Bag and Tag

Colonel Winters stood in the clearing as he ran a finger over the necklaces his wife had given him. She told him it would protect him. He had hoped so because tonight was one of his riskier missions. But risk was not unfamilar to the colonel. Of the senior officers he had undertaken twice as many field missions. This had the beneficial side effect of gaining the respect of the troops in his command. Something he would need tonight.

Before joining Valkyrie he was an Army scientist, bio weapons and germ warfare. Before that Rangers. And before that a humble beginning as a field medic. Many attributed Katsuya Winters rise to the fact that his father was a general. But Katsuya never took on a field assignment he didn’t think he truly earned. Nor was his father one to lend a helping hand.

Five feral howls let Katsuya know that tonight’s quarry had arrived. He imagined they were not happy that he had decided to unearth the medicine stick surveillance had seen the pack burry. Four teams were in place. Situated around the park, with Joker squadron the closest to him.

The Jokers were the best. Lead by a grizzled marine, Lt Gomez, Katsuya was certain that if the wolves were able to breach the perimeter and get past the other three teams that the Jokers would end the engagement long before a single dog got into the clearing.

An eiry silence fell upon Katsuya as he waited, for something, anything to happen. This was perhaps the hardest part. Before any engagement, the waiting for your prey to move into position. A well planed ambush required patience of course, but when you were ambushing creatures whose abilities defied the laws of science themselves there was always a certain amount of uneasiness.

The sound of automatic gun fire cut through the silence like a light bulb bursting. It was all to brief before it picked up again. It came from the east, where Charlie squad was. The rookies.

“Falling back to Foxtrot, bullets ineffective against ……”

There was static on the com line.

“Damn rookies” came Lt Gomez grizzled voice. “All unites double check and make sure you have those silver bullets you were issued before deployment.

“Delta and Tango sweep in towards the east. They will soon be moving in on the colonel.” Gomez barked the orders.

Winters was not worried though. He knew that Joker squad would stop the pack from reaching his location. And even if the unthinkable happened and they took down the Jokers he had confidence that his wife’s gift to him would keep him safe long enough for Delta and Tango squads to pull in.

There was a shimmer in the night air. Almost like the haze one sees on a hot road and asphalt. And then the pack was there. Snarling and in a near frenzy as they stared at the medicince stick in Katusya’s hand.

Intelligence never mentioned these creatures could teleport Winters thought to himself as lifted his side arm.

“Fuck! the colonel” Joker squads sergeant buzzed in on the com.

“Move! Move! Move!” Gomez ordered as the Jokers made a mad dash from the tree line and towards the clearing, automatic weapons firing.

But it was too late, or was it. The alpha of the pack, or what Winters surmised was the pack alpha swung a huge clawed fist at him, slicing flesh from his stomach. The pain was like nothing he had ever felt before. But as swift as it had happened it healed. Colonel Katsuya Winters was still standing. Which was more than what he could say about the pack alpha.

Winters raised his pistol and pulled the trigger, a clean head shot. The bullets he was caring were new. Designed to be field tested soon, but Winters had that kind of clearance. An explosive silver nitrate meant to pierce the flesh and explode inside the body. Lab boys thought it would leave a mess and well they were right.

The others in the pack howled in pain as Joker squad closed in, switching from automatic weapons to a newly designed net gun meant to capture a werewolf for live study. The nets themselves were made of fine silver like thread. As they netted their prey they brought to bear amped up tasers to stun them into submission. People would likely have a fit if they knew how much all this equipment cost.

“Are you alright sir?” Gomez asked as he moved to Katuysa’s side.

“Better than him” Winters said coldly as he nudged the dead were wolf with his boot. “Bag and tag the rest lieutenant”

“Yes sir!” Gomez said and turned to face the newly arrived Delta and Tango squads converged on their position. “You heard the colonel, get this critters caged and on the trucks”

Winters turned and moved out of the clearing, one dead and four live ones, plenty of material to research with. He’d of course have to thank the good Mrs. Winters for providing him with a little bit extra protection that night and he imagined she would be thrilled to add a medicine stick to her conspiracy.

Speaking of which, he was now late for dinner.

Day 1

Daniel Miller checked his tie for the sixth time in the bathroom mirror. Saying that he was nervous would be an understatement. Today was the first day of his dream job. Agent Daniel Miller, FBI. He was so proud of his accomplishment that his parents flew in from Florida to help him celebrate the completion of his training.

Daniel didn’t think he’d make it in. He failed every test but one. But the one he passed was an important one. His mother had always told him he was gifted. And unbeknownst to him the FBI had a division devoted to those who were gifted.

The Vanguard Serial Crimes Unit or the Vanguard as he was told it’s called around the office solved serial crimes and tend to recruited agents with a psychic potential. But it didn’t matter why he was an FBI agent; just that he was an FBI agent.

The toilet behind him flushed and another agent stepped up to the sink to wash his hands

“New guy?” he asked

“Um yeah, how could you tell?”

“My first day I was in the mirror adjusting my tie too.” He chuckled as he finished washing his hands and grabbed some paper towels to dry them off. “Who’s training you?”

“Ummm agent Black” Daniel said

The other man made a sour face and then shook his head “I’ll pray for you son.”

“Is he that bad?”

“Oh no, Black is a great agent, likely one of the best, but see …. The thing about Black is that he was an FBI agent before being transferred here. He’s very harsh on the new guys, especially if they weren’t “real” agents first.”

Daniel sighed and fidgeted with his tie. The other man chuckled and patted his back reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, he’s the best. Take plenty of notes and you’ll do fine. Just let him take the lead till you earn his respect and you’ll do fine. Now get going. He loathes tardiness.”

Daniel nodded and checked his tie one last time. “Thanks for the advice” he said before heading out of the bathroom.
****************************

“Let’s get this out of the way.” Black said without looking up from the file he was pursuing. “Vampires are real. Werewolves are real. Ghost, goblins and witches are all real. However unless they are breaking a law it isn’t any of our concern.”

“They’re what?” Daniel blinked a few times. Psychics were one thing but the assorted beastry of Grimm’s Fairy tales too?

“But we are not an agency out to hunt them. If you are interested in that I have a friend in another government agency that will help you do that.”

“Wait … the government hunts ….?”

“Our job is to dispense justice. We arrest the law breakers and make sure they stand trial. Always remember that.” Black closed the file he was looking at and placed it under his arm. “Let’s go, we need to see the ME. You can drive.”

Agent Black moved past Daniel who just nodded.

Sorry, I dont have much time...

...but you need to know what's happening. they could be here any minute, my computer may be monitored, so please overlook spelling and grammar mistakes. Jeez... thsi shit is too orwellian for my taste.

look, our schools are being taken over. they are watching everything we do, and if we don't do exactly as they say, than we lose our job. We need to keep our job in this economy, during this transition period.

We are Rome, about to go from republic to empire, but its not hapening through violence and assisnation. Its happening through education, and its taken about 50 years. See, who needs generations of cultural assimilation when you can indoctrinate them every year?

See, this all started with a group of three guys: Gardner, Skinner, and Bloom. They were members of the American communist party back in its heyday before McCarthy became famous. Bloom is the big one. His practical theory, now called Bloom's Taxonomy (google it), is a six step ladder which names all the levels of thinking. The first three focus on the identification and adaptation of information, and the final three are the manipulation and evaluation of said information. Makes sense. But the purpose, for Bloom at least, is to use those steps and turn the schools into a socializing agent, not an educational institution. Do you get it? they use the first three steps to identify their beliefs from home and church, the first two socializing agents, and use the last three steps to modify them to change them to match the state. Look, I can copy and paste this, that wont take too long.

"The school needs to replace home and church as the main socializing agent of the state. The purpose of education is not to produce thinkers, but rather to change the thinking of the student to match that of the educating entity, i.e., the state." -Harold Bloom, 1957, the Principles of Education

Guys, Western Culture is using this guys theories to educate its kids! This is the model: "we are creating the workers of tomorrow. We must prepare these kids for the workforce. We must prepare them for college, so they might enter the workforce at a higher pay grade." Work, work, work! Its all about labor! They are building the labor force by decreasing the public's ability to do anything other than an activity and follow directions. This increased stupidity contributes to poverty, and contributes to government dependence, which in turn contribute to developmental and environmental issues which affect a student's ability to learn, and thus forces us to do more activities since they can't read and write! Its just getting worse! With all this government dependence, we are like Rome, going from Republic to Empire!

Who needs bread and circuses when you have UFC and McDonalds? Youtube and Food Stamps?!

Shit, I'm out of time... I hope I can write again under a different name with a different encryption.

The Chase

The halls of the Jedi Temple echoed softly as Jedi Master Kenzo Han`shi moved through them in thought. The Force had relayed to him new visions. Visions of a dire future. But they were not clear, not yet. All he knew was that there was darkness on the horizon and that he would play some role in how it unfolded.

“You are up late” came a soft voice from behind Kenzo. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he had not noticed someone approaching from behind. He turned and smiled softly to his future wife.

“I am just lost in my thoughts” Kenzo said as he touched her cheek lightly, pushing aside an errant strand of white hair from her face.

Moro shook her head “The visions again?”

Kenzo nodded “I think I am close to figuring them out.”

“Well do not dwell on it for too long. We vote on the Terra issue in the morning. You should be well rested. I expect it to be a lively debate.”

Kenzo nodded slowly. Terra was an independent system in the mid rim region. It had recently fallen into a state of civil war. Many believed the rebels to be backed by Sith agents, though no proof had yet surfaced. While the Republic was currently remaining neutral the High Emperor of Terra had requested Jedi aid. Now the Order was to debate on how they were to respond.

“I think I will send in two of my padawans” Moro continued.

“Which two?”

Moro shrugged slightly “I believe Ziel, though the second one I have not decided yet.”

Kenzo tilted his head to one side “Ziel? He’s a sentinel correct?”

Moro nodded “Yes, I think he will be a good investigator once he completes his trials.”

“That sounds good then.”

“I’m going to retire for the night aishiteru. I hope you’ll join me soon”

Kenzo nodded and leaned in kissing Moro softly. “I will not be much longer.”

Moro smiled “Good.” She returned the kiss and moved past Kenzo, walking in the direction of dormitories. Kenzo smiled as she left and then returned to his thoughts. He would not figure this out tonight. But he could still not let the vision go.

********************
Ziel swung in fast, his size doubling as he released the grappling line and slammed feat first into the Rodian thug. The Neti Jedi shifted down to a more reasonable size as he stood over the Rodian.

“You’re coming with me Morn. Smuggling Sith artifacts, slavery, drugs, it’s time you answered for your crimes against the Republic.”

“Stupid Jedi” Morn spat “I never travel alone!”

The roar of an angry Wookie took Ziel by surprised as he found himself lifted from his feet. The Wookie flung Ziel towards the nearest wall. Ziel flipped through the air using the Force to control his descent as he landed on his feet. Three more Rodian’s emerged from the alley with blasters drawn.

Morn got to his feet and grinned “Waste him!”

Ziel lightsaber was in his hand and ignited before the first blast could be fired. Moving swiftly, Ziel charged forward taking down the Wookie as he ignited the other end of his double bladed lightsaber. A volley of blaster bolts came Ziels way, his swirling blades easily brushing them aside. With a small tug in the Force Ziel sent the Rodians flying back into the alley wall.

“Damn Jedi” Morn swore as he turned tail and ran down the alley.

“Perhaps this won’t be as easy as I had initially thought” Ziel said to himself.

Authors address to upcoming novel "Cassius"

Reader, Herein lay the tale of a man. His actions often misunderstood, he has been labelled as so much else. A wolf, a snake, idolator -Traitor, even. Though he may or may not be those things, such is not the aim of this study, for all of these are well within the scope of a mere man.

Nay, our subject, Caius Cassius, if he is to be called more than a man, must be esteemed and creditable for something much greater both in breadth of personality and power of will. That is to say, he is a Roman before he is a mere man. And as such, he is elevated to the heights of savior to the people, tragic hero, and god-slayer, for, do not doubt, Julius Caesar was a god; the people had made him so.

Therefore, though this be a study of treachery, our man be not a traitor. Though this be a study of conspiracy, our man was no conspirator. And though this be a study of a man, our man was first and foremost a Roman.

Ginger Kids

“I don’t care what anyone says, the music has soul. It speaks to me on a spiritual level. It transcends all that is and ever will be. He was the voice an entire generation of people who were down on their luck. Unlike musicians today he knew what the everyday man wanted to hear in his music. He understood what he wanted to see in a music video. Hands down the best musician to grace god green earth.”

“I refuse to accept that argument. You’d have to be a complete moron to even make it. No sane person would ever think such a thing let a lone say it aloud”

Joseph pulled a cd from it’s case and put it in the cd player as speed through a red light. “You’re just in denial man. You have no idea what it means to be a black man in a white mans world during the 90’s”

Samuel crocked an eyebrow at his friend. Joseph was whiter than rice. With a crop of unkept red hair that was often hidden by a baseball cap and freckles that dotted his face “I’m sorry when did you grow up black and in ‘da hood’?”

“Man you haven’t known me all my life. I’ve done some things. Seen some shit. I know what it is to be black. “

“Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigggghhhttt. Ginger kids know all about black life” Sam watched as they speed through a red light “hey man slow down there are speed traps on this road.”
“Don’t change the subject. I know black people.”

“You think you know them. Do you even have a token black friend?”

“I find your remark racially incentive”

“I find your comparison to Sir Mix A Lot as being greater than Micheal Jackson to be racially incentive. Baby Got Back is not even remotely in the same league as Thriller”

Wind Runner

The harbor was amuck with the sounds of the people who had come to see her off as well. They were of course accompanied by street vendors selling questionable “meat” items and street performers who were eating fire, dancing on poles, and others performing some impressive sleight of hand feats of which none of the public seemed to notice despite the heavy protector presence.

The Wind Runner’s decks were a chaotic crawl of crew preparing for take-off. She towered above the docks and the harbor plaza with her new cotton sails and her wooden sides freshly painted. All of her brass portholes were glinting in the sun. The crew had done an excellent job during dry dock.

At the helm of the Wind Runner stood her captain, proud and strong, kindhearted, but stern and able Leora had been the commander of this ship since her father had become unable to captain the ship himself. She had brown wavy hair and skin that had been colored by her time under the sun. She wore the same garb the crew did apart from her captain’s hat. It had been bestowed upon her with the ship. She didn’t even quite fit in it yet when her father first set it upon her head.

She had been raised on the ship for most of her life. It had been very hard for her father to disembark for the very last time but he had been stern that it must be. He had brushed her hair back from her eyes, patted her on the head, and removed his hat, crowning her with it, “Tugs will guide you when you need it, he is a loyal man and a true first mate to the Wind Runner.” His first mate, Jack McGonal, or Tugs for short (long story) had been rescued by Leora’s father in the Carribean, he was found floating in the water protecting what was left of his last ship’s cargo from air pirates. The Wind Runner had been passing over when they saw the barrage from the pirate’s airship, and the return volley of one musket fire. Tugs had always been like an uncle to Leora and since she had been captain, he was her most trusted and able advisor.

“Tugs! Are the men aboard and ready?” she called over the rail of the upper deck. “Aye Cap’n! Ey’ve checked all th’ holds, and th’ hatches arr securred. The men arr aboard an’ ready!” he shouted back at her. He towered over most land dwellers and many crew members as well. His voice had been roughened by the sea and his skin by the air. He climbed the stairs buttoning his aircoat and pulling his goggles into place. Leora reached beside the ship’s wheel and pulled one of the brass levers reaching out from the deck. A steam whistle blew and a cloud or steam erupted from the Wind Runner’s exhaust pipes , some still under the water producing an impressive display of bubbles and towers of steam.

The harbor erupted into a cacophony of cheers and excited chatter. A few balloons escaped from children’s hands, forgotten momentarily as the whistle echoed from the plaza walls. The band began to play, the drums shook the pavestones and rumbled in the chests of all the well-wishers. “All hands on deck!” called Tugs. Leora pulled her own goggles into place and buckled her gloves around her wrists. She slipped her boots into the straps at the helm and stood, her hand ready on the steam pressure valve.

“Alright Tugs. Let’s hit the sky.”

The men were already manning their stations and buckled into their take off positions. Crow’s voice came through a brass pipe fitted just beside the wheel. Crow manned the look out.

“Balloon ship 10 leagues off ta the west-north-west 10 degrees Capt’n, three hot air balloons over the plaza, you’re clear to the seaward side.”

Leora turned the dial for the steam pressure line up. The men below would begin feeding the fire furiously while steam began to bellow from every pipe. The water around the ship roiled and the ship began to rock.

“Lock the fins in place!” ordered Tugs.

The men on deck worked together to push a large wheel in the center of the ship chanting as they went.

“Heave, ho, heave, ho”

The creak of the Wind Runner’s main and mizzen wing masts swinging out just over the roiling steamy water and the satisfying thud as they slammed into place riled the crowd again. With the banners waving over the plaza and the music lofting over their cheers Leora mused briefly about how she used to love manning the stern waving the final goodbye to the crowd. Now she stood at the helm, her brown hair blowing around her as she reached for the pressure valve again.

“Unfurl the wing main sail, open the mizzen wings boys!”

The crew members who manned the wings were buckled into a track which allowed them to move along the length of the ship’s rail in order to man the ropes needed to unfurl the wings. They now began to pull the rigging. The wing sails answered by spreading out the sails fashioned much like fins on a fish. The wind buffeted the newly opened sails just a bit.

By now the whole Wind Runner was jumping and shifting from side to side. A ship meant for the air was not steady on the sea during take-off. Leora turned the pressure dial one final time and the furnace roared below. The ship was cloaked behind a column of steam and the sound of whirring wings filled the air.

The ship lurched and paused for a moment, then broke the waves. Once out of the water the ship lifted quickly. The plaza erupted into cheers.

“Fire at will men” Tugs shouted over the impossible din.

Somehow the men manning the guns heard him and fired over the plaza, a cloud of confetti rained down on the people below.

Leora smiled to herself as she watched the plaza become small beneath the Wind Runner. Dialing down the pressure as the ship reached altitude, she pointed the bow to the seaward horizon. Blue seas below, blue skies above, the Wind Runner was skimming the clouds again.

When its worth coming back for

His fist collided with Bulrag’s gritty chin just in the nick of time. “Get out of here kid” said Sam without even looking at the wide-eyed teenager who was obviously dressed by a man interested in making money. Bulrag staggered back, surprised by the blow. He shook the black out of head. Bulrag wasn’t as big as he looked.

“So you’re some hero now, huh?” Bulrag asked accusingly.

“You know what I’m here for. I don’t appreciate getting cut out. I reckon I won’t get it if you are tied up in prison again.”

“Real sorry about that accident you had Sam. Things like that happen all the time in Calthridge”

“Being tossed from a twelve story building by four of your comrades is not an accident Bulrag.” Sam rolled his eyes. Bulrag had more inertia than he had brains. Poor sap probably believed it was an accident, “Now where is it?”

Sam whipped his duster to the side.

“Now Sam, we’s pals right? We’ve had lots of good times. You know I’m a real good friend.”

“Yes I do and know I’m back. Take me to it now Bulrag.”

With that Bulrag shrank about three sizes and lost a great deal of what one may call “shape”. With a sideways glace he started to scuttle off, pausing briefly to make sure Sam was there and was not going to make his miserable life any worse than it already was. He knew; you don’t make Sam angry. After all, Sam’s a good pal.

“Bulrag! For Jiminy cricket slow down.”

Bulrag obeyed. The man followed the lumpy creature into the shadows and down into the sidewalks that lie beneath the modern city. The others would be greatly surprised.

Round 3

The bell sounds with a clang, the start of the first match, and I come out swinging.  I trained hard, and I'm ready for it.  A few quick jabs, maybe the occasional combo, but I'm prepared.  It's nothing I haven't seen before.  A little fancy footwork, and I'm dancing around my opponent.  The crowd goes wild, and I love it.  It feels good to be a winner.

You can only bask in the afterglow for so long, though, so I schedule another match.  This time around, I work hard to get ready, and when I step in the ring, its with the knowledge that I will win.  I can do it again.  I'm sure of it.  Impact of a hard right jolts me out of my daydream, and I realize this isn't a sure thing anymore.  Victory isn't guaranteed.  Funny thing is, I get so worked up at the idea of a loss that I push my way into winning.They start chanting my name, and I smile, cuz they don't know how close the fight really was.  Regardless, I won; I'm the champ.

Time makes me a fool, and I miss the glory days, so I resolve to step in the ring again.  There are younger, stronger opponents that are likely better than me, but I've got wins under my belt now, and a title to defend.  It isn't until I feel my face collide with the mat that I realize what I've done.  I'm not a champion; I'm an amateur, and I don't know what I'm doing.  All those other wins, what do they matter when my opponent can drop me with one hit?  I look at the blood beneath me, and I'm scared.  I should stay down.  IT isn't worth my life, right.  I drag myself off the floor at the count of 9, rubbing my sore jaw, ready to take more of a beating.  This fight is just beginning.

Road Rage

Road Rage

Driving is a privilege, not a right. I know many people get this confused. It’s easy to see. Any yahoo with who reaches sixteen and pays for the course at Sears can get on the road. They honestly make it to easy. After you’re eighteen you don’t even need to take a god damn class.

BEING ON THE ROAD IS A MATTER OF RESPECT!!!

You wouldn’t stick your head in the mouth of a lion without extending the beast respect would you? Or how about proper training? I would hope not, otherwise you might lose your head. Hell some people deserve to lose their head. Better them than some innocent mother and her children who know proper respect for the road!!

I used to drive a tank you know. I drove one during Bush senior’s war in Iraq. I drove one again when Bush junior went into Afghanistan and once more when he went back into Iraq. If you ask me we should have rolled over that entire country with tanks. But that’s discussing politics and if it’s one thing I hate more than disrespect for the road it’s people who discuss politics. Most people have no fucking idea what they are talking about anyway.

Driving a tank will teach you about respect. It’s a precision machine. You have to be careful or people die. Sixty tons of metal rolling down the street will teach you about respect. It’s not something I recommend for everyone. Most people can’t handle that kind of machine.

My p psy chra tist says I have …. road rage. See that’s the other problem in today’s society. We have a disease for everything. And a fix for it too. Just take these magic pills and it will be all right. My father had the right idea. “Son” he would say “there an`t nothing that a good long drive won’t fix. You feel yourself getting angry, get in dat car and just drive till it passes.” My father was the first to instill respect in the road.

Maybe I would of taken the doc seriously if he knew a thing or two about respecting the road. He once cut me off as he crossed three lanes on a crowded street. Nearly collided with a little old lady. But he won’t be making that mistake again.

But that’s in the past and this is now. See I saw that stunt you pulled on the freeway today. You know pick a lane and stay with it. How hard is that? Honestly HOW …… HARD …… IS ….. THAT?

Oh wait I get it, you wanted to see which lane you needed to be in in stand still traffic. The road doesn’t work that way. The white lines are there for your safety and my safety. And it’s important to honor that safety, because if you don’t wrecks happen. Like the one that was causing the traffic jam in the first place.

I can’t be the only one who see’s this? I guess so. In most cases the cops do nothing. And when they do what happens? Defensive driving? That’s a joke. A 30 minute dvd on road safety? That doesn’t teach respect.

No, no. There’s only one thing that can teach respect. It’s as true here as it was when I was deployed.

BAM

BAM

BAM

Visitor

Sam sat on the floor, his head in his hands, his eyes wide as he listened to the crackled voice coming from the speaker. Every day, for most of the day, Sam would sit and listen. It didn’t matter if it were news, sports, weather, comedies, or westerns Sam would listen in rapt attention to the radio. Sam lived in a place his Grandpa called Unincorporated Utopia. He always spat when he said it as if surviving there was some sort of retribution to the rest of the world.

Sam’s momma died sometime ago. Got bit by a rattler and Unincorporated Utopia didn’t have a hospital. Seems Utopia’s got plenty of room for the dead though. Sam’s father was a drifter. He passed through when the booze and women in Wichita dried up. He always came back until it was time to take the full barrels of whiskey back to town. He always made a killing, not much of it ever got back to Utopia.

Grandpa couldn’t remember being a boy so he wasn’t right sure how to train a child to be a man. He had no tolerance for ‘conniption fits’ either. That’s why he was content to let the boy listen to that blasted radio. Damned thing had an antenna the size of an April thunderstorm. If it got turned off boy could Sam howl like one too. God curse the day the world runs out of 01A vacuum tubes to run the thing.

Life was pretty plain, but it seemed to work for them. That was, until a new drifter came through one day. One benefit of Utopia is when someone comes to call, the cloud of dust on the horizon gives you plenty of time. In other places that might’ve meant cleaning up, or preparing some tea. Not for Grandpa. For him it meant time to clean your gun and prepare ammunition. He didn’t care who it was, he wasn’t interested and there was always plenty of room in Utopia for quiet men and asides from that a dead man’s wares were always cheaper.

The wagon was pulled by one ass. It was a pretty sorry ass too. Needed water, maybe food, heck it probably just needed to be put down. The wagon was painted in turquoise and red, blue canopies lined with yellow were tied up along the top. It rattled and creaked as it bumped along the terrain. The thing had more stuff hanging off the sides than Carter had pills.

The person driving it looked like a fruitbat too. Wearing a purple top hat, and a purple suit he sat on the roof of the monstrosity and carried a riding crop like he might use it to suggest a direction to the ass in the distant future. The man was definitely a fruitbat Grandpa decided.

Grandpa retrieved a jug of last year’s whiskey and sat on the porch as a studio audience somewhere gave way to uproarious laughter, “… The pitcher’s name… Tomorrow…. You don’t want to tell me today?...” He settled into his rocker to watch the circus and the fruitbat come in. It would still be another half hour or so. He rocked back and forth in the dust and heat. He spat and glared periodically at the man who seemed to represent all that was wrong in the world riding closer to him in a cloud of rust colored dirt.

“Halllo!!” cried the fruitbat. “Let me introduce myself my good man, my name is Masao Shinnichi Fingall, you Sir, may call me Ichi. I bring you fond wishes and glorious gifts.” Dumb fruitbat didn’t seem to recognize a gun when he saw one.

Ichi jumped off of the cart with a double backflip landing perfectly on the ground in a cloud of dust. Before Grandpa could even resist with a feeble, “Itchy yew lissen heer…” the man had managed to open one side of his wagon to reveal a stage of sorts. The blue and yellow curtains for the stage fell on cue. There was even a back drop painted. “I present to you The Show. Now all you need to do is sit back and enjoy the show.”

Ichi brought a chair around the front of the stage, dusted it off and grabbed Grandpa by the arm, the one without the deathgrip on a 410 sawed off shotgun, and plopped him in the seat. In the very same instant, Ichi appeared onstage, in a new outfit, overalls, much like Grandpa’s.

Ichi drawled out in perfect Utopian stories about wars and oilmen who liked purdy ladies in baths, and men who wrote poetry, plants, and dreams. He had stories recountin’ where the earth come from, and stories of men kissing men, cutting off body parts, and a particularly innerestin’ story of a man stuck to a tree. ‘Sick things really,’ thought Grandpa, ‘An awful load of hooey.’

By now Grandpa was madder n a clobbered pile of faraents. He stood up like a shot and leveled that 410 straight down the stranger’s nose. He turned the color of rhubarb and looked the man square in the face with eyes like coal, “Now you lissen here Itchy, I don’t need yore twisted tales and screwed up stories, this heres a civil place whir we git along jess fine. Yew do have some mighty fine offerin’s tho. ‘Magine I’lll just take em m’self since it don’t seem you’ll be heer long.”

With that, the 410 rung out in the dusk like a crack of a whip from the sky. It echoed off the walls of the sunset and lingered in Utopia. Ichi laid on the ground blood pouring from his mouth. Grandpa walked over to him and looked him in the eye then poked him with the still smoking barrel. In the silence you could hear the wet skin sizzle. Ichi looked up at Grandpa and put his hand on his leg.

“Dear friend,” he began, “…”

Grandpa had turned around to go back for more whiskey when he spotted Sam. Sam had heard the ruckus from the wagon and wandered away from the radio. He was white as a sheet and looked more betrayed than a grown man could ever look. Grandpa looked away and stormed into the house to get the whiskey.

‘Damned stories’, he growled, then spat.

To Serve

The singers were resplendent in crimson and cloth-of-gold, their child-like voises raised in soaring arias, filling every cranny of the cathedral's graceful stonework. The First Choir - composed of the the youngest and purest voices - had always been his secret joy. Despite his determination, the old man's eyes misted; no longer would he look on these sweet faces or hear their hymns to the Red God. His shoulders bowed under the weight of his sorrow and his duty, The Magister turned to take his leave. The shame of his failure burning like embers in his belly, The Magister vowed he would torture himself no more. It was time to make an end.

The Light

It hurt. It got inside of her head and turned every thought she had red. The searing infinite White poured from her ears and all she heard was it. Like some sort of silent gong. The white proceeded to roll over her body and caress her senses with warmth. She could feel every hair on her body raise in the heat to give way to skin dusted with mud and sweat.

It was only now that Kaia discovered her arms were raised above her head. Still unable to open her eyes and surrounded by the Whiteness, she began to brush the mud off and knock the rocks out of her hair. She had been digging for some time. The last several metres had been furious.

M’kg was what they called her, ‘digger’ in Undwalese native tongue. She was an outcast in her country, because Kaia was different, filled with hope among other things. She dreamt of a place where the sounds of the earth were only a small part of the nature of the thing that was there. The cool of the ocean had a depth that matched the roar they sometimes heard from the caves. There were places where the ground reached up in joy to receive an expanse of openness, a new kind of freedom.

So she began to dig, up. In Undwald, there was no light, no color, only the true dark. There were ancient legends that spoke of a great gift suspended in an unreachable ocean that chased a cold stone each day. Kaia was certain her dreams were from the same place the legends were. So she dug.

*-----*

Kaia’s mother kept her hand on the bed post as her daughter slept. She had always slept so fitfully. Tossing and turning, her braids were always tangled in the morning. Every morning her mother would do her best to put her braids back in place, make sure they felt silken and attractive but it never lasted very long. Kaia went off to those ridiculous caves every day, doing what she says she must.

The men would never take notice. Kaia was getting older and should be marrying by now, her mother thought. She clicked her tongue and rocked more violently at the thought.

Kaia never seemed to care. She would return each night, covered in mud, her hands were rough to the touch, her dresses never stayed soft for long. ‘If only she cleaned up more often, she is so lithe and strong. A body a man could feel would bring many children.’ Another click, more rocking.

Kaia struggled for a moment and then became peaceful once more.

*-----*

For the Undwalese life was about survival. Move the rocks, hunt the insects, and protect the people from the kom’ndok, a race of what could only be demons who fed on the Undwalese. No one ever went looking for them, or at least ever made it back to tell. The Undwalese set alarms around the city to alert the villagers if the kom’ndok were near. Bells in the dark world of the Undwalese were a horrifying sound. It was uncertain what the kom’ndok actually looked like or did because it was said that if you touched one, you were already dead. But Kaia knew.

The caves were not likewise protected. This was probably another reason the others often shunned Kaia, they just could not understand. Kaia had a few close calls with the kom’ndok, but she was never captured. Kaia spent so much time in the caves she had become very adept at building tunnels to trap the vile creatures, or if they got too close, she would collapse the tunnel behind her. The kom’ndok would either be crushed or would get frustrated and leave once it realized she was not an easy meal.

The first one Kaia killed took a long time to die beneath the rocks. It roared and moaned with a sound that seemed to come from within the stones themselves. Kaia was frozen in place during the creature’s slow demise. She felt remorseful because its nature was that of a hunter filled with only a lust for blood. Its only purpose for life was to cause suffering. Once it had finally lain still for many hours, and Kaia could no longer hear scraping from the others, she crept closer to it. Gingerly she reached out a hand to see the creature that seemed to be made of perfect hatred.

It was not much different from her. Muscular and lithe the creature’s body was rough to the touch. It was hairless and felt as if it was covered in armor made from smooth rock. The creature often ran on all fours, but had strong hind legs and could walk upright like the people when it chose. The feel of the teeth brought a lump to Kaia’s stomach at first. Her hand began to trace the contours of the creature’s neck, and then quickly came upon an oversized jaw.

Kaia cried out and pulled her hand away. The creature remained dead. She returned to her task. The jaw jutted menacingly from beneath an upturned nose and sunken eyes. The mouth was inadequate to contain all of the fangs the creature had. It seemed to shut its maw by chance rather than by design. They were strong and sharp, and large. They would make excellent digging tools.

*-----*

Encircled by the Whiteness the world felt different to Kaia, ‘was this the unreachable ocean?’ she thought? Her head had begun to hurt less as time went on. It appeared she had sat down at some point and had not moved for what must have been most of a day, enthralled by the new earth around her. The Whiteness seemed to be fading. The earth was soft beneath her and was covered with thin roots that lashed about as the air moved around her cooling her skin. She laid back and smiled. She had found what she had been searching for.

It was in that moment the sun set. Kaia, who had never used her eyes before, was suddenly able to see.

‘This is ocean,’ said Kaia with certainty as she saw the colors of courage and war sink from the edge of the infinite open dripping beneath the horizon impossibly far away. Each fleeting shade would be chased by the coolness of the harbingers of the stone. It arose slowly from the opposite side of the world, surrounded by villages of smaller pebbles reflecting its majesty.

What Kaia had was not hope, but faith.