Focus

kids

Her eyes are huge. My wife said to "Ask your father", so she is looking intently at me for any sign of a decision. I remember moments like this when I was a kid. I looked up to my parents and never had a reason to think that they would not have an answer to any problem or want I could come up with. My Dad was the disciplinarian and Mom was the classic loving mother-type.

I always knew that Mom would be on my side when it came time to convince my father to support this or that decision. For problems within the family she could always be counted on. But you know, when the chips were down and I really needed help for a problem outside the family it was Dad I went to first. He was the big gun and that force which would make the rest of the world do what I wanted.

Until now, I had not really thought about those days and what it meant to be a kid whose parent hung the moon for them. It meant so much to me then and I want to be that for my kid now. Tripping back to the now, she is still looking at me intently with those big beautiful eyes.

"You bet darlin'. It is such a hot day I think some ice cream would be great."

Going home.

It's hard to imagine this neighborhood ever having been inhabited; harder still to envision a time when it was crowded with families and kids. Now it's shit. The buildings are gutted and empty; a few have some floors still but mostly they're just walls and windows surrounded by fields of rubble and glass.

Tommy and I stood on the sidewalk in front of our old apartment. He couldn't seem to bring himself to look at it, but I couldn't take my eyes off it. Just looking at it brought back so many memories, flooding back like ghosts. Meanwhile Tommy stood, hands in his pockets, kicking at the weeds that grew out of the cracks in the sidewalk, looking anywhere but behind him at the skeletal building that glowered over us. Neither one of us could find anything to say, either, so we stood silent.

Finally Alex arrived. He pulled his Beamer in between Tommy's dirty Ford pickup and my Civic and got out. He stood at the driver's side for a moment, looking up at the building with his hand shading his eyes, then came over and gave Tommy and me each a quick, stiff embrace. We still couldn't seem to find words that didn't seem out of place and awkward, so we just stood there for a moment not saying anything at all.

Finally we turned back to the building. Tommy was the last one to look at it and even after he turned, he kept his eyes down several seconds before finally lifting them to confront it.

It was weird, that moment: the three of us standing on the sidewalk looking at that old burned out husk. I've never held much truck with people trying to make things out like humans (Alex once told me there was a word for that, "anthropomorphising") but it sure felt like those empty windows were staring at us, accusing us. It was quiet, too - quiet enough that I could hear a plane lifting off from the airport across the bay and a distant boat horn. Nothing else though. It felt like everything was waiting.

Tommy broke the silence.

"I've got a bolt cutter in the truck. I'll grab it."

He seemed eager to move away from the building, even if just to take a few steps to his old truck where he lifted a long-handled cutter, a pry bar and a couple of small spades from the back. We approached the rusted gate that stood in front of the front steps and Tommy snapped the padlock with a loud popping sound that made us all look around nervously. Force of habit I guess - it'd been ages since any of us broke into anyplace but you never lose that guilty sense when you cut a lock you didn't put there yourself. Tommy swung the gate open with a shriek of hinges that hadn't moved in years, and we walked through and up the steps and between the busted doors that hung crookedly from the beaten doorframe.

I got a strange chill as I stood in the entryway; it felt like it hadn't really changed much at all. I wish I could say it was because it hadn't suffered too badly but the truth was it had always been a dump. Half the mail slot doors had been broken out and grafitti covered almost every wall. Rubble was strewn all over the floor, and there were piles in the corners that we had learned as children were better left unidentified.

We walked through the entryway and back to the stairwell. I wouldn't have tried to go up those shattered stairs for half of Bill Gates's fortune, but the way down looked pretty intact and relatively safe. We snapped on our flashlights and began carefully descending.

The first floor below ground level was more apartments - they were only about three quarters underground and had little windows in wells on the street level that let some light in - or at least they did before they were boarded up. Tommy once told us when we were kids about how he'd climbed down into one of those window wells and watched Mrs. Trevino taking a shower - and how she'd known he was there and had given him a real show. Of course we knew Tommy was full of shit - if anything, he probably caught a glimpse of a bra strap and crapped himself and ran. Tommy was always good at turning bullshit into a good story.

We kept moving down, deeper into the darkness. Pretty soon we reached the basement. There was about an inch of water standing in the stairwell, oily and dark. We waded through it (and I noticed that Alex didn't even seem to care that his polished Bostonians were pretty much getting ruined) over to the boiler room where Tommy rolled the thick metal door open.

There are times when darkness can seem like more than just the absence of light, when it can feel like a thick and present thing, like fog. Nights at my Aunt and Uncle's place upstate, out in the country, it would feel like the darkness was oozing out from between the trees like a vapor. It felt the same way in that boiler room - it felt like the darkness there was so thick that the only thing that might cut through it would be to peel the building back like a rotten log and let the full midday sun shine on all the creeping things that lived there in the blackness. As it was, I felt somehow certain that there were corners in that room that would stay black and shadowed even if I shined my flashlight right directly into them.

"Shit," Alex muttered, then repeated, "Shit."

"Come on, let's go," Tommy said, a little too loud for my preference. He clutched the pry bar in front of him like a weapon and advanced into the room. We followed him in and we all moved to the back corner of the room where the hatch was.

There have been plenty of things in my life I haven't wanted to do. I remember having to climb out of a helicopter in Viet Nam with artillery shells thundering overhead and AK-47 fire raining down from the hillside overlooking the LZ - my legs were rubbery and my head felt far away and faint. It took all my willpower to not just sit down right where I stood and flop over to one side, but I managed to get my ass in gear and run to a nearby foxhole.

This was worse.

As we moved into that hellish room where the shadows ate our light I could feel my heart trying to break free of my chest. I don't know how I made myself go over to that coal hatch; I know sure as I'm alive that if Tommy and Alex hadn't been there at my side I could no more have taken two steps into that darkness than I could walk on water. But somehow we made it to the hatch.

It was pretty much like we remembered it: rusted an unused, it probably hadn't been opened since the last time we went through it, forty years ago. As we stopped at the hatch Tommy moaned,

"Oh man, I don't want to go in there, I don't want to."

I reached over and grasped his big shoulder (as much to comfort myself as him) then fumbled down to give his calloused hand a quick squeeze.

"It's gonna be okay, Tommy" I said, though I knew it was going to be anything but okay. Not by a long shot.

"I know," he replied, "But damn, man - I'm so..." he trailed off, too ashamed to say what we were all feeling.

"Come on," Alex said, and took the pry bar from Tommy's shaking hands. He tried to lever the hatch open but the years had sealed it with rust and grime. Tommy and I grabbed the end of the pry bar and added our weight to it, and the hatch popped with a shower of rusty flakes.

We had to kneel to get through the hatch. When we'd come out the last time it had been a lot easier for us - no aching joints or lower back pain, only the crushing weight of our own guilt. Alex went through first, the filthy floor shredding the knees of his slacks. I went through next, but only after making sure Tommy was going to follow.

The coal well was like an iron silo built into the bottom floors of the apartment. Somewhere up above on the street level was another hatch where trucks would back up and dump whole loads of coal down into the darkness, but the building had stopped burning coal back before any of us were born and the well had gone unused. The floor was a thick bed of crushed coal powder; it seemed hard as concrete but once you broke through the crust it was soft as chalk. Easy to dig into. Easy to bury something in.

Alex and I handed Tommy our flashlights and took the two small shovels and walked to the far edge of the well. The rusted wall and black floor reflected almost no light from the flashlights, but I could just make out Alex's face staring back at me.

"You okay to do this?" I asked him.

"No, I don't think I am," he replied, but then he bent to start digging. I joined him, and we quickly broke through the thick glasslike crust and began lifting shovelfulls of the ancient coal dust.

It didn't take long. I caught a glimpse of a dark swatch of cloth and told Alex to hold up. We knelt and cleared the rest by hand, moving the dust off the ratty blanket that I had stolen off one of the clothes lines behind the building. It had been stained black by the coal. Pretty soon we had it completely clear, but I found I couldn't go any further and I stood up fast and dropped the spade.

Alex looked up at us with anguish in his eyes but neither Tommy nor I could move. Finally Alex reached down and slowly peeled back the blanket to reveal the fragile bones wrapped in a faded polka-dotted dress.

Behind me in the darkness Tommy let out a gulping sob.

"What do you think Trevor?", asked Bill.

"I think it's ridiculous."

"Why?"

"Because so much time and effort went into building it. If someone had just bought it, put some dollars into it for remodeling, and made little condo apartments the thing would be worth something."

At that moment a piece of the brick and mortar fell from one of the collapsing windows. Both men were silent as they watched it fall. With a thud it hit with the ground fragmented. Possibly a trick of the light, the structure itself seemed to be leaning. Dilapidated, it looked to Bill like a hopeless case.

Bill looked at Trevor sarcastically.

"Oh, yeah. Just a few bucks to remodel it. Right."

Trevor grinned as he pressed the button.

Deep inside the building explosions could be heard. The building tottered briefly before imploding on itself.

Come to Jeebus....

Hm. Wednesday afternoon. Just got a post up this morning - for Monday's picture. And I note with some dismay that the last picture post was last Wednesday. "Daily" seems to have devolved into "weekly", with the old assignments of story-outlines and fully-developed pieces left behind in the dust. And I am as guilty as any...

Anyway, not really going anywhere with this other than to note that our original mandate on this thing was to try to get in at least ten minutes a day, whether we were inspired or not, creative or not, busy or not. I know I need a little swift-kick action to the backside to get me back up to speed.

Just thinkin'...

Cattle call

The studio was bare. Hard wood floors and mirrored walls, so the music thumping from the ridiculously overbuilt boom box filled the room with harsh echoes. A single folding table had been erected below the high windows that spilled in midday light that seemed to be both overly bright and yet somehow watery and thin.

Roberto stood in line. Again. He was quite certain that even if he seriously put his mind to it, there was no way he could count how many times he's stood in lines like this, how many cattle calls he'd answered - and how many times he'd been turned away. Before and behind him stood the typical crop of fresh-faced hopefuls, eager to show their stuff, certain they had a special something that would catch a director or producer's eye. Roberto had done this too many times to have any such illusions: he knew what they were looking for - a well-trained monkey. Those stony souls sitting with their asses smarting on the metal folding chairs weren't looking for the Next Big Thing - they wanted bodies to fill a line, nothing more. They wanted perfectly-functioning animatronic zombies that could move just as they were told, and tired muscles and sore joints and bad days and money problem be damned. They didn't want people, they wanted dancers.

The eager young man in front of Roberto stepped up to the table when called and placed his 8x10 photo and bio on the table, announced his name, then pranced to his spot and waited for the music cue. He began an explosive move, then faltered and stopped when he realized that the song was the wrong one. He scurried over to the boom box and reset the cd, apologizing all the while to the suits behind the table, but Roberto could tell it was too late; they'd already dismissed this kid. Roberto watched him finish his routine; solid enough, and if he had the stuff to handle the constant rejection and keep at it, he'd probably get his turn eventually. But not this time.

The suits thanked the young man perfunctorily, assured him they'd be in touch, then called, "Next!".

Roberto stepped forward to his spot, photo in hand - and stopped. He stood staring at the men in suits, his routine running through his head - every step, every turn, every move that had been modified to avoid his bad knee, every jump that had been lowered to keep from reinjuring his trick ankle. He felt the ache in his lower back and the throb in his left shoulder. And above all, he felt tired. Bone-deep, can't-hold-your-head-up tired.

"Well?", one of the suits asked, "You got anything for us?"

Roberto looked at the man for a second, then replied,

"You know what? I don't believe I do."

He turned and walked out of the room.

5..6..7..8

"What are you people doing? You are walking around without any purpose", said the director who happened to be name Stefan, but preferred to be called Alice by his friends.

Stefan passed his critical gaze over the group.

"You... Mr.-third-from-the-back. No, not you - the other guy. The boy with the bangs and orange ensemble. You are the only one doing this right. Would you please come up front and demonstrate for these other people?"

As Mr. Orange Ensemble demonstrated, Stefan felt the stess begin smothering him.

"Anton take over for me while I take a break. I can't stand watching these people making such a mess."

Stefan slipped upstairs to the rooftop to relax and have a smoke. This was a favorite haven because students were not allowed. Smoking wasn't allowed either, but no one who frequented the roof bothered to follow that rule. His friend Jeffery appeared from the stairwell a few moments later.

"Stefan... or should I call you Alice since we are alone?"

Jeffery smiled, but Stefan would have none of his humor.

"Shut up Jeffery. We have a performance in less than two weeks. These people will never get this down and I haven't even added in the music yet."

"Stefan do you think that you are stressing just a bit much?"

"I can't help it if I am a perfectionist."

"But Stefan, this is a marching band performance, not a Broadway play."

"Jeffery you just don't understand. You may see a bunch of pimply-faced band geeks, but I see prose in motion and the writer is stringing the words one yard at a time."

"You're just a big old fairy aren't you?", Jeffery said.

"Takes one to know one."

Quoth the raven...

Love of the Craft

Behold, dear Reader, this wretch who stands before you, and pity him. Observe to what state Cruel Fortune has reduced him; what ravages have been visited upon both his physical form and mental faculties. Hold your gaze, if you can, on him as he demonstrates the most craven, base behavior that would shock the most primitive Aborigine of the South Seas. And if you can, dear Reader, try to find sympathy in your heart for this man who once was numbered among the great and powerful, but who now feeds on waste and vermin and crouches in a beast-like form, unable to even stand.

No, I was not always as you see me - and thus is my fall all the greater, for I was young and proud and tall. I commanded the allegiance of armies and ambassadors. I was desired by women young and old, and envied by men.

But the Book tells us that Pride goeth before a fall; if I had had the wit to heed those wise words I would have cast it all aside and submitted myself to a life of humility and servitude. Alas for me that I did not.

For ever did I seek to amass new wealth and power. My quest for glory and fame was a flaming passion that blazed in my heart from darkest night to brightest midday. And in my folly I pursued avenues better left untrodden, secrets better left buried in the deep chasms where withered hands laid them eons before man first cast his feeble eyes to the stars and wondered what lay beyond our earthly realm. And in so doing I awakened minds older than galaxies, heavy and bloated with malevolence and cruel cunning, and a hungering rage against that race called Man, who had long ago imprisoned them in their slumbering gaol.

Have fun!

Telecom

Starting in the early 1800's development of telecommunications technology kicked into high gear. From the 1830 creation of a small-scale telegraph system by Gauss and Weber it took only ten years for Samuel Morse to create and patent a practical telegraph system that would become the basis of a worldwide communication system.

It was only thirty more years before Alexander Graham Bell and Thomas Watson patented their telephone device; Elisha Grey developed an identical system but lost out on the patent race. Ten years later Heinrich Hertz created the first man-made radio waves; less than ten years after than Marconi developed a wireless telegraph system.

The idea of using newly-discovered technology to bridge the gap of distance between individuals became a passion for inventors across the globe. It was an exciting new world, with seemingly limitless possibilities.

Of course, as with all newly-developed technologies there were failures, from the simply impractical to the outright hare-brained. Films of fanciful flying machines that flopped, flapped, and ultimately crashed are a staple of comedy cinema. Telecommunications technology was no different. Reginald Ferris's tele-speak system involved two devices that would ostensibly synchnize a speaker's mouth and tongue and replicate his speech in the mouth of a "listener" at the other end of the network; photographs of Ferris's mangled face can be found in countless history books.

Among the little-known pioneers in the field of communications were Henry Harding and Jacob Fallstein; during the 1910's they worked tirelessly in a small shack in the back of Harding's Upstate New York home to develop a device that would allow two individuals to communicate over a distance by directly linking their thoughts - literally a technological form of two-way telepathy.

What is even less known is this: they succeeded.

Italian science

"One step closer and I'll touch off these sticks of dynamite. Blow us all to Kingdom-come!"

"Vincent this is an important experiment. Why can't you be serious?", asked Nunzio.

"I dunno. I thought it would be funny I guess."

"Well it's not."

Nunzio had been doing all the work and to hear Vincent cracking those jokes was becoming unbearable.

"Vincent why don't you grab the rest of the gear? I'll be done here soon enough."

"Okay Nunzio."

Vincent was not the brightest light of the Industrial Revolution, but he was family and Nunzio figured that counted for something... barely. Vincent went into the adjoining room to sift through the piles of equipment for the necessary items.

"Nunzio", he yelled, "Did you want the double-breasted leather jackets or the regular ones?"

"Vincent we've been through all this. You know the double-breasted jackets are not in style, so why do you ask?"

"Cause I like them", Vincent yelled back.

"I'll tell you what", said Nunzio. "If you grab the button-down jackets I'll let you pick out the headgear."

"Deal!"

A few minutes later the wire stripping was complete. Nunzio could hear Vincent opening, closing, and rummaging through boxes. By the time he began attaching wires to the battery posts the noises had ceased. He looked up as Vincent came back in the room carrying several jackets over one arm and two hat boxes in the other.

"What headgear did you choose Vincent?"

"I found these at the very bottom of the pile", he said.

He opened the box and in triumph held aloft an exceedingly ugly, metal helmet.

"Oh Christ! Not those Vincent. They were at the bottom of the pile because I hate them! It's French crap that even they didn't want."

"You said I could pick the headgear."

"NO!"

Vincent said nothing, but had a sullen look on his face. Nunzio had seen that look before and knew that he had to give in. After all he did say Vincent could pick the headgear.

"Oh all right. We'll wear the helmets."

Immediately Vincent brightened and began fastening the chin strap on his helmet. His helmet also had a black leather faceguard with smoked goggles.

There was a knock on the door as Nunzio put on the jacket and helmet. It was Moretti, the photographer from the newspaper.

"Hello gentlemen. Are you ready for your portrait?"

Knowing how silly he looked, Nunzio sighed in resignation.

"Yes Moretti I suppose we are."

Nunzio looked at Vincent and was slightly envious that his face was completely obscured.

"Nice helmets", snickered Moretti.

"One step closer and I'll touch off these sticks of dynamite. Blow us all to Kingdom-come!", Vincent replied.

"If only", thought the embarrassed Nunzio.

A Little Genre Inspiration

Blind Date

It had started out with a newsfeed advert - "Tall, quiet Y-chrom seeks X-chrom for fun and maybe more!" Dana was on the rebound and decided this was just the sort of stimulation she needed. The flurry of datagrams consisting of "2100 hrs...tonight...Chewie's diner...wear a RFID tag", "Ack", "Ack-Ack" (standard three-way handshake protocol) quickly decided her schedule for the evening.

"Now this is more like it!", she thought. "This calls for something special."

Taking a seat in The Pod she began designing her ensemble for the evening.

"Oh I love this new Clothier program".

Technology may come and go, but fashion is forever. Having downloaded the latest designs just last week she was quickly able to envision, plan, purchase materials, and output the design to her house-bot for manufacturing. The bot hummed briefly before beeping a success code. Dana put the evening dress on and stroked the velvety material. She looked good and knew it. Y-chroms look out!

She got to Chewies' a bit early to eat a little something before her date arrived. Comfortable that this was going to be a wonderful evening Dana enjoyed the food and busy conversation of the people around her. This was a blue-collar bar and most of the folks were data-miners who were in between shifts.

A light touch on her shoulder jolted her out of her reverie. " *are you dana* ?", asked a monotone voice.

"Oh no", she thought.

Turning around she took in the several thousand pounds and thirteen feet of metaloid in front of her.

"Um, no... I'm not Dana", she said.

" *you are wearing the correct RFID tag* "

"Really? I just got here and this tag was here at the table. Listen do you want this table? I was just leaving."

She marched out of Chewies' and breathed a heavy sigh as she slumped against the wall. A Metaloid? The advert said Y-chrom?

A gentle monotone voice next to her said, " *my apologies for the ruse* ".

"Oh, don't worry about it", she said.

" *would you like to start over?* *you can call me....rob* "

"Listen, I'm sure you are a great, uh, date, but I'm looking for a carbon-based relationship."

And with that she left. Rob stood there for long moments before going back into Chewies'.

Alley squatters

Kiroshi was sitting across from me on an empty cryo box, sucking down a can of stimcaff. I told him I don't know how many times, that shit's gonna fry his nerve ending but he craves the rush and says it boosts his response time in the fray. Short-term shit you ask me; one of these days he's gonna be nothing but a twitching meat sack and then see how long before a Piehead or FreePublic jerkoff makes him into a meat smear instead.

We were cooling in an alley off the Firedrag, waiting for the Union noobs to bring up some cell recharges for our suits, just shooting the shit and banging on each other's reps like we always did between frays. We'd had some fun that morning: three Luxes fresh out of prep academy, suits all polished and gleamy like they just rolled off the line. Probably did, come to think of it. Those boys had not clue one among them how to roll or glide and me and Kiroshi just slid right in amongst them like hot oil and sliced and diced them into component parts. Took the stuff we needed, took the stuff we wanted, wasted the rest and left the Luxes with just enough biomass to have something to graft the prostheses onto. Good stuff.

Kiroshi finished his stimcaff, tossed the can into a nearby pile of debris, then made an exaggerated show of stretching and yawning. I knew what was coming so when he tried to grab at my chest I slid my nanoblade lightly along the outside of his forearm - not deep enough to sever anything critical, but enough bite to put him on pause for a sec the next time he thinks about trying it.

"Motherwaster!" he yelled. "What fried your drive?" He pulled back and examined his arm.

"You should leave it," I razzed him, "I put a nice curve on that. Make a great scar, you can make up some drek about how you got it fighting Chippers."

He scowled at me and sulked over to his suit, where he grabbed his medkit and slapped a knitter patch on his arm. I knew he'd mope until we got into another fray, so I ignored him and turned to check on my own suit.

This is a train wreck

Wow. Hmm.

Invaders from Beyond Outer Space!!!!

"Stand back! I'm gonna blast them critters all to tarnation and back!" Stumpy yelled flatulently, as he raised the gleaming glistening space shooter to his grizzled shoulder. Spanky and Mrs. Wilson respectfully stood back a step.

"Bznort!" Dorkon the Robot offered helpfully,

"That's right, Dorkon!" Stumpy continued eloquently. "The cross polarization of the solar sensor array is gonna zap right through this alien thingamajiggie and blow them all the kingdom come!"

"Golly, Stumpy! Won't that kill all their kids too!" Spanky inquired explosively.

"It's all right, Spanky," Mrs. Wilson cooed matronly, "Don't you see? They're all alien children - they're not like you or me. It's all right to kill them."

"Jeepers!" Spanky blurted awkwardly.

Stumpy raised the strange mystical weird alien weapon to his shoulder and prepared to fire. He began pulling the trigger and a strange grinding sound emanated soulfully as a shower of sparks began spewing from end of the space rifle like drops of water from the end of a hose that you've folded in half to cut off the water from coming out the end, only it doesn't completely work and a little bit still dribbles out.

Suddenly without warning! Dorkon the robot raised his mighty metal fists and slammed them into Stumpy's back! The space rifle fired wild, blowing a nearby boulder into a million billion rock fragments with a really really loud kaboom!

"Argh!" Stumpy ejaculated, "Durn you, ya durned metal robot freak! Ya broke mah back!" Stumpy fell to the ground and moaned and twitched and spasmed and writhed and wriggled and thrashed and jerked and moaned really loud, then died.

"Oh no!" yelled Spanky excitedly.

Yanomani

Remote Amazon

It had been a long flight to Rio de Janeiro and more than once I cursed my travel agent's name for all the layovers. Now though, all that would be forgotten. The trip which had been planned for two years was actually happening. The fact that Brazil is not a small country had been driven home a thousand miles ago and, other than the horrid international flight, I will give credit to the travel agent. After Rio there had been significant effort to get here; the flight to Sao Luis, Belem by truck, followed by boat charter for the actual goal of the trip - cruising up the Amazon.

We had been on the boat for several weeks now and were deep in the rainforest. The captain was experienced at taking tourists up river and made good efforts to take the boat close to one bank or another for photo ops or to point out things of interest. God it was beautiful. It seemed that everything was some shade of green. As we had traveled the river narrowed in some places and the canopy was unbroken from one side of the river to the other. Yeah, this was what it was all about. The captain said there was a Yanomani village near here so to be on the lookout. He also said that they probably already knew we were in the area and if we appeared to pose no threat they might show themselves. I prepped my camera equipment in hopes of such an encounter.

Several hours past and I found myself beginning to doze in the bow when the captain whistled softly. I opened my eyes and glanced around. On the left bank there was a young Yanomani watching us. He had a bowl cut and multiple sticks thrust through his cheeks and nose. My pre-trip research said this meant he was at least teenage; having participated in the rites of manhood. I couldn't help, but think this was a far cry from my own Bar Mitzvah and unconciously touched my own cheek. Interestingly, the young man did the same. The captain took this as a good sign and moved the boat in closer to shore. I was only five feet away from the Indian. It was a beautiful moment. I smiled and he smiled back. Slowly raising my camera I took a quick couple of pictures. Feeling I owed him something I mimed eating and pointed at him. He grinned and in perfect English replied, "I'd rather have some cigarettes if you've got any."

Free form Wednesday

In honor. RIP Syd 2006.

Happy Birthday Mikey Boy!

Shine On You Crazy Diamond

The first time I became aware of Pink Floyd was in high school - 1979, with the release of The Wall. I wasn't familiar with Pink Floyd at all and I recall being irritated that so many of my friends and classmates were rushing out to buy the new album (vinyl back then, or maybe casette) without even having heard it. And of course I remember thinking the whole "We Don't Need No Education" as an anthem for high school students was ridiculous - it wasn't until a few years later that I understood the context of the song and the album as a whole.

Actually, that's not completely true - I remember seeing a video somewhere before then that I later realized was for "Time" from Dark Side of the Moon. Suffice to say that even though I didn't know what it was it left enough of an impression that when I listened to the album for the first time I recognized it immediately and recalled the video right away.

It wasn't until my first year in college, when I heard "Run Like Hell" on a local college radio station that I decided to look into the band. I borrowed a copy of The Wall and listened to it several times (noting with amusement the cyclical format: the album begins with the words "we came in" and concludes with "this is where"). I caught a midnight showing of the movie, which went a long way towards illuminating the overall storyline, and I quickly realized that the album was in fact a contemporary masterpiece, a cohesive storyline concept album.

Of course I delved deeper at that point. Dark Side of the Moon was a staple background music for many allnighters in college. Animals was a fave for some of our extraterrestrial adventures. I bought a copy of Wish You Were Here somewhere in Kansas on my drive from Virginia to Oregon and it was one of the three albums I listened to over and over on that trip. I discovered Meddle after hearing Seamus in the film "Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern are Dead".

But I always came back to The Wall - I think because I was fascinated by the story of this wrecked and unlikable character. I've noted before that it is a huge challenge for a storyteller to create an unsympathetic character and still have the audience hope for redemption for the character (a recent example I can think of is Sideways). I was confused and fascinated by how someone could be so wretched, as Pink was, and yet you hoped that he'd turn out okay. When I learned that Roger Waters had based much of the character of Pink on Syd Barrett, I became even more intrigued - Pink wasn't just a fictional character but a real live complex person.

Some people think The Wall was a depressing story. Many don't see what I think is a happy ending, but I think the fact that the Wall is torn down is ultimately a hopeful sign, especially given the lyrics that "the ones who really love you" are waiting outside the wall. I don't know if Syd was able to tear down his wall or not; I can only hope that the ones who really loved him really were waiting there outside the wall.

The muse

A creative element is essential to almost any endeavor; business, science, and of course art. It is that which changes a stack of bricks into an architectural wonder or the recombination of scientific principles into a new theory. Most of the time people don't notice. Truly it is that which you know is missing only when it is gone.

This is when it becomes an intelligent and fickle thing that is neither man or woman, but it. Always just within reach, it teases and dances around the imagination. Sometimes it darts in and leaves something unnamed on the tip of your tongue. You are left in frustration knowing something important is there; something golden.

Sometimes cursed in absence, but always welcomed back, the muse is a paradox. Not until a person forgets about it does it fly back to settle gently around the host. It is inhaled without thought or effort and as ideas arrive the mundane becomes lit with interesting shapes and shadows.

Back to work!

Rubberneckers

The photography exhibit wouldn't open for another thirty minutes, but there was already a crowd. The line was not quite to the corner, but that in itself was pretty good. Bill knew not too many of these got any kind of interest outside of the shutterbug circles. Particularly in a town like this there were not many hip people, so a lot of these folks were here out of curiosity. The story in the newspaper had primed that.

Bill still carried the daily rag folded under his arm. The story was compelling. He speculated that it was the first decent article that had been printed there. It was certainly more interesting than the normal cowtown fare and kitch review. But then, murder always was. The photographer also happened to be a serial killer specializing in prostitutes. After paying for and receiving services, he killed each girl and arranged her for a macabre photo session.

The crowd began buzzing as the someone came to the glass doors, turned the locks, and opened the doors with a flourish. They poured into the hallways searching for the pictures of interest. Bill pushed his way to the back room where he knew the photos were.

The crowd quieted as the realization of what they were seeing came clear. None of the images had any blood. The killer had preferred strangulation or other bloodless means. One picture in particular caught Bill's attention. A girl posed near some kind of concrete structure. Maybe it was under a bridge, sewer, or a dam causeway; hard to tell. The girl was what set the picture from the others though. Face painted white like a geisha and turned sideways to the camera. The grimace on her face was evident through the makeup.

Pursuit

Rebecca had lost track of how long she'd stumbled through the rubble. Her hands were raw and bloody from the times she'd fallen, and her legs were torn from the shattered stone and metal that littered the remains of the city. She had tried to pick her way carefully through the ruins but tears kept blinding her and she kept falling.

From somewhere behind her - or maybe in front, she couldn't really tell - she could hear the sounds of her pursuer. It was making no particular effort to be stealthy; she could hear crashes as it knocked buildings over and the crunch of its metal feet grinding rubble underneath. But it had kept its distance for...how long now? Half a day? A day?

The sky was shrouded by a pall of cloud and smoke and the light from the hidden sun was thin and watery, turning everything an even gray - or maybe that was the dust that had covered everything. Rebecca lurched on, lost and directionless.

Finally, her legs too weak to continue, she stopped in a small sheltered space. She knelt down and started to weep, the tears cutting tracks through the grime on her small freckled face. She still couldn't think about all that had happened in the last couple of days - it was too big, to terrifying to confront - but exhaustion overtook her and she rocked back and forth hugging her knees, crying in a soft, silent wail.

Suddenly a giant crash sounded close by. Rebecca jerked upright, her eyes wide and terrified. It was close now, closer than it had come since it first started hunting her this morning. She could feel her heart pounding now, slower but harder and more intense than it had all day, each beat a lurching thump that was followed by a space so long it felt like she was falling. She could hear other sounds of the machine now, tiny whines as servos moved massive limbs. It was getting closer. Her heartbeat filled her body now, every limb pulsing with the thudding, pounding rhythm. She saw a gigantic silver arm come into view as the thing moved to take her.

As the enormous form came around the corner, Rebecca felt everything slow. Her heart gave another giant thump as the massive head rose, easily fifteen feet above the ground, and she felt that falling sensation again as the blood left her face and rushed to her arms and legs. Her hands grew hot as the monster began to reach, slowly and deliberately, towards her motionless body.

And then her heart gave one more huge pounding beat, and her hands felt like they were on fire. As her head grew light and distant she reached up towards the monster with her burning hands and saw as from a far place that a brilliant shifting glow flickered from her fingertips. She reached to embrace the monster with her burning hands and all at once it was wreathed in a searing white flame that ran over and through the metallic form like rainwater on a windshield. The monster loosed a piercing, whining scream as internal systems exploded and mechanisms melted and flowed. The monster straightened for a moment, then froze...and fell in a crashing heap.

A second later Rebecca fell beside the ruined robot, still and unconscious.

Another odd one

Didn't get to post yesterday. Ya'll try this one on.

Racers

Hank412 turned to his buddy Phil38b and croaked,

"You ready to do this thing?"

The voice emulator left his words flat and tinny, but there was still an undercurrent of excitement.

"Damn straight!"

They'd been prepping for this race for weeks. Crowds were flying in from all over the system to watch the annual desert crossing run and they both knew that on top of the trillions of credits changing hands through marketing and advertising and merchandising, even more was moving through the vast GambleNet.

Hank (as he liked his friends to call him) was a noob this year. First time on the circuit, he'd broken a couple of records on his way up through the ranks and he had been pleased to find that the wagercomps were giving him good odds. He'd formed a strange friendship with Phil38b, who'd put in thousands of miles, probably on this course alone. Phil showed him the ropes, even took him out for a tour of the course, pointing out various pitfalls and blind valleys.

A klaxon sounded, summoning the racers.

As they moved towards the starting line Hank joked to Phil in a muttered digital voice,

"You know what I hate? Sand. I hate freaking sand."

Phil laughed, more at the repetition than the joke. That one was a staple in the race circuit.

Hank and Phil lined up into their slots, nervous energy beginning to build. The announcer began to work the crowd up into a frenzy of excitement. Horns blared and onlookers shouted. And the count began.

Just before the green light flashed Phil turned to Hank and griped,

"You ever think this would be a lot easier without these stupid mannequins on our backs?"

Peace

Despite the busy atmosphere, the area was chaotic. Actors were smoking and talking, while the crew was busy strapping the robot into place for the umpteenth time.

"Ugh, more broken straps", thought Jim.

Not for the first time he felt failure settling over the project. The list of the things that had gone right was much shorter than the list of miscues, breakages, and downright cursed events. The best thing to happen in weeks was that pending assault lawsuit from the former lead actress. Jim couldn't help but grin at that one though. It was a camel. Of course you're gonna get bit if you stand too close to it. The funny thing is that she must have gotten bit about twelve times. You'd think she woulda learned. Jim rubbed the back of his head where that hairy bastard had bitten him just that morning.

"Kim how much longer before you guys are ready?"

"Another ten minutes at least."

"What?! Why is it taking so long?"

"Look Jim. We've got a robot perched on the back of a camel without any kind of stabilizing mechanism. That puts all the stress of the camel's rolling gait directly on the straps and that robot isn't light."

Jim was stressed, but Kim wasn't about to take more crap from him. The shoot had been dragging on for weeks without much actual film to show for it and it just wasn't her fault. These setbacks seemed to happen without anyone causing them. Just plain old bad luck.

Kim looked past Jim at an approaching Range Rover. "That's all we need", she muttered and turned back to help her crew finish with the robot.

The Rover pulled up near Jim, but no one got out. The windows were heavily tinted, but he knew that the producer was in there checking on things. He hoped to God that things went right for at least a couple of hours.

"Jim, we're ready", yelled Kim.

"All right! Let's get this show on the road. Before we do anything else let's get some closeup shots of Peace on the camel before he falls off again."

"Jeez, what a pain", he thought. "No wonder no one ever tried to do a live action remake of Wizards."

Flashback

There are some memories that stick with you forever, even after you've forgotten where or when they happened, or any kind of context for the little thought that bubbles up in your mind, tickled out by a smell or a sound - sometimes even just a particular temperature in the air.

William DeGrassie (never Will or Bill - and especially not Billy) didn't experience that often. His thoughts were too structured and disciplined to allow in anything uncalled-for. So he was surprised when, that Thursday morning on the train, he suddenly found himself thinking about a day he'd thought he'd forgotten about long ago. God knew he'd tried hard enough to forget.

There was precisely nothing exceptional about that morning. He'd followed his routine just as he did every day; had boarded the 7:18 into town (he was frequently annoyed that he was more precise in his schedule than the train was) and had sat down to scan the headlines of the neatly folded paper he carried.

He was halfway through his paper when a sudden impulse made him look out the window. The train was crossing a bridge over a wide river, and the fall clouds had muted the scenery outside into a flat wash of gray and brown. He sat staring vacantly when he abruptly realized he was looking not at the scenery rolling by outside, but at his own reflection in the window, staring back at himself.

And there it was: unbidden and unwanted, suddenly he could see it in his mind, as clear as if it had happened two minutes ago. His own face staring back at himself, reflected in the underwater window of a hotel pool, big buglike goggles on his eight-year-old face. And he remembered how he had grinned, and how it had made him look even funnier, and how he actually started to laugh there underwater, four feet below the surface. And the memory of that moment, thirty years and a lifetime ago, made William DeGrassie close his eyes and press them tight to hold back the rush of tears that suddenly welled up and threatened to run down his cheeks.

Stillness in Motion

From the crest of the hill over looking the small harbor town Ryuu Tora could see the glow of his home burning.

He urged his lathered horse down the dirt path that led into his village, on to where his home blazed. As he approached the fire he saw the crowd of people gathered by his house, but was alarmed to note that where he expected to see frantic scurrying as his neighbors scrambled to douse the flames, instead he saw only a throng of onlookers standing idly by. It took him a moment to find the cause: a group of armed and armored soldiers stood with weapons drawn, backs to the fire, holding the crowd at bay.

He searched the crowd hoping to see his wife and children, but was unable to find their faces inthe crowd. His friends and neighbors milled about, some sullenly hostile to the soldiers and some openly shouting their frustration.

Ryuu turned his attention to his burning home. As he watched in horror the timbers collapsed and the house fell in upon itself; then he noticed two soldiers standing closer by the entryway - and the silhouetted shapes on the ground.

His wife had tried to shield the children from the arrows with her body. Even now the dark short lines of the feathered arrows protruded from her body. Whether she had succeeded in protecting her son and daughter made no difference; the soldiers walking away from the corpses wiping their swords clean showed that they had finished whatever job the archers had failed to complete.

His mind went blank then, a deep red rage that consumed him body and spirit.

He fell among them with only the sound of his horse's thundering hooves to mark his approach.

First he took the archers. One fell back screaming as the tip of Ryuu's katana swept across his eyes, leaving a red stain on his cheeks; the second reached for his bow only to find both of his arms missing at the elbow. And then Ryuu descended on the swordsmen.

He moved through them as a breeze among the rushes. Several fell dead before the rest even became aware that they were under attack. They drew their blades and cast about vainly among the shadows and shapes that leapt in the dancing firelight, but Ryuu moved with an unreal mindless calm. Only after a third of their number had fallen did the remaining samurai find their attacker; then the battle began in earnest.

Ryuu's initial blind rage had passed; his mind had returned and he found himself calmly moving through the fray. All the secrets his father had taught him, all the lessons of his swordmaster moved below the surface of his consciousness, informing his every move. He feinted towards one foe, then skipped backward and skewered a soldier who had moved to follow him. Another flew in with a powerful downstroke that was meant to cleave him in two; instead he met the blade with his katana at an angle that sent his opponent's weapon sliding harmlessly off to one side while he used the momentum of the impact to sweep his sword around in a flat arc that took the man's head at the jawline.

The fight seemed to last a lifetime. At last he stood, cut and bleeding from countless small wounds, facing a handful of remaining soldiers. He could feel exhaustion creeping over him as the battle lust faded and his situation began to sink in. He had positioned himself to protect the bodies of his wife and child, and their huddled and motionless forms burned into his sight.

He stood, chest heaving. His attackers wavered uncertainly; they outnumbered him and he was injured, but his prowess was proven by the bodies scattered in the street, some moaning and writhing, some slumped in death.

Just as he gathered himself for a rush that would finish the battle in either his enemies' death or his, Ryuu was brought up short by a voice that boomed from the shadows,

"Ryuu Tora! In the name of the master we both serve, I command you to put up your blade!"

No other voice could have given Ryuu pause as this one did. From the crowd stepped a figure, armored as Ryuu was, adorned the same colors. A katana and wakizashi were at his side, still sheathed.

"Naoki? Is it you?" Ryuu asked.

The figure lifted off his helmet. He spoke in a commanding voice, but without anger:

"Ryuu, these men are not your true enemies. Listen to me. This is the wrong battle."

Ryuu looked at him and felt his fury abating. His arms were becoming heavier and heavier while his head became lighter.

"Naoki? Mei...and the children..." He found himself too weak to continue.

His childhood friend replied simply, "I know. I will care for them."

Ryuu felt his hands lose all their strength. His sword fell from his limp fingers. He tried to walk to where his friend stood, but after two steps his legs failed him and he fell in a heap to the ground. He lay where he fell, the bodies of his family filling his vision, and soon his mind left him and he knew no more.

* * * * *

He woke some time later. He had no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious, only that it was now daylight. The walls of the room shone with a soft glow. He examined the room and quickly knew where he was: the cells that the Shogun used for high-ranking prisoners. The chamber was simple but elegantly appointed - polished wooden floors, skilfully woven mats, a small shrine in the corner. Three of the walls were masterfully joined wood, thicker than the usual walls of a home. There would be no breaking through them. The fourth wall was punctuated by a rice-paper door; he knew that outside that door at least two armed guards stood watch.

His wounds had been treated and dressed. Though it hurt to move he rose to examine himself. It was clear that he had been kept alive for a reason; it would have been a simple enough thing to kill him where he had fallen, but instead he had been brought back to the castle and tended by a skilled physician. Why was he still alive?

As he pondered this question the door slid open and a bent old man entered. If he felt any surprise at seeing Ryuu awake and standing he showed no outward sign, only moved to him and gestured for him to sit. Ryuu did so, and the old man examined his dressings.

Ryuu waited a short time for the old man to speak, but the doctor made not so much as a grunt as he changed Ryuu's bandages. Finally Ryuu asked,

"Why am I here? Why have I been brought here?"

The old man stared at him with watery blank eyes.

Ryuu continued, "I am a captain of the Shogun's army. Why am I being held prisoner?"

The old man turned his attention back to Ryuu's injuries. If he knew anything - which Ryuu now thought unlikely - he would not reveal it. Ryuu would learn nothing from him.

The old man left after cleaning Ryuu's wounds. Some time later the door slid back and two guards entered, one with hand on sword and the other bearing a tray of food. Fresh fish, hot green tea, sugared rice cakes. Ryuu ate, wondering why he would be held prisoner yet afforded such fine fare.

It was only after his meal was finished that his thoughts turned to his family, and once again despair washed over him. He was a warrior, stoic and brave, but in the darkening cell he wept with complete abandon for the lives of his wife and son and daughter.

When he awoke the next morning his tray had been cleared and fresh food had been brought. Though he was without appetite he forced himself to eat, chewing mechanically.

The physician returned at some point and as before he treated Ryuu's wounds without a sound. Food was brought. Night fell.

The days became a pattern while Ryuu's frustration grew. Why was he here? Why was he being kept alive?

Finally one morning the door to his cell slid back and instead of the doctor his friend Naoki entered. Ryuu rose to greet him. When the door had been closed Naoki held him in a long embrace, then looked at Ryuu with shining eyes. He said,

"Mei and the children have been taken to lie with your ancestors."

Ryuu felt a rush of both pain and relief. In his darkest thoughts he had envisioned the bodies of his family desecrated and dishonored. He held his friend close and thanked him from his soul.

After a long, quiet moment they sat and Ryuu poured tea. They were silent for a time, Ryuu lost in thought while Naoki waited for his friend. Finally Ryuu asked the question he'd been pondering since he awoke after the battle:

"Naoki, why am I alive?"

Naoki sighed and set his cup down. He stared at the floor for a long moment as if trying to determine how to say what he had to. Finally he said,

"You are alive because the Shogun is unsure of what to do with you."

Ryuu was shocked.

"What do you mean? I do not even know why I am being held! My family has been slaughtered and instead of support I am taken as a hostage might be?"

Naoki looked at him with dismay.

"Do you not know who it was you fought at your home?" he asked.

Ryuu was startled. He had not even thought to consider his foes; he had assumed they were soldiers serving one of the Shogun's many rival warlords.

Naoki said, "The men you slew were the Shogun's private house guard."

Ryuu felt the blood drain from his face. Naoki continued,

"It's true. Hiroshi sent them to your house to kill you and your family. That tattooed bastard convinced the commander of the household guard that you intended to assassinate the Shogun, and that you and Mei and the children must be killed to protect our master."

All at once it all fell into place. Ryuu and Naoki had long held suspicions about Hiroshi, one of the Shogun's closest and most trusted advisors; they were certain that he was working to undermine and overthrow the Shogun, serving one of his master's many enemies. They knew, however, that they must have indisputable evidence before they could bring their suspicions to their master.

Finally that evidence had come in the form of a courier bearing messages and payment to Hiroshi. Naoki and Ryuu prepared to present the evidence to the Shogun when he returned from his hunting expedition.

Before they could make their accusations, however, one of Hiroshi's spies had found about their evidence, and had told Hiroshi, who decided to strike before he could be revealed. He had gone to the captain of the Shogun's bodyguards with a tale of Ryuu's betrayal, and had commanded that Ryuu and his family be slain.

Ryuu knew many of the men that had served in the household guard; he had trained with them and fought beside them in many battles. He knew they would hate him now; regardless of his reasons he had killed and maimed many of their number and they would hate him. He sighed as Naoki went on.

"After giving the order to kill you, Hiroshi fled. We received reports from one of our patrols that he has disappeared with his entire household."

Ryuu contemplated this for a moment, then felt a dawning hope.

"Naoki, do you not see what this means? By fleeing he has confessed his guilt! The Shogun must see that I am a victim of deceit!"

Naoki stared at the polished boards of the floor with anguish on his face.

"Ryuu..." he began, then stopped as his voice became choked. Finally he continued,

"If only it were that simple. You know that our master serves at the whim of the emperor."

Ryuu nodded impatiently.

"And you know that the Shogun is beset by many enemies who would see him dead and take his place at the emperor's side." Again Ryuu nodded. Why was Naoki explaining what he already knew?

"The emperor must have full confidence in his Shogun," Naoki said, "He must know that his Shogun’s strength is unquestionable." He stopped, as if that had explained everything.

Ryuu looked at him blankly.

Naoki leaned in closely, frustration and sorrow on his face.

"You have slain most of the Shogun's household guard! How can he allow you to remain in his service? How can the emperor trust him if he cannot even keep his own household in order?"

Ryuu sat back, the truth of the matter dawning on him.

His master served at the emperor's pleasure. Recently many rivals had arisen challenging his place at the emperor's side, but the Shogun had kept the emperor's confidence through demonstrations of strength and unity.

If it were known that one of the Shogun's own captains had slain many of his guard, no matter the reason, it would cast serious doubt on the stability of the Shogun's household. Hiroshi had played a masterful move: either Ryuu and his family would be slain and removed as obstacles, or Ryuu would survive and cast doubt on the Shogun's control of his own army. In either case, the Shogun would be diminished in the Emperor's eyes.

Ryuu grimaced, realizing the extent of Hiroshi's plan. Then he noticed Naoki's anguished eyes watching him.

"What is it?" he asked of his childhood friend.

Naoki remained speechless for some time, his jaw clenched as if to contain the words he did not want to utter. Finally he spoke.

"The Shogun has reached a decision."

Ryuu felt a chill creep over him.

"The Shogun is merciful," Naoki murmured in a tone that indicated that he wished he believed what he was saying.

"He will allow you to regain your honor for both you and your family."

Ryuu realized with resignation what was to come.

"He will allow you to take your own life."

* * * * *

The morning of the last day of Ryuu's life had dawned cool and humid, but the rising sun had burned off the fog and the day had quickly become warm and dry. Some time during the morning a quiet and guarded woman had come to Ryuu's cell bearing clean clothing, all of white. She looked at Ryuu with an expression that might have been pity; then again, it might have been disgust, he could not know.

He ate sat waiting with turmoil in his heart. He might open the door to his cell to try to escape...but there were armed guards outside, and he had no weapons of any sort - and the guards who stood watch over him were not simple footsoldiers, but seasoned warriors.

Mei's face rose in his memory. How could he leave this life without finding justice and vengeance for her and the children? But even if there were a way to escape his captivity, it would only bring shame and dishonor on his family and their memory. All he had sought to work for, his entire life would be destroyed. He knelt at the altar and prayed for the calm to accept his fate.

Finally the door slid back and Naoki stood before him, face composed but eyes rimmed in red.

"It is time," he said.

Ryuu closed his eyes and gathered himself. He rose and walked out with Naoki.

Though his cell had not been especially dark, the direct sunlight blinded Ryuu for a moment. He stood still, gathering his bearings, then abruptly sneezed. He was struck by the absurdity and laughed out loud but his amusement vanished when he saw the look of sorrow on his friend's face.

As Naoki led him along a garden path Ryuu found his heart racing and his mind spinning. There was so much undone, so much unsaid and unfinished. How could this be the end? There was too much still to do! Mei...Mei and the children....suddenly his head was too light and the world began to grow dark and distant. He stopped and closed his eyes. For a long moment it seemed as if the world had vanished in a rushing noise and blackness.

When he opened his eyes again he found himself looking at a small bridge that crossed a rushing stream. The late morning had grown still and quiet, the silence broken by the sound of the stream flowing through the artfully constructed stream bed. A quiet hushing sound blew through the bamboo that grew nearby. Though the day was warm a cool breeze touched Ryuu's cheeks and he lifted his chin to feel the wind on his face.

Finally he realized that he had been standing motionless for some time and that Naoki stood waiting patiently at his side. He nodded silently, and crossed the bridge.

They came to a clearing where a pavilion had been erected. Men sat in the shade of the tent, their faces shadowed and dark. Before the pavilion a low lacquered table rested on a plain tatami mat. A quill and a few sheets of paper lay on the table.

Ryuu moved to the mat and turned to observe the vista that would be his last sight of this world.

The clearing lay alongside the stream he had crossed earlier; it ran nearby with a loud rushing sound. It tumbled down a hillside in a torrent until it met a wide lake that spread below. Willows and cherry trees stood alongside the stream banks, bending towards the water as if to drink.

Ryuu felt his legs weaken and realized he must sit quickly or he would tumble to the ground in indignity. He sat, perhaps more quickly that he would have preferred, and arranged his robes around him. He gazed out on the view before him and tried to gather his breath.

Finally he picked up the quill on the table and brought the paper to him. He paused for a long moment looking out over the lake, then pulled the paper to him and wrote briefly. He then moved the paper aside, lay the pen down, and sat back.

A servant emerged and removed the table; another came forward with a tray of food. A meal he had eaten all his life: rice, fish, water. Though his stomach was knotted he ate.

His meal done, his tray was cleared. There. In front of him was laid a simple wakizashi, blade wrapped thickly in paper that would keep his fingers from being cut open. He found he was unable to lift his arms anymore. He felt a sudden panic that he would be unable to do what must be done.

He heard Naoki stand behind him, heard Naoki's katana being drawn. He knew that Naoki would strike true, that his agony would not last long. He watched the stream rushing along nearby, noted how the tiny splashes that leapt into the air fell back into the stream and disappeared. He saw Mei's face on the water, calling him.

He closed his eyes again, and drew a deep breath. As he released it he opened his eyes.

The world spread before him. The water moved on.

He picked up the blade before him, its edge shining like water.

With a smile, he let his spirit go and it flew free and unbound into the universe.

* * * * *

The spring blossoms fall
On rushing crystal waters
And float out of thought

Stairs

Hallway

The corridor we'd walked down was long - endlessly long, or so it seemed, and Danny and I walked along shooting the shit about the old days. It felt great, talking to Danny. It seemed like it had been a lifetime since we'd been able to do this, just hang out and talk - I'd been so busy with my day to day stuff and it had just gotten overwhelming, to the point where I felt like my head was going to explode all the time. I honestly couldn't remember the last time I'd talked to Danny at all.

And wasn't that strange? I mean, he was my brother and I couldn't dredge up a single recent memory of talking to him - not at Mom and Dad's place, not at the coffee shop we used to hit every morning, not even on the phone.

Finally I stopped and turned to him and asked,

"Danny, when's the last time we talked to each other?"

He looked at me and he got that little smile on his face, like he always used to get right before he told me a big secret. And hadn't he had plenty of those growing up?

"Don't you remember? It was on the phone, the night before I died."

Shit yeah, that was right. I remembered it then - he was in the hospital and everyone thought he was getting better and would hold out at least another week, and I was out on the coast trying to get a flight back. How could I have forgotten that? Weird.

We turned and continued on down the hallway. Finally I asked him,

"Danny, why can't I remember that?"

He grinned, "I'm pretty sure that right now, you probably can't remember much of anything!"

He was right. I had this strange sensation that there were things I should be able to dredge up, but I had this weird unfocused feeling. I remember one time a friend gave me a bag of chocolate covered espresso beans and I ate the whole damn bag, not thinking about the fact that I'd just downed the equivalent of about fifteen shots. My nerves felt like they were going to pop loose in my muscles, and my head went into this state where I couldn't hold a single coherent thought for more than a second. This was kind of like that, only I couldn't even think of what it was that I couldn't remember.

As I tried to figure it out, the hallway ended. We stood on a landing in front of a stairway; one flight led up and one down. There must be a skylight or something above, because the stairs grew lighter as they went up and the stairs downward descended into darkness that didn't seem to be cut by the lights on the walls.

I looked at Danny.

"Okay, I give. What's going on?"

He looked back at me and his grin faded a bit.

"Haven't you guessed? You probably don't remember your heart problems and all those little attacks you had - well, let's just say the last one finished the job."

"You're dead, buddy!" And then he laughed.

Angry woman

"Sandra will you listen to me?!"

The toss of her hair suggested a definite no, but being a non-verbal response I pressed on.

"That girl kissed ME. I turned around and there she was. What was I supposed to do? Punch her?"

Still no answer. Sandra was known for her tantrums, but this was boiling over into something I'd never seen before.

"Come on baby, if someone happens to be attracted to my looks it reflects well on the lady I'm with. Doncha think?"

Daggers. If looks could kill I'd have been a bloody mess by now. The girl who started this whole mess wouldn't have been more than a spot on the rug too.

"What do you say Honey? Let's put this behind us and have a quiet evening here; just you and me. What do you say?"

She snorted and her breathing is starting to sound hoarse. Oh man, this is getting scary. An uncomfortable vision of restful sleep being interrupted by a butcher knife in the throat cut through my thoughts.

"Hey, I've got a great idea! Let's go get some dinner at that new sushi place. You love sushi. Right baby?"

Oh god. Her nostrils are flaring and her ears are beet red. I can feel sweat beading on my upper lip.

"Right.... Okay. Uh, how's about I just go pick some sushi up for us? Maybe some California rolls? I can be back in about thirty minutes. That'll give you a chance to, uh, freshen up a bit. I don't mind baby. Anything for you."

Oh crap! Her pupils are dilating down to little dots and the vein in her temple is pulsing. Run. Run for it. Sweat is dripping into the corners of my mouth. I take the four short steps to the door in just one and yank. Locked!

Panic! Focus! Door! Knob lock . Deadbolt . Oh god, she's behind me. What's she doing? Shoulder's clinch to ward off a blow. Hurry! The chain, undo the fucking chain!

It's open. I slide out. Two shirt buttons snag on the door and pop off. I jerk on the door and let go of the knob before it slams shut. The stairs are dark, but for two lights. Least of my worries now. I'm literally running downstairs taking two at a time.

Fine, then!

Okay, so apparently no one liked my river pic. Riley asked what I'd written about it but I didn't have the energy to really try to explain it. Besides, it was more of a "Time to Make the Doughnuts" thing - I needed to spend ten minutes writing, regardless of whether or not it was...you know...any good or not.

Anyway, first story done! Woo, and also: hoo! It sucks! It needs massive revision, it's pretentious and overwrought, but it's done. Day-um. I'm excited! Haven't done this in a while.

Now I just need to get to the point where I can do this without it being freakin' two weeks overdue. Shouldn't take three weeks to write seven pages, especially when it's a first draft.

Anyway, neener-neener-neener on everyone else. I'm feeling very cocky and arrogant at the moment. Pfffft.