The End

You were made of gold,
wrapped in blankets made of steel and dreams.
Now you are cold.
Toxin seeps out of your splitting seams.
I sucked it out.
I drank as deeply as you bade.
Now I don't doubt,
it was a poison that you made.

It is the end
and I'm trying to remember
where I spent
my last 10 million heartbeats.
Don't pretend
that tomorrow is a promise.
I can't lend
my breath to you anymore.
 
When did I become
the mask you wear to hide your grin?
Well, was it fun?
Did you enjoy it as you broke me in?
You made me glow.
Our fire warmed your bed at night.
But fires grow
into a blaze I could not fight.

Your raging tides have rubbed me thin.
I cannot hold your madness in.
Soon you will be a memory.
I wish you health and agony.

It is the end
and I'm trying to forget
where I have spent
my last 10 million heartbeats.
Don't pretend
that tomorrow is a promise.
I won't lend
my breath to you anymore.

Nightmare Fandom

I was watching VHS tapes of shows that David Tennant had been in. My sister was there at first, but eventually she went to bed and I was left alone with the tapes. When I ran out of videos, I started to make up stories in my head about Tennant. I imagined if I were to run into him in an elevator, start talking, just get the chance to geek out with him. As I ruminated, I glanced out the window. Tennant stared back at me. I jumped, knocking over the remote, which accidentally turned the TV off. The Tennant through the window disappeared, and I realized he'd just been a reflection. I went back to my fantasies and eventually fell asleep.

I spent much of the next day lying about and continuing my mental movie, building a fictional friendship with an actor I'd never met. I asked my sister if she thought I was taking the fantasy too far, but she assured me that as long as I could tell real from imaginary, there wasn't anything to worry about.

Late that night, I got up from my bed to use the bathroom. As I walked down the hall, I caught a glimpse of someone standing in an open doorway. I froze. Before I could decide what to do, a passing car's high beams shined through the window, illuminating the doorway to reveal empty space. I continued to the bathroom. As the florescent lights flickered into life, I passed the mirror. For a moment, I could have sworn my reflection was replaced with someone else's. He did not look happy.

Unnerved, I did my business and hurried back to bed. I kept my eyes down while passing the doorway again, but I couldn't keep from glancing behind me before entering my room. A thin man strode down the hallway towards me. I rushed into my room, closed the door, and locked it. I took a breath, convincing myself that it was just shadows...and that the lock was secure.

"You shouldn't make up stories." I wheeled around to see David Tennant standing across from me, face grim. "They might not like the way you tell them."

Dream Engineering

I was having a fairly standard dream. Tyrion Lannister is on the run from some King's Guard jerks while his squire is disguised as a Vestal virgin, but the guards hear someone might be hiding in the virgins' ranks, so the priests line them up in short skirts so that a man with a cross literally built around his loins to prevent them from stirring or whatever is allowed to hobble past and guess if they're actually women by the sight of their legs, since no one else is allowed to see any more. Normal stuff, right?

The squire passes inspection (I think the cross guy let him pass because he took pity on him), and he sneaks off to try and find Tyrion who has become completely lost in a labyrinthine palace. Before he can find his master though, a stranger appears and pushes Tyrion through a secret door just before some guards come around the corner. This door, it turns out, leads to the secret sanctum of a steam-punk order that's been hiding from the rest of Westeros for decades.

The most prominent object in their collection of doodads is what I remember best, though alas not well enough to reconstruct. Imagine a loom whose pattern is "programmable". By tying the strings that raise the  heddles to various overhead gears powered by a crank, the order of  of their activation is determined. However, instead of the heddles lifting and lowering the warp threads, they shifted plates to create a track along which an arm traveled. Attached to the arm was a feather quill. In short, it was a purely mechanical handwriting printer.

After that, I kind of ignored the rest of the stuff with Tyrion. I'm sure the stranger introduced himself or something, but I was just staring at the gorgeous machine before me. The dream then shifted into the far future where the machine had been placed into a museum, and my sister promised to let me play with it for the rest of the day if I helped her give a tour to a group of rambunctious children.

I did my duty, but did I get to spend an afternoon programming the machine as promised? No! I got to turn the crank one measly time before some emergency with swords and cultural insensitivity got in the way.

Bloodbath (To the Tune of Moondance)

 Well it’s a marvelous night for a bloodbath

With the stars and the rage in your eyes

A fantabulous night to carve a path

Through undead as their screams fill the skies.

Oh all these idiot zombies are milling

Round our city with limbs still attached.

And I’m trying to waken that chilling

 Lust for blood that in you is unmatched.

And all the night’s magic seems to whisper and hum

And all the soft moonlight seems to shine off your gun.

Can I just make one more bloodbath with you, my love?

Can I just let loose all my wrath with a-you, my love?

Well I wanna go slay with you tonight

We can’t wait ‘til the morning has come.

And I know that the time is just right

And straight into the fray you will run.

And when you come my axe will be waiting

To make sure those that walkers stay down.

There and then all my dreams will come true, dear

There and then we will rescue the town.

And every time I end one you just tremble inside

And I know how much you hate them that you can’t hide

Can I just make one more bloodbath with you, my love?

Can I just let loose all my wrath with a-you, my love?

[original melody and lyrics by Van Morrison]

Dream Log 59: Alternate History

King Russel and Queen Elia of an unnamed land set off to tour the entirety of their kingdom, a journey held every three years to remind lords and peasants alike whom they served. Both royals sat a horse rather than take a palanquin. Honestly, the king would have preferred sitting in some shade and reviewing reports, but the queen refused to dismount. He could not concede his discomfort. Eventually they made camp beside a watch tower. The royals and their personal guards claimed the tower itself. A wild cat wandered in amidst the tents and soon had half the guards swearing fealty to His Fluffiness.

Meanwhile, a green hued child in little more than rags slipped through the shadows towards the tower. Her dirt crusted fingers and toes wormed into cracks in the wall, hoisting her upwards. In seconds, she'd clambered through a narrow window. Below her lay the king and queen's sleeping forms, each on opposite sides of the chamber. She crept towards the king. Crouching beside him, she unwound the bandage about her right foot revealing a cracked and oozing ulcer. The urchin squeezed a drop of pus onto the king. She then crept once more into the shadows.

Russel awoke to the buzzing of manure fatted flies. Shia had already left their pallet to patch the leaks their cottage roof had sprung the night before. He hauled himself up, grabbed a chunk of bread just soft enough to chew, and hobbled to his flock. By noon, Shia arrived with victuals.

"The king comes today," she announced. He drank from the flask she handed him. "His men will take our sheep, feast upon them, and praise our generosity while we starve."

"Would you rather they kill us for denying them their due?"

"I would rather you had made them ill as I suggested. No knight would eat a diseased lamb. We would loose fewer to illness and only the poorest rather than the best of them."

"I will not sicken my flock.."

"An yet you continue to sicken me." She grabbed the flask from his hands and marched off.

"Some things never change," said a voice to Russel's right. Turning, he saw a man wrapped in white cloth and leaning against a boulder.

"Who are you?"

"I am the angel Q, and I have come to save your from your pitiful existence."

"How can I know you speak the truth? Where are your wings?" Russel readied his staff.

"Oh fine, if you need a demonstration..." Q pointed to the nearest sheep and pointed upwards. The animal floated off the ground, squirming and baaing in protest. Russel's eyes widened. He then dropped to his knees before the celestial being.

"What does the lord require of me?"

"Oh, only that you fix the timeline, restoring yourself to the throne so that I can get out of this hellhole of a pocket reality. Just follow me and this should be simple." Before Russel could respond, Q had wrapped an arm around him and sent them flying through the air. "Now, where were you born?"

"Um...my mother bore me near the watch tower." No sooner had he spoken than Q altered course. They landed before the structure in seconds.

"Now then," Q muttered as he circled the tower base, "if future me in the past does as present me intends to do in the future, then the key to saving past us from our present predicament should present itself here."

"I...am not a learned man."

"Of course not, you're mortal. Hello!" he crouched before a stone marked with a strange symbol. Russel leaned forward as the angel shimmied the block loose. "What did I say? Here, I'll read it out to you."

The jynxiot will come with the new king. Don't look at the cat. He's a trap.

"What means this? Timelines? Cat traps? What do I have to do with any of this?"

"Oh, you're more boring than Picard. It's simple. You were king. A jyn...a witch cast a spell on you that made a new world where you were a poor shepherd. In the old world, you ceased to have ever existed. I happened to be traveling through time when it happened and got stuck in this new, fake, tiny world. You know it will only exist as long as you're alive? A mere 48 years! Lucky for us, the witch will show up when this world's king does. We just have to force her to break the spell and we'll be free to go our separate ways."

Russel knew more questions would yield no clearer answers. Instead, he agreed to meet the angel at this same place when the king had made camp. That evening, he set off while strangers slaughtered his sheep. He girded himself against their wails with thoughts of kingship. Entering the camp proved surprisingly easy. Most of its inhabitants had gathered in a ring to marvel at some spectacle or another. Shouts of "His Fluffiness" punctuated the air. When he reached the tower base, Q appeared beside him. The silence stretched into minutes, then to an hour when Q pointed a finger and dashed into the darkness. Following behind, Russel soon made out a shape in the shadows hovering a foot off the ground. The shape resolved into a green-skinned girl.

Q hissed in a language entirely foreign to Russel. The child hissed and spat back. After a few more retorts, the angel took hold of Russel and pushed him beside the floating figure. She unbound her left foot midair, exposing a white-pussed sore on one toe. Before Russel could resist, she flicked the pus upon his face. The world swam before his eyes. When the dizziness passed, he found himself within the tower and dressed in a fine cotton nightshirt. Q crouched beside him while the green girl skittered up a wall and vanished.

"If I were you," God's messenger snorted, "I'd work on my marriage. Wives with jynxiot friends can really ruin your day. If you'll excuse me, I have a message to carve into some stone some couple decades ago."

Dream Log 58: Madness is Catching

Where am I, and how do I leave? I have been asking myself this since I awoke. I had gone to bed in my own room, trying to ignore the party downstairs. It took ages to finally drift to sleep. Drunk and tone deaf Germans shouting along to old Britney Spears albums will turn a narcoleptic into an insomniac. However, I must have succeeded in falling asleep, for the next thing I knew, I was blinking my eyes open to this hell.

Hovels made of cardboard and cubicle walls pressed thickly against one another. The space between them ranged from two meters to two centimeters wide. Paths slithered through the clutter forming a labyrinth of sorts. The whole place was cloaked in the varied grays and blacks produced by dim starlight. Yet, when I glanced at the sky I found none. A flat, featureless ceiling stretched as far as I could see. Where I stood, it was perhaps five meters above me. Elsewhere, the ground rose up almost to meet it or sloped away into deeper darkness. I still did not know where the light came from.

Taking a closer look around me, I saw a man crouched in the corner where two dilapidated forts met. He wore only a blanket with a hole cut through for his head. His untrimmed hair hung in black strings around his face. He clasped his arms around his tucked up knees and stared at nothing in particular. Before fear and better judgement could take hold of me, I approached him.

"Excuse -"

"It's all inside, you know," he muttered without lifting his gaze, "There's no outside. We pretend, but I'm not outside the houses, I'm inside the world and I can't get out. We can't get out. We're all inside, and we can't get out."

"But then how did I get in? Where are we?" I tried hopelessly to reason with him.

"All inside, it's all inside. You and I and they, ever since we hardened the sky. Why did we do that? Why did we turn everything inside out? We go down and down and can't go up again, can't stop going in, and they're in here with us. Why?"

"Who are they? Sir?"

His head twitched to face me, transfixing me with a watery stare. "Do you know how to eat? They do, and they're teaching me." Just then, I heard something from the other end of the alley, a hissing. As I glanced up, a pale hand appeared on the corner of a building. A head came into view next. Hairless, its white flesh glistened damply in the half-light. Its lips curled away from jagged teeth through which a serpent's tongue flicked. Only two small slits above its mouth belied a nose, and where the eyes should have been, skin stretched unbroken over bone.

For a moment, the creature, the man and I seemed frozen. Then the creature screamed. I leaped back at the earsplitting screech, tripping over a chunk of refuse. As I scrambled to my feet, the monstrosity loped towards me in a lopsided gate. Seconds before it reached me, the man flung himself howling upon it. The monster writhed and clawed at him with taloned feet. However, he had curled his fingers about its neck and refused to let go. At last, the creature went still. Immediately, he lifted its skeletal arm to his mouth and ripped a hunk of skin away. Black liquid oozed from the wound and dribbled over his chin. He wept as he chewed, but whether from grief or joy I could not say. I simply fled.

When I felt far enough away, I tried entering one of the makeshift buildings. A rug served as a door flap for one of them. Pushing it aside, I found a room filled with various objects. Baskets, dolls, unlit candles, balls of string, and so on lay scattered across the floor and in disorganized mounds against the walls. I could see another room further back. Poking my head through the door, I saw canned food lining the walls. In the center of the room sat a plump woman shoveling carrots into her mouth from a tin.

"You want this food, you'll have to kill me," she stated between bites. It did not sound like a challenge or a threat, just the establishment of ground rules.

"Oh no, I don't want to kill you. This will probably sound like a dumb question, but where am I, and do you know anything about the eyeless monster I saw a couple minutes ago?"

The woman glared at me. "You're in my house. If you're being chased by a skinner, then you can leave right now. You'll probably just lure it here."

"No, it's not following me. Someone killed it."

"That was foolish. It'll just attract more of them. You don't fight the skinners. You run and hide. Everyone knows that."

"Well, I think the man that killed it...he needed it for...food."

"Then you'd best kill your friend now. Waiting for them to fully turn isn't any mercy."

"What do you mean, turn?"

"My aren't you a stupid girl. Go on, be gone." I considered pressing her for more information, but then I noticed something protruding from under a pile of empty tin cans. It looked suspiciously similar to a foot. "You want this food, you'll have to kill me." Shuddering, I hurried from the room.

The hours eked by. I scurried from shelter to shelter searching for answers. The largest group of people I ever came upon consisted of twenty men, women, and children. They had congregated to share food and water and welcomed me to join them. When I told them I didn't know how I had gotten here or where "here" was, they exchanged queer looks. Was it fear that I saw? Pity?

"Listen," a middle aged man with a tool belt strapped around his waist spoke, "you don't need to worry about all that. Just content yourself with a good meal under the open sky."

"But we're underground." This time I recognize the look they shared; it was anger.

Before they could respond, a shriek cut through the air. Everyone jumped up and fled in a different direction. Their supplies they left scattered on the ground. I spun around to choose a direction to run. To my left I could see a woman already disemboweled by the skinner. The alley to my right was already packed with fleeing people. I clambered atop the nearest shelter and over to the other side, then kept running. When I came to a rest, I was once again alone and have been ever since.

It gives you time to think, you know, huddling in corners until a skinner or madman chases you off. The thoughts are not pleasant, but they fill the emptiness. The prominent thought I've had is how very much I hate the ceiling. I can feel it pressing down on me, choking me. It's better in the hovels. With a roof and walls that I can leave, it's almost easy to pretend that there aren't any outside. I can go where I want. I just choose to be in this hovel.

Every now and then the shadow of a memory creeps into my head. An important man in a suit, a child holding a Marlboro, a news broadcast about...something I can't recall. And I shouldn't recall it. These memories do not belong to me. I have never seen that man. I am certain of it. I am just the victim of some trick. Perhaps this is just a delusion. I have gotten sick and started hallucinating. Or it could be a nightmare, yes just a terrible dream. I'm still in my room. The party is probably still going on. Their bad music is just messing with me, haha! Well if it's a dream then I should have some fun, shouldn't I? I control this world. And if I control it, then I will make it beautiful. I will give it back a sky! Oh look! That isn't a ceiling. It's a lovely sky, just clouded over. That's why it's so flat and gray. Yes, I am just enjoying the night sky while I wait to wake up. And I will, so there's no need to worry about that hissing sound.

------

Michael Leibowitz hurried down to a nearby hotdog stand. 8 at night and he could only take a measly half hour for dinner. That was just another reason he'd be glad when the whole radiation mess was over. He payed for a dog and was on his way back when he passed a lamp post with a cartoon posted to it. It showed a caricature of Leibowitz stuffing cash into his pockets as people were struck by radiation. Beneath the cartoon it read "I promised to save. I didn't say what." He scowled and pressed on. If people had any idea how pointless their bunkers were or how complicated relief logistics on a global scale were to manage...but no. They were convinced that burying their heads in the sand when the sand had already been hit by two tons of radioactive garbage would save them.

He glanced at the people scattered around him. A couple on a bench, a crone shuffling along the sidewalk, a child with a cigarette running from a young woman trying to take it from him. The latter noticed Leibowitz watching and scowled. Great, either she thought he was a pervert for people watching or she recognized him. He hoped it was the former. Eventually he made it back to the Department of Disaster Relief. Seconds after taking a seat his secretary leaned in.

"Sir, Dr. Gourd wants to see you."

"Couldn't he just call?"

"He probably could have, but he isn't answering now."

Leibowitz grumbled to himself as he trekked down to the labs. In the eery glow of vats and equipment serving no purpose he could suss out, he found Gourd. The scientist had bent himself over a beaker containing the preserved body of a bald, eyeless mouse.

"Why are you leaning over a rat in a glass in the dark alone?" Leibowitz said flatly, "That's what I'd ask if I weren't talking to you, Adam."

"It's a mouse, not a rat. Look at it."

"It's one of the mutants born after the meteor shower hit, right?"

"Wrong. It's a normal mouse that mutated after the radioactive meteor shower."

"Okay, what does that mean?"

"It means that it lost its hair, its eyes, and its sanity all while living in a perfectly controlled environment."

"You mean, there's no way that it was exposed to radiation?"

"Well, it's gotten plenty of normal radiation in the form of heat and light, but the sort you're talking about from the meteorites. What's more, the physical changes happened literally overnight." Gourd held up the beaker. "This little guy was acting a little off for a few days, but nothing too out of the ordinary. This morning I found him hairless, blind, and nibbling on its cagemates."

"What was that last part?"

"Oh yes, he went cannibalistic and savage. What bothered me most was not knowing how it happened. Even if we ignore that he had no exposure to radiation that could alter his cells, the manner in which they changed was so sudden, and it didn't look random like you'd expect from your basic irradiated rodent."

"I hope past tense means you've come up with something."

"Not anything good. I haven't had any time to properly research it. I only started seriously considering it an hour ago, so I can't give you proof, but...I think radioactive isotopes weren't the only thing on those meteorites. I think we're looking at an extraterrestrial virus."

"You can't be serious," Leibnitz scoffed.

"I am dead serious, Mike. Like I said, I don't have evidence, but I will get it. I don't expect you to make a broadcast today, but if we need a quarantine -" something shattered. Behind him, a lab tech stood surrounded by the broken shards of a beaker, "Jefferson, careful. That's the second time today."

"Sorry sir," he rubbed his eyes, then dragged a hand through his hair and shook the loose strands from his fingers, "I haven't been feeling too good."

"You mean well," Gourd corrected without hesitation. He turned back to Leibnitz who continued to stare at the lab tech open mouthed.

"No, sir. That's not what I meant at all."

Dream Log 57: Mysteries

A crowd of cosplayers had formed at one of the airplane gates. As the plane loaded, I called "Have fun at AniCon!" The costumed travelers waves and growled as appropriate to their characters. Before they could finish boarding, an alarm sounded. The whole airport went into lock down. I asked the attendant what was going on, and reluctantly, she admitted that a body had been found in the cargo. Pinned to the corpse was a note claiming that one of the cosplayers was the murderer, and another was the next target. It did not give any hints as to who.

Well, since I could not do anything else with the building locked up, I took a peek inside the airplane. Rather than having bolted down seats within a narrow fuselage, it looked like a ballroom. Rows of folding chairs, some occupied by would-be-passengers, faced a small stage near the cockpit. Clearly, the discussion panels for the anime convention were going to start in flight.

The mood of the passengers had undergone a peculiar transformation. Most had grown hushed and tense. Perhaps a quarter grinned and speculated as though this were an elaborate LARP event. Then, there were those that turned detective. I fell into this last group. Since I was not on that flight, I figured I was not the intended victim and unlikely to be suspected as the murderer. This put me in a good position to investigate.

About half an hour into my inquiries, a scream issued from the ballroom/airplane. A heavy woman dressed as a fairy dragon shrieked as an armchair inflated and remolded itself around her, threatening to swallow the lady whole.

"You'll be okay. Just breathe," I assured her before calling out the hall, "I need all the makeup and nail polish remover you have, and straws to buy us time!"

Someone had an enormous bottle of acetone with him, and I ordered him to pour it over the swelling chair. It hissed as it dissolved. As other passengers cleaned off and consoled the woman, I took a seat outside to collect my thoughts. A man in impeccable steampunk attire slumped down beside me.

"What do you make of this latest lead then, 'Miss Marple'?"

"Heh, I wish I were half as clever as her. I get the feeling though that the murderer didn't choose his victim for personal reasons. It's a game to him...or her, so the victim was chosen either because she'll be fun to kill or at random to make it a game of chance. I don't know though." I fiddled with my watch to give my hands something to do.

"Analog," the steampunker commented, "You don't see those so often now."

"I suppose not, but I prefer them. Come to think of it, I quite like clocks. Not the quartz ones but the proper mechanical ones."

"Then feast your eyes!" He drew a fob watch the size of his whole palm from his pocket, unclipping the chain from his vest. The gold gilded beauty dangled in front of me before he laid it in my hand. "Go ahead, open it. Play around if you like. I've got to talk to someone."

He slid to his feet and sauntered off, all fox-like grace. However, I only had eyes for the watch. With the back opened, I could see each gorgeous gear working. I was just as entranced as if someone had swung it before me while whispering "you're getting sleepy."

Was the murderer caught? Did he kill his target? I do not know. I do not even know, if I were to catch sight of the steampunk man again, if I would run towards him or away.

Demons and Cowboys

A leather duster,

A wide brimmed hat and a scowl

Were my uniform.

Death stood beside me,

Leaning on his bloody scythe.

He was my partner.

Our mark was a beast

As big as a sheep is dumb…

And on a rampage.

The raging creature

Was gaining the upper hand.

My ammo was low.

We ran for shelter,

A not too damaged warehouse.

We locked ourselves in.

The warehouse was full

Of bullets and bandages,

Survivors and dead.

I filled up my clips,

Even the one hidden in

My harmonica.

While we patched our wounds,

Real trouble started brewing.

An idiot spoke.

“It ain’t us it wants.

It came here when that girl did!

Let’s give her to it!”

The girl was tiny,

No more than seven years old.

I got to my feet.

“Even if it did

Follow her, I’m not about

To sacrifice her.”

The town folk pulled guns

Faster than a man can spit.

Death shot me a look.

Run, it said, Grab her,

And flee when you get the chance.

Then, the beast burst in.

Death, the child, and I

Left the monsters to the beast

And ran for the hills.

[This is actually half of a dream one of my friends had. I just felt like turning it into Haiku. Because nothing says Western like Japanese poetic form.]

Dream Log 56: Not so Sexy Times

I suffered a bout of acute apathy and boredom, which led me to wander away from home. I found myself at the doorstep of a mentally and physically handicapped millionaire with one blue eye and one black eye. He had the demeanor of an eight year old and suffered from some injury or weakness in the legs that confined him to a wheelchair 90% of the time. The other 10%, his best friend would help him to walk around with her and choreograph dances for the two of them. I might have found it sweet had the woman not had a certain air of instability about her. She seemed too intent upon her friend. My suspicions were confirmed when she demanded that I serve as his mistress.

"Whatever. It's not like I've got anything better to do," I replied before climbing on top of him. He seemed to enjoy himself at least. I was still steeping in a brew of apathy and couldn't really care less what I was doing. Once he was done, I started to leave.

"Again! Again!" the man-child exclaimed.

"Sorry, I'm tired. I'm going to bed." I could hear the woman consoling her friend as I walked to the bathroom, which oddly enough had a clear door. I took a quick shower only to discover the woman glaring at me though the glass when I got out.

"How dare you say no to him!"

"Look, I'm not making it up. I'm tired. I've had a long day, and I had to do all the work back there. I'm not interested in doing any more."

"You'll march back down there and make him feel better, or I'll make sure you regret it."

"Uh, no."

With that she stormed off. As I tried to find my way to the guest room in the labyrinth of a mansion, a maid appeared in my path.

"You're going to regret it," she stated flatly.

"Wha-" I was cut off by someone grabbing me from behind. The maid and her accomplice half carried, half dragged me to a cavern beneath the mansion illuminated only by candelabras. The flickering light revealed well set tables, rolls of caution tape, and a stake in the center of the room. The roof of the cave extended into darkness. More servants filed in from half-hidden passages and helped to bind me to the stake using the caution tape, as well as some bubble wrap.

"Okay, I'm tied up. Now what?" 

"Now, you inconsiderate slut," announced the millionaire's friend as she made her entrance, "we are going to send you to the Grand Sub Station."

"What, the one that got destroyed in the flood a few years back?"

"Precisely, we'll send you there and then."

"How?" 

With a smirk, she strutted out of the cavern, followed by the servants. After some struggling, I freed myself from my plastic bindings and tiptoed back up the passage I had come by. I could hear people murmuring to one another up ahead. A few seconds later, I found myself standing in a station that rivaled Grand Central Terminal in size and elegance.

"You've got to be kid-"

"Hey, get your head down!" someone shouted to me. Only then did I notice that all the people filling the station were on the ground covering their heads. The man who had called out led me by the elbow to an open spot by a bench and had me crouch down beside it. "You've got be prepared for any more quakes."

The details of the incident started to click back into place. The flood had been preceded by an earthquake. Everyone had fled into the fortified station for shelter, and somehow the message didn't get through that a Tsunami was coming. However, before I could say anything, the sound of rushing water filled the hall. Seconds later, the steps to the outside vanished beneath churning waves. Liquid thunder hammered down on the crowd. I could see whole benches whisked into the ever fiercer mix. I braced myself. My world shrank to the growling in my ears. Impact and all went silent. but not still. I was smashed into people and furniture at the waves' will until I ached and had lost all sense of orientation. Just before my lungs gave up, the vortex calmed and I broke the surface. 

To my surprise, I found myself surrounded by natural stone walls rather than the polished marble of Grand Sub Station. Twenty or so others from the station had found their way to the surface as well, along with several once well set tables and various other items. The floating tables were already being converted into rafts and islands. I went to work hauling food, water bottles, utensils, and anything else I found onto a ledge in the stone wall beside me. Minutes turned to hours, and our collection of survivors started to form a floating community.

"Does anyone need a knife?" I cried when a plastic handled kitchen knife floated by me. Several people raised their hands. I made the rounds to them, helping cut people free from refuse they had been tangled in, trimming clothes into ropes. One man even needed to perform a minor medical procedure. I didn't feel like staying to help with that one, so I paddled back to my ledge of salvage. 

While I sorted through it, a man appeared in a crack in the wall I had hitherto not seen. He had a bedraggled grey beard, and his legs looked crooked and underdeveloped. One eye was black, the other a dazzling blue.

"I'm really sorry," he apologized, "I found out what my friend did back then. I opened the door again. I wanted to help"

"You did. Thanks," I managed after taking a moment to recover from the shock. He nodded contently to himself and hobbled back into the crevice. After a little over a day, the water level fell to where we could escape the cavern via the tunnels safely. The world had advanced fifty years since yesterday. However, I welcomed the culture shock. The prospect of a new world had rid me of my apathy.

Creator

I believe that God
did simple modeling
on a scratch piece of sky.
He worked from the very
first principles,
and he optimized.

He made our hearts exposed,
though they're safer closed,
to facilitate love transfer.
The fiber of our beings
is a carbon composite.
Our core beliefs, a shaft
around which we pivot.

He chose alloys for our souls
specific to His goals.
Some are strain hardened,
tempered by fire,
left ductile or made tough
until their strength is enough.

The happy moments might notalways balance the sad.
They put a spin on our perception,
and we forget that acceleration
is part of a dynamic system.
All the commotion
enables locomotion
in the direction
of a nonholonomic constraint.

I believe that God
understands fatigue.
He knows our cracks grow.
We can't take a full load.
So he offered a cross-brace.
Installation up to user.
Interpretation may cause frustration
The operator's manual
has gone through translations.
But at least one point is clear.

When God examined
the universe,
sized up his design
and critiqued manufacture,
he thought it good.
Any engineer can tell you
that is a miracle.

Sandpaper

Time and wind spin

in a little pine box

under my pillow.

I can hear the sand 

pouring as I sleep.

It erodes me.

Thoughts slough off

like skin cells on sheets..

My topography

 smooths to a plane.

Moonlight undulates

over my eyelids.

A polishing fluid.

Oil and diamonds.

I am suspended.

It seeps into my cracks.

I am scrubbed clean,

rubbed away,

refined,

cut.

Bane of Boars

There was a man of rugged looks

But with a goodly heart.

He traveled far and wide to find

A way to do his part.

Then in a town of lowly means

The ground began to quake.

A monstrous beast burst through the woods

With carnage in its wake.

The dire boar did charge the man.

Its roaring rent the air.

Its razor tusks were slick with blood,

but the man did not despair.

As the raging fiend closed in

the warrior raised his maul.

He swung it down on the beasty’s crown

and stopped it once and all.




[[This is my D&D character's poem about our very first adventure. Poetic license may have been taken...]]

Hero

I fought a dragon.
After weeks of ignoring
the scratches appearing
on my doorstep.
After all my jewelry
and not a scrap of cash
went missing.
After not so petty arson.

I prepped for the dragon.
My shield was for riots.
My sword had six chambers,
size .45.
A wise old guide
I just call grandpa
provided it.
//The shield came from Ebay.

I hunted the dragon.
In parks past midnight
and buildings past their prime
day after day.
It's incredible
what cement and drywall
can hide.
What we can ignore.

I found the dragon.
Reclining in a basement
on a modest golden horde.
The wyrm's head lifted.

It blinked away sleep.
I blinked away sweat.
It drew itself up.
I drew my weapon.
It gathered its fire.
I opened mine.

Two shots.
Heart.
Eye.
Done.

I can't be more specific.

I feel a little vague,
as though my edges were a blur,
my speech a slur
that begins and ends
with white noise.

It's a funny kind of state,
being an open set, continuum,
divergent sum
that does not know
to be discrete.

I could lay down lines
just past blue, just short of green
and me in between,
but lines cut
off my extremities.

I'll stick, for now, with vague,
like a developing ideal,
unrealized, real,
and impossible
to explain.

Two random, as they were thought "poems."

It was cold, and he did not have pockets.
It was dark, and he forgot about the dresser.
It was late, and he could not sleep.
It was time, and he was not there.



On the mountains with
the shadows
that sleep,
in a place forgotten
by the rain,
the dust
remembers what it
was
and weeps.

Dream Log 55: Summer Glau Beats Up Everyone

Imagine one of those "The making of" programs that plays clips from a movie along with commentary and behind the scenes footage. Now, imagine that Summer Glau (River Tam in Firefly) and a few other nerdom superstars decided to make a spoof of every science fiction action film ever made.

Cut to a scene of the cast running dramatically through an enemy spaceship. Suddenly, a massive contingency of black-uniformed soldiers appears to block their path. Everyone steps back and Summer just lets loose with her fists, and guns when she bothers to pick them up.

"Some Firefly fans might be disappointed by the fight scenes because I never use an axe or a sword. However, I'd argue that the larger corpse count makes up for the lower brutality," Summer said from a commentary bubble in the corner.

After the heroes destroyed the main computer of the ship, (which they recognized by its unnecessarily inaccessible placement over a giant hole in the ground because where else do you put important things in scifi?) they were about to abscond unharmed in an escape pod.

"Wait!" one of the heroes cried, "We can't leave yet!"

"Why not?"

"One more thing has to happen." As he spoke, an unnamed character in a red shirt ran towards the escape pod doors, which of course started to close by inches. Limping hard on the red shirt's heals were several zombified enemy soldiers. The man and several of the zombie limbs made it part way through the door. Only part way though. The crunched closed, leaving the head of the red shirt and a rotting leg and arm in the pod. The heroes looked at the gore silently.

"Okay! Now we can go!"

Vasovagal Syncope

            “Is she having a seizure?”

That was the first thing I heard after regaining consciousness. I could not remember how I ended up on my back in the hallway of the animal shelter. Soon though, I put two and two together. About as quickly, the event that triggered the faint came rushing back. A vet rubbing the needle plunged into the poor Chihuahua’s vein, teasing reluctant blood into her syringe. The words “We’ll have to go for the jugular.” They seemed more real than the blurry faces of the other volunteers hovering over me.

 “She’s not having a seizure. It’s nothing to worry about.” My mom’s voice penetrated the fog. She helped me up and guided me out of the hallway and to a seat. By that time, embarrassment had replaced my confusion. I’m a failure. The thought shuddered through me. I’m a coward. I’m weak. As the shame welled up, so did tears. This did nothing to alleviate my shame. I tucked into a ball, forehead against knees, and tried in vain to suppress the sobs wracking me. Mom didn’t touch me. She didn’t speak to me. I loved her for it. She has always understood that when I cry, comfort is the last thing I want.

How could this have happened? Until that moment, I had always seen myself as strong stomached. While my sister would cower on a chair, I would squash spiders and earwigs, usually using her shoes. Whenever my cat left half eaten mice on our doorstep, I would take a pair of toothpicks and poke through the remains to see what rodent organs look like before disposing of it and thoroughly washing my hands. When the same cat had an infection so severe that the veterinarian had to insert a tube into the wound to allow the pus to drain, I alone in my house could stomach cleaning and wiggling the tube three times a day to prevent it from healing into the cat. If none of this fazed me, why would a needle bring me literally to my knees? I had no answer. All I knew was that I had met defeat where I had not even expected a challenge.

“Did you hurt anything when you fell?” the vet asked once I had calmed down. Pride came to mind, but I did not trust my tongue enough to attempt a joke. I shook my head instead. She continued to speak, saying something about it being a common reaction and so on and so forth. I knew she meant well, but the word common was not one I wanted applied to me. My mom deflected the rest of the vet’s comments. Once Dad met up with us, we started a long and silent ride home. By the time we got back, I had recovered enough to talk, and talk I did. I discussed weakness and embarrassment with my mother. I discussed failure with my father. I compared notes on fainting with my sister, who had passed out years before when getting her own blood drawn. After looking long and hard at the whole situation, I came to accept two things; I have a mild phobia. It does not define me. I did no more to develop this problem than a sick person does to catch a cold. It’s just the cards I was dealt. What is up to me is how I play them.

Fast forward a year. I had to have a checkup. The nurse did her weighing and measuring. The doctor listened to my heart and examined my ears. Then, she asked her obligatory questions. Have I been drinking? No. Have I done any drugs? No. Have I noticed anything out of the ordinary?

“Actually, I noticed a bump on my neck. It’s probably nothing.” I showed her the offending spot.

“Well, it’s likely a swollen gland. You might have a tiny bug in your system. I can take a blood sample to check white blood cell count.”

I hesitated long enough to swallow. “Okay. But just so you know, I’ll need to sit for a while afterwards. Needles and I aren’t great friends.”

She assured me that wouldn’t be a problem and collected her equipment. I leaned back in the paper covered chair and breathed. The doctor tied the tourniquet around my arm. I could feel the warmth building slightly in my fingers. Next came the cotton swab. I picked four numbers at random. 1, 4, 5, 8. As the needle pierced my skin, I kept my mind entirely focused on how I could make those numbers add up to 24. Dizziness still crept up, and my stomach rolled over, but the darkness did not close in. By the time I had come up with a solution, the procedure was over, the dizziness had passed, and I could walk out of the office unassisted.

Heimsuchen

Ich schleiche durch deine Tiefe
im Innern deiner Seele.
Ich finde den zähen
heimlichen Ort des Dichs.
Ich zerstöre ihn.

Barbarossa

>>Wo sind wir denn?<< Nina fragte ihren Wanderpartner, Jonah.
>>äh...irgendwo auf dem Kyffhäuserberg, das ist bestimmt. Warte mal, ich lese die Karte wieder.<< Jonah kämpfte mit einer großen Karte, die ganz deutlich gefaltet bleiben wollte.
>>Na schön, das haben wir nicht tausendmal versucht,<< spottete Nina. Jonah beachtete sie nicht. Karla rastete auf einem Felsen und beobachtete den Himmel. >>Wir hätten mit einer Gruppe wandern sollen. Besser gesagt, du hättest mich davon abhalten sollen, allein zu gehen.<<
>>Das hab ich<< sagte Jonah, ohne weg von der Karte zu blicken, >>Ich bin mitgegangen, oder?"
>>tja, also meine Freunde sind sowohl treu als auch dumm. Das Leben ist schön. Guck mal!<< rief Nina plötzlich. Sie zeigte auf einem Adler, der mühelos durch die Luft glitt. >> Er ist so groß wie ein Hund!<<
Jonah schützte seine Augen vor der Sonne, um besser zu sehen. Als er den Vogel ansah, tauchte er nach etwas außer Sicht. Einge schwarzen Vögel flatterte davon.>> Was macht er?<<
>>Jagt?<<
>>Das stimmt nicht. Adler jagen kleine Säuger, oder? Das sind nur Raben.<<
>>Ach, das ist ja total egal! Schau mal was ein Stück darunter liegt. Ich habe ein Lehrpfadschild erkannt!<< Bevor er selbst das Schild finden konnte, war Nina einige Meter auf dem Weg.
>>Warte auf mich!<< rief er. Sie verlangsamte sich für eine Minute, doch ihre Begeisterung stieg an, und bald lief sie trotz ihres Freundes. Kurz danach tauchte sowohl Jonah als auch Nina in der Nähe vom Schild auf, aber Nina war vier Meter droben auf einer engen Felsbank.
>>Verdammt noch mal!<< fluchte sie leise. >>Jonah! Ich habe mich geiirt. wieder.<<
>>Beweist das denn, dass du irr bist?<< lächelte er.
>>Ach,<< schmollte sie, >>Das tritt mir zu nahe.<<
>>In scharfem Gegensatz zu dir. Du trittst nicht nahe genug!<<
>>Ich hasse dich.<<
>>Komm herunter. Dann kannst du mich ins Gesicht schlagen.<<
>>Na ja, wie kann ich...<< Nina sah sich um. Ihr Blick traf auf ein Loch in der Felswand hinter ihr. >>Nanu, ich hab etwas gefunden. Ich propiere es aus.<<
>>Nina, heute bist du zweimal verlaufen, weil du nicht einfach gewartet haben. Hältest du es wirklich für eine gute Idee, noch einmal rücksichtslos wegzulaufen?<<
Natürlich hörte Nina kein Wort. Sie war gerade durch das Loch gegangen. Die Finsternis nahm sie auf. Sie tastete nach ihrer Taschenlampe und schaltete sie ein. Anstatt eine Höhle, sah Nina eine Halle. Bunte Pfeiler stützten eine gewölbte Decke. Ihr Licht stieß auf Kronleuchter, Dekorschilde, und Dekorschwerter. Dann fiel ihr Blick auf einen gewaltigen Steintisch. Teller, Flaschen und Silberware lagen auf dem Tisch. Am obersten Ende saß ein Mann.
Nina ließ die Taschenlampe fallen. Das Licht ging aus. Sie hockte so nah an der Wand wie möglich und blieb da, kaum atmend. Eine halbe Minute verging im Schweigen. Schüttelnd fand sie das Licht und schaltete sie wieder ein. Der Mann bewegte sich nicht. Sein bleicher Kopf stützte sich auf dem Tisch, und eine knorrige Hand ruhte daneben. Als Nina ihm langsam näher kam, bemerkte sie, dass er nicht totenbleich war, sondern er war einfach tot und hatte sich zum Skelett verwandelt.

>>Das habe ich nicht erwartet.<< Ohne zu zögern, stieß sie den hautlosen Schädel mit dem Finger. So bald sie es beruhrte, war die Hölle los.

Auf halbem Weg bergauf hörte Jonah einen Schrei. Er beeilte sich und erreichte das Loch in der Wand. Nina stand fassungslos neben dem Tisch, ihre Taschenlampe lieg auf dem Boden. >>Nina?<< fragte Jonah. Sie kam zur Vernunft und wendete ihm zu. Ihre Stimme klang ungewöhnlich grob.

>>Wer bist du und wessen Leiche benutze ich?<<

Dream Log 54: Cross-Over

"Hey, Matt! Look at this," I called after my friend. He jogged back to me as I held up an odd pair of plugs I found in the piles of refuse lining the road. "I'm sure I've seen one of these things before."

"Hmm," he contemplated, weighting one of them in his hands," Maybe the others will know what they are. I'll hold onto this - who's that?" I turned around and saw a little boy in Lederhosen standing stock still several yards away.

"Are you looking for your parents?" Instead of answering me, the child took hold of his own head, pulled, and lifted it off to reveal the metal helm of a cyberman. Matt and I fled. Only after putting several hills and forks in the road between us and the cyberchild did we stop. Panting, we collapsed onto another trash heap.

"I thought all the cybermen had been converted back to humans."

"Obviously not!" I snapped.

Once we recovered our breath, we started to plot how we might destroy the boy. Most of our ideas boiled down to finding a gun or a chainsaw and attacking from behind. However, before we could come up with anything cleverer, I noticed footsteps. The cyberchild marched into view, trapping us in the blind alley. I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Toby!" a woman snarled. My eyes opened in time to see a woman bustle over to the boy and yank his human head back over his steel one. She pinned Matt and I with a desperate glare, then scurried away with Toby in tow.

"What...was that?" The next day, I had an answer for Matt.

"We're cybermen."

"No, we're not?"

"Yes! It all makes sense. Don't you remember? The history books say that this planet was nothing but cybermen until the humans came and converted us back. But that doesn't make any sense! This place should be flourishing with plants and animals, but it's just mounds of metal scrap. And cybermen don't go inside of people like that boy. The people go inside of the cybermen suits."

"But that cyberman was wearing a human suit. We saw him"

"If you had to brainwash people that hate you into becoming your kind and reviling their own, wouldn't a psychic filter to make them see the good when they look at the bad and vice versa be a handy way of doing it?"

"So, you're saying that every human we see, including ourselves, is actually a cyberman."

"Exactly!"

"And how did you come up with this theory?"

I pulled the plug we had found the other day out of my pocket. "This. Do you know what it is yet?"

"No, but I suspect you do."

"Think about all the times you've gone to sleep and woken up, and you don't remember going to bed or getting out of it. The last and first thing you can remember is standing in front of a dresser drawer that you've never opened before. That's because when we need rest, we have to plug ourselves in to the wall with one of these to recharge. The filter making us think we're still human can't explain that away, so it just blacks it out."

Matt took the plug from me and examined it hesitantly. After a time, he returned it with a shaking hand. "We...we need to fix this."

I'm not entirely sure how or why, but it seemed that my band of friends included several experts in alternate universes and how to create them. They concluded that our entire universe was a rotten branch of the alpha timeline, and if we wanted to escape it, we would have to break through to a parallel universe. So, we started to dig, but not with ordinary shovels. Our shovels dug holes through the ether dividing timelines. As we dug, the barriers between our space and others broke down, and flares of purple light streamed through the cracks. At last, the hole had become large enough for someone to step through.

"Well, I guess I'll see you on the other side," I said, but before I could go through, the police appeared. They looked like humans, but they moved like cybermen, and they chanted "delete." I tried to leap through the crack before the ether filled it in, but one of them tazered me, sending my cybernetic circuits into lock-down. I woke from the dream with the most severe case of sleep paralysis I have ever experienced.

Then I fell back asleep...

It seemed like a typical dream; Loki, out on parole, defended me from a drunken oaf at a Christmas party; I went to the school cafeteria to order a meal, but I didn't know what any of the food was. Then, the lethal purple aurora started to appear. It seemed to happen at random. Hongkong would suffer earthquakes and storms induced by the violet lights crackling through the sky. An hour later, the same thing might occur in Zimbabwe. Every government agency from the secret service to PETA was looking for answers. A group of friends and I decided to help them out.

Using a combination of astrophysics, numerical methods, and a wealth of comic book multiverse knowledge, we came to the conclusion that the purple flares were caused by a breach in space-time originating in some other universe. They appeared seemingly randomly because our planet moved relative to the alternate earth. By running some equations, I could calculate the time and location of the next flare within 5% error. Naturally, it took a while to convince the feds that we weren't just some meddling kids. However, once they were convinced, they gave us everything we could possibly need, including access to some experimental air-flippers that let you swim through the atmosphere. I had just started writing a program to automatically compute the next flare location when I woke.