Weary

Piers surveyed the bloody field. Crows and camp followers stripped the dying of the final shreds of life, wealth, and dignity.  The dead were already stripped of all they had and would ever have and took no notice. As an old soldier, Piers took a moment to mourn and wish them well on whatever journey lay before them, then gathered his wits before any tears cracked his stoic facade.

Tonight would bring feasting for the victors, drinking and plunder.  The fallen, well, there was nothing for them to do but rot in the field where Piers and his comrades had slain them. Any survivors were fleeing to the mountains and the dubious hospitality of the hill tribes. The people of these plains fought desperately, Piers didn't know what they called themselves, but they weren't disciplined and couldn't match the ferocity of his soldiers. Raised since birth to fight, Piers, his brothers and sisters, almost his entire family served the army.

  

  If he asked questions instead of following orders he might have known this battle was nothing but a tax dispute.  Tribute had not been paid and the people here, the slaughtered and scattered, became examples to quell any other whispers of defiance or rebellion.  Piers used a long knife to scrape bloody mud from his boots and swatted away the gathering flies with his free hand. Dark clouds gathered but the late fall day was warm and muggy.  A storm. He hoped it would flood the field and hide the corpses.  No one was going to bury them.  They were a warning.

Clean-up

     Ships in space.  Floating hollow containers shield the fragile occupants inside.  They drift and bump like rudderless canoes.  Metallic shrapnel ricochets like billions of microcomets then is drawn away and collected with powerful targeted electromagnets.  Ceramic and plastic debris is captured in superfine microfilament nets.

     "How's life support on those boats?" 

     The captain can monitor that from her own ship.  This is a gentle reminder for us to hurry up.

     "We have another two cycles before both sides are conscious again.  The Tellurians have secondary systems that survived our initial burst.  The ships are dead but the crews are still alive.  It's the Marsfleet ships, they have emergency oxygen but air scrubbers, recirculators, all their systems are down.  They have about four cycles and they'll be fighting each other for the breather masks."  The captain knows all this.  Is she testing me?

     "Let's get these boats chained and make a path.  Any bits we don't collect make sure they're swept into this system's sun.  Rule one."

    Rule one:  leave no evidence, we were never here.

     We tracked this battle across four solar systems.  Marsfleet pursuing the last Tellurian defenders.   An old story of colonizers against the rebels.  It doesn't really matter now.  Both sides will be slaves and their ships will be salvage.  One cycle after the captain's command dozens of Marsfleet battle carriers along with the remaining Tellurian heavy cruisers and destroyers are linked by a network of invisible energy "chains".  Any uncaptured debris is washed into the nearest sun and the captain gives the order to leave.  In a few short moments our "path", a shortcut through space is generated, and we flee with our booty.

     The perfect crime.  No witnesses.  No evidence.  Did it even happen?  An entire Marsfleet division and the last Free Tellurian Defense battle group vanish.  

     We took them.  They were being wasted anyway.

Classroom Observations

     The ceiling tiles were yellowing.  They curled at the corners and bowed out in the middles.  Too bright fluorescent lights hummed, buzzed, and flickered at a frequency just beyond human sensory capabilities.  The room was warm and dry, but smelled like it had been water damaged at one time.  A mix of formica tables, plastic chairs, and single desks with attached plastic chairs clustered in twos and threes like awkward cliquish teenagers and faced an aging white board.  Once brilliantly new, it had replaced an aging wood-framed green chalkboard.  The giant erasers and chalk nubs were gone, replaced  with dust-free multi-coloured markers and a single hand-sized "cleaning tool".  Their role, to communicate in written and diagrammatic form - to educate, was the same. 
     Elsewhere in the school other white boards were being taken down, some only half a decade old.  New projectors with attached interactive screens were taking over.  Slim and sleek laptop computers crammed with libraries of information continued their conquest, amalgamation, and subsumption of all previous media. Knowledge now came from boxes linked together with plastic ropes.  It shone through a light onto a screen and reflected back into the learners' brains.  Learning was still a safety meeting - nobody moves, nobody gets hurt - but the interface continued to evolve.  How much longer until a direct link between the box and the brain?  No interaction required just a chair and an on/off switch. 

Dirty Laundry

     "There was a time when darkies ran free.  They thought they ran the world!"  William's grandfather interrupted himself by coughing loudly into his own soup.  "But things changed.  Those darkies know their place these days."  The old man dribbled food onto a white plastic bib.  It had a picture of a rooster on it.
     "They sure do, sir."  William took a damp rag and rubbed spit from the old man's chin.  Martin, the large black orderly in charge of the senior's ward walked over.
     "Is everything all right over here Will?"  he asked.
     "He's just a little excited today.  That's all."  William responded watching for a reaction from the old man.  Martin nodded and smiled and went to check on another family.
    William's grandfather leaned in close to William's ear after Martin had gone.  "And that one's the worst of the lot."  The harsh wet whisper made William jump and he scratched himself on the old man's stubble.
    "Of course he is Grandpa."  William agreed to prevent an argument.  "It's time for bed."
    William wheeled his grandfather back to the small room where the old man slept.  He carried him into the bathroom and removed the old man's soiled shirt and pants.  An embarrassingly full adult diaper was peeled away and discarded.  A warm wet towel wiped a wrinkled grandfather clean before William rediapered him for bed.
     "All your PJ's are dirty Grandpa, you'll have to sleep in your robe tonight."
     "Dirty!" the old man spat, "You get that darkie in here and you thrash him.  He's been sneaking in here, making things dirty.  No good, lazy...He should be doing the washing.  He's been slacking in his duties!"
     "Don't worry Grandpa, I'll take care of it."  William carried his withered patriarch to bed, settled him, and tucked him in.  Then he gathered all the soiled garments he could find, wrapped them together in a stained bedsheet, and went to find Martin.
     "Martin?"  William found him in the TV lounge.  "I need the key to the laundry room.  My grandfather..."
     "No problem Will."  Martin unclipped a key from an impressive array attached to a large key ring hooked onto his belt.  "Just find me when you're done.  How's the old man holding up?"
   "He's alright.  He just forgets himself sometimes."  William shifted the dirty weight in his arms to accept the key.  "Some of what he says...He forgets where he is."
     "That's all right Will.  We'll take care of him."
     "Thanks."  William slipped the key into his pocket.  He had much to do before the old man woke up.

Sitting With Artaud

Mask makers taking from the dreamworlds dancing sideways slipping through doorways, wearing keys on our faces we sit with Artaud after the asylum his thoughts I could just kill you -as matter of fact as his reflection- worn like a mask itself.
Shatter the masks? How cruel this man is. These masks open doors. So many worlds and he is left with only one, his own. His keys are shattered. Foolish, foolish, masks do not disguise. They open the outside from the inside. Shatter the masks, the mad king roars, show me show me show me who you are. We wear the masks we make to open doors to worlds we want to take from. Foolish king, foolish fool. Ah but not so foolish as we when we forget to remove our masks and we outgrow them become infected and pus-filled caricatures with swollen fake faces. The key no longer fits. The door is closed behind us.
I could just murder you - as matter of fact as his reflection in our eyes. energy unwasted
I will save you from your self-made chains instead if you swear it swear it swear it never to return. The dead are in the ashes 
so leave them there. Dead things only make dead things.

Autumn Reflection. AM 2002

     It's a beautiful day and I'm late again.  Coffee, a cigarette, the cool autumn breeze.  The warm sunshine, falling leaves, and a flock of geese tell me it's all right.

     I've got time for another one.  I'm here on the stairs and on my own.  In love with everything and everything is all right.

     Dry leaves are piled up on the bottom step.  The parking lot is full.  The bright sun hangs lower in the sky today.  The cooling breeze chills my back, my hands, and dries the ink in my pen.  Everything is all right.

   I cast my eyes to the urban prairie horizon almost beyond the reach of sight.  I see your laughing eyes smiling back at me.  My time is my own.  I make this day for myself and share it with you.  A lady in a long green coat and carrying a brown cane carefully climbs the concrete stairs.  "It's okay." she says and opens the door for herself.

     A light breeze plays in the scattered brown leaves.  A church bell rings.  It is 10:30 am.  Almost time, almost time.

     The leaves fall one at a time.  Soon the elm tree will be winter-naked, its wrinkly bark skin bare to the coming snow and cold.

Photo Credit: Tina Chakraborty, 2002.

Silent Man's Highway

Red ember twilight,
too bright to sleep.
Remembering...

The silent man's highway
rolls on.  Engine exhaust, black tar,
orange lines.  Red ember
tail-lights shrink in the distance.
This is the road of the Silent Man.
Distances and divides.
Two lanes of roaring traffic,
recorded on black strips across the land.
Horizon to horizon he spreads his hands,
steps onto the gravel shoulder,
and walks on.