"Nice of you to invite us," President Stone said.
The Earth cracked in half.
"We are fleas on the surface of an egg to them," Le'Fer'Tel'Bo said as wings unfurled from the dust of the shattered globe. "No species we've encountered can tell us what they are, and as far as any can tell they don't even acknowledge anything smaller than a star."
The wings beat the solar wind, and rippled in the star field.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Night of Nights
You have them.
They echo in your head, your mind. That Night.
You remember the one, you danced/kissed/made love with Her/Him.
Or you were the spotlight, not the one in it, of it, the total focus of your friends even if you weren't because that is how you remember it.
Or the aligning of all, the perfect juxtaposition of brother/sisterhood.
R had a got an invitation to play with B, a veritable old man of the song and rhyme, of the blues, straight Delta rhythm.
An aside, the blues scale is simple, but subtly complex since it limits the range of the sax, the instrument R played.
He invited me, and being a failure at social interaction I followed.
It promised to be a wide departure from the usual Phoenix scene at any rate.
We arrived at the bar, and I went for the usual liter of Amberbock.
J was working that night, since R's choice in bars was mainly ruled by his second head, and had followed her after she had left our usual haunt.
This time it had led him into this opportunity.
The opportunity to play with B.
I was hardly immune to J.
I was hard thinking of J.
It was the typical condition brought about by an vibrant, unreachable, Teutonic goddess.
And I was fine that I was only a friend, since she was fun to talk with.
I didn't care, because J had just brought me another beer.
R was waiting, suddenly timid.
He could be that way.
"Get up there," I said, attempting to psychically transfer my liquid courage.
He finally did.
They played.
J brought me another drink.
On her, unasked.
A full pint glass and mini pitcher of Miller Lite.
They were out of liter mugs.
R began to play.
Riffing off of the scale allowed.
He was in his Thing.
I envy him, his musical talent, his world I'll never know.
It is safe envy, the envy of one friend to another.
People began to dance, white people dancing which is quite possibly the most hilarious thing in the universe, but we don't care.
I didn't care.
Because after the mug and pitcher of horrible beer, I was going to dance with J.
The song was slow, and the night wasn't for slow songs, it was a night for fast, wild abandon.
She came back, joked, and I stood up.
I didn't care she had a boyfriend.
I didn't care she was leaving town in a few weeks.
All I cared about was tonight, her incredulous but happy laugh as she took my hand.
And we danced as R played.
I spun her around, and she stopped for a moment.
"I don't want to stab you," she said, which is a good indication of at the very least friendship, as she ran over and tossed the pen in her hand on a nearby table, and returned.
And we danced again.
Easily the most beautiful woman in the bar, and I was dancing with her as she laughed without contempt, a broad smile on her face.
And R was playing with an old master of the blues, preaching his gospel of the blues scale while I spun J around again.
And it was a Night of Nights.
They echo in your head, your mind. That Night.
You remember the one, you danced/kissed/made love with Her/Him.
Or you were the spotlight, not the one in it, of it, the total focus of your friends even if you weren't because that is how you remember it.
Or the aligning of all, the perfect juxtaposition of brother/sisterhood.
R had a got an invitation to play with B, a veritable old man of the song and rhyme, of the blues, straight Delta rhythm.
An aside, the blues scale is simple, but subtly complex since it limits the range of the sax, the instrument R played.
He invited me, and being a failure at social interaction I followed.
It promised to be a wide departure from the usual Phoenix scene at any rate.
We arrived at the bar, and I went for the usual liter of Amberbock.
J was working that night, since R's choice in bars was mainly ruled by his second head, and had followed her after she had left our usual haunt.
This time it had led him into this opportunity.
The opportunity to play with B.
I was hardly immune to J.
I was hard thinking of J.
It was the typical condition brought about by an vibrant, unreachable, Teutonic goddess.
And I was fine that I was only a friend, since she was fun to talk with.
I didn't care, because J had just brought me another beer.
R was waiting, suddenly timid.
He could be that way.
"Get up there," I said, attempting to psychically transfer my liquid courage.
He finally did.
They played.
J brought me another drink.
On her, unasked.
A full pint glass and mini pitcher of Miller Lite.
They were out of liter mugs.
R began to play.
Riffing off of the scale allowed.
He was in his Thing.
I envy him, his musical talent, his world I'll never know.
It is safe envy, the envy of one friend to another.
People began to dance, white people dancing which is quite possibly the most hilarious thing in the universe, but we don't care.
I didn't care.
Because after the mug and pitcher of horrible beer, I was going to dance with J.
The song was slow, and the night wasn't for slow songs, it was a night for fast, wild abandon.
She came back, joked, and I stood up.
I didn't care she had a boyfriend.
I didn't care she was leaving town in a few weeks.
All I cared about was tonight, her incredulous but happy laugh as she took my hand.
And we danced as R played.
I spun her around, and she stopped for a moment.
"I don't want to stab you," she said, which is a good indication of at the very least friendship, as she ran over and tossed the pen in her hand on a nearby table, and returned.
And we danced again.
Easily the most beautiful woman in the bar, and I was dancing with her as she laughed without contempt, a broad smile on her face.
And R was playing with an old master of the blues, preaching his gospel of the blues scale while I spun J around again.
And it was a Night of Nights.
Monday, July 20, 2009
A standard plot device
"I wish you types would come across the desert at more opportune times," the bureaucrat said. He was aware of how horrid his occupation was to spell for writers, that mishmash of vowels thrown together by the French to annoy the British after the Normans conquered them. Being British, or at least part Welsh, it pained him to have to remember it.
"What would be a good time?" the boy asked. He eyed the man sitting behind the desk with suspicion. More so because the desk was sitting at least a quarter of a mile from any distinguishing objects on the empty plain. He was annoyed he had not simply angled a few degrees in either direction when Sisyphus and he had headed away from the former's mountain.
"Any time besides this. I'm very busy. Well, you're here," the man behind the desk said, "so you're going to have to fill these out." He handed a thick ream of triplicate to each of them.
"I can't read this," Sisyphus said.
"Are you illiterate?"
"No, it's just that the last thing I read was archaic Greek, at least I think that's what you would call it. I'm not sure what these funny marks are, but I can't read them."
The man sighed. He was not even deserving of a name besides "ungodly-word-no-one-can-spell behind the desk", yet here he was forced to interact with named characters, at least in Sisyphus' case. "Do you speak Spanish?"
"No, what's that?"
"I have modern Greek," the man said with a raised eyebrow.
Sisyphus examined the proffered sheets. "Hmm. Phoenician. Close enough." He became engaged with the act of rapid scribbling across the paper.
"What's this word?" the boy asked the man who was becoming rather flustered.
"'Institutional'."
"What's that mean?"
"It means... wait, are you a minor?"
"What's that mean?"
"It means, it means that you are underage." A blank stare. "Too young."
"Too young for what?"
"To fill out these forms. Is this man your parent or legal guardian?" Sisyphus and the boy, having quickly picked up the pattern, glanced at each other and nodded. "Well, then he is the only one who has to fill out these forms."
"In that case we are done," Sisyphus said as he handed the forms back to the man.
"Really?" The man behind-oh fuck it. He was surprised. Usually it took quite some time to fill out all the forms required. "In that case, proceed."
The two walked a ways beyond the desk in the middle of the desert before the boy asked in a conspiratorial whisper, "What where the forms all about?"
"I have no idea," Sisyphus said. "I can't read a word of Phoenician beyond 'lavatory' and 'brothel'."
"Then how did you fill them out?"
"I doubt he can either."
"What would be a good time?" the boy asked. He eyed the man sitting behind the desk with suspicion. More so because the desk was sitting at least a quarter of a mile from any distinguishing objects on the empty plain. He was annoyed he had not simply angled a few degrees in either direction when Sisyphus and he had headed away from the former's mountain.
"Any time besides this. I'm very busy. Well, you're here," the man behind the desk said, "so you're going to have to fill these out." He handed a thick ream of triplicate to each of them.
"I can't read this," Sisyphus said.
"Are you illiterate?"
"No, it's just that the last thing I read was archaic Greek, at least I think that's what you would call it. I'm not sure what these funny marks are, but I can't read them."
The man sighed. He was not even deserving of a name besides "ungodly-word-no-one-can-spell behind the desk", yet here he was forced to interact with named characters, at least in Sisyphus' case. "Do you speak Spanish?"
"No, what's that?"
"I have modern Greek," the man said with a raised eyebrow.
Sisyphus examined the proffered sheets. "Hmm. Phoenician. Close enough." He became engaged with the act of rapid scribbling across the paper.
"What's this word?" the boy asked the man who was becoming rather flustered.
"'Institutional'."
"What's that mean?"
"It means... wait, are you a minor?"
"What's that mean?"
"It means, it means that you are underage." A blank stare. "Too young."
"Too young for what?"
"To fill out these forms. Is this man your parent or legal guardian?" Sisyphus and the boy, having quickly picked up the pattern, glanced at each other and nodded. "Well, then he is the only one who has to fill out these forms."
"In that case we are done," Sisyphus said as he handed the forms back to the man.
"Really?" The man behind-oh fuck it. He was surprised. Usually it took quite some time to fill out all the forms required. "In that case, proceed."
The two walked a ways beyond the desk in the middle of the desert before the boy asked in a conspiratorial whisper, "What where the forms all about?"
"I have no idea," Sisyphus said. "I can't read a word of Phoenician beyond 'lavatory' and 'brothel'."
"Then how did you fill them out?"
"I doubt he can either."
Monday, July 13, 2009
Blatant Antagonist
The Lord of Snakes followed the boy across the endless plain.
He knew where the boy was heading, which was odd since the boy didn't know himself. So sure he was of the boy's intentions he strode with ease, even whistling a little ditty to himself. Serpents, rattlers and the like, paid him homage as he trod, yet he paid his good and faithful servants no mind except to occasionally crush a bowed head into the dirt with glee. He giggled as their tiny skulls crunch-squished into the desert dust.
"Hisssss," they cried as he passed.
He stuck out his forked tongue in acknowledgment, and stepped on another.
He knew where the boy was heading, which was odd since the boy didn't know himself. So sure he was of the boy's intentions he strode with ease, even whistling a little ditty to himself. Serpents, rattlers and the like, paid him homage as he trod, yet he paid his good and faithful servants no mind except to occasionally crush a bowed head into the dirt with glee. He giggled as their tiny skulls crunch-squished into the desert dust.
"Hisssss," they cried as he passed.
He stuck out his forked tongue in acknowledgment, and stepped on another.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
the boy and Sisyphus
The boy walked across the open plain, dust trailing, and came upon a mesa. As he rested in the shade of a nearby boulder he observed a man pushing a large rock up a dry wash that led up the mount. The man was obviously struggling, and it seemed that...
...Yes, he lost the rock, and it came back down the slope, the man following behind, tumbling end over end, having lost his balance at the same time he lost his grip. With a shudder the rock came to a rest against the boulder the boy was resting under, enraptured by the tableau of man against gravity. The man gave a rather audible sigh, and brushing his knees off, sauntered over to the rock. He gave a nod to the boy.
"What are you doing?" the boy asked.
"Why I'm trying to roll this boulder to the top of this mountain," the man replied, giving the boy a look as if this was strangest thing anyone had ever asked of him.
"Why?'
"Because I... you know, I'm not quite sure why. Do you know?" The boy, having just arrived in the vicinity, shook his head. "Well, that's odd, I can't imagine why I'd want to keep doing this." He sat down next to the boy, who proffered his canteen. The man took it and drank long, with ferocity. Water trailed down his neck as he suddenly remembered that he needed it, and he gripped the canteen tightly as he chugged as if it would be the first in and the last for a long time.
...Yes, he lost the rock, and it came back down the slope, the man following behind, tumbling end over end, having lost his balance at the same time he lost his grip. With a shudder the rock came to a rest against the boulder the boy was resting under, enraptured by the tableau of man against gravity. The man gave a rather audible sigh, and brushing his knees off, sauntered over to the rock. He gave a nod to the boy.
"What are you doing?" the boy asked.
"Why I'm trying to roll this boulder to the top of this mountain," the man replied, giving the boy a look as if this was strangest thing anyone had ever asked of him.
"Why?'
"Because I... you know, I'm not quite sure why. Do you know?" The boy, having just arrived in the vicinity, shook his head. "Well, that's odd, I can't imagine why I'd want to keep doing this." He sat down next to the boy, who proffered his canteen. The man took it and drank long, with ferocity. Water trailed down his neck as he suddenly remembered that he needed it, and he gripped the canteen tightly as he chugged as if it would be the first in and the last for a long time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
