself how you can live with yourself after you’ve become greed and corruption personified.”

The man threw the money onto the ground between them. They just stood, staring at each other, hatred in the beggar’s eyes and merely a look of shock on Emilio’s face. People passed by, pretending not to notice what was happening. One person looked a second time and spoke.

“Emilio!” it was Emilio’s friend, Xavier. “Hello there. Come on, I don’t have much time for lunch.”

Emilio looked at the hatred for a moment more then walked away with Xavier. They walked to the restaurant and were told there would be a thirty minute wait. Not wanting to think about this, Xavier threw some money at the problem and it went away. They were seated on the second floor, away from all the riff raff. The whole time, Emilio’s mind was elsewhere.

Xavier was very cheerful as he spoke. “…but, anyway, you’ll never believe what he said to me.” He saw that Emilio wasn't really paying attention. “Hey, hey, man. What’s the big deal?”

“That man, on the street. No one has ever talked to me like that before.”

“Ah, forget about him. He’s just a lousy bum. Besides, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he’s mad at you.”

Confusion in Emilio’s eyes once more. “Why do you say that? Because I’m better than him? Because I have everything, and he has nothing? Does he resent me for my success?”

Xavier laughed. “Well, I’m sure that could be a part of it. But, you know that company that you bought out recently? Rockwell enterprises?”

“Of course, how could I forget? I ran that company into the ground and made a cool eighty mill.”

“Well, that man used to work there.”

After lunch, Emilio went back to his office. Xavier told him not to worry about what one man like that, scum of the earth, thought. But in the back of his mind he couldn’t stop thinking that it wasn’t just one man; he’d done this countless times, and thousands upon thousands of men and women were affected. Emilio wanted this problem to go away, but it wasn’t something he could just throw money at. So, he felt it was better to stop thinking about it altogether, as he would never have to associate with these people if he so chose. But, for a small moment, Emilio realized what a monster he was.

Friday, October 17, 2008

The Monster

It hunts me. No matter where I go, no matter where I hide, it always finds me. The monster I’ve named Jack. This time I thought I’d managed to finally get away from it. But I can feel it’s eyes upon me once again. Apparently half a continent isn’t far enough.

I make my way down the street, being careful to avoid the glance of passing strangers. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. You never know who or what is watching you.

The sun is setting behind me, the brilliant colours like laughter, mocking me. Even the sun knows what will happen when his sister shows her bold face to the sky.

Suddenly I am aware of the shadows lengthening, painting the nearby buildings in ink. I glance at my watch in dismay; I’ve made a grave miscalculation. Now I do not have enough time to walk home. I reach into my pockets, hoping to find enough change for the bus. One key. A paperclip. A scrap of paper with a few book titles scrawled on it. And two quarters. Not enough.

I pick up my pace a little more. If I can’t take the bus, then I’ll just have to hurry; I can’t be out on the street! I’ve worked too hard to get away from the monster to give up now.

"Hey, watch where you’re going!" someone yells at me as I narrowly miss crashing into them. A crowd of people suddenly surrounds me, having come up to street level from the subway.

"Sorry," I yell back, fighting to get free of them. I glance over to the other side of the street. Way less traffic. I stop to wait for a crosswalk, fidgeting until the walking symbol flashes to life. I bolt across, earning a few more annoyed looks as I go.

And then it hits me. Like a kick to the gut, my insides suddenly feel like fire. I fight to stay upright, looking around frantically, ignoring the startled people around me. There! I spy an alley which will have to do. I scramble into it as the second wave of pain hits me.

I hope . . . I double over, clutching my gut as the pain becomes unbearable.

There is . . . Now the fire has spread, until I burn from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

Some way . . . Dark hair sprouts everywhere, rapidly growing until my body is covered.

To save me . . . My face elongates. Joints reverse directions. Limbs lengthen.

From Jack . . .

The moon pokes its head through the clouds. The monster named Jack lets out an earthshattering howl, then stalks through the night on its way to its first victim.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008


Walking with a cane and a limp, an old man comes down the street. Children flee at his approach, persons of means or dignity cross the street lest they enter his path. Darkness seems to follow the figure, clinging to his long coat in the cold autumn drizzle. He makes no attempt to shield himself from the damp air or the terrified stares, his hands scarred and powerful, gripping a silver tipped cane of ebony.
In the darkness of his mind they are fleeing their superior; he once owned this street and is now rich for it.
They are fleeing their liege; he owns the mortgages up and down these streets and most of them are behind in their payments.
They are fleeing their god; terrible and wrathful and full of power and judgement.

He made himself he would joke, back in the days when he was still invited to people’s homes and gatherings, with his own 2 hands. He walked with a cane even then, though it was heavier in those days, oak shod in iron, and not for supporting his weight. None dared cross him he recalls, limping in the rain. A grin plays over the old mans face, it would still be charming if everyone had not learned.
He had friends everywhere back then; everyone welcomed him with open arms, a smile and a wad of bills. The minimum payments, he always shook his head at those ones, he’d explain calmly about interest, how it was best for everyone if he got his money faster. A few heeded him; those few got to keep their homes, and good health, when the depression came.

Shaking himself out of reminiscing the grey old man noted he had arrived at a grand house, poorly maintained. Fond memories, this was the first house he’d claimed in lieu of payment, from all those years ago, the beginning of his empire and he was about to own it again. How nice. It seemed like it was yesterday that foreclosure, the crying children, the cowering wife, the husband broken and bleeding, signing a document he couldn’t read. No one could stand against him back then, he was quick and sure and strong.
He had found a better way now he though, pinning the eviction notice softly to the door. Now any could stand against him, old and growing frail. It was just that none dared. Nearly dancing down the steps he took his cane by the end and took and experimental swing with the weighted head. It was comforting to know he still had some of the old strength and speed; that he could if it came to it, make himself again.

The depression, he almost laughed out loud at the thought of it. It would not have been possible to come out of it richer. He was never on the stocks, never trusted wealth he couldn’t reach out his hand, touch and snatch. When everyone else was scrounging to survive he was living well and foreclosing on bad debt. Suddenly he had gone from a small scale loan dealer to a large scale land owner and now that none could buy homes everyone had to rent slums. Sure it wasn’t much, but it let him ride out the worst of it until the war.

Thank god for the war. As one of the few real investors he was able to ride it to the top. Business man and corner stone of the war machine there was no thought of him being included in the draft, he was essential to the effort. Grinning again, this time in a leer, he recalled all the poor lonely ladies working away in the factories in need of consoling, their husbands so far away. How many of these kids struggling to pay the bills were really his children or grandchildren. This time he did laugh out loud, heirless his legacy was quite safe, his empire was not about to fall over night and he had grandchildren aplenty, each case quietly paid off for the thinnest fraction of his wealth. Indeed he came for visits in his old neighbourhood, to see the family that could have been. It was his gift to them; to show them how high they could go.

Walking with a cane and a limp, an old monster comes down the street. Children flee at its approach, persons of means or dignity cross the street lest they enter it path. Darkness seems to follow the beast, clinging to it long coat in the cold autumn night drizzle. The monster makes no attempt to shield itself from the damp air or the stares, its coat billowing in the chill wind, its hands scarred, gripping a silver tipped cane of ebony.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008


They won’t understand. They’ll never understand. No matter how much I try and explain it to them, they just don’t get it. They are unable to comprehend the truth. But that’s them; I know better. I’m not brainwashed like all of them. And I’m going to do everything I can. Everything I can.

They always want me to tell them about it. They tell me they want to understand. I believed them before, but that was then and this is now. They fooled me at one point; they blinded me. I really thought they wanted to know, to know about him. But now I know. It’s him who is blinding them. As long as he exists, I am unable to trust anyone, which worries me all the more. Oh, no, no, no. I have already told them too much.

And now he knows.

But humans can’t hide from him. Safety is not an option; we must try and outwit him. But he is so clever, so clever. I’m just lucky enough to be free of him, at least as free of him as I will ever become. I can see through most of his schemes now, but I can’t defeat him alone. I need others to believe me. But how will they believe me? I’m-I’m labeled as totally insane; part of his plan. My message can not be heard, will not be heard, not so long as I’m left in here to rot. And even if I did find a way out, they’re the normal ones. Why would they listen to me, the loon? Ha ha. It’s them against me, all of them.

And I become silenced.

But why would he need to silence me, anyway? Because he wants it. Because greed consumes him. You stupid boy; you silly, naive little boy. Greed consumes all of them, and he feeds off of it. His power grows with greed, and greed is a disease with no cure. As such, he knows what they know, and he feels what they feel. He has become them, and they have become him.

And he will never die.

So it becomes pointless. There is no hope of ending his reign of terror; he is the enemy they can’t see or feel, but he is there. He is real. His hand guides their hands, leading us further down the spiral. The further down the spiral we careen, the more I feel his presence. His power grows, his ideals spread. This invisible monster not only threatens to corrupt us all, but he threatens to destroy everything I know and love. And here we fall, further down the spiral. The scariest part is that no one cares, and no one ever will.

And so he wins.

Monday, September 29, 2008

The Next Quote

Alrighty, here is the next quote. Actually, its a poem. Remember, this is just for inspiration, it doesn't have to be about a guy named Jack . . . . although mine will be :P

Jack be nimble
Jack be quick
Stealing and cheating
Ever so slick
Jack be tricky
Jack be clever
Jack is going to live

Jack be greedy
Jack betrays
Now he suffers
Until he repays
Jack the monster
Jack the cursed
But still he continues
To do his worst

The hour is late now
The sky is black
I hope there is some way

- Unknown Author

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

The End of the World

'Who are you?' It is the voice of the defeated, the sloven, and the wretched. It is the voice of the the war weary and defeated. Now all that is left is a small trembling voice - this voice - of fear and terror; the very last spoken words in existence.

And then, after these final words comes the reply. A reply that transcended words, transcended meaning, for in it's iteration it was and became the very act itself.



She runs.

As the goat flees the lion she runs - she is celerity itself - pressed from behind as existence closes itself behind her. On all sides the world begins to flake away at the edges, collapsing in upon itself and folding back into raw geysers of primordial nothing that erupt forth from the dying corpse of existence. And somewhere in the background, from nowhere and everywhere there is howling, howling like no sound ever uttered or heard by man or beast before, howling the likes of which might herald the end of all things.

She runs. The tiny, faded voices of everyone and everything that ever was and ever lived urging her forward, their hands on her back, their voices in her ears, whispering: faster, faster go faster! What is Real falls away around her, tumbling up and down as gravity flies apart at the seams of what tether holds it Being. Through it all her feet carry her along that shaky precipice, narrowing by the second, running down the last, rapidly fading vestiges of that which Is.

Sight and sound fall away, dead and gone, surrounded now on all sides by inky blackness she falls at last. Unsure of when, or how, her end - The End - will come. To think it all come to this - all the pasts, all the presents, the sum totality of existence boiled down and concentrated now in this one moment, the barrier between worlds bridged only to share the same cataclysmic end.

If it were any longer possible to scream, she would - she can feel the exertion but that part of her is dead now - she can feel it... the end claiming her too, its final prize. She can feel it tugging at her; her voice, her sight, her memories being drawn taut like strings, tensing and finally just... letting go. Peeling away and gone into the ether. It doesn't hurt, but the world fades, things fade, and thoughts become fluid in her mind, no longer connected as they once were as the strings of her being unravel to join her comrades and memories in mutual extinction.

Under her fingers she can feel Reality coming apart, in her finger-tips - as though she still had such things. The whole of it begins to give way beneath her and she begins to sink. So this is what it is like to feel the universe ending against your fingertips; like shifting sand and threads. She sinks deeper into the decaying mass of the cosmos. What little faculties, what little energy she has left strain against the windless, airless vacuum just to keep her alive. And somehow, she also feels a slight sensation - like that gentle tugging on her soul for a moment began to ebb.

A little at first and then more - she sinks herself deeper through reality, pulling herself into it even as it dissolves away around her. A little at first - enough to feel another gentle lessening in her dissolution - and then more frantically digging her way down, deeper down, where she cannot say only that it is away. She buries herself pulling her way through, tearing string-like threads to tatters, and she can feel pieces of herself being torn away as she plunges now... no longer digging but swimming through ... unknown. There are no words, but she feels them... each torn member each torn thread claiming something of herself - their blood sacrifice to her escape, plunging now, down, down deeper into...


It takes her a moment to restore her old senses... the exertion pulls at her but slowly the scene comes into focus and yes, butterflies; butterflies as far as the eye can see, butterflies in their countless thousands, countless millions thick as smoke, blotting out even the midday summer's sun. Hills and the valleys spread from horizon to horizon, covered in blooming wildflowers cast in hues of red, and orange, and violet and a thousand shades in between. A whole world of hills and butterflies and flowers and bright blue sky enfolding a brilliant sun above.

This is somewhere, and some place - she cannot say where or when, or even if this place ever was; if it was a dream, or a memory. She can no longer say with any certainty. She stands.

How long? How long has it been since she stood on a world - a proper world - looking into the sky and at fields full of flowers and butterflies? How many eons since these things had been erased? Oh! How much had been lost before they had even dreamt of war, or an end. Who could dream of such things under and endless sky in summer when butterflies are in the air?

So long ago. They were all different people back then, different Beings even; how odd to stand upon earth again, after so long spent walking among stars and the expanse between worlds and now - as it seemed - back through the barrier of time itself. Somehow still alive - she had lived. It was the heroes - the brave - who had fallen first; their voices like the exaltant angels of heaven, of force like thunder, swept away as so much dust upon the wind. The shards of their shattered bodies and minds were now strewn across a hundred thousand years of time and a hundred million worlds; extinguished - as it were - forevermore. And now it was she that was standing on the hills of summer in some other world in some other time.

A thousand years and there would not be enough tears to express the sorrow and contemplate the lives and worlds extinguished. he wind begins to die, and the sky darkens as though the sun passed behind a cloud. She looks up, her head cocked against the wind like a dear sensing danger.

All around the butterflies are falling, like rain, dead. Their bodies, blackened, begin to cover the ground and she brushes away with the frantic motion of panic as they fall upon her in droves. How strange that after so long her physical form would still retain the same simple motions, the same instinctive fears. She dismisses is, fading back into Greater Reality though the experience weakens her more than it used to - more perhaps than it should have.

It has followed her, she knows, through whatever link now existed between where she was and where she now found herself. All worlds in this time too were now doomed then - and by her hand no less. She considers her options. From here it will claim all Reality up to where it was before. Not slacked with the present that was it now sought to claim the past that is; even experiences already lived are not proof against this oblivion it seemed.

She can try fighting - dissociate this world and collapse it's star; perhaps if no one is looking she might extinguish this whole galaxy and hurl the resultant energy into the darkness. They had tried that all before of course but here - now - there was so much more energy available... she could feel it coursing through the dimensional eddies and currents in which she was now wading through.

She can wait, and perhaps again slip through the barrier of time - further perhaps - back into the ancient past, maybe back near the very beginning itself. Maybe she might find some clue there as to the End that dogged her. Or she could simply condemn all time itself to the void. In either way, time is running short and soon to disappear altogether.


Like a presence written into everything she hears the message, the bugle call that precedes the running of the hounds. And she is to run again - she knows this game. She sees its end. Or is it.

Another possibility unfolds in her mind. Whatever it was didn't seem to work... or perhaps it was subtle so subtle she missed it the first time. She could split the time causality - and perhaps step beyond the reach even of the End of All Things. Yes, she told herself, it made a mistake following her through time. Hope it seemed, had not yet been swallowed up.


She stands on the veranda overlooking the autumn leaves laying on the ground, in reds and oranges and yellows. A mug of steaming coffee rests in her hands and she wears a mauve sweater, underneath a white turtleneck and some old pair of jeans. Her hangs in the cool morning air, drifting like idle mist. She can feel the cold, a hard edged presence pressed against her skin and tempered by the wool and the steaming cup in her hands. A moment before she had been looking out at the yard, planning her morning. Now she was staring at - and staring back at - herself.

Traces of grey had crept into her hair. Lines had appeared upon her face, and what had once - still was - been a youthful countenance now looked faded. Yet if this was an older version of herself it was the eyes that had changed the most - it was looking into frantic, half-mad eyes. She took a step back towards the door.

"I've come a long way to speak with you." Her voice too is older, and calm though she looks mad.

"Who are you? What are you doing..."

"I need your help. It can't touch you - you alone are safe - if it does walls of time can never be breached. It made a mistake coming here, after me. You're the only one that's safe. So you alone are free to act... it can't touch you - you have time. "

There is a pause. The dawn rises slowly above the distant horizon. "You're... me?"

"We don't have much..." In mid-sentence she can feel it stirring, nearby. Following her now.

She can feel it, almost on top of her. Waiting and almost - it seemed - goading her? It wasn't unmaking the world, it wasn't swallowing up dimensions... it was waiting. She ignores it and continues on her other self standing, looking stunned, frightened and perhaps even pityingly upon the older woman that stood in front of her. "Please listen. What I have to say means everything..."

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Messages in the Dark

A message echoes out into the dark, wishing me a good morning as I regain conciseness and giving the updates from the front lines. I smiled and it hurt, even here at the edge of what is known it seems our trash flies about, unstoppable and fast as light. I carefully rose to the controls and almost shut off the speakers, the noise from an age past, and I stopped and listened in marvel at the symmetry in the world that allowed this to happen. Metals had been rationed the announcement told me. Be careful about what you consume as food is being sent to the front lines. She told me, in mock chiding tones, to avoid wasting anything and above all support the troops every day and in every way you can, no matter how far from home they are.

I smiled, the blood drying on my lips slowly, “Lady, you don’t know the half of it.”

I listened for a while longer, what else was there to do? Her name was Janet I eventually discovered from her soothing archaically accented chatter and I almost laughed through the pain. “Sorry Gretchen, looks like I found another sweetheart!” and I did laugh then, though the pain and the sorrow and the doubt. Eventually the laughter gave way to crying and crying to blessed sleep.

I woke to a song I didn’t recognise, something simple from a distant history I knew almost nothing about, it was something about being a long way from home. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. It ended far too quickly, replaced by Janet’s lovely voice, “Thank you all of you our there on the front risking your lives, your sweethearts are at home waiting for you, please win this war quickly and please come home.”

I did switch off the speakers then for a short while and worked. I’d found some strength in that old broadcast, enough to do critical repairs, enough to limp out onto the side of the the ship and batter its shattered form back into shape.
Re-entering the ship and exhausted to the point of collapse I turned the broadcast back on and recorded as much as I could while I waited for the hyperdrive to warm back up over the next few days.
I had a fleet to rejoin, we had a war to win.
For all those back home.