As Stone is to Sand

Shine as of fire on the waxen set molted in steam; an epitome

Put within sight of the hustle of war as a hedge for the bludgeons

Seen the implacable justice of care on the mazard

Chosen for symbols of radiant glory to prove to all arete

True in the gyre and unending subjection of deadly down hacking

Worn in the triumph of heroes and lost in the fall of a body

Found in the time of a century’s passing and cleansed of its squalor

Shown in a room through a plate of clear glass for the viewer to behold

Stating the truth for the fallen; a steed in still motion; epitaph

--

It's been a couple blog postings since I last threw poetry at you, so here you go. This was another piece done as an assignment for my high school Latin class. It had to be about a certain object, which, as is a bad habit of mine, I never quite got around to directly mentioning. Oh well, I think it's fairly obvious what I'm talking about anyway. Took me about four attempts to settle on the rhythm. The earlier attempts were just, well, bad. I had saved them anyway, as I do with most drafts that I opt to scrap and start over rather than revise, but I never transfered them to my laptop when we junked the old computer. One of the hazards of not drafting on paper first I suppose.

Monologue of a Trash Collector

“Do you know why we Scrappers have so much pride as a community?”

The man paced before Tobias, who, for his part, sat politely and inclined his head to listen in spite of the pounding headache he had woken with. He blinked through the bright lights, trying to get a good look at the Scrapper.

“Do you know why we, who toil at the absolute bottom of this farce your people call an economy, wouldn’t give up any of it for the wealth you think you have?”

Worn leather aviation cap and goggles, brown eyes, black waxed mustache, red and white stripped shirt, patched overalls, tall yellow boots, tattoo of a rusted gear on his forehead: Tobias checked off the list in his head. Unless someone else was running around the Undercity with this sort of a fashion sense, the man was definitely his target.

“It’s because we of all people understand value when we see it. There are very few methods of creating actual wealth. All of them involve harvesting a part of the world, be it food or minerals or energy. Everything after is little more than a retooling of that wealth. Eventually the product of this prosperity wears out and is discarded. So where did the wealth go?

Tobias tried to smile; he really did. The problem was that the knots were tied too tight and the dented metal can wasn’t much to sit on. Not that he could blame the Scapper for cutting off all the circulation in his right wrist. This almost always happened.

“It rots- that is, until we Scrappers find it. Nothing is so broken that it can’t be fixed. Only, we don’t need to sell our souls to do it. Understand Lefty? We alone exist free of the constraints you toil under.”

“No one exists above the law Mr. Colderan.” Tobias interrupted, but only out of courtesy. It would have been rude after all, to snap his bonds and punch the man without explaining why. “Please come along now or we will be late.” His boss would be waiting, and anything short of punctuality simply wouldn’t do.

--

This is more of an idea sketch than anything else. There's a story in this world I'd like to write I'm currently calling: 'The Gateway to Theia.' The incarnation of Tobias in that story will be a bit different if I write it. I made him overly polite from a narration perspective in this sketch just for the giggles.

He said. She said.

The reds and blues of fireworks flashed across the lake from where they sat watching on the hill.

“They are beautiful this year,” he said. “Can you see them?”

“I can,” she said, but she couldn’t.

She felt along the blanket. He dipped his hand into the basket and placed a triangle in her hands.

“Here,” he said.

“It’s so dark tonight,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, looking at the long shadows cast by the moon, “quite dark.”

They ate their sandwiches in silence, listening to the rising booms.

“The finale should be soon,” she said and leaned against him.

“Not just yet,” he said.

The sky burned with the shimmering lights.

“Please,” she said.

“I can’t,” he said, but he could.

The reds and blues of the final bang flashed along the road hours later to where they lay waiting on the hill.

--

This is one of the things I scribbled down earlier in the week. It is more of a skeleton than a fully fleshed out piece. Overall I feel it moved too fast and wasn't quite clear enough on what was happening. I enjoy trying to convey an idea without saying it outright, but I'll probably try doing this one again as a little less vague.

Edit: Oh, perhaps I should mention: I switched from updating every day to once a week. The other schedule was great for bulking up the blog a bit when I first started it, but the post rate was a touch draining when piled on top of other things. I decided to update on Mondays strictly to make my audience look forward to the one day of the week most everyone else agrees on hating.

Blindfold the Moose: Making ironic choices since 2008.

Grand Slam

Jeremy does not turn to greet me. I know without looking that his face holds the same blank expression it had when I stopped by for last month’s visit. He still slouches in that old office chair of his. It was a nice chair back before his business failed, but now it is stained with grease and ketchup and missing the two back wheels. Not that he notices. His hands are too busy moving with the joystick, too busy blurring across the keyboard, and too busy performing his collection of well rehearsed strokes across the touch screen to worry about fixing such menial things. For that matter, his ears are too full of the audio feed to even know that I’m there.

I want to walk right over to him and yank the cords from his head. I want to throw his helmet out the window and I want to watch as the VR visor smashes into the blacktop and shatters like the baseball did to that glass door on Jeremy’s twelfth birthday. Grand Slam! I want to drag him outside and make him play again. And that’s really all I want. Forget the green grass. Forget the blue sky. Forget the dust cloud sliding into home. I don’t ask for much; I just want one last game with my brother, that’s all.

Instead I flip a switch and then eye the uncooperative bulb. I sigh. The faint blue glow of the terminal provides little for me to see by and the scent of old cigarettes makes me want to gag. I could still leave, probably should leave, but I don’t. I wade through the lava flow of empty beer cans and yank on the hanging drawstring. Light fills the room and suddenly Jeremy is yelling at me about the glare. I smile and force the window open. The outside air is cold, but fresh.

--

When I wrote it half a year ago, this was a completely contained story. It was intended to be a brief glimpse into the relationship of the unnamed narrator and his brother. I set it slightly into a hypothetical future mostly on a whim. Recently I've been toying with the possibility of expanding the story into something more. Not sure how far I'd take it yet though.

Harvest the Day

Long ago, in a time which came before microwavable food and instant soup, there was an elapsed period of many years in which cooking your food could be even harder than finding it. In the land now known to us as Germany there were an adventurous group of young men who set out to found a new town. They were a resourceful bunch with a wide range of skills and, as a good team should, quickly located an optimal location and were soon making steady headway on the work to construct their village. They had brought cutting tools with them and it didn’t take this hardy crew long to clear an area. While this had been going on, a few took up some bows and hunted down enough meat for everyone to have a good meal after a hard day's work. When they came back, tugging the carcass behind them, they saw that a fire had already been started.

Now, it should be understood that the town from which these men had come was not happy that so many of their people should run off. Indeed, many thought this an irresponsible action to leave so abruptly and had tried to persuade them not to go. The young men however had ignored their unhappy relations. Adding insult to injury they had expressed distaste for the slow life of their less capable elders and, wanting to be away from the rules that held them back, exclaimed that they could get on fine on their own, knowing already all that there was to know about life.

And thus was it that, after the departure of this rebellious faction, the leaders of the town talked it over and came to the conclusion that a representative must be sent to persuade them to return. They decided that whoever they sent had to be somebody very clever, for this group of young men was adamant in their resolve. They decided that it had to be somebody resourceful, for this group of young men had many things at their disposal. And lastly, they decided that it had to be somebody strong in both will and form, for this group of young men would listen to no one else. With all of these traits in mind the town selected my ancestor, a highly regarded druid, to go bring them back.

The town put at his disposal anything he thought might possibly be needed in order to accomplish his mission. He asked only for a large bronze cauldron, which, though confused as to why, the town provided readily enough. Taking a firm length of rope he looped it around the cauldron a few time and then, gripping it in both of his powerful hands, hoisted it up onto his back. Taking nothing else but a simple traveling stick he set off in the direction the young men had traveled.

It wasn't long before he came upon the sounds of labor and saw the crackling of flames. Pausing he surveyed the scene from a distance, so that he could observe them without being seen himself. The sky was a dark blue and the shapes of the young men were nothing but black silhouettes against the dancing orange flame. He could however make out their conversation from where he stood hidden by the thick forest branches. It seemed that this group of young men had hit a snag in their master plan and were, instead of doing something about it, busy arguing over whose fault it was.

Carefully taking off the cauldron my ancestor hid it in the brush and, circling around, came out of the woods at a different spot. He hailed them as he approached.

"Hello over there, the town sent me by to see how you were getting on and if you needed anything. What seems to be the trouble?"

They all spun around and looked into the darkness, but could see little of who was speaking for their eyes were not used to looking out into the night. There was some mumbling amongst them before they answered.

"Who is that?" "I'm not sure." "Isn't that the druid?" "Why would they send him?" "Shh, just tell him we're fine and to go away." "You tell him." "No you." "I don't want to tell him."

Finally somebody from the group spoke up.

"Um, just tell the town that we're fine and they shouldn't worry about us. In fact, let them know that we want to be left alone."

The group nodded in agreement, but the druid didn't even slow his approach. Instead he came right up to them and stopped only ten feet away.

"That's good to hear. Glad you're getting along so well without any help."

There was a pause as though both sides were expecting something from the other. Finally my ancestor broke the pause.

"Well, I suppose this means that you've caught plenty of food."

They all nodded that yes; they had caught plenty of food.

"So?" prompted the druid.

"So what?" a few asked.

"Aren't you going to invite me to share some of your food? Any town, even one in the making, must be generous to travelers who arrive late in the day."

They talked it over quietly and one stepped forward to deliver their answer.

"We aren't guided by your rules, we're our own town now. If you want to eat with us then you must defeat one of us in combat."

They said this because none of them had thought to bring anything to cook their food in and admitting to this would be embarrassing. Their thought was that an older man could never defeat one of them, especially if they picked their best. Privately they were just hoping he'd be dissuaded by their lack of hospitality and go away.

"This is your town and so I agree to your terms."

His answer surprised them, but they had one more thing on their side. The druid had brought no weapons, while they had a full arsenal of weapons. The young men selected their warrior and armed him with a powerful two-handed sword. They cleared a circle to the side of the fire and the warrior and druid both entered it.

"The first to leave the circle or to yield shall be the loser. The other shall be triumphant. Begin!"

The druid had only his walking stick to defend himself against the force of the two handed sword. Knowing that his stick could never withstand a blow from the sword he dodged around avoiding sweep after sweep of the sword. The sword was heavy however and it took all of the warrior's strength to swing it. The force of the blade blow carried him a few steps every time before he could turn about and attack again. Using this to his advantage the druid would step or duck lightly out of the way and then give his opponent a good taunting whap on the backside with his stick. Infuriated the warrior put more and more force into each blow and lunged dangerously. Each time he was carried a little further with the momentum of his swing and each time he had a little less strength to stop himself from toppling over. Finally the warrior made a careless slash at the druid too close to the outside of the ring and as my ancestor stepped out of the way he stuck his foot out, tripping the overly zealous boy. His momentum carried him out of the ring and the young men standing about were forced to declare the druid the winner.

Humiliated they were forced to tell the druid that, while they had the meat and they had the fire, they had nothing to cook it in. The druid seemed to ponder this for a while, sitting on a fallen log, until his eyes suddenly brightened and he looked up.

"I think I know of a solution to your problem."

He stopped, forcing them to prompt him in to finishing his statement.

"What is it?" "What can we do?"

"It's fairly simple really. This is a trick that my predecessor taught me. All it requires is a little bit of something called magic."

"Magic?" "But we don't have any magic."

"Ah, but there you see, you are wrong. Everybody possesses a little bit of magic within them. You just need to know how to focus it. If you all help me, I can focus it for you into say… a cauldron."

They all agreed that they'd do anything they could to help him do this magical happening.

"Alright, everybody gather round me and hold hands. Picture in your mind a cauldron. Make it big, make it bronze, that should fit all of the food in it and heat up quickly enough… no no, you're not all thinking of the same thing, picture one that you've all seen before, maybe one that was back at the town. …Perfect, its done."

The young men looked about expecting to see the large bronze cauldron that they had pictured. Seeing nothing they felt that they had been tricked into making a fool of themselves. There was one thing they all wanted to know.

"What's the big idea?"

The druid laughed and pointed to the trees.

"Magic requires nature. Since you cut down all of these trees, the closest I could bring it was over there. Go and you will find your cauldron."

So they went and found it. One of them tried to lift it, but it was too large and too bulky to carry, for the wise druid had removed the rope and hidden it away. Eventually four of them came back carrying it together. Nobody suspected that the druid could have carried it all the way there since it took four of them just to get it to the fire from the edge of the woods.

Putting the cauldron over the fire they brewed a most fabulous stew over which there was much talking. This group of young men was so impressed by the druid that they listened to everything he had to say. My ancestor explained to them that though they were a capable bunch there was much they could still learn from their elders who came before them. While they were young and full of energy, they still knew little about battle tactics. He even hinted that he could take some of them on as his helpers and teach them in his ways. All of them were deeply interested in this mysterious force of magic that the druid had demonstrated to them and they had taken a part in. They agreed that on the following day they would return to the village and give it a second chance to see what it could teach them. The cauldron would remain behind in the clearing they had made as a reminder to all those who were there that night of the wonderful thing they had experienced and the lesson they had learned.

--

I was digging through some old files and found this one. It was an assignment for, of all things, my high school Latin class. It seems to me it had to be about a hypothetical ancestor and a pot, or in this case a cauldron. I wrote it a solid chunk of years ago so I apologize for the slight drop in quality. I posted the whole thing to make up for it. Latin was quite possibly the most useful class I took in high school. I came out of four years of the class with only a partial understanding of Latin, but a great understanding of English and how sentence ideas are pieced together.

My teacher also managed to imprint on my mind that carpe diem translates better not to Seize the Day, but to Harvest the Day. I think I prefer it that way too.

Idiosyncraphobia

Deep within a forest wooded, as I walked weary footed,

And each radiant and lucid star shone from up in the sky,

A strange mist came a drifting and within it creatures shifting,

So the hill that was uplifting, lifting a tower to the sky,

Caused me to seek a refuge, drifting toward the tower that was so high.

Not once did I pause to wonder why.

At the door I pounded meekly, one might say even weakly,

From the long and hard excursion that got me lost then went awry.

Soon the door creaked slowly ajar as a man moved aside the bolt bar,

And opened the door so far, far enough to let me by.

Oh so carefully he opened it just far enough to let me by.

Not once did I pause to wonder why.

Once within I looked about me and was much surprised to see,

Such furnishings as belong in Dracula- meant solely to horrify.

To my host I looked then for he had not yet spoken,

And in the silence still unbroken I looked him in the eye.

Wondering what sort of man he was I looked him in the eye.

Not once did I pause to wonder why.

A single eye centered on the face to me spoke explanation of the whole place.

Dread clung upon my shoulders and the fear I felt came out a cry!

I fled the tower loudly screaming, hoping wishing I were dreaming!

Out the door I went a streaming, fleeing from that single eye,

From the unknown I ran loudly screaming, fleeing from that strange and single eye!

Not once did I pause to wonder why.

--

While we are still in the Halloween mood, I present to you Idiosyncraphobia. The title basically means fear of the peculiar. I'm not entirely sure if that is a condition or not, though I might argue that we all have it to a certain degree. I made the word by smushing idiosyncratic and phobia into one. I stole the meter from The Raven, but somehow I don't think Poe will mind.