hail, arcadia

the flickers and lights
the way of the moon in a glass of water
virtues and disasters collected in a box of fallen leaves
murky white marble sculpted into a gossamer and a mystery
feel the wind blow.

black edges on the coattails of evening
accents of tarnished silver
riverbanks paved in starlight
men slain and dancing in the thickets
the horn, the talon, the heated blood –
dew from the night gilds the dead branches
and mortality lasts until the next prey.

feasts and frolics are lethal
and bound in long-prepared spontaneity
with copper coins spilling round and round
carrying messages from gold to silver and back
joust and turn, cast and cavort
playing within the hooked nets of whimsy
hearing the soft wails of melody.

pages cut like fields of steel grasses
dandelion letters on the zephyrs bounding
piercing pens drip bloody ink in fountains
and the leaves are gashed with erasures of complete existences
libraries made of primal dreams whose very steps
smoke with bloody execution.

Read Full Post »

pro tempore

there comes a time
in every life
for glee or horror
there comes a time

there comes a time
our movements change
and in an instant
there comes a time

there comes a time
control is lost
fate spins us round
there comes a time

there comes a time
of joy in pain
of death and night
of stark amazement
of terrible passions
of surprising unity
of justified conflict
of solitary shame
of strange coincidence
of untamed love
of blue-hued sadness
of guiltless anger
of grace and glory
of all things to all
of the unknowable, unthinkable, unspeakable, unfathomable life we bear
there comes a time

Read Full Post »

The Immortals

The wind whistling through the rooftops overhead swept down and sent her hair flying back over her shoulders, framing her eyes in a shifting storm of brown strands. “I can’t wait,” she smiled. “Graduation and then off to Montreal. It’s going to be fantastic.”

I nodded, keeping the puzzle out of my own eyes, letting her enjoy the moment. My fist clenched behind my back, a grim ball of emotion that would emerge later. It really was wonderful – for her.

–

My feet pounded the pavement, the buildings moving through the corner of my eye. I knew I was late; far, far too late. Not that I could have done anything about it. Brian was gone, as surely as if he’d shot himself. I didn’t miss him yet, of course. That would come later, when his empty parking space hit me the next morning like a solitary raindrop. You know how it is – it’s so small a thing, but your whole attention is drawn to it for a split second of surprise.

–

“So what now?”

He didn’t raise his eyes. “I don’t know. Seriously, I don’t. It’s the end of the road. Game over. I can’t see anything beyond it.” I shrugged, trying to remain sympathetic. Just like his older sister, Jase tended to over dramatize everything. Hundreds, maybe thousands of other college students found themselves in the same situation every year and recovered.

“Come on, get over yourself.”

The words came out so suddenly that for a moment I was terrified they had sprung from my own mouth. Luckily, it was The Axle who had won the prize for tactlessness this time.

–

Four gravestones, each with their own story, each with the same story. I turned and left, eyes firmly fixed on the grassy carpet laid out for my feet. I knew, of course, that I was part of their deaths, and that in my case the story had only been delayed. At the moment, though, I was still one of the Immortals.

The trees swayed overhead as I left the cemetery. I clamped a hand down over my hood to keep it from blowing off. Trees never care. They don’t know how.

Read Full Post »

Morale

The room shook as the shelling increased; a muffled thumping that showered dust from the beams and sandbagged walls. The incandescent lights dimmed for a moment before returning to their normal brightness, which was only just enough to read by. Bent figures either sat motionless or scurried purposefully throughout the small bunker. The air was a musty mix that smelt of powder, weak coffee, sweat, and ink. The scrubbers were running at a mere hum; today, at least, there was no threat of chemical attack. Phones rang occasionally, peaking over the dull clatter of typewriters and presses. Radio jockeys and phone operators sat in rows, routing communication efficiently to other rooms and installations.

A heavy door squealed open, revealing a stocky figure in a very impressive, very grimy uniform. Sentries snapped to attention immediately and were waved back to their posts as the officer strode into the bunker. He growled angrily to himself, chewing on the stubby cigar that protruded from his mouth. Seizing a passing secretary by the wrist, the officer  snapped out a demand.

“Where in all this cursed mess is Lieutenant Harker?”

Wordlessly, the woman pointed to a metal-bound door that stood mostly ajar. The veteran nodded and puffed out a cloud of smoke as he stamped toward it, acknowledging the hurried salutes around him with an absent wave of the hand. Shouldering the door open, the officer stopped short at the sight of a lean young man bent over a typewriter, dark eyes flashing over a stack of penciled notes. He looked up at the sound of the door and sprang up as though his chair had become sopping wet.

“General Mikailov!”

Snapping a quick salute, the Lieutenant moved around the desk to greet his superior. Mikailov stuck out an arm as though it held a pistol and shook hands with all the gentility of a linebacker. “Harker,” he growled, “We have a problem.” Lieutenant Nathan Harker nodded briefly and immediately began waiting for the general to finish.

“Morale is low, Harker, very low,” Mikailov continued as he moved to take the only seat in the room, which was the one that the Lieutenant had just vacated. The general did not think the chair was even slightly damp — not that it would have bothered him anyway, as generals usually sit wherever they please. “This is not my problem. I tell the men to go where they should, and they had better do it. Low morale makes them think they can refuse orders. Low morale makes them sluggish. Do you know why there is low morale in my army? Do you, Harker?”

Harker did not respond quickly. Quick responses meant that one might accidentally answer a rhetorical question, which was a very bad thing to do when talking to a general. There was a short silence, which did not bother either man very much. Harker opened his mouth and let the words he had carefully prepared over the past three days come out.

“Sir – it’s to be expected. Three years ago we were attacked by an unknown enemy on all fronts. The discovery that there was both an unknown lifeform living miles under our feet and that it wanted nothing more than to kill every human on Earth was an understandable shock to us all. Not only was the attack a complete surprise, but the affinity these creatures have for technology demanded that we erase almost seventy years of innovation just to deny them access to our command systems. Sir, it’s hard for a soldier to reconcile himself to fight a war with equipment that last saw service in the 1940s, and -”

The fist pounded the desk, sending papers sliding to the floor. A shell exploded overhead, punctuating the moment with another shower of dirt. “Enough with the history lesson, Lieutenant! I don’t need explanations, I need answers! The Division of  Communications and Propaganda was formed to keep morale up, not to catalogue past problems.”

Harker nodded. “Sir, I believe the men need something different,” he replied. “The Council of Sixes has ordered we publish material on traditional values – freedom, family, patriotism – all of which are universally appealing, philosophically abstract, and absolutely worthless. Freedom doesn’t dig a foxhole, family never took a bullet for a friend, and patriotism can’t block a flood of charging enemies. The men need something to relate to. They need a leader who isn’t in a bunker issuing orders or spouting platitudes over the airwaves. They need a hero. Of course, those are in short supply these days. I’m afraid you can’t… make a hero. Sir.” Harker’s eyes watched the general closely, waiting for the coming response.

Fingers drumming on the desktop, Mikailov glared at the man who stood opposite him. Eyes gleaming, his mouth twisted into a grin. “That’s where you’re wrong, Harker. We can make a hero. You’ll make one in your paper. Call him whatever you like; who cares if he’s real or not? Make up stories –  it won’t be the first time you’ve had to. Give the men something they can aspire to. Make him gritty. Make him tough. Make him smart. Make him real. Understand?”

Harker bent down to scribble in his notebook, hiding a smile. “Yes, sir.” He kept dashing off notes, penciling down his ideas as they flowed. “I’ll call him – call him Sergeant Matthew Hopkins.  No, Matthew Howell. He’ll be a… a rifleman. A common soldier; bit of the sniper in him. He’ll have enough problems to make him believable. No saint-on-the-battlefield stuff here.”

Mikailov rose, nodding sharply. “See? It’s not that hard. Don’t make me do your job for you next time.” The general stopped at the door and looked back at the young officer who was still scribbling in the notebook. “Well? How many kills does Sergeant Howell have?” Harker didn’t even pause. “Thirteen, sir. He’s only been at the front for nine days.”

General Mikailov walked onto the lift. His aide saluted quickly. The general nodded vaguely. “Good man, that Harker. Runs with an idea – once he’s given it. Probably be useless on the lines, but a good man nonetheless.” His aide nodded. “Yes, sir.”

As the door closed, Lieutenant Harker smiled wryly. Crumpling his notes, he tossed them aside and pulled out a box of printed flyers. The headline was in large block type.

S^GT. HOWELL KILLS 13 – A NEW HERO IN THE WAR.

Harker looked at the papers with a smile. “I was already waiting for you, General.” Shutting the box, he pulled a worn coat, rifle, and backpack out of a nearby locker. Dropping his tags in the desk drawer, Harker glanced at the sergeant chevrons on his coat and walked to the back lift. He slipped another set of dogtags over his head and checked his weapon. Evening light began to filter through the roof as the lift rose. Howell smiled as the sound of gunfire grew louder. Number fourteen was waiting for him.

Read Full Post »

Lawbreakers

Zeke scratched his neck. The itch felt seated deep in his spine, and no amount of prodding had relieved the annoyance. His fingers wandered over the keyboard as the hacker began to review the security code for his intrusion countermeasures. Every day, Zeke had run similar diagnostics to ensure that the government had made no intrusions into Lawbreaker networks.

Several miles away, in a secured facility on the other side of the city, a light began to blink on a bank of computer servers, and technicians in neckties scrambled wildly to their workstations. Commands were shouted and code began to stream across wireless networks.

With a shudder, Zeke slid from his chair and sprawled on the floor. His eyelids blinked rapidly as his jaw worked open and shut a few times before he lay still. At the base of his brain stem, a small robotic implant flexed its tiny cathodes and began burrowing toward certain key neural clusters. It vibrated rapidly, sending electrical pulses along the bio-tissues, playing the synapses like a concert cellist. Zeke sat up slowly and straightened his shirt, grimacing at the grease stains left by his last meal. He dialed the telephone and waited.

One of the neckties across the city put a hand to his earpiece. “He’s coming on the line now, sir!”

Director Harford nodded and picked up his telephone. “Hello?”

Zeke’s body smiled. “Agent Hyde, reporting for duty, sir.”

Read Full Post »

ineo

Have you ever experienced that little burst of inspiration when an idea hits your brain, ripe with potential? For me, it’s like a flash of brilliance, as though I’ve been showered with a bit of genius that might become something wonderful. Terry Pratchett’s explanation strikes me as very accurate, in a metaphorical sense: “Little particles of inspiration sleet through the universe all the time traveling through the densest matter in the same way that a neutrino passes through a candyfloss haystack, and most of them miss.”

I want to put down in writing the ones that don’t miss.

I’ve written bits and pieces of poetry, started fictions that have sometimes been finished and sometimes haven’t, experienced day-to-day things that have been far more meaningful than anticipated, and made the occasional film that was probably contemptible to most but very significant to me.

Also, I’ve found amazing stories in books, in movies, in songs, in advertisements, in video games, and in overheard scraps of conversation.

So here is the place that I’d like to catalogue the candlesparks, those glimpses of creativity that could probably be so much more.

Read Full Post »