Coldstar
18 Second bests
In the degradation of the great way come benevolence and righteousness. With the exaltation of learning and prudence comes immense hypocrisy. The disordered family is full of dutiful children and parents. The disordered society is full of loyal patriots.
Guin, Ursula K. Le. Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching
He blazed a flight path axis-ward, hands saluting the clear vacuum above. From his supple flesh a ripple of orange flame burned impossibly in the airless void.
Across from him, blue light flashed. She was a comet, trailing a smokeless vibracy behind her.
Together they clashed, in a brilliant nova that colored sky and shadowed earth.
In the space they left behind; a new sun arose.
A cold star. A furious infernal of fusion, a sun price born to pst-human gods.
It rose serene over the void where the flame and the comet once lay.
Ep VII - Florence, Venice and rapid-fire Rome - A Photo Essay
The final leg of the journey! We're going to do this photo essay style. Slideshow below.
The final leg of the journey! We're going to do this photo essay style. Slideshow below.
Ep VI - Milan - Listicle Time!
The first document of our trip through Italy - Milano, Venezie, Firenze; a whirlwind tour of the land of the Lombards, the Venetians and the Medici. More bling, sexy gondolas, roman architecture and ninja turtles.
As boulangerie, patisserie and the mysterious traiteur shops give way to pizzeria, pasticceria and ristorante signs, it occurs to me that for a refreshing change of pace, I should lower my literary standards and write a completely unreferenced, non scientific, totally made up listicle.
Presenting: Steven's 14 reasons why Milan is awesome with arbitrary opinions and limited anecdotal evidence liberally sprinkled as seasoning like the way they do with rosemary on a good pizza.
1. The Italians are the masters of the "serious, cereal" pose. Ads for everything from high fashion to bakeries to video game centres has them posing half-lit in shadowed darkness a la Raphael 'chariusco', looking really 'intenso' about something. Check out this one.
2. The most beautiful language in Europe, spoken by the most beautiful people. I don't understand why my dear friends Sean and Shanika are so attracted to German, which perennially sounds to me like the Downfall YouTube parody; or why my fellow East Asians are so Francophonic. Sure, the sound of accordions on the train is pretty charming the first ten times you hear it; but surely it must get wearing?
3. This mall.
4. Marco Polo. We are staying very close to a street called 'Via Marco Polo'. So of course, we play the eponymous game. I say "Marco", Jen says "Polo." We pause about five seconds for effect. I say "Marco", Jen retorts with "I am your father". #StarWarsReference #WhyILoveThisGirl #CuteyBunBunJen
5. Talking less with hands than I expect.
6. Stand up coffee culture. Everywhere, espresso bars where people stand and chat for a few minutes as they get a shot of caffeine. No takeaway cups. Viva! This one is the Roberto Cavalli Cafe in Florence.
Credit: https://bagnidilucca.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/img_1274.jpg
7. Heritage of the Romans are everywhere, as are influences from all nearby. When every street in the city has a marble sign with the name of a Filosofo, Poete, Architectto with their birth and death dates from the fourth century onwards, you suddenly get a sense of continental history that Australia truly has no idea about.
8. I am convinced I can understand italian, if only people would "parlo lentamente" (speak slowly) for me.
9. The best coffee so far. Super inefficient way to serve it (see above). Taught us Melbournians the real heritage of coffee. Unfortunately, no idea how to microfoam on a cappuccino or a latte.
10. Italian women are crazy beautiful.
11. This church.
The Duomo, Milan
12. Referring to centuries by number. e.g. Trecentro = 1300s; not like English since the first century starts with 0A.D., years starting 1300-1399 are the 14th century. Confuddly.
13. Personal preference: I will take excellent pizza, delicately composed pasta and sublime gelato over great baguettes, incredible croissants (too buttery/airy for me) and too-sweet macarons any day.
14. Jennifer eats so quickly here the spaghetti sauce flies everywhere, rendering parts of her face like a Pollack painting. #TrueStory
And of course, the now-standard photo selection.
Ep V - Bruiser’s Story
My goal is to be the most well-fed and well-travelled puppy in a da whole worlds. And because I don’t poo (except for that one time on daddy’s pillow whilst mummy was distracted with Canto dramas), they can take me anywhere!
Mummy has a sore lower back and daddy is massaging it. So they’re too busy to write their usual diary entry. Today, I will da write my gentle-puppy story about the things that I have been da doings so far. Daddy promised to spellcheck my writings afterwards; but I don’t think he will - he’s busy looking after mummy.
So about da most importanest subject in da world: me!
My goal is to be the most well-fed and well-travelled puppy in a da whole worlds. And because I don’t poo (except for that one time on daddy’s pillow whilst mummy was distracted with Canto dramas), they can take me anywhere!
Mummy always carries me around in her purple Furla bag. I’m enjoying it more and more - it means I don’t have to walk; plus purple is growing on me as a colour. Maybe daddy can get me a suit cut in that colour - gold and purple, so I can be like Roman royalty and so bling-bling.
So before we went off on holiday; I ate lots of food, like this snickers bar. Then when mummy and daddy got on the plane; daddy was really sick but they still had time to take me out and play with me.
Travelling on the trains is one of the most fun parts about this trip. Daddy says it’s something about ‘mental decompression’ and ‘interstitial time between more intense experiences’ but I had trouble just spelling that part. So here’s a picture of me helping mummy very generous services of butter and marmalade, on the Chunnel train. She calls it “having bread with my butter”. I’m not sure what that means but it doesn’t sound right. Then again, I’m just da puppy - and I just like looking out the window.
I got lots of opportunities to eat super-fancy food with mummy and daddy. The hyper-polite Frenchy waiters all liked me sitting on the table; and they helped me eat all the good foods.
I’m more than an just an ornamental gentle-puppy. I help mummy and daddy with real work! Here’s me thanking people for doing acts of micro-volunteering at our London Chapter.
Here’s me helping mummy carry home my share of the groceries from Rue Cler in Paris - really, really itty bitty bananas that mummy didn’t want to eat but just bought cause they were cute. I helped mummy and daddy eat them though; cause we don’t want to waste food.
I’m always helping daddy write; in cafes and other places. Sometimes I like to just look out the window, like here in the oldest continuously running cafe in the world. It’s called the Cafe Florian, and Daddy says it was part of the Grand Tour, and lost of dead white people like Byron used to sit here and write as well. I’m more interested in the secret present I got my aunty Ginny Hamster. Can you guess what it is?
Well, I got to travel to Rome soon - we’re just waiting for the train now, in more of this interstitial time that daddy likes. He’s doing some funny things with coloured fetching sticks. I put da photo here. My favourite part this whole da trip has been meeting all my doggie friends! Even though Venice was such a small, human-sized city (which is still really big my toy puppy standards), there were lots of doggie friends - both real and stuffed - for me to make friends with!
Until next time, signing off:
- Bruiser B. Masin, gentle-puppy of the world, traveller extraordinaire and gourmet food-hound.
Ep IV - Paris, France - Fancy Pants and Bling Bling
... prefer just being present in an unfamiliar place; trying to hang out where locals frequent and no tourists are; walking quieter streets and eating at the same time and place that locals (instead of tourists) do. Cause Corps often affords us the opportunity to meet people that aren’t just the normal people you encounter in the service industry...
Sunday, March 6th, 2016
Poor Jen was sick all day yesterday; so I had a wonderful time playing nurse and being a traveller, which I much prefer to being a tourist.
My definition - if you’re hitting up the stuff that tourists and not locals do - the sights of the city; museums, hanging out with busloads of mainland tourists - that’s being a tourist. Nothing wrong with it; especially if it’s your first time in a place. I agree with Jen that there is a substantial amount we should cover ‘just-cause’ we’re in Paris, if only to assuage the dozen people that will inevitably ask us upon return “but did you do this? Why didn’t you see X? X is awesome.” Yeah, okay, Mary-Kay - you do you; we’ll just do us.
I prefer just being present in an unfamiliar place; trying to hang out where locals frequent and no tourists are; walking quieter streets and eating at the same time and place that locals (instead of tourists) do. Cause Corps often affords us the opportunity to meet people that aren’t just the normal people you encounter in the service industry as a tourist - it’s been great to meet friends in London in that way.
Jen being sick gives me a great change of pace to do experience of rather a quieter kind; visiting tiny tea shops to get her some Spicy Rooibos, walking into fromageries to sample lots of cheese; and visiting with the local delis to buy her food from the stalls. Stock up on vitamin-C rich drinks, Ratatouille, some truly wonderful beef pot au feu. Rue Cler, in the 7th arrondissement is becoming quite the familiar little home spot for us.
So today we hit up a Michelin three-star restaurant L’Epicure, inside the La Bristol Hotel. It’s an o-la-la hotel with bling bling decor, looking like a modern day Versailles. As I gradually understand the traditional French sense of architecture and interior design, I realise that Kanye West and Chinese Emperors are comparatively understated.
This restaurant is fancy. How fancy? It’s the kind where the dessert is covered in gold foil; where they change your napkin six times during the meal; where crappy espresso costs ten Euros (about $15).
On the other hand; it’s pretty good. There’s some fancy pictures for you all:
Jennifer’s much more into this stuff than I am; and she “waaahs” and “oohs” her way through the courses. For my part, I am happy to play the indulgent boyfriend. We have time for a very long, very leisurely meal. The super attentive waiters are skilled in interjecting politely to check if we are okay. I’m not personally used to being asked if “everything is okay” every 25 minutes, but I guess that manual labour is part of the experience. I’m also getting used to the Gallic bustle-cum-nonchalance that seems characteristic of those in the service industry here. I doubt I’ll miss it, and it’s awfully environmentally unfriendly (what with the single use of 12 cheese knives to cut 6 small pieces of cheese for us); but there are parts to the human touch in these things that makes one wish they were more present in day-to-day services.
I’ve grown very attached to my leather gloves, which we purchased the other day at Galleries Lafayette. As I’m asserted earlier, it makes me look like I’m James Bond about to kill some mofo. I’m wearing them cause they look good, I need them in this cold; and also I don’t think I’ll get an opportunity to wear them non-ironically in Sydney even in the winter.
So we’re writing from here at the moment, at the train station waiting for the train to Milan. It’s a over nighter; with bed and everything! Very Darjeeling Limited.
Better go practice my italian. Until next time, arrivederci!
Ep III: Paris, The Bunny and Louis the XIV
Check out this sexy snap, titled "the sun is in my eeeeeeyes!" Also featuring food porn, mega bling bling and like... more food porn.
March 4th, 2016
So we arrive in Paris and promptly get our bags stuck in the train ticket doors. Lucky for us it's the ticket entrances and not the train doors - that would not be fun. The trains have a laissez-faire attitude to door opening - the door pops open before the train stops moving.
Paris is not like I expected; and it's much better. A deli shop attendant on Rue Cler tells us it's holiday season and everyone is off skiing, and the bad weather (plus recent terror events) seems to have thinned the crowds at major attractions.
The place we're staying at is small yet very serviceable. Very central, walking distance to most things; and most importantly very warm. I'm not quite prepared for just how cold we're talking - this is way beyond Melbourne levels. We promptly both get some gloves. I carefully select mine so I look like James Bond about to shoot some mofo.
So we have an exciting few days filled with cheese and bread. Coffee is serviceable - its not the art that it is back home; but it's generally very consistent, especially when milk is involved. Jen is not one for the espresso bar type coffee, but I really enjoy it - Australia would do well to learn from this kind of shot-and-go culture - it is more social, cleaner and better for the environment.
We're up at late night cafes; eating way too much. Jennifer has some kind of major cutie powers - everyone likes her (little do they know she hogs the bed, despite being a little girl - with outstretched leg and immobile sleeping stance).
She's overjoyed to see little toy dogs every few blocks or so; all in little outfits due to the rain and cold. Jen is also a super well organised booking machine - she books us lunch at the Eiffel Tower restaurant "Jules Verne", a host of other restaurants, and works out exactly when we need to hit the Louvre, d'Orsay, when we need to climb the Arc De Triomphe in time for the late night Eiffel tower "pretty sparklies" (her words : D ) on the hour.
Poor thing has more willingness to engage in the idea of stuff than sometimes the physical fitness reality. She got super dizzy climbing up the Arc De Triomphe, but it was 5 minutes until 10pm when it shut down; so she powered through it and got up there despite tiredness, cold, elevation and way too many steps, she got her Eiffel tower 'sparklies'.
Jen is a darling and my best friend. Not many people can tolerate going into the Louvre and me actually spending time looking at all the paintings up and down that fricken Palace instead of just hanging out near the Mona Lisa for 10 minutes and going home. We gave it 6-7 solid hours, and still only did the Italian/French wing, a whole lot of Marie Antoinette bling-bling interiors, some greek and Italian sculptures and the Egyptian artefacts. To be a completionist would require three days - something for next time. : )
I gave her a mini art history class at the Musee d'Orsay, talking through my favourite impressionists (Monet, in case you were wondering - actually my favourite painter full stop) and Van Gogh. We take a walk on the riverbank after our lunch at the Eiffel - about 45 min walk to the Louvre. Check out this sexy snap, titled "the sun is in my eeeeeeyes!"
Here's a 'mini' mini buses that blew Jen's mind, along with some food porn:
I note that price is no indicator of quality in restaurants (a general rule, but perhaps even more true in Paris). Very fine restaurants have subtle use of salt and sugar, balancing these elements with grace; whereas terrible ones way over salt the soup and sugar up the cakes and patisserie. I guess it is doing a lot with just two profiles given that Western cuisine for the longest time didn't really make use of the signature south-east asian salt-and-sugar together combo; lacked real spicy chilli, curry and peppers as an angle and don't really understand umami.
Last but certainly not least. Today was a Versailles day. So much bling. If our tour guide was to be believed Louis the XIV, the sun king, is like a 16th century Kanye West. I’m pretty sure he’s famous for more things than just being smelly and building bling everywhere - as wikipedia will attest to.
Ep II - Jennifer’s Chunnel Press Release
Wherein Jennifer goes on an incredible hip-hop aficionado three-peat, recognising additionally both Insane in the Membrane and and Yeezy’s Niggas in Paris. Clearly, I am an incredible teacher and she an attentive student.
The English Channel, 1st March, 2016
Before we resume our regularly scheduled programming, Jennifer would like me to share her adventure anecdotes.
So backtrack to the hipster cafe. Coffee brews. Hipsters work. It’s fricken cold. They’re playing Hip Hop classics - Jay-Z, Nas, Cypress Hill. Jen goes in there; happy to cheerful as she usually is and hears a song she recognises (I’ve been training her). She engages me in a little bop dance she does along to ’99 Problems’. The barista sees her doing it and laughs out loud - his usual stoic English reserve demolished. Jennifer despairingly explains the backstory. The barista doesn’t believe her when she says that her boyfriend is the bigger hip hop fan. His exact words, through bearded grin are “but you’re the one dancing.” : )
Whilst we’re there, she goes on an incredible hip-hop aficionado three-peat, recognising additionally both Insane in the Membrane and and Yeezy’s Niggas in Paris. Clearly, I am an incredible teacher and she an attentive student.
Later in the day she decides to run her signature hustle on me - which is to say that she stops to ogle at shoes or food without letting me know so I walk way further on before I notice she’s missing. She goes further in her art of the disappearance with a variation - she gets on a different escalator to me, so that when I look for her she’s not there; then proceeds to make faces at me from the other escalator the whole way up.
Pretty cute, eh?
So I’m writing to you now on the Eurostar between London and Paris; it’s actually flown by so fast we were in France before I even noticed us entering a tunnel of any kind. It’s an overcast day as we past fields peppered with barns, carefully tended woods, windmills and power lines. Lovely despite the poor weather.
My phone alternates between ‘Nessun Servizie’ (no service) and Bouygues. I figure we’re pretty far out and farm trees don’t produce wifi signals. It’s not until we hit the outskirts of Roissy-en-France before I get any reception.
But we’re here now, bonjour Paris! Better off board and find ourselves - will get back to you all shortly.
Ep I: Fevered Darjeeling Star Wars
I have fevered dreams of featuring three whimsical brothers reconnecting aboard the Millennium Falcon in a dystopian future where people dress like it's Mardi Gras every day.
Also known as the the Curious Case of Constantly Open Card Shops
London, March 1st, 2016
So it's my one-year anniversary today with Jennifer. I'm up at 3am in the morning because it takes a while for a soul to reconnect to the body after flying across ten timezones with one stop-over.
First things first - it is not fun to fly whilst ill. My sore throat morphed into a less-than-entertaining fever mid-flight, threatening to choke my sanity in phlegm and snot from seat 67H. As a distraction, I busied myself with Ethiad's lifesaving - no exaggeration - entertainment system.
A marathon run of preteen action, Wes Anderson goodness and box office smash hits later; I'm having fevered dreams of featuring three whimsical brothers reconnecting aboard the Millennium Falcon in a dystopian future where people dress like it's Mardi Gras every day.
Did you ever notice - Adrien Brodie looks like Kyle Ren/Adam Driver?
Jen super-tied hanging out in our cute AirB&B - I'd link but it's no longer available.
So we're in London. It's my first time here and Jennifer hasn't been for over a decade. I'm barely awake, but she's bright eyed and busy tailed; commenting how cute the cabs are; how cute the rounded bums of the buses are; now cute out wonderful host at the AirB&B place we stay at is.
I'm holding on until I can get into bed. Our beloved host serves us a huge pot of tea with shortbread. The only reasoned, appropriate response is:
I recover somewhat; and we go out for coffee. We find a place with an incredible 4.9 star rating on Google, with raving reviews about "fantastic cappuccinos - probably best in London." I set my expectations low; noting my snotty Melbournian heritage. We have coffees. A filter for me. A latte for her. The place looks appropriately hipster-ish - dudes with the side swept quiffs stand in front of hulking metal and wood machines in a tiny store with only small perchy stools to sit on. One of the dudes even has way oversized glasses to accent his hipster creds. Things are looking good.
The filter was pretty decent. My subsequent latte - inconsistent. I'd still recommend it for the desperate - link here - but I think I'll stick to the ubiquitous English Breakfast whilst I'm here.
In Bills, near Angel Station
I love Black Pudding.
It is at this point that I must note my limited knowledge of British Cuisine indicates that it's probably not the key bragging for their nation's pride. And that's okay - there's a lot more things to be proud about.
I'm enthused by the beauty of this first day of spring; walking around the City University London campus with amazingly well dressed people; absorbing British humor and the occasional accent I really cannot understand (the only other English-speaking place that's ever occasionally stumped me was Boston) taking a leisurely stroll across London Bridge and subsequently Clapham Common.
I only have one bone to (nit) pick and that's pronunciation. The English invented the language, but seems to take every opportunity to violate it. Why is 'Something-shire' pronounced something-shirr instead of shy-er? Why is 'Thames' pronounced tems instead of thaym-s? Why is Clapham pronounced clepem instead of Clap-ham?
Try actually pronouncing this word the way it is spelled - worcestershire. How does this collection of letters end up being wusta-sheer? Madness. : )
Super duper sensible. Well done, London.
Unlike my epic Lord of the Rings style sojourn to fruitlessly search for affordable postcards to purchase for Cause Corps in Hong Kong, we had no problem here. In fact, at 8am in the morning, the only things open were dry cleaners are three card/gift stores, all within a 5 minute walk of each other. I'm not sure if this is a local anomaly, or yet another endearing British-ism.
We end the day like we always do with some Cause Corps goodness. Next stop - croissants, baguettes and the sound of accordions.
I'm published!
Ballard and Ballard in 2080AD has been published in Aurealis magazine.
"This issue features...the tough and turbulent ‘Ballard and Ballard: A Biopunk Detective Tale of 2080 AD’ from Steven Ma..."
Here's the link!
https://aurealis.com.au/store/aurealis-72/
Bonn-E and K-Ride
Bonnie and Clyde, in far-flung a future where entire galaxies toil under the yoke of an Authority.
She would have fought alongside him. Together, missiles aloft, lasers bristling; they would have filled the vast, comet populated space with a thousand more hunks of broken metal...
Twenty clicks to go.
His tear shaped craft was already beyond the classical realm of Newton. Tendrils of relativity had begun wrapping around his view of space and time. The stars beyond traced lazy lines as dilation contorted them into watercolour strokes of white and red and blue and yellow. They swept behind him, disappearing into the crimson-edged event horizon that visibly expanded even during the brief moments he glanced at it.
They would not catch him. They could not catch him.
He thought of Bonn-E. The smell of her still clung to him. The jasmine of her perfume and the musk of her feminine form filled the tight cabin space, clinging to his clothes. He imagined her craft keeping pace with his, her cat eyes bright as she hurtled past him.
She would have come. If she had known, she would have insisted.
She would have taken to orbit in her beloved ship, The Defenseless, and been anything but. She would have run the blockade, his wing-woman, her every move complementing his. Just two kids from Spica IV, outwitting the G-men of the Galactic Revenue Agency.
“Together, missiles aloft, lasers bristling; they would have filled the vast, comet populated space with a thousand more hunks of broken metal.”
Running from the man.
When the Agency fleet had spotted his camouflaged ship at the very edge of the system's oort radius; she would have fought alongside him. Together, missiles aloft, lasers bristling; they would have filled the vast, comet populated space with a thousand more hunks of broken metal.
But he couldn't have asked her to. Not her. He would take nothing from her. So he hadn't asked, and she had never known.
He had left her peacefully sleeping in their luxurious pad, as the secondary star rose on a new four-day of Spica's twinned stellar orbit. Her hair arrayed across the pillow, soft breaths shallow, in an old shirt of his. Carefree. For all she knew, he was still getting that drink of water.
Ten clicks to go.
The Solitaire's form tightened, its malleable hull morphing from teardrop to cigar ellipsoid.
He had left her ten million credits in a hidden account behind her in-feed; she'd trigger it when she awoke in the morning. Enough to live meagrely on for the rest of her life. Ten million measly credits.
It was an infinitesimally small portion of what they had stolen together; prised from the Authority. In turn, it was an infinitesimally small portion of what the Authority controlled. The bureaucrats would lose more than that in the redirected attention of sending G-men after him.
The two of them had eaten well, for a while. For a few glorious days, they had lived. Bonn-E, the freedom they shared together was his forever.
“Or maybe not. He’d die better knowing she’d live. He’d not risk her. She would live; and they’d be satisfied when he died.”
But they would be after him. It wasn't about the cash. It wasn't even about the law, which he had violated without a second thought.
It was personal, and it was directed at him. The Authority was going to make an example of him, because he had done what no-one had feared to do for a generation. He had defied them. He had embarrassed them. He had shown them to be fallible.
They could not be outsmarted for long. They, the masters of all the inflows and outflows, of supply and demand of all energy and matter in the Galaxy, were not used to being denied.
But maybe they could be outrun. Maybe.
Or maybe not. He'd die better knowing she'd live. He'd not risk her. She would live; and they'd be satisfied when he died.
Three clicks to go. A new source of light touched the silver surface of The Solitaire, the midnight black spade decal deepening with the contrast.
He flew past the research station orbiting ER-1-912. The modified anomaly. His destination.
There.
The Authority had placed proximity mines at the the event horizon. But he had foreseen this; and he had bribed the astro-jockeys to leave the most imperceptible of spaces between two of the mines. Too close to any of them, he'd be so much stardust and gamma rays. Micrometers mis-positioned, nano-radians off the correct angle, he'd miss his intended target. Like Odysseus between Scylla and Charybdis.
No other pilot in the history of humanity would be able to navigate the gap. But he would, for he was K-RD01, augmented combat unit, first made, least successful. A rebellious defect. A physically perfect, digitally enhanced experiment gone wrong.
“Their ordnance filled the air, an inescapable maze of piercing light and near-undetectable slugs.”
They called him "K-Ride" in the corps. That is, before he met Bonn-E. Before he found something worth living for. Before he found something worth dying for.
Half a click to go.
The Authority battle fleet rose to meet him in a well-executed in ambush. Blue Star Fleet, the best of the best. Sixteen Dreadnought-class battlestars, five Aspix-class cruisers; a hundred kinetic hunter-killers, arrayed in standard encircling formation. Gleaming a star-drenched bright blue, their broadsides blossomed into ten thousand deadly points of light.
Their ordnance filled the air, an inescapable maze of laser fire and near-undetectable slugs.
A tenth of a second before he was reduced to plasma, a glowing hollow cylinder of stellar fury erupted before him; its ferocity cleansing the deadly space of kinetic kill missiles and shielding its inner space for a single heartbeat from all the weaponry the GRA could muster. Perfectly timed, he flew through the tunnel as hot as the heart of a star. That shield had cost triple the fortune he had paid to adjust the mines; and double again to buy the silence he needed to have it constructed; all for a heartbeat of safety.
For all signs that they could detect, he had disappeared into a fireball of their retribution; returned to primordial stardust.
Even as their sensors picked up the energetic detritus of the killzone, he was past them. His ship skirted the two nearest mines with nanometers to spare, at the precise trajectory he had spent the rest of his fortune to ascertain.
The event horizon. He didn't even have a moment to prepare himself. He crossed into it; and darkness reigned.
He breathed deeply, opening his eyes.
A nebulae splayed across a fifth of the visible sky, the star scape unfamiliar. New constellations stretched. Readings showed nothing.
What did he recall? Of course, the utter darkness. The endless black that was deeper than blindness, soundless and lightless and friendless and loveless. Scraping the very depths of creation, space-time wound so tightly it tore from the unimaginably vast forces at play. And yet, at the very centre of the cosmic maelstrom: emptiness profound.
“In the space between spaces, the the broiling quantum soup beyond scientific understanding, the singularity.”
For a lifetime, or perhaps a heartbeat; this absence of all things ruled. In the space between spaces, the the broiling quantum soup beyond scientific understanding, the singularity.
Beyond that?
From nothingness, a circle of light. Something that he had forgotten. The circle of light grew, still enclosed by darkness. But he was not alone, that which he brought with him was here. Fey, and otherworldly, wild and free. A feeling. A moment. The scent of jasmine. The feeling of freedom. A girl.
Her.
Bonn-E.
The Colour of Sunrise (Part Three of Three)
A steadfast warrior monk with conviction painted in black and white is driven by holy mission to confront his own gods. Story in three parts.
The evil wizard's visage was horror to behold - yellowed pus oozed from cracks on it's surface, a host of open wounds bled onto the front of his robes...
Credit: http://www.obsidianportal.com/campaigns/the-sorceror-s-sunken-dungeon
Hime moved.
In practiced, steady steps he danced, not in the direct line to his foe but irregularly to the sides and varying his approach vector. His long strides ate the distance quickly. He would be no easy target for a ranged attack.
The stone square exploded in a pool of brilliant blue-white light; a thousand times that of the passage. Hime closed his eyes momentarily, memorising the relative position to his foe even as he surged closer.
The Grey One had turned; his hands still on the book. Hime abandoned his evasive movements in favour of a headlong charge. His right palm was already arranged for the disabling strike. Ten, then five, then three steps left. The warrior monk had a moment when he saw under the depths of the cowl, looking the Grey in the face. The evil wizard's visage was horror to behold - yellowed pus oozed from cracks on it's surface, a host of open wounds bled onto his matted beard.
“The evil wizard’s visage was horror to behold - yellowed pus oozed from cracks on it’s surface, a host of open wounds bled onto the front of his robes.”
The monk chopped his right palm in a practiced blow to the throat. He braced himself for a counter, a personal shield, or an evocation. To his surprise, the Grey One made no sound, even as the iron edge of Hime's trained palm crushed the wizard's windpipe. The stunned caster raised his hand, not to defend himself, but to wave helplessly.
Hime had no time to enjoy his luck, as a lifetime of training kicked in. Disable the vocal spells. Disable his somatic ability. Find and destroy any magical foci.
Hime's other hand came up a half-breath later, the wicked war'rang's bladed edge severing both the Grey's hands in a single blow. The tome could be a focus of power; but it did not seem to be reacting, so Hime struck the wizard again with his palm. Hot blood covered his hand, and the Grey One crumpled.
A magic ward activated. The air filled with a sizzling light and Hime felt his skin, hair and flesh burning. The pain was unbearable, contracting his muscles beyond their limits, boiling his blood, the pain driving all other cognition away.
It was all he could do to take a step back from the still glowing portal.
He stumbled. His last image was the book, sitting open on the pedestal. Then he passed out.
With soft footsteps of her doeskin boots, she crept into the hall. Her blue eyes gleaming bright in a dark hall, she saw the Tjion, his dark skinned form fallen before the portal.
Tiandra had followed him across the plains, stalking him as she would stalk a three-antlered deer. She didn't understand then why she had done so. Why she was compelled to run after this strange warrior monk that had shown her no affection. She had cursed her folly as it took her a week to wind her circuitous around and down to the hidden cave. She had won her stone despite the male warriors saying she could not. That iron resolve, born of famished times and warrior spirit, had seen her here.
To him, in front of the softly glowing portal.
Crumpled, bleeding, broken.
She ran, then, crossing the hall heedlessly and knelt by his side. He was still alive, breathing shallowly. He was dangerously cold. His eyes opened. Looking at her. Then she knew. Without the need for words, his eyes had captured her, as surely as any rabbit snare. This strange, quiet ascetic, so unlike the men she had known. His face was miraculously mostly unaffected, though his lips were cold. He spoke something, too softly for her to hear.
Tiandra leaned close. "Flask" he whispered.
She looked on his person and saw a small vial, finely wrought in bronze. She uncorked the stopper and poured a small amount past his cracked lips, seeing him swallow a small mouthful. She was about to give him the rest, when his hand, seemingly with renewed strength, clenched her thigh and gave her pause.
Before her eyes, his most grievous wounds knitted closed, not healing completely but showing months of recovery in mere seconds. A glow returned to his face; and he smiled as he looked upon her. A miracle not seen since the departure of the White Ones.
Then, miracle upon miracles, she helped him come to his feet. He groaned with bone-deep pain, it was all she could do to hold him up. She tried to make him take more of the miraculous potion, but he would not.
"That is for the future." his words were weak, with none of the smooth intonation she remembered.
She hesitated, then stoppered the flask. She began to turn him toward the entrance.
"No. Book."
He waved her off, standing on his own. He pointed at the book.
"Please... read. Portal. Careful."
Tiandra turned to the book. Behind it, the portal was glowing a soft blue. The book lay open, yellowed pages filled with a fine script. She read out loud to the monk.
"...in our hubris we made a mistake. All our good intent poured into creating faithful, frail man. Our magic, alongside all that was dark, false and evil about our peoples poured into beings of another kind - the Yinchanu - the Grey Ones.
In the centuries that followed, chaos. From the fey planes from which we drew our energies, they poured forth, legion after legion of them." Tiandra paused in her reading, looking at Hime. His face was exhausted, but his manner begged her to read on.
“We had squandered the gift of magic, unable to bequeath it to our children. In our folly, we brought great evil upon our worlds.”
"So there was war. While man dug deep into mountain roots or roamed the endless plains of grass and horse, we duelled with the Grey Ones. We fought them to a standstill, but our magic drew from the same source. Since they were our creation, we took responsibility. We destroyed the Blue Fountains of Nei, the source of magic on this world.
Then came the Great Lessening. So a few of us walked amongst our children, teaching them the ways of battle. It came to be that those students called themselves the Tjion, meaning the chosen. In time, they would grow strong while we and the Greys would weaken. The world would be left to the Enchamen. A final gift."
Hime had moved beside Tiandra, looking down at the book. There was but one passage left of the text. Here, the ink was fresh. Anger filled him as he realised that the Grey One had written in this holy tome.
"And I, Ebellin the Final, humblest of our order - report that the Tjions have been trained well. They have hunted and destroyed all but Uun-gannu the Dark, the avatar himself. For fifty years, I made it my life's quest to hunt him. I have destroyed him. Though I am broken myself, return in honour."
Hime stared at the page. He looked down.
He looked at the cloak of the Grey One, still sprawled on floor. A dirt-stained cloak, threadbare and worn with the years.
A once white robe.
The Colour of Sunrise (Part Two of Three)
A steadfast warrior monk with conviction painted in black and white is driven by holy mission to confront his own gods. Story in three parts.
All true knowledge was in the tomes of the White Ones; and those were buried in tombs deep, temples long ruined, and magic towers unscalable...
Credit: http://desktophqwallpapers.com/red-mountain-top/
A red sunset, fogged with grey.
The villagers had seem him along the dusty road from their homes; the girl and a red warrior walked with him to the edge of their lands. She was full of questions for him.
"Where are you from?"
"I come from the Silver Monastery, in the valley beyond."
"Are you the elder there?"
"No, I am a Bronze Brother of the Fifth Circle. The Abbot runs the monastery."
"Is hunting Greys the only thing you do?"
"Actually, my primary task is to gather the lost knowledge of the White Ones and keep it safe. It is the senior brothers who are tasked directly with hunting Greys."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because," Hime said, looking at the girl's only stone, a blue shard below her eye. "This was my homeland."
The girl and the warrior left him at the edge of their outermost field; beyond stretched the grassland toward the lair of the Grey. As Hime continued on his way, the two stood watching. At the very edge of hearing, the girl shouted out:
"Tjion Hime, I am Tiandra!"
He did not turn to acknowledge. Tjions knew many things, but women were not one of them. Instead, he walked on.
He tracked the path of the Grey One across the plain, leading toward the mountain. His quarry's steps were shuffling. Was the spell caster tired? Despite his apparent weariness, the path tended eerily straight, guided by the Lines of Lei.
And so it was that Hime came onto the foot of the mountain. Thrust into the sky, like a sudden titan's foot struck down from heaven, the Cloudfeet Peaks bore well their name. The grass of the plains ended suddenly, and there was naught but the blue-grey stone reaching skyward. At their top, a crown of starkly white ice.
“All true knowledge was in the tomes of the White Ones; and those were buried in tombs deep, temples long ruined, and magic towers unscalable.”
All trace of the Grey ended abruptly here. The hunter-monk remained unfazed. He placed hand on a ridged, grey stone, and lifted himself off the ground.
Three days and three nights he spent scaling the peak, nothing but the fingers of his hands on the tips of his toes keeping him stuck to the wall. When it rained, he drank his fill, hugging the cliff-face like a babe at his mother's breast. When the sun beat down, he ignored the ache at his back and continued ever upward.
Hime came onto a natural tunnel carved into the face, too small to be seen clearly from below. It was high noon, the rain just passed. A small rainbow formed just above the village, rendered in miniature by the distance. He stopped at its opening for some time, preparing himself with a recitation of the Forms and the Movements. It brought him focus, concentrating his abilities on the task at hand.
He entered the tunnel, leaving the sunlight behind.
The passage remained lit as he ventured deeper. A soft blue light, seemingly without source, kept all the walls visible. Hime stepped forward cautiously, senses alert for danger. Inscribed all over the walls was an intricately carved text. It was of expert craftsmanship, likely the work of sorcery. He picked a wall to begin reading:
"…we Wynchalla were like the gods themselves, remaking reality..." the Wynchalla, the name the White Ones called themselves. A holy place? Hime scanned forward as he progressed, taking care to look for any sign of the Grey while he memorised this knowledge for transcription back at the monastery.
"...soon enough, some of us grew lonely; some needed partners to assist in grand endeavours. So it came to be that we created noble creatures in our own image. We imbued in them all that was best in ourselves. We called our children the Enchamen, the companion people." This was the gospel of the genesis of humanity. Hime took his time to read all the walls, committing them to his trained memory.
Before long, he neared the dead end of the passage. Against the wall, three stone figures seemed carved from the rock of the tunnel, rising seamlessly from the stone floor. Many Tjion holy places had two - not three - figures carved in this style, and Hime recoiled from the blasphemous representation in the stonework.
The central figure was robed, elderly man standing outstretched, his hands to the skies and face exulting. Holy Arruun, avatar of the Wynchalla, first among the White. On his left was a woman, perfect in form and beauty, who stared forward into the future. Mim'me, mother of humanity, unrobed to represent her lack of magic. On the White One's right - a figure hidden by voluminous robes carved from the stone, head bowed and face obscured by the cowl.
“Mighty in our magics and sure of our control, we remade our reality as we pleased. There was no dream that was beyond our reach on this world…”
The Grey Champion, Uun-gannu. This place was an eldritch altar to Grey powers. What a mockery of holy art! Hime calmed his rage, putting it aside. The knowledge here was useless.
Hime stepped away as a deep, thunderous scraping sounded. The figure of the White Spellmaster split in twain, the walls sliding apart to reveal a huge space beyond. The monk moved fluidly with the left panel, hiding his form behind blessed Mim'me. He took mental note of his glimpse of the room beyond.
Beyond the sliding doors, more writing covered every inch of wall of a huge hall. A hundred meters deep and forty high, forty wide. At it's very end, four long stones formed a square, like an empty door to nowhere. Next to it, a pedestal with a huge open book.
Standing in front of the square, a grey-robed figure whose torn robes revealed a skinny, misshapen form. The Grey One, leaning over the tome.
The Colour of Sunrise (Part One of Three)
A steadfast warrior monk with conviction painted in black and white is driven by holy mission to confront his own gods. Story in three parts.
Hime descended from the mountains at dawn, the sun at his back. His sturdy leathers creaked, heavy on his broad shoulders. Absently, his hand caressed the worn pommel of his war'ring. The bladed chevron of lightweight steel was a familiar companion...
An orange sunrise, shot through with white cirrus clouds.
Hime descended from the mountains at dawn, the sun at his back. His sturdy leathers creaked, heavy on his broad shoulders. Absently, his hand caressed the worn pommel of his war'ring. The bladed chevron of lightweight steel was a familiar companion.
He went into the village, amongst the women smoking the thin, eel-like fish of the lake, the matrons at their looms, and the veterans at their pipes. The children raced underfoot, small and undernourished. The older ones would be out in the salty fields with their fathers, growing what they could.
He passed two men with sharp stones set into the skin of their wrinkled faces, standing outside the largest hut in the hamlet. They nodded to him, acknowledgement in the silent bond of warriors.
Entering the hut, the smell of tea-of-myrtle and pipe weed enclosed behind him.
"It is the hunter."
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. A figure of high cheekbones and deep authority sat within. The ancient man's bare chest was riddled with scars and patches of badly healed skin. His face was a broken mountainside, filled with stones set into the cheeks and forehead.
“A figure of high cheekbones and deep authority sat in the hut. The ancient man’s bare chest was riddled with scars and patches of badly healed skin, his face was like a broken mountainside, filled with stones set into the cheeks and forehead.”
Hime bowed deep. "Elder, I am Hime, of the Valley Tjion."
"Welcome, holy man," the elder said, "Your presence honours us."
Hime had much to say, but it was the way of the plains people to eat before their business. So he sat and broke bread with the elder and a half-dozen stone-marked warriors of the people.
They dined slowly on flatbread made from the scant barley of the fields, the smoked eel-fish of the lake, and the dried figs of better seasons gone by. This was a grand feast to these people. Thus, Hime showed them the honour of taking his fill of what they had to give.
When they were done, they sat in the wispy smoke-weed of brotherhood. Hime broached the polite silence first, as was customary.
"How fare the crops this season?"
"They are poor," said one warrior with stones of blue and grey, passing the pipe on. "The rains do not come, and the salt comes closer to the soil than ever before."
"It has been this way for a number of seasons; each worse than the last," said another, a young girl. "Since the coming of the Grey One". The youngster had blue eyes, uncommon for the people of the plains. She spoke eagerly and he watched Hime with closely in a way that made the monk uncomfortable.
"He who boldly stalks our lands, that servant of pestilence!" A third warrior grimaced, his face showing a freshly embedded red rock, still crusted with blood.
"Oh, gone are the days when the white wizards walked the land." The elder said, his bass-toned wisdom imbued with the gravity of years gone by. "Noble in their power, fathers of humanity. They, like the order from which our honoured Tjion guest comes from, reined in the Grey ones. The White Spellmasters fought them on the plains and in the valleys; on mountain tops of our world and drove them by the dozens through gates to places unseen." He recounted common folklore in the manner of plainsmen storytellers. The elder paused, wracked by a deep cough. The others waited reverently.
The next part did not need recounting, for it was within living memory. The Grey Ones had returned. They were but shadows of their former selves, powers diminished as if the passing of time had embellished the legends or blunted their evils.
“The White Spellmasters fought them on the plains and in the valleys; on mountain tops of our world and drove them by the dozens through gates to places unseen.”
But, even so, each one was an implacable foe, the better of entire tribes of mortal warriors. And none of the White Ones had come back.
Instead there were only the hunter-monks. The Tjions, mere humans. Like Hime.
"I have come to slay this Grey that plagues you." Hime said. The warriors all nodded once, at the same time. He had their approval.
Short Story: The Scourge of Tharsis
"Benedict Arnold" on a newly free Mars.
Gauntwings flew overhead; cigar-shapes arranged in a digitally-perfected delta. Routine Blue patrol, rendered in silence by a metre of nano-glass separating the cold vacuum of space from the station interior. The Earth Alliance Free Fall Navy insignia gleamed proudly blue from their bodies. The opposing Red patrol, spheres bristling with Ares-class kinetic-kill shards, would be overhead in twenty minutes...
Gauntwings flew in delta formation overhead; cigar shapes painfully bright against the darkness of space. It was a routine patrol of Blues, rendered in silence by a metre of nano-glass separating the cold vacuum from the station interior. The Earth Alliance Free Fall Navy insignia was etched in blue on their hulls. The opposing Red patrol, spheres bristling with Ares-class kinetic-kill shards, would be overhead in twenty minutes.
Cheb put his head down. The smell of the absinthe emanated from glasses empty but for sugared dregs. The bartender's sensory proboscis articulated, its dozens of face-mounted flagella gesturing a question. Cheb could see himself reflected in the chrome of the droid - saggy jowls, moustache rampant across his unwashed face. His eyes were still a faint verdure, seeming muted without the soft pink illumination he was used to seeing them in. The reflection nodded, and the machine-man poured him another precise row of emerald liquor. Each shot was arrayed in green and silver spooned splendour, like the Navy on parade. As a machine man finished, Cheb's aural implant brightened briefly, scrolling numbers counting down his remaining credits on the surface of his iris.
Still enough to retire drunk on.
A young girl walked in, keeping in the slipstream behind a knot of older men. Unlike the miners with faces determined to drink and carouse, this girl looked straight ahead and walked up to the bar. Thin, muscular. Tight leather pants. Something in her posture lasered through Cheb's liquor haze.
Cheb tottered to his feet, keeping his face turned toward her. He retreated slowly, taking a shadowed booth with his back to the wall. From here, he could observe crowded bar in safety. He took another sip of the emerald liquid and smiled to himself. Just like back in free-fall basic. Good to know that his military training was not completely lost.
He watched her, trying his best to seem nonchalant. The girl's feline poise, her utter economy of motionas she scanned the room, screamed special forces. Black black-ops. The nameless, genetically perfected ninjas that both sides deployed in this war grown cold. Everyone knew that this latest armistice treaty would end up meaning nothing, like the three before it. The stage of hostilities had simply shifted; moving into the shadows out of the public eye, beyond the understanding of normal citizens. In the yottabytes flowing between Ares-Terra space, amongst the networks of ten thousand communications satellites scattered throughout the Inner System, from shielded bunkers scattered amongst the asteroid belt, the war continued. On the ground, it was waged with surgical precision. Employing vat-grown assassins, cutting-edge surgical hacks and memetic subtlety, trillions of credits were thrown at the fourth wave military industrial complex.
He had no evidence, but he knew both sides were out to get him. This station, Redside Phobos, was neutral territory. Theoretically common ground for both sides. Theoretically, relatively safer. A moderate paranoia in this hyper-populated rat warren was actually quite healthy. One couldn't tell which miner was covertly a surveillance-swarm engineer, or which maintenance man was actually the Director of Memetic Execution.
It had only one other advantage: this was the closest he could ever get to home. The feeling was bittersweet. If he had wanted to share one of the coffin-bed miner bunkrooms placed above ground, he'd see the bold red orb fill his space everyday. The surface he'd fought for. The place he was banished from. He was drawn to its colours, its familiar palette comforting, so unlike the choking blues of Earth. At the same time, he couldn't stay watching it too long. So he settled for the next best thing. He liked to sit in this bar and stare at it. Sometimes, in the darkness of his room, its stark expanses would stir his dreams, coalescing in his consciousness like a zephyr of Martian dust. He'd awaken; and the recollection would remain at the edge of memory, but the heaviness in his chest would stay.
"Captain? Captain? Is that you?" a pimply face looked at him. Hadn't even noticed the kid.
"No."
"Captain 7Flash*, I know it's you. I served under you during the Olympus Campaign!"
"Name's Cheb, kid."
"I'm Sub-Lieutenant #56Spiral." he paused, a little uncertain. "The Earth Alliance FFN."
Cheb grunted. Kid looked barely out of basic - his curl and wings had a freshly stitched look.
"I know, boy. You're too short to be a RustDuster."
"It's a privilege to meet with you, sir." Cheb didn't reply. The boy stood there. The silence stretched.
"May I sit with you for a moment, sir?" The boy was sweating with nervous energy. "I'd like the honour of buying you a drink."
Cheb let him slide in. A pair of people at a booth was less suspicious, he supposed. The kid ordered a round of drinks and stared at him like he was a hero out of a fairytale. Cheb supposed in many ways, he was. A hint of old pride peeked through, like new polish on a forgotten medal. The boy continued to stare, wide-eyed.
"Sir, may I ask you a question?" Kid's eagerness tripped over his manners, as drinks arrived.
"How did it feel to finally be given a command post worthy of your abilities?"
"Kid." Cheb downed the drink in one go. He was gonna need a few more drinks if he was going to tolerate the fawning. It was this kind of adulation that had driven him from Earth. That and the equal amounts of hatred he gave rise to in other quarters of the Inner System.
"Those RustDusters refused you promotion, you, the Scourge of Tharsis! At war college, we talked endlessly about how we'd try to fight you. I must admit that all us ensigns were daunted by tales of your exploits. I'm glad you ended up with us in the Alliance instead. I'm proud to have fought with you."
The... honour was mine." His responses were automatic. Learned, practiced. He had always hated using that one, but his media trainers had insisted on it. The kid chattered on. Cheb continued to focus on the leather-clad girl, who had just waved off one of the miners trying to buy her a drink. Girl was a born beauty. Short, bob-cut hair, ever-so almond eyes that hinted at a generous portion of her genes being from Asia. Definitely a ninja.
"It was a reassuring validation that we were on the right of it, sir. The rebellion was foolhardy to begin with. We were just taxing what we had invested in. Did they think that we wouldn't cut the elevator cable? At least we tried to do it peacefully. Disconnect at the bottom, let it float free." The kid continued talking, and Cheb downed another drink as the next round arrived. "... and what kind of honour is in nuking the cable halfway up? Impossible to retrieve. Maximum carnage surface-side. No-one could contain that kind of collateral..."
Cheb look back over at the girl. She was sitting there, sipping her drink casually. Too casually, he thought. Definitely on-mission. The kid kept buzzing on. "...at least you got us all out. Shame about the domes, but you know what I think? Maybe the RustDusters had their memetic engineers figure it all out. Maybe they wanted to attack their own civilians. Make it seem like unavoidable collateral, like we forced their hands, eh?"
She was not there. He'd only taken his eyes off her for a second and she had disappeared. He bolted upright, stumbling past the kid and out of the booth. The kid was still sitting there, foolish mouth open.
"I gotta go."
"Go, sir? Where? Why so quickly?"
"They've found me. Girl in black leather." Cheb got out the booth and run out of the pub. He'd run straight for the safety of his expensive private quarters. He had paid for specialists to harden the spot from all kinds of intrusion; his sleeping space doubled as a panic room.
The kid followed him out, still a confused look on his face. Cheb waved him away. The alcohol and his paranoia formed a heady cocktail in his head. "All for a lousy promotion, kid. Not for honour. A life haunted by assassins within sight of my homeland. There is no honour in that." It was the first answer he'd ever given that was not what his trainer had told him to say. Cheb turned a little too quickly away from the kid. He stumbled and fell.
What was in those drinks?
The kid moved uncannily fast. His arms lifted General 7Flash* of the Alliance, once-called The Scourge of Tharsis, now called the Betrayer of Free Mars, to his feet. For a moment, Cheb's face was chest level with the kid's only service badge - white snow stripe on a band of Alliance blue, field of Mars red. The Olympus Campaign ribbon.
A sick realisation like a punch in the gut. The kid was too young to have served on Olympus. And he had called him Captain, his Red Martian rank, not his Blue Alliance one.
Cheb tried desperately to twist free. The boy's index finger extended a rapier-sharp needle that punched through his heart and retracted too quickly for the eye to follow.
Cheb was still standing, heart stunned by the sudden trauma. The boy-ninja sauntered past him, his eager-cadet facade still flawlessly in place. Cheb's aural implant was hacked, and the words etched his fading eyes:
“For betrayal avenged. For the millions dead. For a free Mars; and a Red System.”
Short Story: In Forma Pauperis
A "Learning Story" written whilst learning my craft. One must document mistakes in order to improve!
There once was a poor man who heard that there was the next town over. As the man had never been out of the village in his life, the concept of the `next town' was a indistinct, abstract distance away...
There once was a poor man who heard that there was the next town over. As the man had never been out of the village in his life, the concept of the `next town' was a indistinct, abstract distance away.
The fellow was unperturbed by his lack of knowledge, in fact, he was barely conscious of it. So he collected what meagre belongings he had - which were just the rags on his back - and journeyed forth to see his neighbours for a meal.
After a short walk, he came upon a little boy. The boy was eating a biscuit. Being a local child, this boy knew what poverty the poor man lived in and out of the kindness of his heart, offered the man a bite.
``Oh no, oh no!" said the poor fellow, honest and decent to the bone, ``I couldn't possibly intrude on your delicious meal! Besides - I'm on my way to the next town - I hear there is free food to be gotten!"
The ragged fellow passed the little boy by and continued down the unsealed path. Before long, his feet were cut and bleeding, for he owned no shoes. He looked down at his bloodied feet with disdain, shaking his head. ``A few scratches is nothing! An honest trial for an honest reward!"
He continued on, hobbling on his broken soles. Soon he came to a distant river crossing. In pain from blistered feet, he was dizzy and his senses were clouded. At this crossing, he saw a lonely hostel - a place that was clean and warm and inviting; yet empty of fellow travelers. A beautiful middle-aged lady stood by the hostel, smiling and greeting him warmly. They talked a little and the woman bade him sit and listen to her tale.
``Oh dear sir! You've come at an opportune time! My humble hostel here is closing down - I've invested much money into the place, but business is not good - the wise men I've consulted say I should retire! I am getting on in years and have plenty stashed away. I have food, drink and a roof over my head, enough money to provide for two - I lack nothing but an honest man to share it with. Will you be so kind as to marry me? My dowry shall be half of all I have; then the two of us can live as a happy couple, needing nothing but love and peace, till old age and infirmity take us; whereby we shall have the blessing of beloved children to attend to our geriatric needs."
The poor man considered the offer - indeed, he licked his lips at the very thought! But he was a determined man, set on his path and determined to achieve. ``Oh no, oh no!" he said, shaking his head. ``Alas, fair miss; I cannot oblige you. I am on my way to the next village - a long way I have come, and an uncertain way yet I still have to go. I best be off quickly. I wish you luck with your retirement - I do hope the next man along this road would be less set upon his purpose than I!" And with that, the barefoot man hobbled across the river, walking for time interminable.
He came upon a mountain - and the path led straight over it. Knowing nothing else, the simple man shrugged and climbed it, scaling the heights and following the path to the next village. Though frigid winds of unforgiving frost and biting ice did chill his skin and blacken his very fingers, the poor man climbed on. ``No objective achieved without sacrifice," he said to himself, ``and honest work makes an honest meal flavoursome."
So it came to be that he climbed the mountaintop. The journey froze his rags to his body, turned his fingers to frostbitten stubs. The stones of the mountain paths perforated his feet with wounds. On the very peak of the mountain, he saw there a miraculous sight. A palace of wonders, a mansion among mansions, an abode worthy of the gods themselves. A hundred servants came forth from the golden gates, bearing all the treasures of the land - gold, silver, diamonds; and all the goods that could be purchased with this money. There was food of every kind, every pleasure and object of desire known to man - and quite a few that were not.
``Oh sir!" said the servants. ``We are indentured servants, here to serve our righteous master. He has now passed, but not before he foretold the coming of another in forma pauperis, a man in the form of the pauper, with nothing on him and everything to offer. We know nothing else but our master's command; and thus we fulfil his last wish to the letter. We now propose a trade - on our side, we offer ourselves, this gold, these goods, this place and all contained therein. Merely come within, give us your consent - we will make you the next master."
The poor man wept at the sight of these gold and jewels, the extravagant goods and orderly servants. He gasped and glee and awe at the soaring pinnacles of the mansion itself. His stomach growled and throbbed at the sight of the banquet laid out before him on plates of ivory and forks of gold. But he felt giddy from the light air of the mountain. Something in the clear air helped him decide.
``Kind sirs," said the poor man, ``I am but a poor man. I have naught to offer you - really! I must confess that I am much engaged to a previous goal - I am ever so very loyal to this goal, though it seems that I may have underestimated the distance somewhat - I do believe that it is within my reach, if only I walked a little ways more."
So the poor man left the mansion of wonders and the hundred servants and climbed down from the mountain that he had scaled. His rags fell off his body, his fingers were stubs, his feet were torn beyond any hope of ever healing. Yet still he walked and by and by, at last he came to the town.
He had come to the place described, not too long from when he had set out - but much had changed without him knowing. There was no free food to be had here - indeed, the opposite was the case - a swarm of pestilence had turned the food bad, and all manner of rats and insects carrying diseases scoured the land and ravaged the living. The dead, rats and man alike lay in piles, ready to be burnt as an offering to the fickle gods of fate.
The poor fellow saw all his, his heart sunk and his expectations shattered. He dropped to his knees, a small cry escaping his lips. His hopes dashed from him; the efforts of his toil all did their damage at once. His saliva frothed forth from his mouth, his belly swollen from hunger. He began to feel a sickness, one gained during his journey but ignored in pursuit of his goal. Some nameless fever worked its way to his templates, His bloody feet pumped his lifeblood into the barren ground; his fingers fell from his gangrenous hands.
He lay down upon the ground: and there, he died.
- original short story, by SHKM.
Short Story: Perched On The Edge of Sanity
An ode to Barack Obama, eventual two-term President of the United States. Originally written right after his first election.
Two wolves perched on a ledge, high above the undulating landscape. The wind howled and screeched around them, but their fine pelts of fur kept the winter cold at bay. The tundra was a harsh, unforgiving place, where mistakes were costly and life was a tapestry of freezing snow and steaming blood...
Two wolves perched on a ledge, high above the undulating landscape. The wind howled and screeched around them, but their fine pelts of fur kept the winter cold at bay. The tundra was a harsh, unforgiving place, where mistakes were costly and life was a tapestry of freezing snow and steaming blood.
These two huge canines were no ordinary wolves - they were the leaders of their packs, the patrician masters of their respective tribes. They were gathered here today, rivals side by side, to contest for the leadership of the united families of the Dozen Families, masters of all the lands from here to the edge of the taiga. They awaited the gathering of their families in a silence that neither could stand for long. The two were eager for widely divergent reasons.
"Harumph," snorted the first, his breath sending a fine white spray of steam into the air, "this jostling is beneath me." He was a huge, regal wolf; the second ranked pair in the silverback tribe, he was old but still powerful. His restless paws tore at the thin foliage underfoot, eager to dispatch with the impudent youngster who would challenge him.
The youngster was cautious. Against the much larger, privileged wolf, his lowly status as a mid-ranked male of the mottled rust-black family counted heavily against him. This he knew - but there was much he had to offer the packs, power and privilege aside. Wisely, he chose not to answer.
The silver back paced restlessly. He was impatient, hungry, tense; and he began talking, beginning the battle that would be fought between them. "I deserve this leadership, pupling. You know that we silverbacks belong in leadership - it is the birthright of the alpha males of our tribe. Now that the old one is sick, this privilege falls to me."
"Perhaps you do, Fearfang," said the mottled rust-black wolf, "But times have changed, and the old one's leadership was always a faltering one, even when he was of good health - the others question the continuing ability of the silverbacks to lead us out of this winter."
Fearfang threw back his head and howled, a terrifying sound that rung clearly through the lands of the packs. One, two, then ten and then a score of howls returned. The packs were nearly here - they would arrive, before long.
"We have not been led by one of your kind in generations, pupling. The silverbacks have proven resolute, steadfast and aggressive in expanding our territory. We defended the pride of the tundra when so many of our brothers were slaughtered by the white wolves of the taiga."
"The defence you refer to involved us attacking the two-legs instead. How does that defend our pride? Now, the two-legs scream at us, because we attack their sheep. The wolves of the taiga continue to attack us, because we boldly enter their territory, ignoring all their markings."
"It is not us that instigated this struggle for territory. You have never been in the thick of such a struggle yourself - how could you possibly imagine it, youngling? The irony! No wonder they call you Hopeless."
"What's in a name, Fearfang? You of all wolves should know. But what of my point? The fact remains - we do nothing but anger the other tribes around us. For now, they are disorganised, weaker, and we think that the minor dominion we hold over them will last. The two-legs merely scream, having no claws or fangs to fight for their territory. Our rule is a rule of fear - the leadership of the silverbacks is nothing but an appeal to our most base emotions. Why should we not enlist other wolves in fighting our common enemy, the two-legs?"
“No wonder they call you Hopeless.”
"They all are a pack of gibbering pups, perched on the edge of sanity!" the silver back bristled, his teeth showing, his haunches arched. He growled, deep and angrily. "How presumptuous of you to know what our people want! Our people are under siege, being pressed and harassed on all sides by our enemies. They are afraid, and so the silverbacks will provide them with protection. Step down, pupling. Under my leadership, we shall forever cement our place as rulers of the tundra - one day, the taiga too - without the need for allies!"
The youngling sat still, his ears upright, not even reacting to the silverback's provocation. Their pack-mates were near - the angry silverback would not attack him. The distant barking came nearer and nearer, until the grey, brown and black pelts of their fellows emerged from the shadowed landscape.
The mottled youngster resisted the urge to bound playfully at the sight of the others - he was excited and he had never seen the might of the Dozen Families in full. One by one, in pairs and in family units, the wolves gathered. There was an electric tension in the sub-zero air; the tang of canine scents intermingled at the base of the cliff. The day was wearing on, and weak sun began to hoard its miserly light. It was not long before all of the tribe had gathered but for one pack.
Fearfang paced restlessly, his eagerness to continue clearly visible in his body language. Hopeless held his ground, though he was careful to keep a wary eye on Fearfang's position at all times. Their leader was coming, and all awaited respectfully. Before long, the wind shifted northward and the Dozen Families scented their incumbent leader. As one, the wolves quieted.
A huge, hulking wolf moved up behind the contesting rivals. His paws raked the ground with each step ponderously, so all would know that he had passed. His muzzle was criss-crossed with a multitude of scars where he had been struck by prey or rivals in battles long past. His guard hairs were spotlessly clean, gleaming a regal silver in the dying sunlight, bleached white with extreme age. The elderly wolf was the alpha male of the first family, the greatest of the silverbacks. The two rivals turned and made room on the cliff top, backing away on lowered haunches, with their tails slightly tucked between their legs in the proper gesture of respect.
The leader rubbed his scent over both of them, marking the two as candidates in the succession. He spent especially long on the other silverback, making it clear to all that he preferred his succession to pass to those of his own tribe.
The old leader walked stiffly to the rise, his ears erect and forward in the whipping afternoon breeze. In a cascade of motion, the wolves below fell into positions of respect. The older ones arched their backs and tucked their tails between their legs; the younger ones rolled onto the ground outright, paws indrawn. The whimpers of the lesser dogs mingled into a chorus - their cries were the music of power; a sound that all ambitious wolves craved. Bushtail, master of the tundra and lord of wolves, waited for the ritual to conclude. When the whimpers of submission had died down, he spoke. "My fellow dogs," he began, as the wolves arose to restful positions, ready to hear their leader.
“My fellow dogs. We are gathered here today to decide the fate of the tribe. The pack must choose its leader.”
"My fellow dogs," the old silverback repeated, as the tribe regained their footing, "winter's fangs will not tarry. As I slept, I had a vision come to me. I am here to reveal to you that by the deepest snowfall of this winter, I shall no longer be leader of the Dozen Families. My vision was of the bountiful fields beyond this life; it is there that I shall journey in the depths of this winter." The old silverback's speech and movement were slurred, the message behind his glands faint and indistinct. He was not universally loved, and indeed, much of his leadership had been as indistinct and muddled as his communication was now. There were even questions about his ability as a hunter, unknown to the tribe until after he had been chosen as the leader. But he had been a strong wolf of outstanding ability and sired many young; and his silverback father had been the leader before him, so his character and breeding had catapulted him to the highest rank of leadership. Now, in response to this revelation, the wolves began howling. Their cries filled the air, long, ages-old territorial marking instinct. This tundra is ours, said the howl, and may our enemies who attempt to enter perish! The old leader patiently waited or their howling to die down, and when it did, he spoke again, "My fellow dogs. We are gathered here today to decide the fate of the tribe. The pack must choose its leader."
With that, the old leader backed away from the ridge, for the two potential successors to advance and put their case to their fellows. By right of status, Fearfang spoke first.
"My fellow dogs," Fearfang began, self assured and experienced, "I nominate myself as successor to the old one. Through the great famines of winter past, when hunger thinned our number like so many saplings trodden underfoot, I did my part for the Families. You all know how I have fought for you, how my blood stained the white snow upon which your paws tread today. At the breaking of every winter, I have been in the front of the hunting pack, attacking our enemies and bringing home our prey. I am a capable leader, as those who have followed my hunting pack know. I am committed to staying the course that the old one has set - we shall continue to war with the wolves of the taiga, a fight that we can and will win!"
He stood stiff legged and erect; and many of the wolves below signalled their support. A cascade of bared bellies submitted to the leadership of the silverback and Fearfang lifted his ears in triumph.
The mottled youngling was afraid. He had kept himself in control this whole time, feeling out of his depth amongst the regal silverbacks, feeling out of place with his coloured guard hairs. But he steeled his reserve and set his course. He assumed the central position on the bluff as Fearfang backed away from the edge, giving his rival room to speak.
“We shall continue to war with the wolves of the taiga, a fight that we can and will win!”
"My fellow dogs," the youngling began, unsure and unsteady, "I... I come to you, at a critical time in our history." He was inexperienced, but his youthful glands and well-defined musculature communicated his message strongly, the wind at his back encouraging him to speak loudly. "I invite you to ask, as I do, whether our previous course has been steady. Fearfang and the silverbacks offer us a promise to 'stay the course', and speak of their character and values. I ask you then - what is the course that we walk? Our hunting has degenerated from the noble culling of the past. Today, wolves jockey for position, seeking to kill as many caribou as possible, rather than enough to feed the tribe. We hunt the sheep of the two-legs, targeting the easy prey instead of those we catch ourselves."
Loud barks came from some of the hunting males of the Families, who saw this as an attack on their pride and masculinity. It was true - the tribe spent a lot of time and energy in useless overkill, thinning the numbers of their prey for sport. The mottled one saw some of the youngest males abstain from joining in - they were young, but had lived their lives chasing ever-thinning numbers of prey. This caused many of the wolves to start hunting the caribou and other livestock in the pens of the two-legs, whose scent always smelled like danger.
"If we continue on this course, there will be fewer and fewer in the herds - even now, we see their number dwindle before our very eyes, and deny that we are causing it - until there are none. And then we will be forced to hunt only the animals of the two-legs - and perhaps they have claws and fangs we do not know about. If I was your leader," the youngling had to speak above the din that the males were making, "I would kill only those that the Families need to survive, respecting the right of our prey to grow old and sire pups. We would stop hunting the animals of the two-legs. This policy helps our prey grow more numerous and only makes our lives easier."
His elegant explanation did not sway the fighting males, though he was encouraged by the sight of some of the she-wolves abstaining from joining in the barking din. He continued, forging ahead with his ideas. "We are not the sole owners of the herds that move through our lands - we are the caretakers of our cousins, the hoofed creatures. Ensuring that they live, while feeding off their sick and old will ensure that our children will have a future. Not angering the two-legs more than we have to is only prudent - they are masters of so many other animals, it would be folly to assume that they are powerless."
“Not angering the two-legs more than we have to is only prudent - they are masters of so many other animals, it would be folly to assume that they are powerless.”
The male wolves, especially those of the silverbacks, were trying to drown him out with their barking; but he saw his chance and howled powerfully, a resonant, strong sound that rung off the distant hills and echoed throughout the land. The wolves grew silent. In the silence, broken only by the whispering wind and the racing cold, the mottled rust-black delivered his message. "I promise you change, I promise you hope, I promise a path for our tribe that leads not to war or to wastage, but to peace and plenty."
There was a silent moment as the pack heard him. Fearfang saw the power of the mottled wolf's ideas; and moved to act quickly - he shouldered the youngling from the bluff, and resumed the speaking position.
"How little these pups know of the world!" Fearfang said scornfully, his voice full of malice. "This is my promise - the promise of priorities! The important priority is to keep our fighting males strong - what better way than allow them to hone their skills on our prey? Every member of our hoofed 'cousins' belongs to this tribe - they live in our lands, thus any one of their number is ours for the taking - the two-legs and their animals included. I do not pretend to know very much about how these lower creatures breed," and at his, he growled disdain at the very idea, "but I see no evidence it is our blood sport that keeps their number low; nor do I see any evidence that the two-legs can ever hurt us!" The silverback barked once, and then again, twice emphasising the point. He did not bother to ascertain the feeling of the watching wolves, and continued his diatribe. "The young one is untried and untested. Look at the company he keeps! Mottled, black brown dogs in all. Not one a hunter, not one a father, not a worthy wolf among them!"
A chorus of barks, supportive and angry, greeted Fearfang's dangerous words. There were far less mottles than the silverbacks - lower ranked than all other families; they kept to themselves and did not attempt to seek much power nor glory. The other families, amongst them the numerous blackpelts and the brownmanes, usually placed their support behind the silverback leader thoughtlessly, looking outside their own families for leadership. They were families that were totally dominated by the larger silverbacks - they had little hope of their own for anything different. Compared to his direct family, the mottled challenger was unique. Fearfang was seeking to marginalise the mottles - their opinions rarely mattered; thus silverback leaders had never seen the need to court their support. The mottle wondered if Fearfang's tactics would prevail. There was still very strong support amongst hunting males for the silverback, and that support alone could bestow upon him the leadership. Fearfang knew this as much as the mottle did.
"You all know," Fearfang continued in his populist tone, "if I were to ascend to the leadership of the tribe that I would take with me my mate, Silvara, mother of two dozen pups and a hunter unmatched amongst the she-wolves." There was a cautious ground swell of barks from the assembled wolves at this - Silvara was popular amongst the she-wolves who joined in the hunting; and her ability to breed was impressive, but most knew that she was far from a wise and cautious hunter, often endangering the rest of her hunting group with her rash actions. The mottled black brown saw an opportunity here - he could point out the unpopularity of Silvara to the tribe - but then he stopped himself as he considered. Fearfang was a born leader and he knew the intricacies of canine power plays inside out. The reference to his mate was a trap - Fearfang expected the mottled challenger to attack her reputation, showing great disrespect for her actions, which would enrage the more hierarchal-minded dogs.
The mottled back shook himself free of his reverie and listened to the rest of Fearfang's speech. "... I do admit that the old chief has led us somewhat astray. He led us into the fight against the taiga scum without committing enough of our fighting males to the cause. I have always been for expanding our territory - and if you too, love the tundra and wish to keeps us safe - the only option is to choose me as your leader. I will drag our tribe through times of bloodied fang and rotting enemy corpses - I will drag as by the necks, as a she-wolf does her pups, leading you to the glorious teat of absolute dominance! If I become your leader, then we will rule both the tundra and taiga unopposed."
“I will drag our tribe through times of bloodied fang and rotting enemy corpses - I will drag as by the necks, as a she-wolf does her pups, leading you to the glorious teat of absolute dominance!”
The assembled wolves cheered at this, yelps and cries filling the air. The old one was more unpopular than either of the contenders had imagined. Fearfang's attack against his policy of winning the fight against the taiga wolves easily was popular; as the second ranked silverback, he was taking a maverick step by distancing himself from the most senior silverback in the tribe. It was now the mottled wolf's turn to speak again, likely his final chance at winning them over.
"My fellow dogs," he began, sensing the importance of addressing the very question of who he was, "I recognise that I am not your ideal patrician candidate. I recognise that my fur is not the colour that you expect. But I urge you - listen to the truths that I am speaking today - if you will not, then realise the facts that you see before your eyes. The tribe's strength wanes because we are fighting this war - and as a leader, I will end it. Our tribe's future should be one of hope; of change, of a breaking with the old ways that have not worked and finding new ways that can." The young wolves barked madly at this, voicing their support more loudly than before. The mottle continued, "our new leader should be one who leads with reality firmly in mind, a leader who does not lead by birthright but by ability. I am a wolf of mottled pelage. What of it? The Dozen Families consist of wolves of all colours, blackpelts, brownmanes and silverbacks. But we are not a tribe of wolves made up of individual colours; at odds with each other and at constant war with our neighbours - we are the Dozen Families, the greatest pack of the tundra, united by bonds of family and shared struggle, surviving the winters of this harsh place by conserving our strength and helping each other." At that, many mid ranked males from the other families joined in, sensing an opportunity for rebellion against the silverbacks. An aroma hung in the air - a building anticipation from the assembled wolves. "The silverbacks are our leaders, but they are not the only ones whose efforts deserve to be recognised. Males of all colours join in the hunt to bring down prey; no single wolf can do it alone. She-wolves of all colours give birth to puplings that we might grow ever stronger. Fearfang offers you an old, well-trodden path - the pursuit of greatness and glory through violence and destruction. In return, I have naught to offer you but the truth; hard, inglorious times - but a leadership that will help us survive and prosper." The masses of multi-coloured pelts below cascaded into a wave of activity; wolves barked and scampered about, excited; the taste of the air was pregnant with expectation.
The cold wind howled.
“I recognise that I am not your ideal patrician candidate. I recognise that my fur is not the colour that you expect. But I urge you - listen to the truths that I am speaking today”
Two bright, gleaming fangs burst into the vision of the young wolf. Fearfang growled a primal curse, a challenge to a battle for succession as ancient as the race of wolves itself. The huge silver-furred alpha wolf launched himself at the mottle-coloured wolf named Hopeless.
Desperate claws lashed out as the two wolves crashed bodily into each other, fang and claw and grunt and growl. Hopeless fought furiously, his youthful body singing with the exhilaration of the fight. But old Fearfang was still strong, and far more battle hardened - he struck Hopeless easily from many directions, his sharp claws tearing at flesh and staining the ground with a dark, gory red. Hopeless felt his heart pumping furiously, and his vision began to blur. Fearfang struck again and again, the cunning patrician finding holes on the youngster's defensive crouch. Hopeless dropped to his forepaws, staggering backwards, away from Fearfang's furious mauling. Fearfang paced at an easy distance, confident that the end was nigh. The regal silverback howled, lifting his head in triumph, emitting a sound that was amplified by his supporters - numbering roughly half the assembled mass of wolves. Hopeless stared at his enemy through pain-rimmed eyes.
A gun coughed, a bullet spun through the air.
A fountain of red blood erupted from the side of the silverback's neck in his moment of triumph, cutting the howl short. Fearfang, second ranked hunter in the Dozen Families, fell to the ground, stunned by the shot. There was no time to see if he had survived. The mottled wolf saw the danger - there, downwind, hidden behind scant cover. Though he bled from a dozen wounds, he leapt into action, running at a punishing sprint toward the two-legs with the gun. He caught the two legs, still fumbling with his weapon, clamping down on the jugular and crushing the windpipe.
Then it was over. Hopeless collapsed in a heap, staining the white snow red. Fearfang too, bled from the gunshot wound - and the colour was the same.
The wind howled, long, wailing, marking out its territory - from shaded forest to tundra plain; sea to shining sea - nature, and not the wolf, was master of all.
“Nature, and not the wolf, was master of all”
A tongue. A warm, wet tongue, soothing, calming, healing. Then two, then three, and then there were dozens, the entire tribe having climbed the hill and now licking the wounds of their new leader clean. Mottle, brownmane, blackpelt, silverback - all helped to bring their leaders back to life.
Both Fearfang and Hopeless survived. Fearfang was forever weakened by the gunshot wound, robbed of his final strength in his last days. The younger wolf recuperated quickly, the saliva's antiseptic properties ensuring that his wounds would not be infected. And by fate, or chance, or the will of nature, so it came to be that the mottled black-brown wolf won the leadership of his tribe and carried them forth in the world. We know not what happens next, save to say that the old leader Bushtail passed from the world that winter, just as he predicted. And the young, intelligent, reasoned wolf discarded his puppy name `Hopeless', and his tribe gave him a new one: Hope.
- Written before the first election of Barack Obama, eventual two-term President of the United States (at the time of this post.)