Moyolehuani stood on the shoal, chill water lapping at his sandaled feet, and cried.
The men in the metal shirts had come two moons ago. Offering strange gifts, they took only the soft yellow metal that was of no use for making pots or tools.
They were returning to their home with many chests of yellow metal. With them also would go his beloved Yolotli, betrothed to their leader Deeyehgo.
Moyolehuani walked into the deepening water. From the depths of his soul came the sorrow and so in the depths of the sea would he wash it away.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
The Imago's Grotto
Kaelic hurried down the wooded trail, hoping to catch Traelis before he fully committed to this folly.
"Traelis! Stop and consider what you mean to do. It is insanity."
He stopped, mostly from concern his pudgy friend would collapse if he did not. Traelis wore heavy woolens and his sturdiest boots. A pack rested on his wide shoulders.
"I will not go back home without it, Kaelic. The Imago must be found...the knowledge restored. Every season more machines fail and every season more children cry from hunger. We have earned the right to return to the days of our glory."
"Traelis, you truly believe one man was responsible for The Lacuna. In one night, half the books on the usage and care of the tech vanished. Could such a thing be done by just one man. The Imago is a child's tale, nothing more."
The big man shook his head in frustration. "He is...was...a real man Kaelic. I have spent every free hour of the last five seasons in the Archives, searching for him. The Imago was more than just a man Kaelic...so much more than just one man. He is the one who designed and fashioned the machines. The Lacuna WAS entirely his doing. He believed we had come to rely too much on his inventions. The Lacuna was meant to restore us to a simpler time when we did not have such wonders."
"That is still only a story! The Imago, if he existed, is gone. The machines stop and none can repair them. It is the will of nature that we fall and rise not again. This Imago sealed our fate the night of The Lacuna. The past is dead and the future is dead to us. Meet the end with dignity. Cease this quest of yours."
"This I can not and will not do, my friend. I have found the journals written in his own hand. The Imago of those writings was a man of great intellect and of grandiose ideas. I do not think he ever intended the suffering The Lacuna wrought. His own words say he intended to withdraw to a hidden place and return with what he had taken in five seasons. He had no way of predicting the blight that came or of knowing that ,because of it, we can not grow enough to sustain us without the machines help. Something went wrong. I must know what."
"What went wrong", Kaelic snorted, "was within this man's mind. He was clearly insane. He intended, you say, to return in five seasons? And yet, it was in that fifth season that the blight struck. The man was a sick bastard who doomed us all by both taking the knowledge and then by somehow blighting the crops to finish us of. You think otherwise old friend?"
"It is simple synchronicity Kaelic. I found nothing to indicate that The Imago had anything to do with the blight. But I WILL find him and I will ask him."
"Then here we part ways Traelis. Go and find your Imago demon if you can. I will return to our people and the work of feeding my family." The shorter man turned on his heel and stormed off without a backwards glance.
Traelis adjusted his pack and set off for his goal. He walked for five days, following hints and vague references in The Imago's own handwritten journal. Traelis was confused by the past. No great lengths had been taken by The Imago to conceal his intentions. He must have surmised that, in the aftermath of The Lacuna, all were too distracted to pursue him.
Two hours after dawn on the fifth day, Traelis found it...The Imago's Grotto. He hadn't believed a hand-drawn map over thirty seasons old could still be trusted but here he was. A natural lake at the base of medium-height limestone cliffs. It was real!
Stripping to his smallclothes, he kept his long belt knife as protection against the unknown. Bracing himself, Traelis plunged into the chill water. The water was clear, his visibility was unhindered. He swam down, searching the grayish rock face. Blood thundered in his ears and his senses blurred, but on he went. There! He wriggled through a fissure in the wall and stroked toward the thin light above him. His head broke the water and he, gratefully, gasped air.
Traelis paused in wonderment. For his mouth to oscitate any further would have required him to spontaneously acquire the ability to unhinge his jaws. He was in The Imago's Grotto!
The lighting was dim, from some unknown source. The chamber was massive. The ceiling and the walls only hinted at in the shadows. Traelis swam some meters and then hauled himself out onto an uneven rocky floor. The air was stale, a faint miasma of putrescence tainting it. He grasped his knife and ventured inward.
He found several side chambers not natural in their appearance. They seemed surgically carved from the porous stone. He padded through them, identifying a sleeping chamber, food preparation/eating space and what must have been a storeroom. Each was sparsely appointed and in each were items Traelis could only guess at the function of. They were the minutae of a forgotten time and place. The chambers ended in a narrow tunnel. On the far end, Traelis had the impression of an inner sanctum. The odor seemed to emanate from ahead as well.
He slipped cautiously forward, his knuckles white his knife handle. The tunnel terminated in a single large chamber. Stacked along the leftmost wall were a number of the olive-green boxy cases his people still used to hold items. They were fashioned of some unknown material, thoroughly resistant to the elements.
Upon the wall in front of and several meters ahead of him was what looked like nothing so much as a full-length mirror. He startled himself with his own reflection in the flat shimmering surface. Sunk into the rock floor directly below the odd mirror was what seemed to be a metal plate roughly a meter square. It's unknown purpose brought a frown to his face.
Dismissing it for the moment, his gaze travelled on to the right. His yelp seemed unusually loud in the confined space. He beheld a niche carved into the wall. Reposed in that space was the, obviously, dead remains of a man.
The still air of the grotto combined with the lack of exposure to the elements had done their part to forestall decomposition, but it was apparent he had been dead for quite some time. The skin was tightly stretched over the face and exposed skin where it emerged from a one-piece garment of dark fabric. Oddly, the body wore no boot on the left foot. Stark white hair and a matching beard bore witness the man had not been young at the time of his demise.
Traelis made a cursory inspection of the body, learning little. The unbooted foot proved the result of the leg having been broken badly in two places. That must have been painful beyond reason. He completed his prodding, concluding that if this man were the legendary Imago, he would not be answering any of Traelis' questions.
Rising, he walked over to the mirror, finding nothing remarkable about it as mirrors went. He focused then on the metallic plate set into the floor. Cautious examination revealed that it was pressure-sensitive, although nothing he placed upon it produced any effect. A sinking thought came to him suddenly.
Before he could allow common sense to dissuade him, Traelis placed one and then the other booted foot squarely onto the plate. The plate sank marginally and, with a brief flash of light, a figure other than himself appeared in the mirror. By this point, Traelis was too benumbed to react with surprise.
It was the image of the dead man. He was balanced gingerly on his right leg. His face was flushed under a sheen of perspiration and he was doing his best to fight back a grimace. With a hiss of air between teeth tightly clenched, the man spoke.
"This is the last recorded log entry of Dr. Thaddeus T. Marquand. To whomever is viewing this, I congratulate you for exercising deductive reasoning to arrive here. Sadly, I suspect that my dessicated remains will have been lying her for far longer than the five seasons that I originally intended to spend here. I base this on nothing more than supposition but I stand by it. I am the one you have come to refer to as The Imago. I feel it incumbent to point out how foolish I felt that term was in my own time and how it has, likely, become moreso in your time. An imago, as regards myself, is an idealized impression of someone influential to others. It is less a compliment and more a detractor." The doctor paused to wince.
"I was no more or less influential than any man of my day. Yes, I empowered the machines and yes, I took them away from you again. I did not influence you so much as you deferred to me. I was unwilling to remain standing in the light of undeserved adulation, so I left. I took back what was rightfully mine hoping it would teach you to not depend on others to guide you but to assert your own will to overcome."
"I very much doubt, under the circumstances, that I achieved that objective since I am lying dead in that corner. I can imagine you are all pretty righteously pissed and, while I am totally beyond caring, believe me this was not my plan at all."
"Trust me when I tell you that, in the fall season, the warm ambient temperature of my grotto reacts with the cooler outer air to create considerable water condensation herein. It was on one such fall day that I lost my footing in the process of nothing more remarkable than preparing a meal. If you are even marginally curious, I assume you see what the result of my subsequent fall was."
"I sincerely believed that, even with my fumbling efforts, the leg would have eventually healed. I know now that the stagnant air here contains an exceedingly virulent microbial element. The leg is hopelessly infected and responds not at all to antibiotics. I will never leave here."
"The cases over there contain what I took from you. Do with it as you wish. I end this with one approbation. If this restores the machines, you will likely be hailed a hero. Take great care lest you become The Imago of your age. Trust me, it will only end badly." As the mirror went dark, his face held a wry grin.
Traelis ferried the boxes from the grotto, setting each on a makeshift gravois. Beginning the journey home, he couldn't help hearing the doctor's final warning sounding over and over again in his mind.
"Traelis! Stop and consider what you mean to do. It is insanity."
He stopped, mostly from concern his pudgy friend would collapse if he did not. Traelis wore heavy woolens and his sturdiest boots. A pack rested on his wide shoulders.
"I will not go back home without it, Kaelic. The Imago must be found...the knowledge restored. Every season more machines fail and every season more children cry from hunger. We have earned the right to return to the days of our glory."
"Traelis, you truly believe one man was responsible for The Lacuna. In one night, half the books on the usage and care of the tech vanished. Could such a thing be done by just one man. The Imago is a child's tale, nothing more."
The big man shook his head in frustration. "He is...was...a real man Kaelic. I have spent every free hour of the last five seasons in the Archives, searching for him. The Imago was more than just a man Kaelic...so much more than just one man. He is the one who designed and fashioned the machines. The Lacuna WAS entirely his doing. He believed we had come to rely too much on his inventions. The Lacuna was meant to restore us to a simpler time when we did not have such wonders."
"That is still only a story! The Imago, if he existed, is gone. The machines stop and none can repair them. It is the will of nature that we fall and rise not again. This Imago sealed our fate the night of The Lacuna. The past is dead and the future is dead to us. Meet the end with dignity. Cease this quest of yours."
"This I can not and will not do, my friend. I have found the journals written in his own hand. The Imago of those writings was a man of great intellect and of grandiose ideas. I do not think he ever intended the suffering The Lacuna wrought. His own words say he intended to withdraw to a hidden place and return with what he had taken in five seasons. He had no way of predicting the blight that came or of knowing that ,because of it, we can not grow enough to sustain us without the machines help. Something went wrong. I must know what."
"What went wrong", Kaelic snorted, "was within this man's mind. He was clearly insane. He intended, you say, to return in five seasons? And yet, it was in that fifth season that the blight struck. The man was a sick bastard who doomed us all by both taking the knowledge and then by somehow blighting the crops to finish us of. You think otherwise old friend?"
"It is simple synchronicity Kaelic. I found nothing to indicate that The Imago had anything to do with the blight. But I WILL find him and I will ask him."
"Then here we part ways Traelis. Go and find your Imago demon if you can. I will return to our people and the work of feeding my family." The shorter man turned on his heel and stormed off without a backwards glance.
Traelis adjusted his pack and set off for his goal. He walked for five days, following hints and vague references in The Imago's own handwritten journal. Traelis was confused by the past. No great lengths had been taken by The Imago to conceal his intentions. He must have surmised that, in the aftermath of The Lacuna, all were too distracted to pursue him.
Two hours after dawn on the fifth day, Traelis found it...The Imago's Grotto. He hadn't believed a hand-drawn map over thirty seasons old could still be trusted but here he was. A natural lake at the base of medium-height limestone cliffs. It was real!
Stripping to his smallclothes, he kept his long belt knife as protection against the unknown. Bracing himself, Traelis plunged into the chill water. The water was clear, his visibility was unhindered. He swam down, searching the grayish rock face. Blood thundered in his ears and his senses blurred, but on he went. There! He wriggled through a fissure in the wall and stroked toward the thin light above him. His head broke the water and he, gratefully, gasped air.
Traelis paused in wonderment. For his mouth to oscitate any further would have required him to spontaneously acquire the ability to unhinge his jaws. He was in The Imago's Grotto!
The lighting was dim, from some unknown source. The chamber was massive. The ceiling and the walls only hinted at in the shadows. Traelis swam some meters and then hauled himself out onto an uneven rocky floor. The air was stale, a faint miasma of putrescence tainting it. He grasped his knife and ventured inward.
He found several side chambers not natural in their appearance. They seemed surgically carved from the porous stone. He padded through them, identifying a sleeping chamber, food preparation/eating space and what must have been a storeroom. Each was sparsely appointed and in each were items Traelis could only guess at the function of. They were the minutae of a forgotten time and place. The chambers ended in a narrow tunnel. On the far end, Traelis had the impression of an inner sanctum. The odor seemed to emanate from ahead as well.
He slipped cautiously forward, his knuckles white his knife handle. The tunnel terminated in a single large chamber. Stacked along the leftmost wall were a number of the olive-green boxy cases his people still used to hold items. They were fashioned of some unknown material, thoroughly resistant to the elements.
Upon the wall in front of and several meters ahead of him was what looked like nothing so much as a full-length mirror. He startled himself with his own reflection in the flat shimmering surface. Sunk into the rock floor directly below the odd mirror was what seemed to be a metal plate roughly a meter square. It's unknown purpose brought a frown to his face.
Dismissing it for the moment, his gaze travelled on to the right. His yelp seemed unusually loud in the confined space. He beheld a niche carved into the wall. Reposed in that space was the, obviously, dead remains of a man.
The still air of the grotto combined with the lack of exposure to the elements had done their part to forestall decomposition, but it was apparent he had been dead for quite some time. The skin was tightly stretched over the face and exposed skin where it emerged from a one-piece garment of dark fabric. Oddly, the body wore no boot on the left foot. Stark white hair and a matching beard bore witness the man had not been young at the time of his demise.
Traelis made a cursory inspection of the body, learning little. The unbooted foot proved the result of the leg having been broken badly in two places. That must have been painful beyond reason. He completed his prodding, concluding that if this man were the legendary Imago, he would not be answering any of Traelis' questions.
Rising, he walked over to the mirror, finding nothing remarkable about it as mirrors went. He focused then on the metallic plate set into the floor. Cautious examination revealed that it was pressure-sensitive, although nothing he placed upon it produced any effect. A sinking thought came to him suddenly.
Before he could allow common sense to dissuade him, Traelis placed one and then the other booted foot squarely onto the plate. The plate sank marginally and, with a brief flash of light, a figure other than himself appeared in the mirror. By this point, Traelis was too benumbed to react with surprise.
It was the image of the dead man. He was balanced gingerly on his right leg. His face was flushed under a sheen of perspiration and he was doing his best to fight back a grimace. With a hiss of air between teeth tightly clenched, the man spoke.
"This is the last recorded log entry of Dr. Thaddeus T. Marquand. To whomever is viewing this, I congratulate you for exercising deductive reasoning to arrive here. Sadly, I suspect that my dessicated remains will have been lying her for far longer than the five seasons that I originally intended to spend here. I base this on nothing more than supposition but I stand by it. I am the one you have come to refer to as The Imago. I feel it incumbent to point out how foolish I felt that term was in my own time and how it has, likely, become moreso in your time. An imago, as regards myself, is an idealized impression of someone influential to others. It is less a compliment and more a detractor." The doctor paused to wince.
"I was no more or less influential than any man of my day. Yes, I empowered the machines and yes, I took them away from you again. I did not influence you so much as you deferred to me. I was unwilling to remain standing in the light of undeserved adulation, so I left. I took back what was rightfully mine hoping it would teach you to not depend on others to guide you but to assert your own will to overcome."
"I very much doubt, under the circumstances, that I achieved that objective since I am lying dead in that corner. I can imagine you are all pretty righteously pissed and, while I am totally beyond caring, believe me this was not my plan at all."
"Trust me when I tell you that, in the fall season, the warm ambient temperature of my grotto reacts with the cooler outer air to create considerable water condensation herein. It was on one such fall day that I lost my footing in the process of nothing more remarkable than preparing a meal. If you are even marginally curious, I assume you see what the result of my subsequent fall was."
"I sincerely believed that, even with my fumbling efforts, the leg would have eventually healed. I know now that the stagnant air here contains an exceedingly virulent microbial element. The leg is hopelessly infected and responds not at all to antibiotics. I will never leave here."
"The cases over there contain what I took from you. Do with it as you wish. I end this with one approbation. If this restores the machines, you will likely be hailed a hero. Take great care lest you become The Imago of your age. Trust me, it will only end badly." As the mirror went dark, his face held a wry grin.
Traelis ferried the boxes from the grotto, setting each on a makeshift gravois. Beginning the journey home, he couldn't help hearing the doctor's final warning sounding over and over again in his mind.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
The Day of Retribution
In the year 2245, the remnants of Humanity hid ourselves away. The twin specters of scientific advancement and technological perfection were the heralds of our fate. We were the victims of an extinction level event of our own making. Perhaps we deserved to be obliterated. Perhaps our hubris had doomed us to relinquish our dominance of our world and just die out. Whether our lot was deserved or not, few of us were so apathetic as to sit idly by and meet our end with complacency and quiet dignity.
The NERT threat was quite real and seemingly unstoppable. The combined military power of our age was both lethal and considerable. It was also tragically ineffective against beings who felt no pain, evinced no compassion and took no prisoners. The NERTs motivations were unknown but their objectives seemed to center on the singular goal of exterminating Mankind with relentless efficiency. The sun was setting on our time and would rise next to illuminate a world of which we would no longer be a part. As the tides of change swept high about us, none of us expected those tides to change. We were wrong.
Although the NERTs had triumphed over our conventional forces, there were rumors of non-conventional options still to be employed.
Of all the changes that the NERT assault had necessitated, one unusual constant remained.
Television, radio and any all other means used for communication, entertainment and for the dissemination of news and information were abjectly ignored by the NERTs. No reason had been found for this phenomenon. Various sources claimed that whatever aberration had caused the NERTs to change into uncontrollable instruments of death had nullified their ability to process sound. Thus, what reason for the NERTs to care about that which they could no longer perceive?
The continued presence of communications proved to be a double-edged sword. It provided the beleaguered remnants of man with a distraction from their impending demise On the opposing side, never-ending news interrupted nearly every program. There was little good news until the day that came to be known as The Day of Retribution.
It was 08:00 AM, Greenwich Mean Time on the 23rd of March 2248 when every communcations medium on the planet bore the exact same message. It was delivered by a mixed consortium of all of the most senior world leaders still in existence. Their announcement was considered to be, arguably, THE single most controversial in the recorded history of man.
This was when all of the citizens of the world first learned of a protocol known as Selective Preservation of Essential Assets and Resources or SPEAR. It had been set in motion just 48 hours after the NERTs had gone rogue. Under the protocol, a pre-selected group of highly specialized individuals were sequestered in an unspecified location.
It was the task of these VIPs to discover and implement an appropriate response for whatever occurrence had made it necessary for SPEAR to have been enacted in the first place. The group had done just that and the world was to now be informed of it. No discussions, no debates were intended. This was strictly a declaration of intent. The plan was audacious in both its scope and goal.
SPEAR scientists had developed a solution capable of neutralizing the NERT menace. Ironically, the NERTs were the basic component required for success. SPEAR commandoes had recovered an unspecified number of the NERTs for experimentation.
The scientists began by removing the Advanced Positronic Matrix (APM) from each NERT. Once they were neutralized, the REAL work began. The limbs were removed from each subject and replaced by exceptionally advanced cybernetic replacements. Made of a unique alloy, the limbs were virtually indestructible. Slaved to powerful micro-computers, these artificial arms and legs made the subjects infinitely stronger and faster than NERTs without such enhancements. They became the most formidable marriage of organic and cybernetic materials possible to send against the NERTs.
The final step in the augmentation process was the installation of a very unique APM. An APM that received all of its functionality in live-time from a centralized super mainframe under the direct control of SPEAR technicians was used. The enhanced NERTs would have no possibility of being diverted or of violating commands. At the push of one button, SPEAR could cut their Pinnochios' strings in one nanosecond.
Once the entire process was completed, the subjects were tested and, with only minor changes, the green light was given for mass production to begin. SPEAR now held control of an army of one million nearly-indestructable avengers to fight in the service of man. It was an inconceivably huge undertaking, the like of which had never been known.
The broadcast ended with quite a wondrous final revelation. During the augmentation research phase, SPEAR intelligence assets had used every conceivable trick in their arsenal to identify the source of the NERTs ongoing creation of more of their kind.
At exactly noon, Greenwich Mean Time, the 23rd of March, 2248 the NERTs production facilities would cease to exist courtesy of the enhanced subject soldiers. From there, long-term battle plans would ensure the total elimination of the NERT menace within six months.
On September 17th, 2248, hundreds, if not thousands of independent media sources were on hand to document the destruction of the last remaining NERTs. SPEAR's indominitable army of techno-zombies or Zombats, as popular culture came to call them, completed their mission and were deactivated one day later without incident.
By the spring of 2253, mankind had emerged back into a world that had returned to the glory of a forgotten earlier, simpler time. It was a world much as it had always been, and yet, a world that would never again be quite the same.
The NERT threat was quite real and seemingly unstoppable. The combined military power of our age was both lethal and considerable. It was also tragically ineffective against beings who felt no pain, evinced no compassion and took no prisoners. The NERTs motivations were unknown but their objectives seemed to center on the singular goal of exterminating Mankind with relentless efficiency. The sun was setting on our time and would rise next to illuminate a world of which we would no longer be a part. As the tides of change swept high about us, none of us expected those tides to change. We were wrong.
Although the NERTs had triumphed over our conventional forces, there were rumors of non-conventional options still to be employed.
Of all the changes that the NERT assault had necessitated, one unusual constant remained.
Television, radio and any all other means used for communication, entertainment and for the dissemination of news and information were abjectly ignored by the NERTs. No reason had been found for this phenomenon. Various sources claimed that whatever aberration had caused the NERTs to change into uncontrollable instruments of death had nullified their ability to process sound. Thus, what reason for the NERTs to care about that which they could no longer perceive?
The continued presence of communications proved to be a double-edged sword. It provided the beleaguered remnants of man with a distraction from their impending demise On the opposing side, never-ending news interrupted nearly every program. There was little good news until the day that came to be known as The Day of Retribution.
It was 08:00 AM, Greenwich Mean Time on the 23rd of March 2248 when every communcations medium on the planet bore the exact same message. It was delivered by a mixed consortium of all of the most senior world leaders still in existence. Their announcement was considered to be, arguably, THE single most controversial in the recorded history of man.
This was when all of the citizens of the world first learned of a protocol known as Selective Preservation of Essential Assets and Resources or SPEAR. It had been set in motion just 48 hours after the NERTs had gone rogue. Under the protocol, a pre-selected group of highly specialized individuals were sequestered in an unspecified location.
It was the task of these VIPs to discover and implement an appropriate response for whatever occurrence had made it necessary for SPEAR to have been enacted in the first place. The group had done just that and the world was to now be informed of it. No discussions, no debates were intended. This was strictly a declaration of intent. The plan was audacious in both its scope and goal.
SPEAR scientists had developed a solution capable of neutralizing the NERT menace. Ironically, the NERTs were the basic component required for success. SPEAR commandoes had recovered an unspecified number of the NERTs for experimentation.
The scientists began by removing the Advanced Positronic Matrix (APM) from each NERT. Once they were neutralized, the REAL work began. The limbs were removed from each subject and replaced by exceptionally advanced cybernetic replacements. Made of a unique alloy, the limbs were virtually indestructible. Slaved to powerful micro-computers, these artificial arms and legs made the subjects infinitely stronger and faster than NERTs without such enhancements. They became the most formidable marriage of organic and cybernetic materials possible to send against the NERTs.
The final step in the augmentation process was the installation of a very unique APM. An APM that received all of its functionality in live-time from a centralized super mainframe under the direct control of SPEAR technicians was used. The enhanced NERTs would have no possibility of being diverted or of violating commands. At the push of one button, SPEAR could cut their Pinnochios' strings in one nanosecond.
Once the entire process was completed, the subjects were tested and, with only minor changes, the green light was given for mass production to begin. SPEAR now held control of an army of one million nearly-indestructable avengers to fight in the service of man. It was an inconceivably huge undertaking, the like of which had never been known.
The broadcast ended with quite a wondrous final revelation. During the augmentation research phase, SPEAR intelligence assets had used every conceivable trick in their arsenal to identify the source of the NERTs ongoing creation of more of their kind.
At exactly noon, Greenwich Mean Time, the 23rd of March, 2248 the NERTs production facilities would cease to exist courtesy of the enhanced subject soldiers. From there, long-term battle plans would ensure the total elimination of the NERT menace within six months.
On September 17th, 2248, hundreds, if not thousands of independent media sources were on hand to document the destruction of the last remaining NERTs. SPEAR's indominitable army of techno-zombies or Zombats, as popular culture came to call them, completed their mission and were deactivated one day later without incident.
By the spring of 2253, mankind had emerged back into a world that had returned to the glory of a forgotten earlier, simpler time. It was a world much as it had always been, and yet, a world that would never again be quite the same.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The Emerald Way
She read to them, "Unless and until a man evinces the requesite determination to be free, he will forever remain as yoked as the meanest of beasts. You understand this?"
Old Marcellus snorted, "Means we free get killt findin' yoh magic Emerald Way. Jus' a tale Mizzy."
"A tale I have found true...an abandoned spurline running straight north to Kentucky. The grass...the foliage...so green. The trees bending to form a tunnel. I can guide you but we MUST leave now. Trust me?"
As one, they followed her into the night to walk the Emerald Way to freedom.
Old Marcellus snorted, "Means we free get killt findin' yoh magic Emerald Way. Jus' a tale Mizzy."
"A tale I have found true...an abandoned spurline running straight north to Kentucky. The grass...the foliage...so green. The trees bending to form a tunnel. I can guide you but we MUST leave now. Trust me?"
As one, they followed her into the night to walk the Emerald Way to freedom.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Twilight Of Man
The dead were walking the streets again. It was becoming a daily occurrence. It was a daily occurrence that the vast majority of people could do without. Somehow, I doubted it would become anything but more commonplace as time went by.
In every age of man for as far back as history records, and probably even further back than that I guess, there have been controversial discoveries made. You don't have to be some egghead history buff to know that. Science and technology have always advanced farther and faster into unknown territory than has the society that such advances are intended to benefit.
Necomantic Replication Technology or NRT was just the latest controversial discovery in that long list of such things. Looking back, I don't think anybody saw such a thing coming to be, but we should have. Where or when did it all begin? That's hard to say. Stem cell research, genetic manipulation, DNA resequencing and the development of artificial organs to replace every organ we had were all baby steps leading to the eventuality of something like NRT coming to be.
The scientific breakthrough that transformed NRT from a theoretical concept into a potential reality was something called Memory Engram Storage or MES. It was a big old mess indeed. By the late 21st century, Alzheimers and other cognitive brain disorders were rampant. It was a classic case of cause and effect. Advances in medical science had enabled the average person to expect a lifespan of well over 100 years. The unexpected downside to this was that the human brain wore out long before the body did. MES allowed a person's memories to be stored digitally against the need for them to be restored. It enjoyed far less success than was anticipated.
For once, the technology was not to blame. It did exactly what it promised. The problem was the human component. It became evident in the earliest application that imprinting memories back on to a structurally unsound brain was useless. The subjects that most needed the treatment no longer possessed a brain capable of accepting the data. The only widespread benefit was in the proof of concept that memory storage and restoration WAS possible.
In 2190, the MES technology was finally fully validated by the introduction of the Artificial Positronic Matrix or APM. By this time, the human brain was understood well enough that it could be recreated electronically. It was a triumph of technology over common sense. If the subject brain was unsound, then replace the brain and THEN restore the memories.
Behind closed doors, a cabal of scientists, doctors and others first theorized the NRT project. Ironically, the longest phase of the project lay not in determining COULD such a thing be done but in deciding if such a thing SHOULD be done. In the fullness of time the SHOULD and the COULD factions reached agreement.
Every broadcast medium in the world carried the press conference announcing the first trials of the NRT program. Specially-chosen members of the team explained the process in terms anyone could understand. The first step required a sample of subject DNA. Only a very minute amount of DNA was required. The growth of the specimen would be dramatically accelerated. When the specimen was sufficiently developed, all organs would be replaced with flawless artificial organs. Finally, the APM would be implanted and the MES would be applied. The finished product would be a fully-functional subject with all of the memories of the original subject.
The response from the media and from humanity at large ran the gamut from wonderment to outrage.
A savvy newsie posed the question: Why use such a non-scientific term as "necromantic"? The abashed spokesmen admitted a flaw in the NRT process. Regardless of the sample, the process only worked about 70% of the time. The scientists had jibed that there must be some voodoo variable that made the process only work sometimes. They hadn't isolated the variable so, for now, necromantic seemed apropos.
The religious elements railed that it was an abomination. Soulless artificial humans were unthinkable! They were mollified by an appeal to their emotions. It was an abomination that children should grow up never having known a beloved family member taken away too soon. It was soulless for poets, musicians and writers were taken away with so much beauty left to give. The soothing appeal worked.
Everyone agreed there must be some limitation placed on the NERTs as they came to be known in popular parlance. The consensus reached was that their inorganic parts would be programmed to deactivate after one year. All agreed this was acceptable.
The process was commercialized and the orders flowed in. Within a month there were over 100 thousand NERTs in existence. At six months, their numbers had swelled to nearly one half million. As the first year of production neared its end, 2.8 million NERTs were among us.
The night before One Year Day dawned, each NERT was bid farewell by sons, daughters, colleagues and those who cared for them for whatever reason. As One Year Day began, the horror began as well.
Somehow, by some unknown way, the NERTs did not die. Scientists were at a complete loss as to how such a thing could happen. Attempts to examine the NERTs were the first concrete proof that something was very, very wrong. The NERTs attacked the scientists and tore them limb from limb.
Similar reports poured in from all over the planet. NERTs were attacking anyone or anything with no provocation whatsoever. Inicidents multiplied to the point that military action was deemed expedient.
The NERTs responded in kind with brutal effect. With no centralized nervous system
a NERT could only be stopped by being completely obliterated. While the military fought, the NERTs took the initiative away.
Theories say that the NERTs formed some sort of collective consciousness. By means not understood, the NERTs created more NERTs...a LOT more. They declared themselves to be independent and autonomous. Humanity fought them with all its martial might...and lost.
So now every day dawns with the undead walking the streets, defying us to challenge them or resist them. It has become a daily occurrence that there are fewer of us and more of them than the day. We stay in our homes, with our doors locked and wait for the end to come.
In every age of man for as far back as history records, and probably even further back than that I guess, there have been controversial discoveries made. You don't have to be some egghead history buff to know that. Science and technology have always advanced farther and faster into unknown territory than has the society that such advances are intended to benefit.
Necomantic Replication Technology or NRT was just the latest controversial discovery in that long list of such things. Looking back, I don't think anybody saw such a thing coming to be, but we should have. Where or when did it all begin? That's hard to say. Stem cell research, genetic manipulation, DNA resequencing and the development of artificial organs to replace every organ we had were all baby steps leading to the eventuality of something like NRT coming to be.
The scientific breakthrough that transformed NRT from a theoretical concept into a potential reality was something called Memory Engram Storage or MES. It was a big old mess indeed. By the late 21st century, Alzheimers and other cognitive brain disorders were rampant. It was a classic case of cause and effect. Advances in medical science had enabled the average person to expect a lifespan of well over 100 years. The unexpected downside to this was that the human brain wore out long before the body did. MES allowed a person's memories to be stored digitally against the need for them to be restored. It enjoyed far less success than was anticipated.
For once, the technology was not to blame. It did exactly what it promised. The problem was the human component. It became evident in the earliest application that imprinting memories back on to a structurally unsound brain was useless. The subjects that most needed the treatment no longer possessed a brain capable of accepting the data. The only widespread benefit was in the proof of concept that memory storage and restoration WAS possible.
In 2190, the MES technology was finally fully validated by the introduction of the Artificial Positronic Matrix or APM. By this time, the human brain was understood well enough that it could be recreated electronically. It was a triumph of technology over common sense. If the subject brain was unsound, then replace the brain and THEN restore the memories.
Behind closed doors, a cabal of scientists, doctors and others first theorized the NRT project. Ironically, the longest phase of the project lay not in determining COULD such a thing be done but in deciding if such a thing SHOULD be done. In the fullness of time the SHOULD and the COULD factions reached agreement.
Every broadcast medium in the world carried the press conference announcing the first trials of the NRT program. Specially-chosen members of the team explained the process in terms anyone could understand. The first step required a sample of subject DNA. Only a very minute amount of DNA was required. The growth of the specimen would be dramatically accelerated. When the specimen was sufficiently developed, all organs would be replaced with flawless artificial organs. Finally, the APM would be implanted and the MES would be applied. The finished product would be a fully-functional subject with all of the memories of the original subject.
The response from the media and from humanity at large ran the gamut from wonderment to outrage.
A savvy newsie posed the question: Why use such a non-scientific term as "necromantic"? The abashed spokesmen admitted a flaw in the NRT process. Regardless of the sample, the process only worked about 70% of the time. The scientists had jibed that there must be some voodoo variable that made the process only work sometimes. They hadn't isolated the variable so, for now, necromantic seemed apropos.
The religious elements railed that it was an abomination. Soulless artificial humans were unthinkable! They were mollified by an appeal to their emotions. It was an abomination that children should grow up never having known a beloved family member taken away too soon. It was soulless for poets, musicians and writers were taken away with so much beauty left to give. The soothing appeal worked.
Everyone agreed there must be some limitation placed on the NERTs as they came to be known in popular parlance. The consensus reached was that their inorganic parts would be programmed to deactivate after one year. All agreed this was acceptable.
The process was commercialized and the orders flowed in. Within a month there were over 100 thousand NERTs in existence. At six months, their numbers had swelled to nearly one half million. As the first year of production neared its end, 2.8 million NERTs were among us.
The night before One Year Day dawned, each NERT was bid farewell by sons, daughters, colleagues and those who cared for them for whatever reason. As One Year Day began, the horror began as well.
Somehow, by some unknown way, the NERTs did not die. Scientists were at a complete loss as to how such a thing could happen. Attempts to examine the NERTs were the first concrete proof that something was very, very wrong. The NERTs attacked the scientists and tore them limb from limb.
Similar reports poured in from all over the planet. NERTs were attacking anyone or anything with no provocation whatsoever. Inicidents multiplied to the point that military action was deemed expedient.
The NERTs responded in kind with brutal effect. With no centralized nervous system
a NERT could only be stopped by being completely obliterated. While the military fought, the NERTs took the initiative away.
Theories say that the NERTs formed some sort of collective consciousness. By means not understood, the NERTs created more NERTs...a LOT more. They declared themselves to be independent and autonomous. Humanity fought them with all its martial might...and lost.
So now every day dawns with the undead walking the streets, defying us to challenge them or resist them. It has become a daily occurrence that there are fewer of us and more of them than the day. We stay in our homes, with our doors locked and wait for the end to come.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Divine Intervention
Dice Games Prompt #4 Don't Kill Any Of Your Characters.
Davnik Trovel didn't know if he had ever been more tired in his entire life. When he joined the ranks of the Syslankan Army it had seemed a judicious move. It certainly offered him more opportunities than mucking in the dirt for the rest of his days. Alternately either planting or harvesting the stinking joba roots, that were all the played out soil of his family farm would foster, held no attraction for a young man with dreams.
Davnik's father was vehemently opposed to the idea of his son leaving the farm. The Blessed One did not intend for farmers to meddle in affairs of state, the elder Trovel insisted. Every man had his place and his purpose in The One's plan and it was the rankest of blasphemy for Davnik to even consider a different path.
Davnik was in no mood for his father's claptrap and told the older man as much. IF, Davnik snorted, The Blessed One intended him to break his back amongst the vile joba roots, He might at least have had the common decency to have not "blessed" Davnik with a sense of smell!
With a roar of outrage, Galat Trovel decreed that his son was no longer welcome in his home. Davnik was free to go where he desired and to never darken his doorway again. The lad would be provided a horse, some food and that would be all his father would agree to. Davnik rode out at first light and never looked back. His future lay to the south, not on the blighted land behind him.
When he cleared the first low hill, Davnik let out a laugh. Did his fool of a father actually believe that his son was riding off blindly to trust to the capricious nature of some mythical Blessed One? Davnik had a plan, three harvests in the making.
Three harvests ago was when Galat's bad leg was hurting badly enough for him to entrust Davnik with taking the joba to market. When the coins were placed into his hand, it was as if a veil was pulled from his eyes. This was his freedom! Davnik placed a share of the money in his own pouch and returned home. Galat was disappointed by the amount but declared it the will of The One that they live a frugal life. Never did it occur to him what Davnik had done. From that day on, a portion of any funds that came into his hands became part of the boy's stash.
Riding away, Davnik had a purse of nearly 250 Syslankan marks. The horse Galat had provided was an unexpected windfall. Davnik had expected to have to buy one before proceeding. The previous month, he had met Captain Hasnil, Commander of Horse in the Syslankan Cavalry, purchasing supplies at the market.
Hasnil assured Davnik he could, with a patron, enjoy an exciting and profitable life as a Syslankan military courier. Hasnil inferred that a patron, such as himself, could make the arrangements for say...200 marks. It was irresistable.
Covered in slimy mud and thoroughly exhausted, Davnik wondered how his plans could have gone so awry. Hasnik had betrayed the boy. His men had beaten Davnik near to death, stolen his coins and had him sent to the frontier border. Syslankan border wars were numerous and particularly bloody. Unlikely the lad would survive long or find a sympathetic ear if he complained.
Davnik shuddered from the cold. Their company had been cut off from the main body of their troops a fortnight ago. The skirmish they'd been in ended with the crippling of the Yaglodaric commander when his horse stepped in a hole. It was a battle the Syslankan soldiers would curse all their days.
The enemy commander turned out to be a lesser prince of the Yaglodar. Blood feud had been sworn against those responsible for harm having befallen him. They would be hunted and hounded until every last one of them was dead. There would be no mercy, no quarter, no reprieve. Such had only ever been in ancient legends but, looking across the field, none of the Syslankans doubted the resolve of their foes.
Their only hope lay in reaching their fortress some ten days hard ride away. What began as orderly retreat quickly degenerated into chaos. Thus Davnik and his company had fled, evading but never quite losing their relentless pursuers. With their backs to the swollen Jalana River, totally impassable in this season, the Syslankans dug in for their last stand. Death would come for them at first light.
Davnik tired of sitting in the mud and arose to wander aimlessly about the camp. He happened upon a group of soldiers clustered around a makeshift shrine to The Blessed One. They yammered the prayers of their childhood, prayers for safety, protection, and aid in their hour of need. Davnik laughed openly at them.
"Why", he chided, "pray to some impotent...myth...such as The Blessed One. How much good can He be given how wonderfully He has done for us so far?" He ignored his comrades angry retorts.
"For all the good it will do, why not pray to The Stormhawk? War IS, after all, His area of influence. I'll bet we could work out a deal with the old boy? Why not? Why not indeed?!?"
He fell to his knees, turning his face to the sky. "Mighty Stormhawk! Hear us and grant us aid. Let none of us be killed in this coming trial. Let us live and we shall pay what price You may ask!" He ended his prayer with mocking laughter.
The laughter died in his throat when a far louder voice boomed in unison with him. A swirl of mist coalesced into the form of an immense bearded man.
"SO AMUSING YOU PUNY BEINGS CAN BE! PRAYING TO THE STORMHAWK FOR PEACE. IMAGINE! MY BROTHER STOOD READY TO SUCCOR YOU WHEN I STOPPED HIM. HE HAS CONSENTED TO ALLOW ME TO GRANT YOUR PRAYERS IN MY FASHION. SO...LET IT BE DONE! YOU SHALL NOT DIE. NO MATTER YOUR HEAD BE LOPPED OFF, YOUR GUTS BE SPILLED LIKE OLD BEER...YOU SHALL...NOT...DIE!! TO EASE YOUR FEARS, DAWN AND THE BATTLE SHALL BE NOW. I SHALL RETURN IN A FEW DAYS...PERHAPS...TO DISCUSS YOUR PAYMENTS TO ME." The being vanished and it was, indeed, dawn.
As if on cue, arrows began to rain down on the encampment. Shrieks of pain and rage assailed Davnik as men were peppered with dozens of arrows and yet continued to get back up. His screams joined the others as arrows sprouted from his chest and another buried itself to the feathers in his left eyesocket.
The Stormhawk clapped The Blessed One on the shoulder. "STANDS FAIR TO BE A LONG FEW DAYS FOR THEM, EH BROTHER?" With a sigh and a shake of His head, The Blessed One withdrew.
Davnik Trovel didn't know if he had ever been more tired in his entire life. When he joined the ranks of the Syslankan Army it had seemed a judicious move. It certainly offered him more opportunities than mucking in the dirt for the rest of his days. Alternately either planting or harvesting the stinking joba roots, that were all the played out soil of his family farm would foster, held no attraction for a young man with dreams.
Davnik's father was vehemently opposed to the idea of his son leaving the farm. The Blessed One did not intend for farmers to meddle in affairs of state, the elder Trovel insisted. Every man had his place and his purpose in The One's plan and it was the rankest of blasphemy for Davnik to even consider a different path.
Davnik was in no mood for his father's claptrap and told the older man as much. IF, Davnik snorted, The Blessed One intended him to break his back amongst the vile joba roots, He might at least have had the common decency to have not "blessed" Davnik with a sense of smell!
With a roar of outrage, Galat Trovel decreed that his son was no longer welcome in his home. Davnik was free to go where he desired and to never darken his doorway again. The lad would be provided a horse, some food and that would be all his father would agree to. Davnik rode out at first light and never looked back. His future lay to the south, not on the blighted land behind him.
When he cleared the first low hill, Davnik let out a laugh. Did his fool of a father actually believe that his son was riding off blindly to trust to the capricious nature of some mythical Blessed One? Davnik had a plan, three harvests in the making.
Three harvests ago was when Galat's bad leg was hurting badly enough for him to entrust Davnik with taking the joba to market. When the coins were placed into his hand, it was as if a veil was pulled from his eyes. This was his freedom! Davnik placed a share of the money in his own pouch and returned home. Galat was disappointed by the amount but declared it the will of The One that they live a frugal life. Never did it occur to him what Davnik had done. From that day on, a portion of any funds that came into his hands became part of the boy's stash.
Riding away, Davnik had a purse of nearly 250 Syslankan marks. The horse Galat had provided was an unexpected windfall. Davnik had expected to have to buy one before proceeding. The previous month, he had met Captain Hasnil, Commander of Horse in the Syslankan Cavalry, purchasing supplies at the market.
Hasnil assured Davnik he could, with a patron, enjoy an exciting and profitable life as a Syslankan military courier. Hasnil inferred that a patron, such as himself, could make the arrangements for say...200 marks. It was irresistable.
Covered in slimy mud and thoroughly exhausted, Davnik wondered how his plans could have gone so awry. Hasnik had betrayed the boy. His men had beaten Davnik near to death, stolen his coins and had him sent to the frontier border. Syslankan border wars were numerous and particularly bloody. Unlikely the lad would survive long or find a sympathetic ear if he complained.
Davnik shuddered from the cold. Their company had been cut off from the main body of their troops a fortnight ago. The skirmish they'd been in ended with the crippling of the Yaglodaric commander when his horse stepped in a hole. It was a battle the Syslankan soldiers would curse all their days.
The enemy commander turned out to be a lesser prince of the Yaglodar. Blood feud had been sworn against those responsible for harm having befallen him. They would be hunted and hounded until every last one of them was dead. There would be no mercy, no quarter, no reprieve. Such had only ever been in ancient legends but, looking across the field, none of the Syslankans doubted the resolve of their foes.
Their only hope lay in reaching their fortress some ten days hard ride away. What began as orderly retreat quickly degenerated into chaos. Thus Davnik and his company had fled, evading but never quite losing their relentless pursuers. With their backs to the swollen Jalana River, totally impassable in this season, the Syslankans dug in for their last stand. Death would come for them at first light.
Davnik tired of sitting in the mud and arose to wander aimlessly about the camp. He happened upon a group of soldiers clustered around a makeshift shrine to The Blessed One. They yammered the prayers of their childhood, prayers for safety, protection, and aid in their hour of need. Davnik laughed openly at them.
"Why", he chided, "pray to some impotent...myth...such as The Blessed One. How much good can He be given how wonderfully He has done for us so far?" He ignored his comrades angry retorts.
"For all the good it will do, why not pray to The Stormhawk? War IS, after all, His area of influence. I'll bet we could work out a deal with the old boy? Why not? Why not indeed?!?"
He fell to his knees, turning his face to the sky. "Mighty Stormhawk! Hear us and grant us aid. Let none of us be killed in this coming trial. Let us live and we shall pay what price You may ask!" He ended his prayer with mocking laughter.
The laughter died in his throat when a far louder voice boomed in unison with him. A swirl of mist coalesced into the form of an immense bearded man.
"SO AMUSING YOU PUNY BEINGS CAN BE! PRAYING TO THE STORMHAWK FOR PEACE. IMAGINE! MY BROTHER STOOD READY TO SUCCOR YOU WHEN I STOPPED HIM. HE HAS CONSENTED TO ALLOW ME TO GRANT YOUR PRAYERS IN MY FASHION. SO...LET IT BE DONE! YOU SHALL NOT DIE. NO MATTER YOUR HEAD BE LOPPED OFF, YOUR GUTS BE SPILLED LIKE OLD BEER...YOU SHALL...NOT...DIE!! TO EASE YOUR FEARS, DAWN AND THE BATTLE SHALL BE NOW. I SHALL RETURN IN A FEW DAYS...PERHAPS...TO DISCUSS YOUR PAYMENTS TO ME." The being vanished and it was, indeed, dawn.
As if on cue, arrows began to rain down on the encampment. Shrieks of pain and rage assailed Davnik as men were peppered with dozens of arrows and yet continued to get back up. His screams joined the others as arrows sprouted from his chest and another buried itself to the feathers in his left eyesocket.
The Stormhawk clapped The Blessed One on the shoulder. "STANDS FAIR TO BE A LONG FEW DAYS FOR THEM, EH BROTHER?" With a sigh and a shake of His head, The Blessed One withdrew.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Progeny Performance Evaluation
Today, my son, you're two years old and grand as that may be,
No time to rest on laurels for you're headed on to three.
And so to lend you guidance and insure you do not lack,
It seems high time to furnish you with targeted feedback.
You look so like your daddy and you act like him most days.
For that you gain some favor and a healthy bit of praise.
Although I know you realize and understand for sure
That Mommy would approve if you could sometimes act like her.
Your mother would appreciate if her sweet little boy
Could make an effort not to use her as a chewing toy.
Perhaps you fail to realize the pain that you will find
The next time that you bite her and she pays you back in kind.
Now let's move on to eating where you truly are the king.
You get more stuff inside you and you don't waste anything.
You gobble down your veggies and you even ask for more.
We rarely need to ask you not to dump them on the floor.
We note here that your bottle still remains a constant need.
A sippy cup would make you look more debonair indeed.
But on this point, it seems, your mom and I still disagree.
So no points plus or minus is how that one's gonna be.
Now as regards your diapers and the things you leave inside
I think we both agree you could be far more dignified.
Since you're only two I guess it's pointless my complaining
You will not commit to any hardcore potty training.
Let's wind this up, I know that your attention span is short.
Of course, you know, you will get carbon copied this report.
And while it may not match up with the things you think or feel,
That's why we give you ten full days for filing an appeal.
And so to sum things up, you're doing rather well so far.
Some eagles and some birdies though in some ways merely par.
So after all the numbers have been crunched and then re-done
You truly earned your A plus as my precious little son!
No time to rest on laurels for you're headed on to three.
And so to lend you guidance and insure you do not lack,
It seems high time to furnish you with targeted feedback.
You look so like your daddy and you act like him most days.
For that you gain some favor and a healthy bit of praise.
Although I know you realize and understand for sure
That Mommy would approve if you could sometimes act like her.
Your mother would appreciate if her sweet little boy
Could make an effort not to use her as a chewing toy.
Perhaps you fail to realize the pain that you will find
The next time that you bite her and she pays you back in kind.
Now let's move on to eating where you truly are the king.
You get more stuff inside you and you don't waste anything.
You gobble down your veggies and you even ask for more.
We rarely need to ask you not to dump them on the floor.
We note here that your bottle still remains a constant need.
A sippy cup would make you look more debonair indeed.
But on this point, it seems, your mom and I still disagree.
So no points plus or minus is how that one's gonna be.
Now as regards your diapers and the things you leave inside
I think we both agree you could be far more dignified.
Since you're only two I guess it's pointless my complaining
You will not commit to any hardcore potty training.
Let's wind this up, I know that your attention span is short.
Of course, you know, you will get carbon copied this report.
And while it may not match up with the things you think or feel,
That's why we give you ten full days for filing an appeal.
And so to sum things up, you're doing rather well so far.
Some eagles and some birdies though in some ways merely par.
So after all the numbers have been crunched and then re-done
You truly earned your A plus as my precious little son!
Thursday, September 8, 2011
An American Muse in Paris
Some days I really hate my Muse. A fine example of that would be that whenever I make mention of him, it MUST be in upper-case or he gets snippy. I wonder some days why I went to the trouble of tracking him down again.
Those that have read my blog from its humble beginnings a scant few months ago, are familiar with My Personal Dark Ages. To those NOT familiar with the reference, it denotes a less than pleasant period of my past. It was a time when I walled myself away from the world for anything other than work and necessary contacts with others.
I worked relentlessly, ate poorly and drank quite heavily. I filled my free time with TV, computer games and solitary activities. I didn't like myself much during that time. I didn't have any outlet for my inate sense of creativity and I didn't really care. It was during that period that my Muse took an extended leave of absence. He seldom allows me to forget that He was gone for quite a lengthy time before I even noticed His office was empty. I never even read His letter of resignation.
As my loyal readers know, I did eventually emerge from My Dark Ages and stood squinting in the forgotten light of Inspiration. I decided to return to writing and never abandon it again. My earliest efforts at that were sporadic and not very...well...inspired. Thus began my quest to find my Muse and lure Him back.
I knew it would be a painful undertaking. We hadn't parted on good terms. I had ignored His feelings and quashed His suggestions out of hand. I know He felt justified in his leaving and had, most likely, secured another position. Still and all, if my writing was to improve and my creativity properly expressed, it would be pointless without Him back at His old desk...doing that voodoo that He do so well.
I began by searching for him in old things I had somehow managed to save just for clues. At his best, my Muse had always been somewhat socially unacceptable. He was terribly sarcastic. He was rude, opinionated, egotistical and often downright surly. I didn't realize until I undertook to find Him that, in His stead, I had been exhibiting all of those qualities for years.
Without my Muse to direct and channel these traits into some sort of release, the responsibility for them fell squarely on me. Like it or not, my Muse and I needed to reunite and reach some sort of amicable agreement. With precious little to go on, the task seemed doomed to fail.
Then, the solution dawned on me. If I wanted to find my Muse, then I needed to THINK like my Muse. If I were Him, where would I be today? I began by recalling all of His trademark qualities: sarcastic, rude, opinionated, egotistacal and surly. Then, I scanned my deepest memories for a match to those traits. Suddenly, I had an intense Archimedes Moment. Eureka indeed!
Paris! My Muse would be found in Paris. With his unique skill set, He could blend in seamlessly with the locals and never want for gainful employment. How ingenious He could be! I felt a profound sense of loss for all of the years that He and I had been apart.
Those feelings faded soon enough when I caught sight of Him, sitting at a wobbly table in the back of a seedy Left Bank cafe. He was wearing a black beret, one of those long-sleeved shirts with narrow blue and white horizontal stripes, tight-fitting black trousers and scuffed clogs. Clogs?!? My Muse in clogs? Astounding!
He was puffing on one of those noxious Gallois cigarettes, holding it in that odd backhanded European fashion. He was sipping from a tall flute of sparkling water and snacking on a small plate of assorted cheeses. He was busily mocking a group of pale, pudgy American tourists regarding their polyester clothing and their propensity to wear socks with sandles. My Muse had gone thoroughly native!
The rest, as they say, is history. It hasn't been all sunshine and roses between us, to say the least. I have yet to convince my Muse who works for whom. Although ours has been a rocky reunion, it bids well to remain mutually beneficial. Now if I can just get Him to stop wearing that damned beret!
Those that have read my blog from its humble beginnings a scant few months ago, are familiar with My Personal Dark Ages. To those NOT familiar with the reference, it denotes a less than pleasant period of my past. It was a time when I walled myself away from the world for anything other than work and necessary contacts with others.
I worked relentlessly, ate poorly and drank quite heavily. I filled my free time with TV, computer games and solitary activities. I didn't like myself much during that time. I didn't have any outlet for my inate sense of creativity and I didn't really care. It was during that period that my Muse took an extended leave of absence. He seldom allows me to forget that He was gone for quite a lengthy time before I even noticed His office was empty. I never even read His letter of resignation.
As my loyal readers know, I did eventually emerge from My Dark Ages and stood squinting in the forgotten light of Inspiration. I decided to return to writing and never abandon it again. My earliest efforts at that were sporadic and not very...well...inspired. Thus began my quest to find my Muse and lure Him back.
I knew it would be a painful undertaking. We hadn't parted on good terms. I had ignored His feelings and quashed His suggestions out of hand. I know He felt justified in his leaving and had, most likely, secured another position. Still and all, if my writing was to improve and my creativity properly expressed, it would be pointless without Him back at His old desk...doing that voodoo that He do so well.
I began by searching for him in old things I had somehow managed to save just for clues. At his best, my Muse had always been somewhat socially unacceptable. He was terribly sarcastic. He was rude, opinionated, egotistical and often downright surly. I didn't realize until I undertook to find Him that, in His stead, I had been exhibiting all of those qualities for years.
Without my Muse to direct and channel these traits into some sort of release, the responsibility for them fell squarely on me. Like it or not, my Muse and I needed to reunite and reach some sort of amicable agreement. With precious little to go on, the task seemed doomed to fail.
Then, the solution dawned on me. If I wanted to find my Muse, then I needed to THINK like my Muse. If I were Him, where would I be today? I began by recalling all of His trademark qualities: sarcastic, rude, opinionated, egotistacal and surly. Then, I scanned my deepest memories for a match to those traits. Suddenly, I had an intense Archimedes Moment. Eureka indeed!
Paris! My Muse would be found in Paris. With his unique skill set, He could blend in seamlessly with the locals and never want for gainful employment. How ingenious He could be! I felt a profound sense of loss for all of the years that He and I had been apart.
Those feelings faded soon enough when I caught sight of Him, sitting at a wobbly table in the back of a seedy Left Bank cafe. He was wearing a black beret, one of those long-sleeved shirts with narrow blue and white horizontal stripes, tight-fitting black trousers and scuffed clogs. Clogs?!? My Muse in clogs? Astounding!
He was puffing on one of those noxious Gallois cigarettes, holding it in that odd backhanded European fashion. He was sipping from a tall flute of sparkling water and snacking on a small plate of assorted cheeses. He was busily mocking a group of pale, pudgy American tourists regarding their polyester clothing and their propensity to wear socks with sandles. My Muse had gone thoroughly native!
The rest, as they say, is history. It hasn't been all sunshine and roses between us, to say the least. I have yet to convince my Muse who works for whom. Although ours has been a rocky reunion, it bids well to remain mutually beneficial. Now if I can just get Him to stop wearing that damned beret!
A Poetic Appeal
I haven't wrote a poem in what seems the longest time.
It's not that I have lost my love of crafting things that rhyme.
It's just that I've been busy writing other sorts of things
And finding that I like the rush that each new story brings.
I promise all my quatraines, every couplet and haiku
That if you all are patient I will see you get your due.
You really must not fear that I will leave you in my head.
I promise every one of you will someday soon be read.
They say the squeaky wheel shall be the one that gets the grease.
But in this case I must insist you all give me some peace.
Stop promising that if I only put you on my page
That you will make me famous and my name be all the rage.
I think that I've been more than fair investing time and space
To see that you get recognized and have a special place.
So leave off with the whining and complaining to my Muse.
Despite what you may think he's not your puppet to abuse.
I hope you take this talk to heart and walk the higher road.
No matter how you threaten me my head will NOT explode.
Please have a seat and wait your turn until your number's called.
The train is still on track, my friends, it only SEEMS it's stalled.
It's not that I have lost my love of crafting things that rhyme.
It's just that I've been busy writing other sorts of things
And finding that I like the rush that each new story brings.
I promise all my quatraines, every couplet and haiku
That if you all are patient I will see you get your due.
You really must not fear that I will leave you in my head.
I promise every one of you will someday soon be read.
They say the squeaky wheel shall be the one that gets the grease.
But in this case I must insist you all give me some peace.
Stop promising that if I only put you on my page
That you will make me famous and my name be all the rage.
I think that I've been more than fair investing time and space
To see that you get recognized and have a special place.
So leave off with the whining and complaining to my Muse.
Despite what you may think he's not your puppet to abuse.
I hope you take this talk to heart and walk the higher road.
No matter how you threaten me my head will NOT explode.
Please have a seat and wait your turn until your number's called.
The train is still on track, my friends, it only SEEMS it's stalled.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
The Bellwether of God
Jeremiah Cade, the Bellwether of God, stood on the balcony of the Econo-Lodge Motel, sweating heavily beneath his cassock. Indian Summer or not, it was unfitting for the Almighty's Instrument of Retribution to be perspiring so, he frowned.
One thousand human sacrifices were the price the Almighty demanded or The Reaping would continue with none spared. Jeremiah would not allow that. The deaths tonight would spare millions.
As Cade stood praying, the heavy .308 slug smacked his forehead. Jake grinned. Prophet or not, the murdering bastard never saw THAT one coming. Plague be damned, nobody was gonna sacrifice HIS sister!
One thousand human sacrifices were the price the Almighty demanded or The Reaping would continue with none spared. Jeremiah would not allow that. The deaths tonight would spare millions.
As Cade stood praying, the heavy .308 slug smacked his forehead. Jake grinned. Prophet or not, the murdering bastard never saw THAT one coming. Plague be damned, nobody was gonna sacrifice HIS sister!
Monday, September 5, 2011
The Seraphim Band
Dice Games Prompt #6: Write about something ugly but find the beauty in it
The media had dubbed it The Reaping. It was a surprisingly innocuous name for such a truly horrendous thing. Many names could have been chosen for the decimating plague that was inexhoribly sweeping all of humanity from off the face of the planet like so many scattered food crumbs. In the final analysis, what the specter was named was quite immaterial. It stalked across the land, leaving rot, putrescence and death in its wake.
The talking heads droned endlessly and fruitlessly on, speculating on the source of the contagion. Their vaunted expose journalists and tabloid-trash medical correspondents were as clueless on Day 100 of the ordeal as they had been when the pandemic had first been officially declared. The World Health Organization, the Centers for Disease Control, the United Nations Medical Panel were only the most prestigious of the seemingly-endless laundry list of alphabet agencies embarassingly incapable of determining any source whatsoever for the syndrome.
Perhaps more disconcerting than the failure of the medical community to ascertain how the plague had even begun, was their abject inability to formulate a treatment that showed the slightest inclination of halting the progression of the disease. In terms that even the least-educated of humanity could understand, the inescapable truth was that no treatment known to the best and brightest medical minds of mankind was working...period.
In retrospect, it was a sad testament to the pettiness of the species that so much valuable time was wasted in pointless academic bickering. It was clearly viral. No, it was bacterial. It was an airborne pathogen. No, it was spread by physical contact. Broad spectrum antibiotics were the treatment most indicated. No, recombinant DNA manipulation would be proven the best route to pursue. Teleconferences between colleagues and rivals alike degenerated into little more than prolonged shouting matches and endless recriminations. And as the arguments railed on and the bickering continued, people died.
They died in the greatest cities and they died in the meanest villages. They died in great teeming masses of humanity and they died alone. The elderly, the infants and those of any age in between all died with seeming equality. Whether their skins were white, black, brown or yellow mattered not a whit. They all died the same. It was, the philosophers down through the ages maintained, the lot of man to die. The Reaping stood prepared to fulfill that premise as all died before It.
The Reaping cut a broad swath across the populations of all lands. It was inevitable that, as time passed, among the dead would be those most key to maintaining the infrastructure of society. Utility and transportation services became the first and most noticeable shortcomings. Food production, processing and distribution means followed closely behind. The descent from plentitude to marginal sustainability to complete collapse took a surprisingly short time. Few had understood how fragile the links of supply and demand of humanity were until those links were strained and finally broken.
The collapse of essential services seemed to be echoed by the collapse of all societal restraint. As diverse as mankind itself were the reactions to the demise of the world. Churches, mosques, temples and synagogues were filled to overflowing as the devout besought succor from their respective deities. The bars, clubs and meccas of pleasure had their collective hands full with those determined to meet the end in a last flurry of overindulgence. The descent to barbarism was far too easy for far too many. Raping, murder and worse crimes went on unchecked without the traditional safeguards against such things in place. It was the twilight of Mans' reign over the Earth and as night fell, so did the last vestiges of civilization.
History would record that it was on Day 242 of The Reaping that They appeared and began what came to be known as the Age of the Seraphim Band. They descended from the skies in golden ships of immense size. They were everywhere about the planet in the merest blink of an eye. As one, it seemed, all activity of any sort stopped as a sense of calmness, serenity and limitless power seized the attention of every remaning living being of Earth.
Every eye on the planet beheld the same vision of a personage of exceptional stature towering over them. A man, it seemed, surrounded in a dazzling aura of light that shifted and swirled about him. The being was strongly built and above his shoulders could be glimpsed, at times, what appeared to be gargantuan...wings.
Every ear heard the same deep, sonorous voice that spoke to the entirety of the world. "We are the Seraphim Band. Though our numbers are not what they once were, they are sufficient to your needs. Sleep now as we labor to do that which must be done. Sleep, children, sleep." And, as one, Mankind slept.
Since there were none to measure, it was unknown how long Humanity slept. But, as one, all awoke with a contented sigh and rose to their feet. The figure that had bid them all to lie down awaited them as they arose.
"Arise, children, and behold what we have wrought. Behold the gift we freely give unto you. Cleansed is your world. Purified is the earth, the air, the waters. Replenished are the resources so depleted in your quest for dominance of this world. This gift we give willingly and without conditions. We offer this admonition only. What we have done here we can not do again. We have other responsibilities and other worlds to aid. This we tell you by way of direction. Remember what was before and go forth into a new age. Lay aside the aggression, the fear and the animosity that hinder your kind. Treasure each other and live your lives for the betterment of others. Your path already trod is gone. Your path into the future must be of your choosing. We charge you to choose that path both carefully and wisely. Be well and prosper, children."
The figure vanished in a burst of golden light and with it the Seraphim Band were gone. As one, Mankind joined hands and set themselves forward on the first tentative steps of a new path.
The media had dubbed it The Reaping. It was a surprisingly innocuous name for such a truly horrendous thing. Many names could have been chosen for the decimating plague that was inexhoribly sweeping all of humanity from off the face of the planet like so many scattered food crumbs. In the final analysis, what the specter was named was quite immaterial. It stalked across the land, leaving rot, putrescence and death in its wake.
The talking heads droned endlessly and fruitlessly on, speculating on the source of the contagion. Their vaunted expose journalists and tabloid-trash medical correspondents were as clueless on Day 100 of the ordeal as they had been when the pandemic had first been officially declared. The World Health Organization, the Centers for Disease Control, the United Nations Medical Panel were only the most prestigious of the seemingly-endless laundry list of alphabet agencies embarassingly incapable of determining any source whatsoever for the syndrome.
Perhaps more disconcerting than the failure of the medical community to ascertain how the plague had even begun, was their abject inability to formulate a treatment that showed the slightest inclination of halting the progression of the disease. In terms that even the least-educated of humanity could understand, the inescapable truth was that no treatment known to the best and brightest medical minds of mankind was working...period.
In retrospect, it was a sad testament to the pettiness of the species that so much valuable time was wasted in pointless academic bickering. It was clearly viral. No, it was bacterial. It was an airborne pathogen. No, it was spread by physical contact. Broad spectrum antibiotics were the treatment most indicated. No, recombinant DNA manipulation would be proven the best route to pursue. Teleconferences between colleagues and rivals alike degenerated into little more than prolonged shouting matches and endless recriminations. And as the arguments railed on and the bickering continued, people died.
They died in the greatest cities and they died in the meanest villages. They died in great teeming masses of humanity and they died alone. The elderly, the infants and those of any age in between all died with seeming equality. Whether their skins were white, black, brown or yellow mattered not a whit. They all died the same. It was, the philosophers down through the ages maintained, the lot of man to die. The Reaping stood prepared to fulfill that premise as all died before It.
The Reaping cut a broad swath across the populations of all lands. It was inevitable that, as time passed, among the dead would be those most key to maintaining the infrastructure of society. Utility and transportation services became the first and most noticeable shortcomings. Food production, processing and distribution means followed closely behind. The descent from plentitude to marginal sustainability to complete collapse took a surprisingly short time. Few had understood how fragile the links of supply and demand of humanity were until those links were strained and finally broken.
The collapse of essential services seemed to be echoed by the collapse of all societal restraint. As diverse as mankind itself were the reactions to the demise of the world. Churches, mosques, temples and synagogues were filled to overflowing as the devout besought succor from their respective deities. The bars, clubs and meccas of pleasure had their collective hands full with those determined to meet the end in a last flurry of overindulgence. The descent to barbarism was far too easy for far too many. Raping, murder and worse crimes went on unchecked without the traditional safeguards against such things in place. It was the twilight of Mans' reign over the Earth and as night fell, so did the last vestiges of civilization.
History would record that it was on Day 242 of The Reaping that They appeared and began what came to be known as the Age of the Seraphim Band. They descended from the skies in golden ships of immense size. They were everywhere about the planet in the merest blink of an eye. As one, it seemed, all activity of any sort stopped as a sense of calmness, serenity and limitless power seized the attention of every remaning living being of Earth.
Every eye on the planet beheld the same vision of a personage of exceptional stature towering over them. A man, it seemed, surrounded in a dazzling aura of light that shifted and swirled about him. The being was strongly built and above his shoulders could be glimpsed, at times, what appeared to be gargantuan...wings.
Every ear heard the same deep, sonorous voice that spoke to the entirety of the world. "We are the Seraphim Band. Though our numbers are not what they once were, they are sufficient to your needs. Sleep now as we labor to do that which must be done. Sleep, children, sleep." And, as one, Mankind slept.
Since there were none to measure, it was unknown how long Humanity slept. But, as one, all awoke with a contented sigh and rose to their feet. The figure that had bid them all to lie down awaited them as they arose.
"Arise, children, and behold what we have wrought. Behold the gift we freely give unto you. Cleansed is your world. Purified is the earth, the air, the waters. Replenished are the resources so depleted in your quest for dominance of this world. This gift we give willingly and without conditions. We offer this admonition only. What we have done here we can not do again. We have other responsibilities and other worlds to aid. This we tell you by way of direction. Remember what was before and go forth into a new age. Lay aside the aggression, the fear and the animosity that hinder your kind. Treasure each other and live your lives for the betterment of others. Your path already trod is gone. Your path into the future must be of your choosing. We charge you to choose that path both carefully and wisely. Be well and prosper, children."
The figure vanished in a burst of golden light and with it the Seraphim Band were gone. As one, Mankind joined hands and set themselves forward on the first tentative steps of a new path.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
He Was Nobody: A Prologue
He was nobody. He was an unremarkable man worthy of little notice. He did not exist for all intents and purposes. On the Grid...the Information Super Highway...he was a faded sign leading to a long-abandoned town. He liked it that way.
His home was a nondescript brownstone in a neighborhood that had ceased to be notable when he was a teen. If his life had a theme song it would be Simon & Garfunkle's "I Am A Rock". His utilities were paid on a yearly basis by a money order purchased at a bodega eleven subway stops from his home. He was a shadow swallowed up in the gloom found on the frayed edges of a major metro area. He liked it that way.
He ate simply on items purchased, paid for in cash only, at a retail megalomart that saw so much foot traffic that cinema stars might shop there without drawing undue attention. On trash removal days his modest offerings were in a can placed at the curbside of a building two blocks away. The front door to his home had not opened in 14 years. He never entered or exited through that doorway. He liked it that way.
He subscribed to no magazines and had no newspapers delivered. He owned a small tabletop radio but owned no television. He listened to a select collection of old vinyl records played on a vintage turntable but never at a volume setting above 3. He liked it that way.
He existed to no one and mattered to nobody. He was a specter, a shade and a nonentity. He existed on his terms and followed his own schedule. The source of his income was comprised of money made day-trading by computer. He used public library computers that maintained no user records. His money was deposited to an account held in a sovereign island nation and was never accessed from the same ATM twice. He liked it that way.
Anonymity, obscurity and solitude were his sole companions. His sole companions other than the nine gleaming white human female skulls that lined his mantle. They were his collection, his...trophies. They bore mute testament to the implausible things that it was possible for one human being to do to another. They had once belonged to others, but now they were his and his alone. He liked it that way. He liked it that way very much indeed.
For he was the man the pundits had proclaimed to be The Butcher. The Butcher was a name that evoked terror and trepidation and fear in the countless nameless and faceless women that swam frantically about the pool of his potential victims. He liked it that way. He liked it very, very much indeed.
His home was a nondescript brownstone in a neighborhood that had ceased to be notable when he was a teen. If his life had a theme song it would be Simon & Garfunkle's "I Am A Rock". His utilities were paid on a yearly basis by a money order purchased at a bodega eleven subway stops from his home. He was a shadow swallowed up in the gloom found on the frayed edges of a major metro area. He liked it that way.
He ate simply on items purchased, paid for in cash only, at a retail megalomart that saw so much foot traffic that cinema stars might shop there without drawing undue attention. On trash removal days his modest offerings were in a can placed at the curbside of a building two blocks away. The front door to his home had not opened in 14 years. He never entered or exited through that doorway. He liked it that way.
He subscribed to no magazines and had no newspapers delivered. He owned a small tabletop radio but owned no television. He listened to a select collection of old vinyl records played on a vintage turntable but never at a volume setting above 3. He liked it that way.
He existed to no one and mattered to nobody. He was a specter, a shade and a nonentity. He existed on his terms and followed his own schedule. The source of his income was comprised of money made day-trading by computer. He used public library computers that maintained no user records. His money was deposited to an account held in a sovereign island nation and was never accessed from the same ATM twice. He liked it that way.
Anonymity, obscurity and solitude were his sole companions. His sole companions other than the nine gleaming white human female skulls that lined his mantle. They were his collection, his...trophies. They bore mute testament to the implausible things that it was possible for one human being to do to another. They had once belonged to others, but now they were his and his alone. He liked it that way. He liked it that way very much indeed.
For he was the man the pundits had proclaimed to be The Butcher. The Butcher was a name that evoked terror and trepidation and fear in the countless nameless and faceless women that swam frantically about the pool of his potential victims. He liked it that way. He liked it very, very much indeed.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
The Dragonshead Mark
As the sun peeked over the horizon to the east, a solitary figure on horseback watched the last traces of the night mists borne away. The strident cries of gulls seeking their food were swallowed up by the crash of waves against the rocky cliffside far below the rider.
The figure, a young man barely beyond his teens, tilted his head back and allowed the burgeoning sunlight to warm his smooth cheeks. His long chestnut hair blew about in the wan morning breeze, stray strands here and there on his face like spider silk. A broad smile graced his handsome face, thin lips parting to reveal his strong white teeth.
Atop the dappled gelding, he was a striking figure. Obviously tall of stature, he had broad shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist. His tensed leg muscles were equal to the task of restraning his spirited mount. He sat his steed like one born in the saddle.
His general mien was that of a man confident in the power of his youth and prepared for anything the twin specters of Fate and Caprice might cast in his path. Far more than youthful braggadocio accounted for this self-assured aura he projected.
The breeze gave way to the prevailing westerly trade winds and swirled the man's heavy cloak back and away from his muscular frame. Beneath the cloak, he wore riding leathers of the darkest black, studded and adorned with gleaming silver. The same motif was common to his light breastplate, broadsword and poignard....the Dragonshead Mark.
The Dragonshead Mark was a singular distinction bestowed upon a very select few and, most commonly, took the form of a posthumous honor. It denoted one who had engaged in combat with a Dragon...and won. Understandably, it was a fraternity with few members and fewer still who survived the experience.
In the case of Trystane, the singular young man sitting his horse atop the cliffs, the Mark decorated his entire panoply in one form or another. Bejeweled and etched in to his weapons and armor the Mark was clearly evident for any to see.
Trystane, for his part, recalled little of the deeds that had made him the first Bearer of the Mark of his generation. The chirurgeons avowed that, given the severity of his injuries, it was unlikely he ever would. He had been found in his father's fields beneath the gargantuan beast's lifeless body. His crude shephard's spear had transfixed its soft palate and lodged in the brain, killing it instantly.
Young Trystane's unconscious body was so broken and bloodied that few doubted he would long survive his Pyrrhic victory. The lad proved more resilient than any could have expected and made a full recovery. The chirurgeons declared him so, but warned that he would always suffer periodic pain, beyond their skills to banish. To a strong, young man, such effects were endurable.
He had scarce believed when the Herald had arrived at his family's modest home bearing a summons for Trystane to appear before the King and his Council for consideration of investiture into the Brotherhood of the Mark.
Whispers of such a thing had buzzed about but he had never imagined such a thing happening to the son of a commoner.
At court, Trystane was unsurprised that he had no advocates amongst the Royal Council. One after another they voiced their disapproval of his investiture. That he had killed a dragon was, certainly, not in question. Their contention lay in that his actions had been the result of sheer luck as opposed to any demonstrated puissance or skill at arms.
The King had driven them all to silence with a roar of regal laughter. If, he chuckled, this were true, then it bid fair to say that he could use far more younglings with sheer luck amongst his retinue than he could men with "demonstrated puissance". The men who had chased the damned creature all about the land without so much as putting a scratch on it, he laughed, might fare better with more of this lad's "sheer luck".
With the bestowal of the Dragonshead Mark, the future and security of, not only, Trystane but of his family as well was assured. He had been granted a captaincy in the Kingsguard as well as a considerable stipend that guaranteed a better life for his aging parents and his young siblings. Yes, indeed, his life was good.
A snort from his mount brought Trystane back from his reverie to the present. A slight frown marred his features. Life would be better if the fits would go away. Trystane had no delusions that his grave injuries could have been survived with no consequences. He had been told as much hadn't he??
A year later, he suffered little more than occasional stiffness of his joints during particularly wet weather. It was disconcerting but hardly noteworthy. Then the fits had begun. He shivered, remembering the first time it had happened.
He had awoken early that day in excruciating agony. It felt as if molten metal spikes were being driven into his arms and legs. The pain washed over him in wave after wave after wave of sickening intensity. He had no way of knowing how long it had gone on before ceasing abruptly.
Upon examination, the chirurgeon was at a loss to explain the seizure. He, freely, admitted that such an occurrence had no precedent in his records. While Trystane had no idea upon what the wizened old man based his contention, he has reassured by him that it was, most likely, an unfortunate aberration unlikely to happen again. The chirurgeon could not have been more wrong.
Trystane sighed softly, reflecting that not only had the incident happened again, but that the fits were happening more often and with a disturbing regularity. The chirurgeon had, as yet, found neither an explanation or a treatment for the syndrome. He assured Trystane that he WOULD discover the source and that he would restore him to full health.
To say that the young man was not disconcerted by the mysterious ailment would be an untruth. In defiance of the unknown, Trystane had been up and astride his horse well before dawn. If the fits came as had been the pattern, today would see another such. He refused to live in fear, and so off he had ridden. Noting the position of the rising sun, he allowed himself a satisfied grin. There! If the fit were coming it would already have -
With a strangled gasp, his limbs stiffened and Trystane fell from his horse, landing on the rocky ground with a sickening thud. As the now-familiar agony wracked his frame, his horse shied nervously away. Shuddering and twitching uncontrollably, Trystane's sanity slowly eroded away as he screamed inside of his head for the pain to stop...stop...STOP!!
Dr. Malcolm Langer, Director of Services for Placid Glen Hospice, released the button of the controller he held in his hand. He made notations on the chart that lay to his right. Checking the positioning of the electrodes, he made slight adjustments to the settings on the machine that they connected to.
Sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, the elderly woman there cleared her throat softly, "Umm..excuse me for asking again
Doctor, but are you absolutely sure this isn't causing my son any pain?"
Dr. Langer sighed at the interruption of the procedure. "Madame, I have tried, apparently unsuccessfully, to explain to you what is going on here. Your son...ahh..Tristan...is in what we call a persistent vegetative state from which he will NEVER emerge. The brain damage he sustained as a result of the automobile accident was correctly classified as permanently debilitating. Such damage is both irreparable and inoperable. He will remain in an unresponsive and unconscious state for the remainder of his life. The electro-stimulus treatments I have been administering are intended to prevent his muscles from atrophying any further than is to be expected in a patient with his diagnosis."
The woman shifted uncomfortably, "I know. It just...it seems....I mean..." Her voice trailed off as she was unable to find the right words to properly voice her concerns.
The doctor shook his head with obvious disdain, "Madame, I think that I have been more than patient with your unfounded doubts but, rest assured, that patience is nearing its limits. I have several more patients to minister to today...none of them with any better an outlook of recovery than your son. Please believe me when I tell you that Tristan is no more capable of feeling pain than he is of...well...of getting up out of that bed and going for a horseback ride!!"
With a dismissive gesture, he turned his back on her and depressed the control button, administering an additional dose of electrical stimulation.
The figure, a young man barely beyond his teens, tilted his head back and allowed the burgeoning sunlight to warm his smooth cheeks. His long chestnut hair blew about in the wan morning breeze, stray strands here and there on his face like spider silk. A broad smile graced his handsome face, thin lips parting to reveal his strong white teeth.
Atop the dappled gelding, he was a striking figure. Obviously tall of stature, he had broad shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist. His tensed leg muscles were equal to the task of restraning his spirited mount. He sat his steed like one born in the saddle.
His general mien was that of a man confident in the power of his youth and prepared for anything the twin specters of Fate and Caprice might cast in his path. Far more than youthful braggadocio accounted for this self-assured aura he projected.
The breeze gave way to the prevailing westerly trade winds and swirled the man's heavy cloak back and away from his muscular frame. Beneath the cloak, he wore riding leathers of the darkest black, studded and adorned with gleaming silver. The same motif was common to his light breastplate, broadsword and poignard....the Dragonshead Mark.
The Dragonshead Mark was a singular distinction bestowed upon a very select few and, most commonly, took the form of a posthumous honor. It denoted one who had engaged in combat with a Dragon...and won. Understandably, it was a fraternity with few members and fewer still who survived the experience.
In the case of Trystane, the singular young man sitting his horse atop the cliffs, the Mark decorated his entire panoply in one form or another. Bejeweled and etched in to his weapons and armor the Mark was clearly evident for any to see.
Trystane, for his part, recalled little of the deeds that had made him the first Bearer of the Mark of his generation. The chirurgeons avowed that, given the severity of his injuries, it was unlikely he ever would. He had been found in his father's fields beneath the gargantuan beast's lifeless body. His crude shephard's spear had transfixed its soft palate and lodged in the brain, killing it instantly.
Young Trystane's unconscious body was so broken and bloodied that few doubted he would long survive his Pyrrhic victory. The lad proved more resilient than any could have expected and made a full recovery. The chirurgeons declared him so, but warned that he would always suffer periodic pain, beyond their skills to banish. To a strong, young man, such effects were endurable.
He had scarce believed when the Herald had arrived at his family's modest home bearing a summons for Trystane to appear before the King and his Council for consideration of investiture into the Brotherhood of the Mark.
Whispers of such a thing had buzzed about but he had never imagined such a thing happening to the son of a commoner.
At court, Trystane was unsurprised that he had no advocates amongst the Royal Council. One after another they voiced their disapproval of his investiture. That he had killed a dragon was, certainly, not in question. Their contention lay in that his actions had been the result of sheer luck as opposed to any demonstrated puissance or skill at arms.
The King had driven them all to silence with a roar of regal laughter. If, he chuckled, this were true, then it bid fair to say that he could use far more younglings with sheer luck amongst his retinue than he could men with "demonstrated puissance". The men who had chased the damned creature all about the land without so much as putting a scratch on it, he laughed, might fare better with more of this lad's "sheer luck".
With the bestowal of the Dragonshead Mark, the future and security of, not only, Trystane but of his family as well was assured. He had been granted a captaincy in the Kingsguard as well as a considerable stipend that guaranteed a better life for his aging parents and his young siblings. Yes, indeed, his life was good.
A snort from his mount brought Trystane back from his reverie to the present. A slight frown marred his features. Life would be better if the fits would go away. Trystane had no delusions that his grave injuries could have been survived with no consequences. He had been told as much hadn't he??
A year later, he suffered little more than occasional stiffness of his joints during particularly wet weather. It was disconcerting but hardly noteworthy. Then the fits had begun. He shivered, remembering the first time it had happened.
He had awoken early that day in excruciating agony. It felt as if molten metal spikes were being driven into his arms and legs. The pain washed over him in wave after wave after wave of sickening intensity. He had no way of knowing how long it had gone on before ceasing abruptly.
Upon examination, the chirurgeon was at a loss to explain the seizure. He, freely, admitted that such an occurrence had no precedent in his records. While Trystane had no idea upon what the wizened old man based his contention, he has reassured by him that it was, most likely, an unfortunate aberration unlikely to happen again. The chirurgeon could not have been more wrong.
Trystane sighed softly, reflecting that not only had the incident happened again, but that the fits were happening more often and with a disturbing regularity. The chirurgeon had, as yet, found neither an explanation or a treatment for the syndrome. He assured Trystane that he WOULD discover the source and that he would restore him to full health.
To say that the young man was not disconcerted by the mysterious ailment would be an untruth. In defiance of the unknown, Trystane had been up and astride his horse well before dawn. If the fits came as had been the pattern, today would see another such. He refused to live in fear, and so off he had ridden. Noting the position of the rising sun, he allowed himself a satisfied grin. There! If the fit were coming it would already have -
With a strangled gasp, his limbs stiffened and Trystane fell from his horse, landing on the rocky ground with a sickening thud. As the now-familiar agony wracked his frame, his horse shied nervously away. Shuddering and twitching uncontrollably, Trystane's sanity slowly eroded away as he screamed inside of his head for the pain to stop...stop...STOP!!
Dr. Malcolm Langer, Director of Services for Placid Glen Hospice, released the button of the controller he held in his hand. He made notations on the chart that lay to his right. Checking the positioning of the electrodes, he made slight adjustments to the settings on the machine that they connected to.
Sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, the elderly woman there cleared her throat softly, "Umm..excuse me for asking again
Doctor, but are you absolutely sure this isn't causing my son any pain?"
Dr. Langer sighed at the interruption of the procedure. "Madame, I have tried, apparently unsuccessfully, to explain to you what is going on here. Your son...ahh..Tristan...is in what we call a persistent vegetative state from which he will NEVER emerge. The brain damage he sustained as a result of the automobile accident was correctly classified as permanently debilitating. Such damage is both irreparable and inoperable. He will remain in an unresponsive and unconscious state for the remainder of his life. The electro-stimulus treatments I have been administering are intended to prevent his muscles from atrophying any further than is to be expected in a patient with his diagnosis."
The woman shifted uncomfortably, "I know. It just...it seems....I mean..." Her voice trailed off as she was unable to find the right words to properly voice her concerns.
The doctor shook his head with obvious disdain, "Madame, I think that I have been more than patient with your unfounded doubts but, rest assured, that patience is nearing its limits. I have several more patients to minister to today...none of them with any better an outlook of recovery than your son. Please believe me when I tell you that Tristan is no more capable of feeling pain than he is of...well...of getting up out of that bed and going for a horseback ride!!"
With a dismissive gesture, he turned his back on her and depressed the control button, administering an additional dose of electrical stimulation.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)