We won our battle against nature. It was fought over thousands of years, although nearing the end the major 'players' stayed the same. There were set-backs, of course, but they all paled when we triumphed. I have documented the process here.
It started, although we did not know it, when we began to replace parts of our body with technology. Limbs became new and organs were refreshed. Accidents became an inconvenience. Self-improvement was rampant. Physical competitions, such as the Olympics, became largely irrelevent. This was the first breakthrough, for it heralded in a philosophy which spoke, "to be human, not all must be organic or original".
The next paradigm shift came when we began to replace neurons with electrical connections. With this newer, more sophisticated technology for grey matter, forgetting became a quaint, out-dated, notion. We lost the art of writing. Now, not even the part that did the thinking needed to be original. Descartes was ressurected: "Something thinks, therefore I can be."
People became fully robotic. It became mundane to be entirely artificial.
Soon we discovered that with submolecular technology implanted in the body at conception, we could trick the body into making a baby to which ever specifications we liked. Development occured in vitro as usual, but under the direction of the robots, who superceded the genetic codes. People began to become more and more similar as the "assembly line" mentality took over.
Finally, we developed micro-transformers that rearranged molecules on a sub-atomic level. The flesh that was used to create a new child became an ultra-dense, super-light elemental metal that we called Thiridium. The first 'perfect' baby was born on February 12th. A noted professor said, "Humanity is a state of mind, a self-diagnosed condition."
The final paradigm shift was complete; Disease, suffering and death were eliminated. All bodies become the height of perfection.
We became aware of a growing collective unconscious. Within 200 years we all became one mind.
Only one consciousness housed in billions of identical bodies.
Slowly, superfluous bodies were shut down. People no longer reproduced. We dwindled.
Now, there is only I. I am the last of the humans, if human I be.
Should I be called as such, I am the epitomy of human-ness, the perfect average of all personalities. I am nothing that has not been felt, to some degree, by every human that e'er felt heartbeat on this planet.
And right now?
I feel bored.
In times past I would alleviate this by talking with others, but I have no social drive, nor anyone to talk with. The drive came from the desire to be normal, the motivation to be accepted, to fit in. I am in. I need no "fit".
I never age, and cannot die. I have existed for thousands of years, during which I learned everything on this planet. There is nothing novel here anymore.
Well, there wasn't.
In the face of complete madness from ennui I took the unthinkable, yet logical step.
I made an imperfect man.
The computer took all the elements of myself, then randomized a random number of variables. The only thing I know about him is that he is not me, since he has not the Consciousness. I cannot hear his thoughts. His closed mind fascinates me.
In the lab, waiting to decant him, I am delighted to discover I am experiencing fear. I am scared. Of what will happen.
It has been an unspeakable long amount of time since I did not know something. The sensation thrills me, like a new love. I have made preparations for him, created a life for him to live in, but what if he does not like it? What if he does not like me? How could he not? He must. I know as such logically. I am the perfect woman. But does he know it logically? I check the timer on the vat, only 60 more years. Perhaps I'll do some cleaning while I wait.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
I'm noticing a trend...
Tuesdays roll around and I just don't care. (My tuesdays, which are sort of wednesday morning, but meh)
Seriously. I don't think I could've written a grocery list today, let alone anything I would inflict on my friends and family.
Plus I had my big interview with the armored division gentleman, which I felt went really well, but I didn't get out until 11:30, and at that point I'd be up for 23 hours, doing 'stuff'. I was kinda bagged.
Few things I'd like to jot down. If I get the job, they'll give me a boot allowance. Money. To buy shoes. I really love my chosen profession.
As well, I woke up early and went to the gym this evening. I really destroyed it today; one thing that made me really happy was the fact that the fitness center itself, with the weight machines and what-not was crazy crowded with stupid-hot guys. (Like so Hot it's stupid. Not stupid and hot. Well. They might be. I don't really talk to people in the gym, but it's at the university so...?) nevertheless the weight room with free weights, dumbells and barbells, was COMPLETELY empty. I'm usually too shy to do anything really challenging because I dislike looking stupid (having to be saved by two gentleman from a 'bench-press-gone-wrong' was an experience I wish I'd passed on) but since there was nobody around, I went to town. Now, as I sit on my bum at work, I can feel, literally FEEL my ab muscles begin to get sore. It's kind of like feeling the tide come in. This creeping, growing awareness. On the plus side I have a very definite four-pack.
Yet another day of joy
Seriously. I don't think I could've written a grocery list today, let alone anything I would inflict on my friends and family.
Plus I had my big interview with the armored division gentleman, which I felt went really well, but I didn't get out until 11:30, and at that point I'd be up for 23 hours, doing 'stuff'. I was kinda bagged.
Few things I'd like to jot down. If I get the job, they'll give me a boot allowance. Money. To buy shoes. I really love my chosen profession.
As well, I woke up early and went to the gym this evening. I really destroyed it today; one thing that made me really happy was the fact that the fitness center itself, with the weight machines and what-not was crazy crowded with stupid-hot guys. (Like so Hot it's stupid. Not stupid and hot. Well. They might be. I don't really talk to people in the gym, but it's at the university so...?) nevertheless the weight room with free weights, dumbells and barbells, was COMPLETELY empty. I'm usually too shy to do anything really challenging because I dislike looking stupid (having to be saved by two gentleman from a 'bench-press-gone-wrong' was an experience I wish I'd passed on) but since there was nobody around, I went to town. Now, as I sit on my bum at work, I can feel, literally FEEL my ab muscles begin to get sore. It's kind of like feeling the tide come in. This creeping, growing awareness. On the plus side I have a very definite four-pack.
Yet another day of joy
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Fiction work #15
Those damn Wright brothers.
We were one month away from catapulting ourselves into history, but they had to do it first.
They didn't even do it with style.
But us?
We got style; and a Dream. It's how we fell in love. We looked into each other's eyes, and saw the bright, beckoning, blue. Then we knew.
Twenty years later, here we are.
Standing together in the barn, staring, by dim lantern light, smelling like hay and grease, at our latest baby: The Mark IV, affectionately known as "Dolly". She's a bi with two old John Deere engines in her, heavily altered of course.
Just a few kinks to work out, the steerings still a little thick for what we need.
"What do you need?" You ask? We need her to turn sharper than the dog chasing his tail, to climb faster than the barnhand up the ladder in front of the bull's horns, to stop deader than...I dunno. Roadkill, probably. We'll get it. Oh, we'll get it.
Folks wonder why we need all this.
It's 'cause we're stuntmen.
The Amazing Marileze and Dupoir! Humans that fly like Birds! See feats of Darring-do that frighten women, children, and lesser men! Only 6p a show!
Dupoir will fly the plane, and I will wing-walk. There's a planted bar on poles on top of the wings. That's where I ride. Scarf trailing, and let me tell you, there's nothing better than chasing geese through the white clouds of fall.
Our most amazing trick is one I came up with while watching kids on the swings. First, we climb, straight up. As high as we can. Then, at the top, we kill the engine, and just fall: Diving, Tumbling, Rolling, Pitching, the ground covered in moss-like bushes, tiny humans like toys, houses like gingerbread, larger, down, the horizon a ruled edge of white between the heavens and the hard end that feels like it's balanced on your head as you handstand, plummeting unstoppably until WHOOSH he starts her up and we swoop away, seconds from death.
We call it the Icarus. It horrifes our bridge partners.
"But you could DIE!" They gasp.
"But we could LIVE!" We reply.
They shake their heads. They don't understand.
Especially the women. I've taken to wearing pants constantly now. They titter in horror and obsess in their outrage. No-one else knows why I do, but I'll tell you. On the mark III we had the engine running, hanging from the ceiling, blades a-goin, when my frock was sucked into the gears, quick as a blink. I've given thanks many times that I was wearing my cheap one (I'd stitched it back loosely after a mundane house accident prior) so it ripped at my shoddy seam, but it pulled my hip in, nipped a neat little bite in my thigh. Dupoir had gone sheet-white, was beside me in a flash, slowing the blood, weeping like a new calf. We held each other till we cramped; then, without a word, got up and dissasembled the Mark III, burying the main engine component. It had tasted human blood. There was no love there. It could not be flown. I only wear pants now.
The Mark IV is good to us. We can feel she's the one; the one to take us all the way there.
There have been exciting developments too. My favorite is our night-flying routine. We were at a loss for a while. If you can't see the ground, how would you know if you are going to hit it? We puzzled, for months. Then one morning Dupoir woke me by bounding on our ricket bed.
"I've got it!" he hollered.
It was magnificent. A series of lanterns, carefully hooded, reveal, by how much light you can see, how close you are to the ground. If you are above 300ft, only one ring is visible. At 200ft, two rings, and at 100ft, all three rings. We danced that night, like idiots, and drank the wine my parents had saved from their wedding night. We slept like puppies in the hayloft that night.
And now, we are in the home stretch. We no longer even need to look at our blue-prints, although we keep them close at hand. They are, to us, works of precious art. When we finally fly, we plan to frame them and hang them on our walls.
People ask us, 'When are you going to grow up and stop fooling around?' But we don't understand the question. I cannot imagine myself, other than with this piece I have found. I feel like I have been forever trying to get back to where I came from, in the clouds. Life without this quest, is not a life to me.
Sometimes I dream. I can fly by wishing very hard. I take off, and smell the sweet, cold, air from above the shelf of clouds, blue, white, and porcelain. The sun streams through holes like tree trunks in the early morning, beckoning me higher. When the clouds touch my face, they dissolve into a dozen shimmery crystals, tiny pinpoints of cold wetness that refresh my lungs when I breathe them in. I love to soar low over the houses, spin the weathercocks, and do handstands on the treetops. When I wake up, I shake Dupoir awake, and we sit in the barn for hours, staring at our plane by dawn's light.
We were one month away from catapulting ourselves into history, but they had to do it first.
They didn't even do it with style.
But us?
We got style; and a Dream. It's how we fell in love. We looked into each other's eyes, and saw the bright, beckoning, blue. Then we knew.
Twenty years later, here we are.
Standing together in the barn, staring, by dim lantern light, smelling like hay and grease, at our latest baby: The Mark IV, affectionately known as "Dolly". She's a bi with two old John Deere engines in her, heavily altered of course.
Just a few kinks to work out, the steerings still a little thick for what we need.
"What do you need?" You ask? We need her to turn sharper than the dog chasing his tail, to climb faster than the barnhand up the ladder in front of the bull's horns, to stop deader than...I dunno. Roadkill, probably. We'll get it. Oh, we'll get it.
Folks wonder why we need all this.
It's 'cause we're stuntmen.
The Amazing Marileze and Dupoir! Humans that fly like Birds! See feats of Darring-do that frighten women, children, and lesser men! Only 6p a show!
Dupoir will fly the plane, and I will wing-walk. There's a planted bar on poles on top of the wings. That's where I ride. Scarf trailing, and let me tell you, there's nothing better than chasing geese through the white clouds of fall.
Our most amazing trick is one I came up with while watching kids on the swings. First, we climb, straight up. As high as we can. Then, at the top, we kill the engine, and just fall: Diving, Tumbling, Rolling, Pitching, the ground covered in moss-like bushes, tiny humans like toys, houses like gingerbread, larger, down, the horizon a ruled edge of white between the heavens and the hard end that feels like it's balanced on your head as you handstand, plummeting unstoppably until WHOOSH he starts her up and we swoop away, seconds from death.
We call it the Icarus. It horrifes our bridge partners.
"But you could DIE!" They gasp.
"But we could LIVE!" We reply.
They shake their heads. They don't understand.
Especially the women. I've taken to wearing pants constantly now. They titter in horror and obsess in their outrage. No-one else knows why I do, but I'll tell you. On the mark III we had the engine running, hanging from the ceiling, blades a-goin, when my frock was sucked into the gears, quick as a blink. I've given thanks many times that I was wearing my cheap one (I'd stitched it back loosely after a mundane house accident prior) so it ripped at my shoddy seam, but it pulled my hip in, nipped a neat little bite in my thigh. Dupoir had gone sheet-white, was beside me in a flash, slowing the blood, weeping like a new calf. We held each other till we cramped; then, without a word, got up and dissasembled the Mark III, burying the main engine component. It had tasted human blood. There was no love there. It could not be flown. I only wear pants now.
The Mark IV is good to us. We can feel she's the one; the one to take us all the way there.
There have been exciting developments too. My favorite is our night-flying routine. We were at a loss for a while. If you can't see the ground, how would you know if you are going to hit it? We puzzled, for months. Then one morning Dupoir woke me by bounding on our ricket bed.
"I've got it!" he hollered.
It was magnificent. A series of lanterns, carefully hooded, reveal, by how much light you can see, how close you are to the ground. If you are above 300ft, only one ring is visible. At 200ft, two rings, and at 100ft, all three rings. We danced that night, like idiots, and drank the wine my parents had saved from their wedding night. We slept like puppies in the hayloft that night.
And now, we are in the home stretch. We no longer even need to look at our blue-prints, although we keep them close at hand. They are, to us, works of precious art. When we finally fly, we plan to frame them and hang them on our walls.
People ask us, 'When are you going to grow up and stop fooling around?' But we don't understand the question. I cannot imagine myself, other than with this piece I have found. I feel like I have been forever trying to get back to where I came from, in the clouds. Life without this quest, is not a life to me.
Sometimes I dream. I can fly by wishing very hard. I take off, and smell the sweet, cold, air from above the shelf of clouds, blue, white, and porcelain. The sun streams through holes like tree trunks in the early morning, beckoning me higher. When the clouds touch my face, they dissolve into a dozen shimmery crystals, tiny pinpoints of cold wetness that refresh my lungs when I breathe them in. I love to soar low over the houses, spin the weathercocks, and do handstands on the treetops. When I wake up, I shake Dupoir awake, and we sit in the barn for hours, staring at our plane by dawn's light.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Nomadic day #4
My tribe limps to it's death like an ailing animal, but all I can think of is my own personal catastrophe.
I have not had my courses for four months, and I threw up my breakfast this morning.
I believe that the child I carry is a gift from the Gods to our tribe. That he will unite us and lead us into a new era. I wish I could tell everyone.
"How do you know he is a savior?" they would ask.
"Because I am a virgin."
Then the elders would examine me, and know it to be true, but I cannot risk it. The elders know the only man I have ever been alone with is my scholar; his privileged status allows him private counsel. They also hear the whispers; people believe him to be a phrophet, above the elders. Jealousy is an ugly fruit. They would denounce us. He would be killed for an act of indecency. But the child; known to be demi-God? They would raise him, twist him to their wills. That is not what fate has in store for my child.
What I must do now frightens and sickens me. I gather my tribe, tell them of my "vision". I must travel many miles, past mountains, plains, forests of clouds, to where the fountain of truth is. In it's waters I shall see the image of the demon; when I destroy the image of the demon, so too shall it fade away. But I must go alone. They shudder together, as we did at the first sight of the demon. A bonfire is lit to give me strength. The tribe dances ferociously, painted, eyes rolling. the drums echoes my child's heartbeat, resounding in my bones. I am now a part of another tribe; of motherhood. I dance without care this last night in the tribe of my father. I know my flailing knees and elbows entice some, and I receive two more marriage proposals, all discreet, promising to relieve me of the quest's burden. I could no more accept their offer then I could shut off my heart.
When all have collapsed, and we are alone, my scholar begs to come with me and my heart breaks a thousand times to tell him "No", but he must stay, to ensure my tribe any survive, that I have a home to come back to. It is to his credit as well, that he does not ask me to stay. He understands, I wonder if perhaps he even knows. By the firelight his eyes blaze and I could believe the rumors.
I take supplies and bid farewell, walking into the sunrise, as is our custom.
The hardest step remains. She is awake now, as I approach her cage, examining her toenails. It is time to fly now. I throw open her door.
" Eloise. My name is Eloise."
Instantly she is upon me, her hands holding my almost rounding belly, teeth gleaming, eyes wild. I see the power I have given her, in my folly, What have I done? I fear for my life, my child, my tribe. Damn fool! So taken in, her patsy! She sucks in air, triumphant,
"What a stupid name."
She laughs, steps down, and stretches,
"God. You're going to get fatter."
I hate her and at the same time, love her dearly.
Slowly my bright world begins to turn again.
I have not had my courses for four months, and I threw up my breakfast this morning.
I believe that the child I carry is a gift from the Gods to our tribe. That he will unite us and lead us into a new era. I wish I could tell everyone.
"How do you know he is a savior?" they would ask.
"Because I am a virgin."
Then the elders would examine me, and know it to be true, but I cannot risk it. The elders know the only man I have ever been alone with is my scholar; his privileged status allows him private counsel. They also hear the whispers; people believe him to be a phrophet, above the elders. Jealousy is an ugly fruit. They would denounce us. He would be killed for an act of indecency. But the child; known to be demi-God? They would raise him, twist him to their wills. That is not what fate has in store for my child.
What I must do now frightens and sickens me. I gather my tribe, tell them of my "vision". I must travel many miles, past mountains, plains, forests of clouds, to where the fountain of truth is. In it's waters I shall see the image of the demon; when I destroy the image of the demon, so too shall it fade away. But I must go alone. They shudder together, as we did at the first sight of the demon. A bonfire is lit to give me strength. The tribe dances ferociously, painted, eyes rolling. the drums echoes my child's heartbeat, resounding in my bones. I am now a part of another tribe; of motherhood. I dance without care this last night in the tribe of my father. I know my flailing knees and elbows entice some, and I receive two more marriage proposals, all discreet, promising to relieve me of the quest's burden. I could no more accept their offer then I could shut off my heart.
When all have collapsed, and we are alone, my scholar begs to come with me and my heart breaks a thousand times to tell him "No", but he must stay, to ensure my tribe any survive, that I have a home to come back to. It is to his credit as well, that he does not ask me to stay. He understands, I wonder if perhaps he even knows. By the firelight his eyes blaze and I could believe the rumors.
I take supplies and bid farewell, walking into the sunrise, as is our custom.
The hardest step remains. She is awake now, as I approach her cage, examining her toenails. It is time to fly now. I throw open her door.
" Eloise. My name is Eloise."
Instantly she is upon me, her hands holding my almost rounding belly, teeth gleaming, eyes wild. I see the power I have given her, in my folly, What have I done? I fear for my life, my child, my tribe. Damn fool! So taken in, her patsy! She sucks in air, triumphant,
"What a stupid name."
She laughs, steps down, and stretches,
"God. You're going to get fatter."
I hate her and at the same time, love her dearly.
Slowly my bright world begins to turn again.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Noir fiction #5
I came to in a garbage dumpster, feeling like a gorilla's accordian. Unfortunately, what I came to was the conclusion that I was getting nowhere. If I wanted that to change, I had to convince people to stop trying to kick me, and I had to do that by kicking first, and faster.
I straighted my tie as I lit up a smoke. It made my lip sting a little, but I liked the way the smoke made my jacket look. I turned up it's collar. Time to get serious. Like my grandpa always said, "No sense in smelling the cold shit." I couldn't understand smelling shit at all, but my grandpa was one of the best in his time, and who am I to argue?
The hot-shit dame had been hired on by the Pink Peri a few nights ago for her blockbuster show. I'm sure my piano man was thrilled, but I wasn't laughing. Neither was she when I kicked in her door.
"Heya Toots. You miss me?"
She tucked away the Magnum lipstick she'd been packin' and regarded me cooly,
"What the hell do you want? I gotta show." Time to turn on the charm.
"Well, darlin'. I want you to sing for me."
She huffed and began plucking her eyebrows,
"You're an idiot. Come to my show like a normal man. You ruined my door."
"I gotta special song in mind, sweetheart. About parrots and how my little starry-eyed friend is mixed up with dames that sic ugly men on me." I grabbed her arms and she leaned back on her cushion. I could smell her perfume.
"And I don't wanna do anything,"
I let my eyes drag over her dressing-gowned figure,
"Un-gentlemanly to hear it."
Her black eyes narrowed and her body, down to her teal feather, shook with outrage.
"You wouldn't dare."
"You use it. Why can't I?"
She hissed, and I wondered if she's knife me in the kidneys with her heels. I've leapt from a speeding car onto a bridge railing, watching the car plunge headlight first into a black river a hundred feet below, but this dizzy broad scared me.
The things I do for piano with my scotch. Her mouth turned into a languid smile.
"You wanna play with the big kids? Fine."
She purred with the same tone my Dinah used right before she clawed some poor Tomcat's nuts off.
He owes me some ragtime for this.
I stayed out of sight for their show, nursing a double. I couldn't face him knowing I was gonna throw his doll to the sharks. I watched them, though; her, leaning forward on the piano to kiss his forehead as he gazed at her, hands flying. He was in love, I could tell, but her? She caught me staring and pulled away sharply, her voice cracking, but her panic didn't make any sense unless...Aw shit.
I ain't a romantic. Graveyard's are full of folks who died for love, but I suspect that whoever was behind this had a bigger wrench in their plans then they knew what to do with...
This city is full of people; Old money, new money, no money; all trying to work it out together. But here I was, caught like a lynch pin between two cogs trying to press together to what might be their mutual destruction. Maybe I should just let go? I was tired. My old wounds were acting up, and all they got me was an empty apartment. Maybe I was in the wrong plot, reading the wrong script. Their love story wiping out my tragedy. Love conquers all, but where's that leave me?
I straighted my tie as I lit up a smoke. It made my lip sting a little, but I liked the way the smoke made my jacket look. I turned up it's collar. Time to get serious. Like my grandpa always said, "No sense in smelling the cold shit." I couldn't understand smelling shit at all, but my grandpa was one of the best in his time, and who am I to argue?
The hot-shit dame had been hired on by the Pink Peri a few nights ago for her blockbuster show. I'm sure my piano man was thrilled, but I wasn't laughing. Neither was she when I kicked in her door.
"Heya Toots. You miss me?"
She tucked away the Magnum lipstick she'd been packin' and regarded me cooly,
"What the hell do you want? I gotta show." Time to turn on the charm.
"Well, darlin'. I want you to sing for me."
She huffed and began plucking her eyebrows,
"You're an idiot. Come to my show like a normal man. You ruined my door."
"I gotta special song in mind, sweetheart. About parrots and how my little starry-eyed friend is mixed up with dames that sic ugly men on me." I grabbed her arms and she leaned back on her cushion. I could smell her perfume.
"And I don't wanna do anything,"
I let my eyes drag over her dressing-gowned figure,
"Un-gentlemanly to hear it."
Her black eyes narrowed and her body, down to her teal feather, shook with outrage.
"You wouldn't dare."
"You use it. Why can't I?"
She hissed, and I wondered if she's knife me in the kidneys with her heels. I've leapt from a speeding car onto a bridge railing, watching the car plunge headlight first into a black river a hundred feet below, but this dizzy broad scared me.
The things I do for piano with my scotch. Her mouth turned into a languid smile.
"You wanna play with the big kids? Fine."
She purred with the same tone my Dinah used right before she clawed some poor Tomcat's nuts off.
He owes me some ragtime for this.
I stayed out of sight for their show, nursing a double. I couldn't face him knowing I was gonna throw his doll to the sharks. I watched them, though; her, leaning forward on the piano to kiss his forehead as he gazed at her, hands flying. He was in love, I could tell, but her? She caught me staring and pulled away sharply, her voice cracking, but her panic didn't make any sense unless...Aw shit.
I ain't a romantic. Graveyard's are full of folks who died for love, but I suspect that whoever was behind this had a bigger wrench in their plans then they knew what to do with...
This city is full of people; Old money, new money, no money; all trying to work it out together. But here I was, caught like a lynch pin between two cogs trying to press together to what might be their mutual destruction. Maybe I should just let go? I was tired. My old wounds were acting up, and all they got me was an empty apartment. Maybe I was in the wrong plot, reading the wrong script. Their love story wiping out my tragedy. Love conquers all, but where's that leave me?
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Fiction work # 14
Two tiny eyes, framed by such an expanse of hair I originally feared they belonged to a black bear. My fears abated as two human arms picked me up, and I lost consciousness again.
He was not there when I awoke, pulling the tucked in blankets out from under the couch cushions. There was a huge, aged Malamut, however, and beside the fireplace, a box of yowling puppies, no more than a few weeks old.
On the rough oak table in front of me was a bowl of semi-cold chili (the best I had ever tasted- messily devoured) and my pack. I dug through it, almost as hungrily as the chili, looking for my journal. The memories I had of the last few days were sketchy, but I knew I always wrote the day's events in the evening, ever since my first major marathon.
Reading back through, recollection came easier. I had begun the Iditarod, the largest winter adventure race in the world, a few days ago. My confused writing and increasingly erratic trail notes and timings showed I had erred seriously somewhere in my preparations.
I set to work assessing damage control, silently hating myself for whatever mistake I made to cause this near-catastrophe. My toes seemed the worst, still waxy and hard. I next began to evaluate my surroundings. A typical winter cabin, somewhat sore from what I believed was (at the time) disuse, yet it was devoid of the quintessential bookshelves or even a T.V. Neither had it a phone, as far as I could find.
I must have fallen asleep again, for I awoke to see a great, hairy man sitting on the floor in front of me, shovelling down chili so quickly he almost seemed to be using his hands. I extended a greeting, offering my gratitude for his rescue, but my speech seemed to startle him, and he did not reply.
He stared blankly as I ran through the little Inuit, Russian, even French, I knew but not once did I sense comprehension dawning. He chewed the chili, regarding me as one watches a street performer. After a while, I gave up, huffing a sigh. This excited him, and he began to... well, there's no other word for it; he barked.
Over the next few days, after discovering an old radio and informing race officials and my wife where I was and that I would be back once I knew where I was, we seemed to bond. I was fascinated by him. He hunted like a wolf, with his hands and a kitchen knife, and seemed more comfortable in the snow than in the cabin. He had twelve dogs, a full sled team, and we frequently went on trips to see if I could landmark where we were. He seemed to know the woods as well as another person knows their city.
Meals were many times easier than I had expected; the cellar was full of jars, roots, strange plants, and smoked meat. I can only assume he canned things himself (mushrooms, softer roots, carrots) since some were almost fresh, but the thought of this sasquatch of a man in an apron, boiling jars was a tad strange. I laughed over this image for a while; He danced around me, barking gleefully for awhile. I suspect that while most of my actions confused him (shaving being the most baffling), he understood my mirth.
The fireplace was only ever lit for my benefit. After trips, he would often blow through the door, pursued by the slobbering dogs, leaving it open to the elements. He was so discomfited, whining and roaming, when I closed the door and lit a fire that eventually I compromised; I left the door open, but built a large fire.
The first few days he would sleep where-ever he stopped long enough, but eventually he began to sleep at the foot of the bed I slept in (one I surmise his late parents used).
His most unusual characteristic was that he never spoke. After a while, he began to understand what I intended, but I believed that his vocal cordds had altered so far that they could no longer produce regualr speech. He "talked" to the dogs almost constantly, and seemed to be able to understand their replies. I began, as well, to pick up some of the more simple words, first learning the dog's "names", finally what I believed to be verbs, although the language seemed to contain a large component I could not begin to understand. The most pivotal part, much like the tones in some languages, or the clicks in others, was a series of evocative connective words, conveyed through body language and smells. Frequently in the evening, he would regail the dogs, and sometimes myself when I was quick-witted enough, with tales of his escapades; fighting with a bear, a huge moose he had tracked, when he almost captured an eagle, but fell off a cliff instead. He would often get caught up in the physical retelling of the story, and by the end was visibly winded.
Almost a month after my arrival, I mapped out the final last clues, and uncovered our location relative to everywhere else. I packed my kit, taking enough food to make it home, tried to thank him, and left early one morning.
The trip home was deceptively easy, and by the time I got home, I was breathless with anticipation to be back in civilization. I indulged myself and ate McDonalds (usually forbidden with my racer's diet), sat in the tub for two hours, and held my wife until she insisted that, no really, she had to work in twenty minutes. It took a while to regain my normal life, but regain I did, and finally everything was as usual. Or so I had thought.
I came home from work one day to find him sitting on my lawn, surrounded by his dogs. The camera crews had already been there for a few hours, coaxing him with food, but my wife was still at work. He lept up when he saw me, but I was confused. How the hell had he found me and what did he want?
I invited him in, shooing away the reporters, and fed him while I waited for my wife to return home, so I could consult her in what we should do next.
My life broke when she walked through the door, however.
I brought her into the kitchen, let her sit down, and explained everything to her, my rescue, my months with this man, his disposition, and everything we had been through, that he was not dangerous, and I wondered if she would mind if we let him stay in our basement until he was sufficiently civilized to live in our world, since I believed he keenly wanted to learn our ways, and regain the life he lost to the woods.
"What man?" She asked, slowly.
I laughed, thinking she was giving tacit approval for our new lodger. She wrinkled her perfect brow, and, in our spotless kitchen, surrounded by metal, plastic, warmth, luxury, culture, and easy, she blew away my tiny grip on reality.
"What man are you talking about?"
I could not find him. The dogs were gone. Our yard, spotless. The food I had brought back with me, and saved out of nostalgia, turned out to be rotton, foul, autumn leavings, the kind you scrounge under the snow. I could find no indication that this man ever existed.
I laughed with her, and said it was my little joke. Tried to forget it. Wrote it off as a dream. But now, everyday of my life since, I stare out the window of my 25th story office, and dream of snow, trying desperatly to ignore the blood pounding in my temples, crying out for the thrill of the hunt, the honor of the pack, and the sheer joy of earning a true life.
He was not there when I awoke, pulling the tucked in blankets out from under the couch cushions. There was a huge, aged Malamut, however, and beside the fireplace, a box of yowling puppies, no more than a few weeks old.
On the rough oak table in front of me was a bowl of semi-cold chili (the best I had ever tasted- messily devoured) and my pack. I dug through it, almost as hungrily as the chili, looking for my journal. The memories I had of the last few days were sketchy, but I knew I always wrote the day's events in the evening, ever since my first major marathon.
Reading back through, recollection came easier. I had begun the Iditarod, the largest winter adventure race in the world, a few days ago. My confused writing and increasingly erratic trail notes and timings showed I had erred seriously somewhere in my preparations.
I set to work assessing damage control, silently hating myself for whatever mistake I made to cause this near-catastrophe. My toes seemed the worst, still waxy and hard. I next began to evaluate my surroundings. A typical winter cabin, somewhat sore from what I believed was (at the time) disuse, yet it was devoid of the quintessential bookshelves or even a T.V. Neither had it a phone, as far as I could find.
I must have fallen asleep again, for I awoke to see a great, hairy man sitting on the floor in front of me, shovelling down chili so quickly he almost seemed to be using his hands. I extended a greeting, offering my gratitude for his rescue, but my speech seemed to startle him, and he did not reply.
He stared blankly as I ran through the little Inuit, Russian, even French, I knew but not once did I sense comprehension dawning. He chewed the chili, regarding me as one watches a street performer. After a while, I gave up, huffing a sigh. This excited him, and he began to... well, there's no other word for it; he barked.
Over the next few days, after discovering an old radio and informing race officials and my wife where I was and that I would be back once I knew where I was, we seemed to bond. I was fascinated by him. He hunted like a wolf, with his hands and a kitchen knife, and seemed more comfortable in the snow than in the cabin. He had twelve dogs, a full sled team, and we frequently went on trips to see if I could landmark where we were. He seemed to know the woods as well as another person knows their city.
Meals were many times easier than I had expected; the cellar was full of jars, roots, strange plants, and smoked meat. I can only assume he canned things himself (mushrooms, softer roots, carrots) since some were almost fresh, but the thought of this sasquatch of a man in an apron, boiling jars was a tad strange. I laughed over this image for a while; He danced around me, barking gleefully for awhile. I suspect that while most of my actions confused him (shaving being the most baffling), he understood my mirth.
The fireplace was only ever lit for my benefit. After trips, he would often blow through the door, pursued by the slobbering dogs, leaving it open to the elements. He was so discomfited, whining and roaming, when I closed the door and lit a fire that eventually I compromised; I left the door open, but built a large fire.
The first few days he would sleep where-ever he stopped long enough, but eventually he began to sleep at the foot of the bed I slept in (one I surmise his late parents used).
His most unusual characteristic was that he never spoke. After a while, he began to understand what I intended, but I believed that his vocal cordds had altered so far that they could no longer produce regualr speech. He "talked" to the dogs almost constantly, and seemed to be able to understand their replies. I began, as well, to pick up some of the more simple words, first learning the dog's "names", finally what I believed to be verbs, although the language seemed to contain a large component I could not begin to understand. The most pivotal part, much like the tones in some languages, or the clicks in others, was a series of evocative connective words, conveyed through body language and smells. Frequently in the evening, he would regail the dogs, and sometimes myself when I was quick-witted enough, with tales of his escapades; fighting with a bear, a huge moose he had tracked, when he almost captured an eagle, but fell off a cliff instead. He would often get caught up in the physical retelling of the story, and by the end was visibly winded.
Almost a month after my arrival, I mapped out the final last clues, and uncovered our location relative to everywhere else. I packed my kit, taking enough food to make it home, tried to thank him, and left early one morning.
The trip home was deceptively easy, and by the time I got home, I was breathless with anticipation to be back in civilization. I indulged myself and ate McDonalds (usually forbidden with my racer's diet), sat in the tub for two hours, and held my wife until she insisted that, no really, she had to work in twenty minutes. It took a while to regain my normal life, but regain I did, and finally everything was as usual. Or so I had thought.
I came home from work one day to find him sitting on my lawn, surrounded by his dogs. The camera crews had already been there for a few hours, coaxing him with food, but my wife was still at work. He lept up when he saw me, but I was confused. How the hell had he found me and what did he want?
I invited him in, shooing away the reporters, and fed him while I waited for my wife to return home, so I could consult her in what we should do next.
My life broke when she walked through the door, however.
I brought her into the kitchen, let her sit down, and explained everything to her, my rescue, my months with this man, his disposition, and everything we had been through, that he was not dangerous, and I wondered if she would mind if we let him stay in our basement until he was sufficiently civilized to live in our world, since I believed he keenly wanted to learn our ways, and regain the life he lost to the woods.
"What man?" She asked, slowly.
I laughed, thinking she was giving tacit approval for our new lodger. She wrinkled her perfect brow, and, in our spotless kitchen, surrounded by metal, plastic, warmth, luxury, culture, and easy, she blew away my tiny grip on reality.
"What man are you talking about?"
I could not find him. The dogs were gone. Our yard, spotless. The food I had brought back with me, and saved out of nostalgia, turned out to be rotton, foul, autumn leavings, the kind you scrounge under the snow. I could find no indication that this man ever existed.
I laughed with her, and said it was my little joke. Tried to forget it. Wrote it off as a dream. But now, everyday of my life since, I stare out the window of my 25th story office, and dream of snow, trying desperatly to ignore the blood pounding in my temples, crying out for the thrill of the hunt, the honor of the pack, and the sheer joy of earning a true life.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
I am shamed.
Guilt is something that comes very easily to me. It is second-nature to feel guilty over something even as simple as a perceived social slight I have perpetrated. (I seem especially suceptible to embarassment over lack of social grace) Sometimes this motivates me, other times, not so much.
I had written, or more clearly, begun writing a story about a gentleman with a dog-sled team, while on my usual patrol, when I became aware of a general discomfort within myself. I did not vote this past election. In fact, I have never voted in any election of consequence. This has never bothered me before.
Earlier today, while making coffee, I read the article concerning the recently-deceased trooper Michael Yuki Hayakaze. His story is a tragic one, as all deaths are, but it struck a particular cord within me when it was reported he said (of his tour in Afghanistan)"If I die- obviously I don't want to- I'm OK with it. I'm at peace with everything." This man believed in what he was doing. He believed that Canada was making a difference by being overseas. Believed so strongly in his country that he was willing to give his life for it. In my quest to join the military, I had believed I was willing to do the same; had thought I, too, loved my country. But I'm not even willing to go fill out a piece of paper to help lead the country.
I cannot close my eyes, now, without seeing trooper Hayakaze. He fought for me, for my freedom. I will never be allowed to fight beside people like him, owing to past stupidities, but perhaps I can find a life that is worthy of this man's, and other's, sacrifice; their tremendous gift to me.
I would like, now, to say "Thank you" to Hayakaze, and to all the men and women who fight, in whatever way they can, to promote this country.
It seems rarely said, shadowed by America's massive ego, but it needs, sometimes, to be said,
God Bless Canada.
I had written, or more clearly, begun writing a story about a gentleman with a dog-sled team, while on my usual patrol, when I became aware of a general discomfort within myself. I did not vote this past election. In fact, I have never voted in any election of consequence. This has never bothered me before.
Earlier today, while making coffee, I read the article concerning the recently-deceased trooper Michael Yuki Hayakaze. His story is a tragic one, as all deaths are, but it struck a particular cord within me when it was reported he said (of his tour in Afghanistan)"If I die- obviously I don't want to- I'm OK with it. I'm at peace with everything." This man believed in what he was doing. He believed that Canada was making a difference by being overseas. Believed so strongly in his country that he was willing to give his life for it. In my quest to join the military, I had believed I was willing to do the same; had thought I, too, loved my country. But I'm not even willing to go fill out a piece of paper to help lead the country.
I cannot close my eyes, now, without seeing trooper Hayakaze. He fought for me, for my freedom. I will never be allowed to fight beside people like him, owing to past stupidities, but perhaps I can find a life that is worthy of this man's, and other's, sacrifice; their tremendous gift to me.
I would like, now, to say "Thank you" to Hayakaze, and to all the men and women who fight, in whatever way they can, to promote this country.
It seems rarely said, shadowed by America's massive ego, but it needs, sometimes, to be said,
God Bless Canada.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Conceptual abstract of a wedding
Had I eggs for fingertips, what would it feel like to touch a star- would it feel like laughter? Their singing does not reach inside my shell, so sturdy. But, Hah! I, unprepared, have been transformed. A hole drilled through my top, what was inside has been removed, to be refreshed. So hollowed, I am now an object of great beauty.
Silence! Of your objections, I shall have none. The frequency shakes me to my grit calcium core.
You are chosen to lay testament to this great and noble honesty.
Open inside like great stone cathedrals.
OH! Quake and Fear for the balance of your souls!
Measured on tenderhooks.
But now, claws sheathed in kittendown; Bring to me, for I require, a measure of mirth, with which to see this concluded.
Silence! Of your objections, I shall have none. The frequency shakes me to my grit calcium core.
You are chosen to lay testament to this great and noble honesty.
Open inside like great stone cathedrals.
OH! Quake and Fear for the balance of your souls!
Measured on tenderhooks.
But now, claws sheathed in kittendown; Bring to me, for I require, a measure of mirth, with which to see this concluded.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Star light, star bright.
Sometimes, when I am sitting alone, late at night, music on the crackly radio, my legs fly away from me. It feels like they float up until I can no longer sense where my body is, or in what position. It is wonderful and yet very strange.
I think offlying, then, up through the rafters, to the stars, to dance on the dark heavy clouds, to swing from streetlights, waving to commuters on the long bus ride home.
I think offlying, then, up through the rafters, to the stars, to dance on the dark heavy clouds, to swing from streetlights, waving to commuters on the long bus ride home.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Fiction work #13
I like to stare at people while on the bus. The last time was a woman; tanned skin, dark, curved eyes, and a long nose perfectly accenting her oval face. She seemed of Egyptian descent. I like to imagine her ancestors, a male perhaps, on a reed boat, fanning the Pharaoh, a prestigious position, he stands firmly, proud of where he is. The sun is warm; there has been some excitement in the palace. Some royalty has returned, or so they say. He doesn't follow gossip. Right now there is the feather fan, the thick, lazy, water of the Nile, the opulant, almost nutritious shine of the gold around him, and a man on the bank shouting. He is shouting at Pharaoh; they are debating property in an agitated fashion. The guards take an interest; our man does not, although he notices the wind picks up.
The man wades into the Nile; our man begins to watch as the guards close in, but the man puts his staff in the water and the smell, God, the smell, seeping outwards, like an infected wound, red arms, hands reaching, the smell like when he was six and his father injured his own hand. Everywhere, drowning in the scent, and the blood! Oh Pharaoh, it is blood! The Nile! What shall we do? Save us!
Pharaoh is livid, screams for his priests, flings anything in reach. His guards must walk to the shore, they are soaking in blood. The man has fled. When the priests arrive they bring a bowl of water. I hold it as they call our Gods to work a miracle. The water in the golden basin flushes crimson and my heart soars to know my Gods have not abandoned me. Pharaoh approaches, I can smell his sweat as he dips his hand in, but my soul falls away as I can smell his sweat but no blood. A cheap conjure. I wait for Pharaoh to summon the priests, to flog them, beat them for this deception, this failure, but he does not. He smiles. He is satisfied. His smile breaks my heart. I want to stop, wake up, erase this feverish dream, climb back onto the world I knew only a minute ago. But it goes on. We go home, where pharaoh rests, and I cry to my wife, terrified that the dog-headed god I no longer believe exists will eat my soul for knowing what I know. Now there is only one thing to be done. We pack up a wagon and steal away, four tiny figures on the sand, under the huge white moon. We run until we find a tribe. They know the man I speak of, and of miracles, of his God and of great love. So we make new lives, change, then grow; new children are born, we pass on, more children, they pass, years pass, the children of our children's children move far away, time passes, seasons, years, changes, until here, this moment, where his great-to-the-140th-degree granddaughter sits on a blue bus, saying her rosary, as I watch.
The man wades into the Nile; our man begins to watch as the guards close in, but the man puts his staff in the water and the smell, God, the smell, seeping outwards, like an infected wound, red arms, hands reaching, the smell like when he was six and his father injured his own hand. Everywhere, drowning in the scent, and the blood! Oh Pharaoh, it is blood! The Nile! What shall we do? Save us!
Pharaoh is livid, screams for his priests, flings anything in reach. His guards must walk to the shore, they are soaking in blood. The man has fled. When the priests arrive they bring a bowl of water. I hold it as they call our Gods to work a miracle. The water in the golden basin flushes crimson and my heart soars to know my Gods have not abandoned me. Pharaoh approaches, I can smell his sweat as he dips his hand in, but my soul falls away as I can smell his sweat but no blood. A cheap conjure. I wait for Pharaoh to summon the priests, to flog them, beat them for this deception, this failure, but he does not. He smiles. He is satisfied. His smile breaks my heart. I want to stop, wake up, erase this feverish dream, climb back onto the world I knew only a minute ago. But it goes on. We go home, where pharaoh rests, and I cry to my wife, terrified that the dog-headed god I no longer believe exists will eat my soul for knowing what I know. Now there is only one thing to be done. We pack up a wagon and steal away, four tiny figures on the sand, under the huge white moon. We run until we find a tribe. They know the man I speak of, and of miracles, of his God and of great love. So we make new lives, change, then grow; new children are born, we pass on, more children, they pass, years pass, the children of our children's children move far away, time passes, seasons, years, changes, until here, this moment, where his great-to-the-140th-degree granddaughter sits on a blue bus, saying her rosary, as I watch.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Fiction work # 12
Love, I suppose.
What a strange fancy.
Of family, who knows you so well, knows the weave of your fabric.
Of infatuation, the sudden heady rush of perfectly understanding.
Of friends, gained by degrees through familiarity, respect and deference.
Of an object. I must admit, I love this building. I know it so well, it's doorhandles more familiar to me than my own toes. I think it (he? she?) loves me back; leaves me surprises(pumpkin seeds scattered like perfect sakura petals by the backdoor). How shall it feel, then, when I am excised from it, prised like flesh out of a scapel incison? In my absence the building will change. It will only exist in my heart. Will I still love it? I suspect I shall, in absentia.
But then I shall only love a figment, a memory, a dream of something. Once it is gone, does it matter if it ever existed?
You can probably tell I have an agenda to this thought. I have a crush (Oh, folly!) on a television character (Oh, fate!). I know him as well as any love I've ever had. Whether he knows me or not is irrelevent; he is a conceptual schema. The question is: what's to be done?
He makes me think of rhubarb. The first bite of crisp rhubarb, the tiny grits of sugar, the tart flood, even the tough strings that catch in your teeth. The shape, a smiling mouth, and the color of red, yellowy-green, even the smell, like no other on earth. I remember sitting on the cement steps in front of the house, warmed by the sun, with a safety-orange plastic cup of sugar, long stick of wet rhubarb, and my sister and brother, watching the park. Sometimes we'd just dip it in the sugar, then mangle the end, eating the sugary-rhubarb juice. The last clumps of sugar fused with sour water eaten like Nerds.
Ah, summer. A season of larks.
What a strange fancy.
Of family, who knows you so well, knows the weave of your fabric.
Of infatuation, the sudden heady rush of perfectly understanding.
Of friends, gained by degrees through familiarity, respect and deference.
Of an object. I must admit, I love this building. I know it so well, it's doorhandles more familiar to me than my own toes. I think it (he? she?) loves me back; leaves me surprises(pumpkin seeds scattered like perfect sakura petals by the backdoor). How shall it feel, then, when I am excised from it, prised like flesh out of a scapel incison? In my absence the building will change. It will only exist in my heart. Will I still love it? I suspect I shall, in absentia.
But then I shall only love a figment, a memory, a dream of something. Once it is gone, does it matter if it ever existed?
You can probably tell I have an agenda to this thought. I have a crush (Oh, folly!) on a television character (Oh, fate!). I know him as well as any love I've ever had. Whether he knows me or not is irrelevent; he is a conceptual schema. The question is: what's to be done?
He makes me think of rhubarb. The first bite of crisp rhubarb, the tiny grits of sugar, the tart flood, even the tough strings that catch in your teeth. The shape, a smiling mouth, and the color of red, yellowy-green, even the smell, like no other on earth. I remember sitting on the cement steps in front of the house, warmed by the sun, with a safety-orange plastic cup of sugar, long stick of wet rhubarb, and my sister and brother, watching the park. Sometimes we'd just dip it in the sugar, then mangle the end, eating the sugary-rhubarb juice. The last clumps of sugar fused with sour water eaten like Nerds.
Ah, summer. A season of larks.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
I'll not write another line, for my true love is gone
Well, sorry folks, but I'm phoning it in today. I got nothing. All that is in my head today is "soulja boy", which is not conducive to creative writing. I mean, I have plans for a lot of other writings, but none of them are shiny enough in my head today. I blame my cold.
The only thing, right now, that I could talk on is how hot 99% of policemen are. That and the fact that there is a reflective toaster in the kitchen which scares the piss out of me everytime I walk in and catch a glimpse of some crazed human that looks like me, running loose in the kitchen.
Speaking of phoning it in; in the building there are numerous jars and bags of candy hearts. I like to pick out the white ones to carry around and munch on. Recently I consumed one that said,
"why not"
They should just come out and say it,
"Will you be my last resort?"
Another one is,
"How nice"
That cannot be said in a sincere tone. I've never seen a candy heart so sarcastic; it tasted like resentment.
On a related note, I would like to begin writing opinion pieces, like world politics and stuff. I should probably start reading the newspaper to do this, I guess, since the only thing I read is The Junk, which means I'm authorized to speak on Britany and Lindsay, but not much else. Perhaps research into an area might be helpful...
The only thing, right now, that I could talk on is how hot 99% of policemen are. That and the fact that there is a reflective toaster in the kitchen which scares the piss out of me everytime I walk in and catch a glimpse of some crazed human that looks like me, running loose in the kitchen.
Speaking of phoning it in; in the building there are numerous jars and bags of candy hearts. I like to pick out the white ones to carry around and munch on. Recently I consumed one that said,
"why not"
They should just come out and say it,
"Will you be my last resort?"
Another one is,
"How nice"
That cannot be said in a sincere tone. I've never seen a candy heart so sarcastic; it tasted like resentment.
On a related note, I would like to begin writing opinion pieces, like world politics and stuff. I should probably start reading the newspaper to do this, I guess, since the only thing I read is The Junk, which means I'm authorized to speak on Britany and Lindsay, but not much else. Perhaps research into an area might be helpful...
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Fiction work #11
"Did you ever see such a lazy crew?"
Even without opening my eyes, even through the ubershitty comm sys I can still tell it's my boss. I shuffle in my crunchy overalls just enough to hit the camera button,
"Yo chief, spit it."
"I've gotta report of Pixtees near the Byron system. I'd give it to Nos, 'cause he's closer, but I figure you've been drifting longer and, well, if you die, who's gonna scare the noobs?"
"Don't have to ask me twice, sir, I'm all over it."
"Atta-girl."
It takes a while to flex enough heat into my fingers to push the ignition, but as I do, and life flows into my nerves, I remember what it's like to be human again.
The Byron system (2 stars, 18 planets, one of which is known to be hospitable to pixtees) is about a day's flight from my tie-post, and three from central, but I'm jive with long trips. The interstellar radio runs around that area, so I get the "wookie" music I like.
My tummy rumbles, but a look at my clock shows four more days before I'll eat again. I might stop off at a truckstop and grab a doughnut. True, we don't have to eat since we found the pixtees, but some folks like to. It's a dying hobby though; too messy, too frivolous, too organic. The pixtees changed all that. Showed us a better way. We only eat once a month now, a typically quite ritualized affair (for those not on the fringe, like my coworkers and me). World hunger solved in a fortnight (five years if you count the mandatory testing done by the government). So sated, humanity turned its collective mind towards more lofty activities. Light speed transport was achieved two years later; World peace a year after that. Most diseases were eradicated that same year. Then, bored of problem solving, we looked for challenges. Music, art, literature: All flourished. Music became the first universal language; Art, its written form. Literature became a lifestyle, then a philosophy, then a religion. I cannot even begin to detail the progress made in philosophy itself. Suffice to say, a philosophical certainty was found, and it was just the beginning. We became a happy, fulfilled society. Blessed, if you will.
Blessed by the pixtees, some believe. They are believed to be saviors, perhaps our original gods. Some believe them to be created by another God, solely to love and care for us. They are our greatest liberators, and our greatest struggle. Some believe they are holy, too holy to be eaten, so they refuse to. They are getting fewer as the alterior food sources dwindle.
I land planetside roughly since my company is too ruttin cheap to pay for good landing fans. After checking the outside temperature (-30) I throw on my overall and helmet. The cold is uncomfortable, but not lethal, since we met the pixtees. After walking a bit, I come across a healthy village of them. I can see the genders right away; the women have long frizzy hair, the men are bald, and the neuters have long clumps of hair. The heirarchy becomes apparent after a short while. The deeper blue ones are younger, less responsible. The eldest is almost pearly white. I can see some of the family units, little flickers of electricity in minature igloos.
Soon they start to notice me. Tiny temors of excitment pass from one to another through the peeps that they use, we think, as language. Then, almost as one, they run.
I hate this part.
They clutch my pantleg, race up my shirt, diving, clamoring, in a frenzied euphoria. Some so excited they bang against my glass helmet, trying to get in my mouth. Their tiny mouths slobbering on my fishbowl. I don't even need to carry them back. They curl up in my pockets, my cuffs, my elbows, or my neckband. The initial party usually fades, and they nap like puppies, but once they see the shuttle, they perk up again.
Inside, they leap off, sitting in a campfire-like circle on the floor. Some sing, some talk, but mostly they wait. Some research has been done into how they know what they know; it's mostly private and heavily regulated. A sort of old-fashioned "don't ask, don't tell". Perhaps ignorance is bliss.
I remember my first time. I ate him live. Just opened my mouth and popped him in. I expected a crunch, a squish, anything really, but he dissolved in a heart-rending fashion. I cried for days. How unglorious an end for such a noble creature, who gave it's life for me.
I am sure there is something wrong. But for the life of me I can't figure out what.
****
Special thanks to the McAskiles for getting me the book that inspired this! (The pig who wants to be eaten)
Even without opening my eyes, even through the ubershitty comm sys I can still tell it's my boss. I shuffle in my crunchy overalls just enough to hit the camera button,
"Yo chief, spit it."
"I've gotta report of Pixtees near the Byron system. I'd give it to Nos, 'cause he's closer, but I figure you've been drifting longer and, well, if you die, who's gonna scare the noobs?"
"Don't have to ask me twice, sir, I'm all over it."
"Atta-girl."
It takes a while to flex enough heat into my fingers to push the ignition, but as I do, and life flows into my nerves, I remember what it's like to be human again.
The Byron system (2 stars, 18 planets, one of which is known to be hospitable to pixtees) is about a day's flight from my tie-post, and three from central, but I'm jive with long trips. The interstellar radio runs around that area, so I get the "wookie" music I like.
My tummy rumbles, but a look at my clock shows four more days before I'll eat again. I might stop off at a truckstop and grab a doughnut. True, we don't have to eat since we found the pixtees, but some folks like to. It's a dying hobby though; too messy, too frivolous, too organic. The pixtees changed all that. Showed us a better way. We only eat once a month now, a typically quite ritualized affair (for those not on the fringe, like my coworkers and me). World hunger solved in a fortnight (five years if you count the mandatory testing done by the government). So sated, humanity turned its collective mind towards more lofty activities. Light speed transport was achieved two years later; World peace a year after that. Most diseases were eradicated that same year. Then, bored of problem solving, we looked for challenges. Music, art, literature: All flourished. Music became the first universal language; Art, its written form. Literature became a lifestyle, then a philosophy, then a religion. I cannot even begin to detail the progress made in philosophy itself. Suffice to say, a philosophical certainty was found, and it was just the beginning. We became a happy, fulfilled society. Blessed, if you will.
Blessed by the pixtees, some believe. They are believed to be saviors, perhaps our original gods. Some believe them to be created by another God, solely to love and care for us. They are our greatest liberators, and our greatest struggle. Some believe they are holy, too holy to be eaten, so they refuse to. They are getting fewer as the alterior food sources dwindle.
I land planetside roughly since my company is too ruttin cheap to pay for good landing fans. After checking the outside temperature (-30) I throw on my overall and helmet. The cold is uncomfortable, but not lethal, since we met the pixtees. After walking a bit, I come across a healthy village of them. I can see the genders right away; the women have long frizzy hair, the men are bald, and the neuters have long clumps of hair. The heirarchy becomes apparent after a short while. The deeper blue ones are younger, less responsible. The eldest is almost pearly white. I can see some of the family units, little flickers of electricity in minature igloos.
Soon they start to notice me. Tiny temors of excitment pass from one to another through the peeps that they use, we think, as language. Then, almost as one, they run.
I hate this part.
They clutch my pantleg, race up my shirt, diving, clamoring, in a frenzied euphoria. Some so excited they bang against my glass helmet, trying to get in my mouth. Their tiny mouths slobbering on my fishbowl. I don't even need to carry them back. They curl up in my pockets, my cuffs, my elbows, or my neckband. The initial party usually fades, and they nap like puppies, but once they see the shuttle, they perk up again.
Inside, they leap off, sitting in a campfire-like circle on the floor. Some sing, some talk, but mostly they wait. Some research has been done into how they know what they know; it's mostly private and heavily regulated. A sort of old-fashioned "don't ask, don't tell". Perhaps ignorance is bliss.
I remember my first time. I ate him live. Just opened my mouth and popped him in. I expected a crunch, a squish, anything really, but he dissolved in a heart-rending fashion. I cried for days. How unglorious an end for such a noble creature, who gave it's life for me.
I am sure there is something wrong. But for the life of me I can't figure out what.
****
Special thanks to the McAskiles for getting me the book that inspired this! (The pig who wants to be eaten)
Friday, February 22, 2008
Nomadic day #3
I have done it now. Through my hubris I have doomed us all. Last night, before our horrified gazes, a hideous red demon, impossibly huge, blocked out the moon. We remained calm, we are a hearty tribe, but our collective face was ashen as we turned to the elders. They insist it is the white witch summoning evil servants to raze our world, say we must capture her at any cost now before all is lost. I do not know what it was, but I am sure the witch is not summoning anything. She would not be able to fit it into her busy schedule; sleep for twelve hours, complain about my feet for four, pick her nose for three.
In silence my people weep, and I have seen the tribe return to a more chaste time. Objects of vanity or frivolity have been sacrificed. More beans have been burnt this season then on any other since my birth (another unusual tale). More cattle than we can almost afford have been slain to draw the beast; hunters laying in the shadows, bows tensed for the kill. Some of the more extreme zealots have begun eyeing the virgins. Something must change soon, or we will all perish.
Through all of this, I drift. Praised for my inner strength and serenity, I remain modest while knowing it is denial and shock. Why can I not abandon her? I am sure it is in failing the tribe that some God is punishing me; I expect to hear the flap of horrific wings at any moment as the red destroyer comes to pay me for my stupidity and weakness. My world comes apart at the seams: chaos, fear, hopelessness. We have all become gaunt from lack of nutrition; most of the food is sacrificed, and the little we can consume is rarely kept down. I chew bread as through it is wool. Lifelong friends have betrayed each other, snarl and fight over nothing. How quickly our peaceful world is uprooted. Then I return to her, to the little camp I make for us, and she gabbles about her flatulence, and the turmoil is a dream. These periods of respite make the guilt upon my return many times worse.
Finally, so stressed that my courses cease altogether, I seek out my scholar to confess to him. He is entirely calm as I speak, unsurprisingly, asking few questions, and only to clarify. I finish and we sit reflectively.
Abruptly, with speed that surprises even myself, he whips salt in my eyes, leaps on me, and attempts an exorcism. He believes me possesed. As fast as he is, and as blind as I am, he is no match for a trained warrior and I soon have him pinned to the ground while I sob the grains from my ravaged eyes.
When the haze clears enough to see, the orange of the fire highlights the trails my tears have made down his face. He exhales my name so softly, yet my shoulders shake with the resonance. I release his arm and he cups my face lovingly, murmuring apologies, insisting he wanted to see if I could kill him, promising that it's over now, that everything will be fine. I headbutt him. How dare he! Now of all times, when I needed his strength, and his trust in my strength. I am furious enough to leave, let him puzzle when he wakes up, wondering if it was a dream, but I cannot leave him. The fire is low, so I tend it while he wakes.
The moon. My skyward mother. Her cold radience unlike anything else. I feel that she was shining extra brightly to warn us of danger the night my world exploded. To show the demon as he flew by her.
My scholar is sleeping now, and I am grateful. He sleeps little enough, but with this crisis he is likely to be up at all hours, transcribing heiroglyphics, people begging him to interprete the prophecies therein, in the hopes of finding an even keel, a foothold, in this calamity.
Even now I am a mortal woman, for instead of thinking of ways to defeat the undefeatable, I focus on how his breath makes tiny swirls in the plainsdust. I do love him. If we could be forever, I would gladly be. Yet, I know as the daughter of a chieftan, heir to the tribe-head, I never could. He would be killed in a heartbeat. I wonder if he knows this. I think he does. Yet, his strength today has surpised me. Larger men then him have fallen in combat to me; he held his own, at least for a while. Perhaps he is not as hopeless as I thought...
I vow to think on it when I return to the cart. The witch has a distressing ability to pick out my thoughts, and comment on them. I find myself desiring her advice. Perhaps she can shed some light on this demon, as well. I am terrified that the only recourse of action will be to sacrifice myself to this living retribution. The punishment is fitting enough, but there is so much undone. The question remains; what is to be done with her?
In silence my people weep, and I have seen the tribe return to a more chaste time. Objects of vanity or frivolity have been sacrificed. More beans have been burnt this season then on any other since my birth (another unusual tale). More cattle than we can almost afford have been slain to draw the beast; hunters laying in the shadows, bows tensed for the kill. Some of the more extreme zealots have begun eyeing the virgins. Something must change soon, or we will all perish.
Through all of this, I drift. Praised for my inner strength and serenity, I remain modest while knowing it is denial and shock. Why can I not abandon her? I am sure it is in failing the tribe that some God is punishing me; I expect to hear the flap of horrific wings at any moment as the red destroyer comes to pay me for my stupidity and weakness. My world comes apart at the seams: chaos, fear, hopelessness. We have all become gaunt from lack of nutrition; most of the food is sacrificed, and the little we can consume is rarely kept down. I chew bread as through it is wool. Lifelong friends have betrayed each other, snarl and fight over nothing. How quickly our peaceful world is uprooted. Then I return to her, to the little camp I make for us, and she gabbles about her flatulence, and the turmoil is a dream. These periods of respite make the guilt upon my return many times worse.
Finally, so stressed that my courses cease altogether, I seek out my scholar to confess to him. He is entirely calm as I speak, unsurprisingly, asking few questions, and only to clarify. I finish and we sit reflectively.
Abruptly, with speed that surprises even myself, he whips salt in my eyes, leaps on me, and attempts an exorcism. He believes me possesed. As fast as he is, and as blind as I am, he is no match for a trained warrior and I soon have him pinned to the ground while I sob the grains from my ravaged eyes.
When the haze clears enough to see, the orange of the fire highlights the trails my tears have made down his face. He exhales my name so softly, yet my shoulders shake with the resonance. I release his arm and he cups my face lovingly, murmuring apologies, insisting he wanted to see if I could kill him, promising that it's over now, that everything will be fine. I headbutt him. How dare he! Now of all times, when I needed his strength, and his trust in my strength. I am furious enough to leave, let him puzzle when he wakes up, wondering if it was a dream, but I cannot leave him. The fire is low, so I tend it while he wakes.
The moon. My skyward mother. Her cold radience unlike anything else. I feel that she was shining extra brightly to warn us of danger the night my world exploded. To show the demon as he flew by her.
My scholar is sleeping now, and I am grateful. He sleeps little enough, but with this crisis he is likely to be up at all hours, transcribing heiroglyphics, people begging him to interprete the prophecies therein, in the hopes of finding an even keel, a foothold, in this calamity.
Even now I am a mortal woman, for instead of thinking of ways to defeat the undefeatable, I focus on how his breath makes tiny swirls in the plainsdust. I do love him. If we could be forever, I would gladly be. Yet, I know as the daughter of a chieftan, heir to the tribe-head, I never could. He would be killed in a heartbeat. I wonder if he knows this. I think he does. Yet, his strength today has surpised me. Larger men then him have fallen in combat to me; he held his own, at least for a while. Perhaps he is not as hopeless as I thought...
I vow to think on it when I return to the cart. The witch has a distressing ability to pick out my thoughts, and comment on them. I find myself desiring her advice. Perhaps she can shed some light on this demon, as well. I am terrified that the only recourse of action will be to sacrifice myself to this living retribution. The punishment is fitting enough, but there is so much undone. The question remains; what is to be done with her?
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Fiction work # 10
I never wanted to cause trouble. It all began out of convenience; He was always there for me. Always considerate, always calm; The perfect gentleman. Over the years I fell for him. I would say, "Who could blame me?" but as the judge calls for order in the court I realize, everyone. I have become the spearhead, unwillingly, of this political movement. People say I'm the next Rosa Parks. How? She fought. She chose the harder path to make things better for people. I'm just taking the path of least difficulty. So tired of dating and relationships, I'm loving the one that I know, can prove, loves me back. Perfectly.
So now, here we sit. Together, before a "jury of my peers", until they decide whether I will be commited and him, killed, or not. Outside this mahogany chunk of history-in-the-making, it is June, the year 2032. If I can remember this year in my old age, I shall remember it as the year I toilet-trained the cat, and finally grew a perfect African Violet in my windowbox. How could laws and rulings possible matter compared to the tiny daily triumphs? Compare to the way he sillouettes in the sun?
Everyday I wake up next to him, expecting people to have finally come to their senses. Then this madness, the strikes, the protests, the fighting, will be all over. Then it'll be just me and him.
I used to just run a bakery and bookstore. A place to cosy up with a scone and some Twain. Now I'm a lawyer, philosopher, demagoge, and a celebrity. I had an interview with People magazine last week. They wanted to know if I'd ever had a sexual attraction to my oven,
"It's so hot!". Are they crazy? I'd never cheat on Toby that way.
"What's it like, being the first woman to love a robot?" Well, I doubt I'm the first. I'm just the first who tried to marry one. She smiled a disgustingly toothy grin,
"Whatever." Some people just don't understand. I'm not sure I do. Is it a crime if no-one is hurt? If I can love my cat, can't I love him? Some people argue I can love him, just not marry him. I just want to show that I love him, will always love him, and won't ever love another.
"But it's not a him." Now you're just arguing semantics. Call him whatever. 'The entity'.
"They're interchangable. Do you love all Tobico Mark 553's?" (She grins, thinking she's got me. Foolishly believing, like my naiive morning self, that this will wash all the trouble away, nice and pat. But she's bringing a knife to a cannon fight. This is a battle of ideologies, and I've had to field tougher questions than this.)
Of course not. I only love Toby. I know him by sight, sound, or feel.
The court tested that. Lined up hundreds of mark 553s. Made me look through them. Blindfolded me and had them speak. I always found him. On test number twelve I looked for two hours. He wasn't in the group. They thought they were clever.
They keep asking to reboot him. Wipe his RAM clean and see if he still loves me on restart. I ask if I can induce amnesia in their wives.
Other scientists downloaded his code, to study. Some of it was leaked to the public. Supporters buy T-shirts with segments on it. Some even get tattoos. The most beautiful was my name mingled into a line of code, tracing a flower. I would get it done, but I don't want people to think I'm doing this for publicity. Tobico has already capitalized on the fallout. Their new tagline is, "Robots you could fall in love with." I hear sales have septupled. We are a lonely species.
Scrapeing chairs bring me back to the present where the jury has finished deliberating this "ground-breaking case". Toby's big hand engulfs mine and I realize I am shaking. All this fuss. I want to stop everything and just explain to them. I just want a little piece of paper and a ring. They don't understand. I wish I could show them how it feels to have someone by your side 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, caring for you, selflessly. I don't want to be a precedent. I just want to go home, reheat my buffalo stew, watch the news, and go to bed; and I want to do it all with him.
So now, here we sit. Together, before a "jury of my peers", until they decide whether I will be commited and him, killed, or not. Outside this mahogany chunk of history-in-the-making, it is June, the year 2032. If I can remember this year in my old age, I shall remember it as the year I toilet-trained the cat, and finally grew a perfect African Violet in my windowbox. How could laws and rulings possible matter compared to the tiny daily triumphs? Compare to the way he sillouettes in the sun?
Everyday I wake up next to him, expecting people to have finally come to their senses. Then this madness, the strikes, the protests, the fighting, will be all over. Then it'll be just me and him.
I used to just run a bakery and bookstore. A place to cosy up with a scone and some Twain. Now I'm a lawyer, philosopher, demagoge, and a celebrity. I had an interview with People magazine last week. They wanted to know if I'd ever had a sexual attraction to my oven,
"It's so hot!". Are they crazy? I'd never cheat on Toby that way.
"What's it like, being the first woman to love a robot?" Well, I doubt I'm the first. I'm just the first who tried to marry one. She smiled a disgustingly toothy grin,
"Whatever." Some people just don't understand. I'm not sure I do. Is it a crime if no-one is hurt? If I can love my cat, can't I love him? Some people argue I can love him, just not marry him. I just want to show that I love him, will always love him, and won't ever love another.
"But it's not a him." Now you're just arguing semantics. Call him whatever. 'The entity'.
"They're interchangable. Do you love all Tobico Mark 553's?" (She grins, thinking she's got me. Foolishly believing, like my naiive morning self, that this will wash all the trouble away, nice and pat. But she's bringing a knife to a cannon fight. This is a battle of ideologies, and I've had to field tougher questions than this.)
Of course not. I only love Toby. I know him by sight, sound, or feel.
The court tested that. Lined up hundreds of mark 553s. Made me look through them. Blindfolded me and had them speak. I always found him. On test number twelve I looked for two hours. He wasn't in the group. They thought they were clever.
They keep asking to reboot him. Wipe his RAM clean and see if he still loves me on restart. I ask if I can induce amnesia in their wives.
Other scientists downloaded his code, to study. Some of it was leaked to the public. Supporters buy T-shirts with segments on it. Some even get tattoos. The most beautiful was my name mingled into a line of code, tracing a flower. I would get it done, but I don't want people to think I'm doing this for publicity. Tobico has already capitalized on the fallout. Their new tagline is, "Robots you could fall in love with." I hear sales have septupled. We are a lonely species.
Scrapeing chairs bring me back to the present where the jury has finished deliberating this "ground-breaking case". Toby's big hand engulfs mine and I realize I am shaking. All this fuss. I want to stop everything and just explain to them. I just want a little piece of paper and a ring. They don't understand. I wish I could show them how it feels to have someone by your side 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, caring for you, selflessly. I don't want to be a precedent. I just want to go home, reheat my buffalo stew, watch the news, and go to bed; and I want to do it all with him.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Big 'ol list of essential comics
Hey everybody!
These are the lists of what I consider to be “damn good reads”.
I’ve broken them into several groups and rated them.
Ta-Da
Gogogo
Love, Michelle
p.s. for actual physical reads the main one I would recommend is “Transmetropolitan”. So awesome.
Intelligent reads (1 being least difficult, 10 being most)
10. http://www.templaraz.com/
9. http://dresdencodak.com/index.html
8. http://thinkingapeblues.com/archive.php?comic=0
7. http://xkcd.com/
6. http://www.comics.com/comics/frazz/
5. http://www.sinfest.net
4. http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php
3. http://www.webcomicsnation.com/justinpie/wonderella/series.php?view=archive&chapter=12046
Plot-driven reads
10. http://www.sluggy.com
9. http://www.girlgeniusonline.com
8. http://www.moderntales.com/comics/shilongpang.php?view=archive&chapter=12949
7. http://www.itswalky.com/d/19970908.html
6.http://www.lackadaisycats.com/archive.php
5. http://www.lfgcomic.com
4. http://www.samandfuzzy.com/archive.php?comicID=99
3. http://www.uglyhill.com/index.html
Inappropriate (for reasons of sex, violence, or yuk)
10. http://www.thezombiehunters.com
9. http://www.jaynaylor.com/betterdays/archives/2003/04/post-2.html
8. http://www.leasticoulddo.com
7. http://www.blastwavecomic.com/
6. http://drmcninja.com/archive.html
5. http://www.butternutsquash.net/2003/04/16/meet-da-punks/
4. http://nobodyscores.loosenutstudio.com/index.php?id=4
3. http://www.sugarboukas.com/PD
2. http://www.kawaiinot.com/?p=1
Geeky
10. http://www.megatokyo.com/strip/1
9. http://www.ctrlaltdel-online.com/comic.php?d=20021023
8. http://www.secretlivesofmobs.com/index.php?strip_id=1
7. http://www.vgcats.com/comics/?strip_id=0
6. http://www.gpf-comics.com/d/19981102.html
5.http://www.somethingpositive.net/sp12192001.shtml
4. http://icanhascheezburger.com/
These are the lists of what I consider to be “damn good reads”.
I’ve broken them into several groups and rated them.
Ta-Da
Gogogo
Love, Michelle
p.s. for actual physical reads the main one I would recommend is “Transmetropolitan”. So awesome.
Intelligent reads (1 being least difficult, 10 being most)
10. http://www.templaraz.com/
9. http://dresdencodak.com/index.html
8. http://thinkingapeblues.com/archive.php?comic=0
7. http://xkcd.com/
6. http://www.comics.com/comics/frazz/
5. http://www.sinfest.net
4. http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php
3. http://www.webcomicsnation.com/justinpie/wonderella/series.php?view=archive&chapter=12046
Plot-driven reads
10. http://www.sluggy.com
9. http://www.girlgeniusonline.com
8. http://www.moderntales.com/comics/shilongpang.php?view=archive&chapter=12949
7. http://www.itswalky.com/d/19970908.html
6.http://www.lackadaisycats.com/archive.php
5. http://www.lfgcomic.com
4. http://www.samandfuzzy.com/archive.php?comicID=99
3. http://www.uglyhill.com/index.html
Inappropriate (for reasons of sex, violence, or yuk)
10. http://www.thezombiehunters.com
9. http://www.jaynaylor.com/betterdays/archives/2003/04/post-2.html
8. http://www.leasticoulddo.com
7. http://www.blastwavecomic.com/
6. http://drmcninja.com/archive.html
5. http://www.butternutsquash.net/2003/04/16/meet-da-punks/
4. http://nobodyscores.loosenutstudio.com/index.php?id=4
3. http://www.sugarboukas.com/PD
2. http://www.kawaiinot.com/?p=1
Geeky
10. http://www.megatokyo.com/strip/1
9. http://www.ctrlaltdel-online.com/comic.php?d=20021023
8. http://www.secretlivesofmobs.com/index.php?strip_id=1
7. http://www.vgcats.com/comics/?strip_id=0
6. http://www.gpf-comics.com/d/19981102.html
5.http://www.somethingpositive.net/sp12192001.shtml
4. http://icanhascheezburger.com/
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Noir fiction # 4
Well, it's been six months and the closest I've got? It's big.
Big enough for me to get my nose broke.
Big enough for my lady to leave me.
Big enough that I almost don't care.
Almost.
I've moved my office to the Pink Peri for the night, and the only thing that keeps me from chargin' out the door to blindly bust heads is the Piano guy. He's a friend of mine, and plays the Vaudeville I like.
I lite up to go with my scotch and he glances in my direction. I know he hates it, but damnit, tonight's a night for vices. He doesn't say anything, but I sense a tinge of disapproval in his A sharp.
Yah. He's that good.
I guess everything's forgiven later 'cause he sidles up to the bar to chat during his break. Orders a cranberry juice. He plays like an angel for a bunch of lowlife port rats; 'Man. what are you doin' here?'
We sit in silence. He always waits.
"She's gone. Finally had enough." There's really nothing else to say. He exhales slowly; He's gearing up to ask a question when a piece of dark-haired marzipan in a red sequin sashays up,
"Hey, ya big lug. Play me somethin'?" I wanna tell her to take a walk, but the look on his face stops me. I guess I owe him for the smoke.
Halfway though the song, she drapes herself on the piano, and I catch a glimpse of her thigh. A parrot tattoo. That ain't good. My buddy's looking at her like he looks at a piece of music. That's worse.
I finish my scotch, top up his juice, and with one last look at his face, hit the streets again.
God ain't heard from me in a while, but we talked that night. Let her just really like birds. Failing that, help me be faster then whatever's going down. A good man like that doesn't deserve this mess. Big guy must have been tuned into my channel 'cause I caught a tail around peach street. Something was wrong though. I could have lost this man taking a dump. Nobody was dumb enough to send a bad tail after me. What were they playing at?
I ducked around a corner and waited. Once his head was under my arm, I leaned on him. He sang like a fat, ugly, canary. What are they teaching kids these days? Before I could ask the name of his boss, though, I heard the very nasty harmonic of a big chunk of lead.
Then I caught a break.
Several, in fact.
As I lay in the gutter, bleeding gently, I consoled myself by saying at least they had to dry clean their suits now.
Yah. I'm that good.
Big enough for me to get my nose broke.
Big enough for my lady to leave me.
Big enough that I almost don't care.
Almost.
I've moved my office to the Pink Peri for the night, and the only thing that keeps me from chargin' out the door to blindly bust heads is the Piano guy. He's a friend of mine, and plays the Vaudeville I like.
I lite up to go with my scotch and he glances in my direction. I know he hates it, but damnit, tonight's a night for vices. He doesn't say anything, but I sense a tinge of disapproval in his A sharp.
Yah. He's that good.
I guess everything's forgiven later 'cause he sidles up to the bar to chat during his break. Orders a cranberry juice. He plays like an angel for a bunch of lowlife port rats; 'Man. what are you doin' here?'
We sit in silence. He always waits.
"She's gone. Finally had enough." There's really nothing else to say. He exhales slowly; He's gearing up to ask a question when a piece of dark-haired marzipan in a red sequin sashays up,
"Hey, ya big lug. Play me somethin'?" I wanna tell her to take a walk, but the look on his face stops me. I guess I owe him for the smoke.
Halfway though the song, she drapes herself on the piano, and I catch a glimpse of her thigh. A parrot tattoo. That ain't good. My buddy's looking at her like he looks at a piece of music. That's worse.
I finish my scotch, top up his juice, and with one last look at his face, hit the streets again.
God ain't heard from me in a while, but we talked that night. Let her just really like birds. Failing that, help me be faster then whatever's going down. A good man like that doesn't deserve this mess. Big guy must have been tuned into my channel 'cause I caught a tail around peach street. Something was wrong though. I could have lost this man taking a dump. Nobody was dumb enough to send a bad tail after me. What were they playing at?
I ducked around a corner and waited. Once his head was under my arm, I leaned on him. He sang like a fat, ugly, canary. What are they teaching kids these days? Before I could ask the name of his boss, though, I heard the very nasty harmonic of a big chunk of lead.
Then I caught a break.
Several, in fact.
As I lay in the gutter, bleeding gently, I consoled myself by saying at least they had to dry clean their suits now.
Yah. I'm that good.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Fiction work #9
Monstrous Black machines
in a vase on the counter
three red roses sigh
When the doctor showed me the scans, I laughed. What else could I do?
I am not a sensitive woman. When I was 7, I knew I wanted to be a professional welder. My barbie house became disassembled and baked with a woodcarver for a practice run. I never wanted a horse, but I did want a chariot to ride, like the gladiators. Now, here I am. One of the top welders in the country, and I have no idea what is going on inside my heart.
The first time something was odd, I was looking at my foreman. He's a great, hulking giant of a man, with a very dry sense of humor, but he's quick with his hands, and can weld an end-to-end like you wouldn't believe. He's helped me out of a few tougher spots, mostly cause he can tell when I'm pushing myself too hard, and lends a shoulder when I'm trying to hold two pieces together, and the welder at the same time. He brings heinekens to poker night. When he's bluffing, he sniffs a lot. Anyway, it was half past 9, and we'd all paused for a doughnut break (We do at the same time, so we can divvy them up proper, and no-one's fighting for the chocolate one) As we headed back, I turned around to see him standing at the counter, washing his hands (We're all careful about that. You don't wanna be eating what you're touching). My heart jiggled. I mean it lurched. Heaved, maybe. I was gonna sit down cause I thought maybe I'd taken a wiff of gas or something, when he looked at me, and I thought I was gonna die. My chest felt just the same as it did the first time I finished my first solo underwater weld. Hot and tight-like. He caught me staring, and asked what the matter was. I stammered. I never stammer. He said I was all red and sweaty; gave me the day off, thinking I had caught something.
My blue covers hid my head for the rest of the day as I teared up thinking of him being all caring and sweet. This was so inconvenient! How could I be in love? At my time of life? Good Grief.
I avoided him for weeks, though it was hard.
The next time was even more strange. I was standing in line at the grocery store, buying bread and ham, staring at the tabeloids, when I caught the eye of the cashier. He was a young thing, maybe 20's, but to me, he seemed like the whole world. His eyes were huge, and laughing, I wanted to run with him every morning, take him to the gym and help his scrawny arms. I'd never even seen him before, but I wanted to be with him for the rest of our lives. After paying, I fled back home, wondering if the 40-odd years of romantic repression had finally caught up to me.
By the third time it happened (Some poor schmuk on the bus who read a Bronte novel and asked the time), I knew something was going on. I began to change my diet. Nothing. My sleeping patterns? A fail. I began to consider menopause, when I began getting headaches. When I fainted in the park on my morning jog, I finally gave in and went to see the sawbones. (I hadn't been to a doctor in years). After a series of tests, he gave me a big, grave sheet of paper and asked me to get an MRI scan.
The results were obvious, I had a neurological disorder that overloaded my Amygdala, causing me to feel intense emotion at random times. It was unusual that it was just the feeling of being in love, since these disorders "usually cause a Global effect, on all emotions", but otherwise, a textbook case. He wrote me up a little prescription and merrily sent me on my way, pleased to have wrapped up such an interesting case.
So now, here I sit, on my bed, staring at the paper with my "cure" on it. I still have my shoes on, I could leave, walk down the street, pick up the medicine, and be started on it by tonight... but maybe, maybe I'll leave it until tomorrow...
in a vase on the counter
three red roses sigh
When the doctor showed me the scans, I laughed. What else could I do?
I am not a sensitive woman. When I was 7, I knew I wanted to be a professional welder. My barbie house became disassembled and baked with a woodcarver for a practice run. I never wanted a horse, but I did want a chariot to ride, like the gladiators. Now, here I am. One of the top welders in the country, and I have no idea what is going on inside my heart.
The first time something was odd, I was looking at my foreman. He's a great, hulking giant of a man, with a very dry sense of humor, but he's quick with his hands, and can weld an end-to-end like you wouldn't believe. He's helped me out of a few tougher spots, mostly cause he can tell when I'm pushing myself too hard, and lends a shoulder when I'm trying to hold two pieces together, and the welder at the same time. He brings heinekens to poker night. When he's bluffing, he sniffs a lot. Anyway, it was half past 9, and we'd all paused for a doughnut break (We do at the same time, so we can divvy them up proper, and no-one's fighting for the chocolate one) As we headed back, I turned around to see him standing at the counter, washing his hands (We're all careful about that. You don't wanna be eating what you're touching). My heart jiggled. I mean it lurched. Heaved, maybe. I was gonna sit down cause I thought maybe I'd taken a wiff of gas or something, when he looked at me, and I thought I was gonna die. My chest felt just the same as it did the first time I finished my first solo underwater weld. Hot and tight-like. He caught me staring, and asked what the matter was. I stammered. I never stammer. He said I was all red and sweaty; gave me the day off, thinking I had caught something.
My blue covers hid my head for the rest of the day as I teared up thinking of him being all caring and sweet. This was so inconvenient! How could I be in love? At my time of life? Good Grief.
I avoided him for weeks, though it was hard.
The next time was even more strange. I was standing in line at the grocery store, buying bread and ham, staring at the tabeloids, when I caught the eye of the cashier. He was a young thing, maybe 20's, but to me, he seemed like the whole world. His eyes were huge, and laughing, I wanted to run with him every morning, take him to the gym and help his scrawny arms. I'd never even seen him before, but I wanted to be with him for the rest of our lives. After paying, I fled back home, wondering if the 40-odd years of romantic repression had finally caught up to me.
By the third time it happened (Some poor schmuk on the bus who read a Bronte novel and asked the time), I knew something was going on. I began to change my diet. Nothing. My sleeping patterns? A fail. I began to consider menopause, when I began getting headaches. When I fainted in the park on my morning jog, I finally gave in and went to see the sawbones. (I hadn't been to a doctor in years). After a series of tests, he gave me a big, grave sheet of paper and asked me to get an MRI scan.
The results were obvious, I had a neurological disorder that overloaded my Amygdala, causing me to feel intense emotion at random times. It was unusual that it was just the feeling of being in love, since these disorders "usually cause a Global effect, on all emotions", but otherwise, a textbook case. He wrote me up a little prescription and merrily sent me on my way, pleased to have wrapped up such an interesting case.
So now, here I sit, on my bed, staring at the paper with my "cure" on it. I still have my shoes on, I could leave, walk down the street, pick up the medicine, and be started on it by tonight... but maybe, maybe I'll leave it until tomorrow...
Thursday, February 14, 2008
A different kind of love
When I was little, I remember staring out my frosty window at the white-blue rimmed lights illuminating the park across the snow-filled streets. We didn't have police in our town, only the RCMP. This didn't mean anything until a little while ago. Just another building block of the small town mind. The federal presence means they felt so close, lived next door, but so far away, working for some impossibly old institution, trained by the books that used to tell how to skin beavers. Unavailability. I hoard things because I don't know if I can find them again elsewhere. I always can, but I feel anxiety. A lack of options. I feel this has plagued me. To show partiality is to eliminate options, options I feel are scarce enough. However, too many options is just as bad. I am not equipped to deal with that either. With this mind, however, comes a sense of "make-do", adapt what you can. Waste is an indulgence, a flighty luxury.
But enough. For it is of the town itself I wish to think of. To nail down it's form before it is tread on by the hobnailed boots of progress and revolution. To truly feel the town, love it as one loves their murderer, you must start with a western movie set. the flat-front buildings, the dirt and grime, antiquity, age, and slow-moving inevitablity. Begin to age this set with the 50's. The "New and Improved, Space Age!" signs. Then snow all over it.
Now add a dash of virginian coal mines; thick black smoke, grease caked machines, hard men. Then, in a flight of fancy, turn H.R. Geiger loose, naked, with a few huge coils of telephone wire.
Snow on it again.
Take this monstrosity and stuff it into a Vegas show-girl costume.
Last, age it 60 years, and put it on a 10 pack a day, 24 beer a day habit.
Ah! Home sweet home.
It is in the woods surrounding this aged mess (including my lovely family domicile) that my heart truly hides. A painting by Ansel Adams, a haven of hush, punctuated by raven's cooing or playful cawing. A delicious labrynth of crisp white, brimming with subtle hints of wildlife.
I recall a day, my dad and I were snowmobileing with out mutt, Einstein, when we turned a corner and stopped. Childish oblivious, I hopped off, watching the trees sway with snow. I'm not sure what was first, seeing the dog looking at the pack or my dad gesturing time to go, but my spine dawned slowly on what we were seeing. The stood a trail away, regarding us, but the dog's tail indicated he believed fun was to be had with them. We hopped on the sled, entreating him to follow us to cookies, which he did, but the memory persists.
We've had other such life, moose and deer in the backyard and enough "bears" to put a serious dent in the house's brownie population, but I've never hesitated to wander through the woods alone. They recognize my heart as a child of it's own, born in it's hospital, never far from it's aspens, though I may foolishly roam.
I may act like a city girl, but my insides are all country, and I have always known that I will go back there, someday.
****
Happy Feast of St. Valentine's!
For anyone interested, I plan to celebrate in the traditional way! (Dragging myself into the street to be martyred, canonized, and eventually turned into a symbol of sustained decreased oxygen to the brain. Huzzah!)
But enough. For it is of the town itself I wish to think of. To nail down it's form before it is tread on by the hobnailed boots of progress and revolution. To truly feel the town, love it as one loves their murderer, you must start with a western movie set. the flat-front buildings, the dirt and grime, antiquity, age, and slow-moving inevitablity. Begin to age this set with the 50's. The "New and Improved, Space Age!" signs. Then snow all over it.
Now add a dash of virginian coal mines; thick black smoke, grease caked machines, hard men. Then, in a flight of fancy, turn H.R. Geiger loose, naked, with a few huge coils of telephone wire.
Snow on it again.
Take this monstrosity and stuff it into a Vegas show-girl costume.
Last, age it 60 years, and put it on a 10 pack a day, 24 beer a day habit.
Ah! Home sweet home.
It is in the woods surrounding this aged mess (including my lovely family domicile) that my heart truly hides. A painting by Ansel Adams, a haven of hush, punctuated by raven's cooing or playful cawing. A delicious labrynth of crisp white, brimming with subtle hints of wildlife.
I recall a day, my dad and I were snowmobileing with out mutt, Einstein, when we turned a corner and stopped. Childish oblivious, I hopped off, watching the trees sway with snow. I'm not sure what was first, seeing the dog looking at the pack or my dad gesturing time to go, but my spine dawned slowly on what we were seeing. The stood a trail away, regarding us, but the dog's tail indicated he believed fun was to be had with them. We hopped on the sled, entreating him to follow us to cookies, which he did, but the memory persists.
We've had other such life, moose and deer in the backyard and enough "bears" to put a serious dent in the house's brownie population, but I've never hesitated to wander through the woods alone. They recognize my heart as a child of it's own, born in it's hospital, never far from it's aspens, though I may foolishly roam.
I may act like a city girl, but my insides are all country, and I have always known that I will go back there, someday.
****
Happy Feast of St. Valentine's!
For anyone interested, I plan to celebrate in the traditional way! (Dragging myself into the street to be martyred, canonized, and eventually turned into a symbol of sustained decreased oxygen to the brain. Huzzah!)
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Goals, goals, goals (Which are good? Which are bad?)
I've deliberatly focused on goals that are not achievable by purchasing something. This is to replace one I made when I was much younger that included some more difficult ones like, "See a uincorn". Which, incidentally, I still have not achieved.
1. Run a 4 minute mile
2. Do a single chin-up
3. Bench-press my own weight, 3 X 5 reps
4. Obtain my F.A.C
5. Learn Klingon
6. Drive a motorcyle
7. Earn my brown belt in Kung fu
8. Squat my own weight, 3 X 5 reps
9. See a major city in China
10. See Bath/ Cork/ Dublin
11. Play "Le Valise D'Amelie" on the piano
12. Submit a piece of writing to be published
13. Participate in a marathon
14. Achieve armored/ mobile patrol position
1. Run a 4 minute mile
2. Do a single chin-up
3. Bench-press my own weight, 3 X 5 reps
4. Obtain my F.A.C
5. Learn Klingon
6. Drive a motorcyle
7. Earn my brown belt in Kung fu
8. Squat my own weight, 3 X 5 reps
9. See a major city in China
10. See Bath/ Cork/ Dublin
11. Play "Le Valise D'Amelie" on the piano
12. Submit a piece of writing to be published
13. Participate in a marathon
14. Achieve armored/ mobile patrol position
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