Storms roll in on the tide of weekend dreams. Sufficiently pretentious opening line aside, I do marvel at the fury promised by the cloudbank that peers at me over the horizon. I wish I could stay a moment to linger and watch the trees around me welcome the storm as they all lift their hands and celebrate its arrival but alas my feet are not planted quite as deep and firm as their roots and so I must away and fleet to home sweet home where shelter awaits. Oh part of me wishes to throw my hands up wide as well and feel the first winds of the advance guard buffet my shirt with their hearty embrace. Even to feel the sheets of rain fall around me and drench me entirely with the bounty of the heavens would not be a bad thing, for the storm is a clean thing, mighty in its power and joyous in all the clamor that it creates. Lift up a new song this day, ye heavens and even now shout aloud ye earth! This storm that so many cower from as they peer at their small bright screens and tap in disbelief that happy hour plans should be so rudely inconvenienced – it laughs and shakes its fists in hearty disapprobation at your antics. But as for me? My soul strains to escape the gravity of this plane and rise to higher heavens to shout aloud with angels at the mystery that is merely hinted at by the chaos of this storm that all earthly intelligence – artificial and otherwise – fails to truly grasp. See how the stars peer down and marvel at the beauty of the approaching thunderheads. Alas but I cannot see them. I look up and sigh for I cannot see the stars any longer. The last dark clouds roll overhead and thunder whispers it is time. I spread my arms to the heavens. Take me away with you and let me witness the purity of your wrath! For a second I stagger. It is stronger than I expect and then I blink as in an instant I am wet to the skin and feel the water pouring off me. I open my eyes and gaze up into the heart of the storm. Lightning flashes in golden chorus and my heart beats the rhythm of the rain. Oh sing with me this night my dear comrades, sing this anthem of creation’s might! I hasten to sing though my voice is drowned out by the angels. I am grateful that I have a front row seat this evening to the grand old show. Thank you for this opportunity, my good sir. It is very good for us to be here.
Tag: prose
Blizzard on the Bayou
There is a sentiment within me that swells when there is the prospect of snow. Then quickly I suppress such, for the adult portion of my brain recognizes the stress and hassle that necessarily accompany a blizzard in the south. Yet still! Snow in south Texas, who would have thought? I imagine that someday I shall tell my children of the day I survived the great blizzard of ’25. Rewind that. I sound like an old person already. Of course, if I want to avoid sounding like someone who has lived through far too many winters, I should probably also cease from using phrases that refer to ancient video technology. Back to the snow. Shall we indeed be so blessed with a wintry wonderland? Perhaps. We’ll wake up in a few days and I shall do something I’ve not done in years – peek out the window in the early morning hours to see if there indeed is a white blanket over all. And you can bet I’ll then gulp down some coffee and put on my hiking boots and wool coat and warm hat and gloves and tramp out down the lane to feel the fresh fallen snow underneath my feet and marvel at the beauty that is upon us. Of course it is hard to fully enjoy this thought when I also worry in the fullness of my grown mind of the effects of such an unusual storm upon this land. We do poorly enough with hurricanes and heat waves – how shall this city’s creaking infrastructure stand up to such as the icy blast that in providence descends upon us? The city planners and power providers assure us that the grid is hardened and prepared. One way to find out, eh? At the end of the day I wait and pray for I know these crazy weather patterns are overseen and held together by one who is far more powerful than I. I still hope to see a little bit of snow a few mornings from now. And hope the lights don’t flicker so I can enjoy my hot coffee in peace as I look out upon a winter scene. Even so I sit in silence now grateful for such little things as running water and steady heat. I pull up my turtleneck a little higher and snuggle into my favourite couch. Time to hunker down now and ride this thing out.
Table Talk
The windows glow golden in the early evening light. Sunlight trickles past the curtains and falls shyly on Isabel’s hands as she slices the cheese. It’s the simple things that bring her pleasure these days, the way the sharp knife falls through the cheddar and gently kisses her favorite wooden cutting board. It’s the way the hearty pieces of cheese tip over onto the board and make a pile to the side of her hands working on autopilot. These autopilot tasks can be dangerous things sure, as Isabel generally does not enjoy slicing into her fingers in tasks such as these. But for now? Isabel delights in the good work that is preparing food in her kitchen as the late winter light filters inside. There are too many tasks of late that have tasked her cerebral abilities and it is kind of nice to just use her hands and make something that will go to a good purpose. In this case, sandwiches for an adventure. Because of course, adventures demand sandwiches, as everyone knows. Because at some point in the adventure when all goes wrong and the adventure goers are cantankerous and hungry, that’s when the plucky heroine will remember – we’ve got sandwiches! And they’ll pull them out of the knapsack and pass them around. Instantly moods will be improved. Thus it has been, thus it always will be.
The door shakes a bit as a knock sounds once, twice. Thrice. And Isabel knows that pattern and she stops her slicing and tells Harry he can enter. The door opens noisily – she really must get Dad to oil those hinges – and Harry enters in beaming bright. It’s time, Isabel! Are you ready? This is it.
Isabel smiles and turns to him in reply. I can’t say that I’m ready. But I’m here.
Harry frowns at that – usually she is the eager one. But why? What’s the matter? I’ve got the paper and the pens, the compass and the old-style camera. And the raincoats. And a bunch of water bottles in this backpack. And power bars. And two flashlights. And yes extra batteries before you ask. What else? Isabel notices that he at last slows down his spiel as finally picks up on the absent vibe she’s giving off. She’s not trying to space out, it’s just her mind is whirling with deeper mysteries. Harry deserves to know. Why does she always shut him out in the moments when her soul is crying the loudest?
Harry I’m sorry. Isabel sets down the knife and turns to him deliberately this time. I think I’m a bit afraid of what’s to come. I’ve been looking forward to it for so long, but now? I’m just a little scared. Sorry.
Of course, no matter. I’m sorry, Isabel. Have I been rude and pushy? I know I probably have been. I’m sorry.
Oh Harry! Don’t say sorry again. It’s not your fault. I’ve just been thinking a lot lately, about the future and us and this world and my dreams and church and God and your parents and my parents and…well everything.
Harry sighs as a cloud passes across his eyes. He sits down on one of the stools at the island and sets his elbows on top. Ok. Yeah. Ok yeah I get it. There’s a lot going on. Even today. My dad and my mom. Well. You know.
Is she ok?
Yeah, she’s fine. I mean no. But she’s used to it. She shouldn’t have to be. I swear, Isabel, one day I’m really going to talk to him. Maybe it’s my fault.
No Harry. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. Hey do you want a sandwich? I think I’ve cut too much cheese.
Harry laughs – only a little forced – and a sparkle returns to his eyes. Sure, I could eat something now. I’m starving since we didn’t even eat anything after church. What do you got? Cheese, cheese and more cheese?
We have some deli turkey too. Let me knock something up. Mayo and mustard ok?
Sure he replies absently as he’s gone back to gazing at the glazed tiles on top the island. Yeah those are fine.
Isabel’s face drops. She’s brought him down to her mood. Well, maybe she ought tell him what she’s really thinking about. For there is more in her head than the universe can contain. This day of all days. She slices a few pieces of bread off the sourdough loaf that Mom made earlier and then goes to the fridge to find the condiments. Turkey, mustard, mayo…and yes, there is some lettuce and even a tomato. She takes the sandwich goods back to the counter and begins assembly of Harry’s sandwich. Mustard on one side, mayo on the other. Turkey, a generous sprinkling of pepper and salt. Lay on a thick slice of cheddar, then the tomato and then the lettuce. Gently press the other piece of bread on top. There. Oh please help this make Harry feel better.
Sandwich in hand, Isabel walks over to Harry. Here you go, good sir. Your afternoon snack as requested. Harry’s head turns up from his studious examination of the counter top and a smile slowly creeps onto his face. You’re aces, Isabel. You know that? He takes the sandwich and takes a bite. He leans back, feet tapping on the floor in rhythm with the branch tapping on the window. That’s a delight, love. Pure culinary bliss there.
Isabel breathes a quick prayer of thanks and sits on the stool next to him. You know what I’m really thinking about, Harry? You were at church today, right?
Harry swallows a bite honestly larger than anyone should ever take and nods. Yeah, we were there. We sat in the back and left early. But we were there. Little good it did dad.
Well you were there for communion yeah? The Lord’s Supper. Isabel let her eyes lock onto Harry’s. This was important and she felt as if it were beyond her ability to communicate. I know me and my family have been going to church since before I was born so maybe it’s just routine for me sometimes. Today was anything but. Do you understand communion?
Harry nods then kind of shakes his head back and forth. Maybe? I know it’s about remembering Jesus on the cross and his sacrifice. It’s not as pomp and circumstance as it was when we used to go to catholic mass. But it still seems like a pretty big deal at Trinity. Definitely wasn’t going to walk up to that table today though. My parents didn’t either, we just watched. I saw you walk up there. You looked so solemn and serious.
Isabel smiled. Yeah. It was a moment. And I’m glad you didn’t go up. It would have not been right. You know.
Harry smiled. Yeah. I know.
Isabel closed her eyes briefly before continuing. Well the bread is there for the body of Christ – broken for us. The wine is for the blood of Christ – shed for us. I say us but you know what I mean. It’s for you if you only believe. We’ve talked about this, I won’t keep saying it again and again. Just know you only need to repent and believe and this gift of Christ is yours. Eternal life and more than just life. Eternal joy in the presence of perfect divinity and love. And the wine and bread at communion – they represent what Christ did for us. And so today…hey is this too much? Isabel bites her lip.
No, Isabel. I…you know I’m trying to figure this out. And I like hearing your passion. Please keep going.
And so she does. Well, Harry – today I was thinking about all this in a different way and it just struck me the sheer reality and power of what Jesus did. The bread we took and broke was real bread. It had substance. I was able to hold it in my hand and eat it and taste it on my tongue. The wine we took and poured was real wine. It had substance. I was able to smell it and sip it and feel it on my tongue. The bread and the wine were real and had real substance. And then I thought – this physical reality that the bread and the wine inhabited and bore witness to – well, so too does Jesus inhabit the real plane of existence. Jesus is just as real and solid and verifiable as the bread and wine on that table. The body of Jesus was able to be touched and hugged and looked upon. And then subsequently it was able to be whipped and beaten and pierced and stabbed. And it was hung on a tree. And this real body of Jesus hung on a real tree and this Jesus that was real died for ones such as you and me. And just as I today at church ate and partook of the bread and wine so too in mystery have I taken and partook and now bear witness to the real Christ who actually in reality walked on this earth. Jesus was real, Harry. You get it? He’s real. He’s not a figment of imagination or a storybook character or some lame religious icon. He’s real. And not past tense. Jesus is real. He lives again. He lives now and someday I will get to see this reality that is more real than anything in this room and I will look at his face and hug his feet and feel his body that died for me and I think I will cry because I can’t help it. Why would God send his son to die for someone like me. I’m pretty terrible sometimes. Why would the God that is real send his son – also real and also God in some incomprehensible mysterious reality – to die a terribly real death for someone like me? This is the meat and potatoes of Christianity, Harry. Jesus is a real person – and by person I mean God and man in perfect divine harmony and reality – and this real person died for me. How can I not weep at that? How can I not want to sing in bliss at the very thought? The infinite God of all grace and love and justice and holiness and perfection and mercy and wrath and patience…this God is my salvation because of the real life that died a real death that day on that terrible and wonderful tree. This is real. This is the true God and eternal life for all that would believe. And that’s me. That’s me. My mind shakes at the thought. My soul quivers in joy. Oh Harry. This is real. Not some vain philosophy. So now wherever we go or whatever adventure you join me in? I want you to know the realest reality that was ever divinely gifted me. It is life with my Jesus for all eternity. Know this is my core and this is my truth. This is more real than any thing you can imagine.
Isabel breathes in quick. And then sighs. Her hands press down on the table as she looks into Harry’s eyes. He has been listening this whole time. What does he think? His mouth opens.
And as he starts to speak the thunder grumbles outside. The storm had come quicker than Isabel thought it would. Where had the golden light gone? Or no. The windows glow a bit brighter now with the flashing of the lightning.
Isabel I…Harry stumbles over his words. You are the best person I know. I still don’t fully know if I can go all the way to being a Christian here. It still is a bit much for me. But. I get what you’re saying. I think. It’s real to you and I don’t deny that.
Harry. Isabel interrupts. That’s the point though. It’s not just real to me. This truth is reality incarnate. This truth is real to everyone, whether people want to believe or not. And you must reckon with that truth. Either you deny it in its entirety or you accept it in its entirety. There’s no going halfway here. It’s not some religion you can kinda just keep what you want and we all agree to disagree. This is life and death.
Harry’s eyes widen. Oh no, did she frighten him in her intensity. But this was real and the words that had come pouring out of her mouth could only have done so with Spirit assistance and Isabel didn’t think she was sorry for anything she’d said. Her spirit felt free and clear and she felt energy pulsing through her in harmony with the songs of stars. But Harry. Are you ok?
I think so Isabel and I want to continue the conversation but…look outside. Isabel glances out the window over the sink. The light pours through. But it’s not night anymore and it’s not storming. It seems as if midday. And she sees a grove of pine trees out beyond. A quick intake of breath. It’s time, Harry. Oh it’s time. Get your backpack. Isabel rapid fire stacks sandwich upon sandwich in the drawstring bag she had prepared. And then she turns to Harry. You’ll follow me? Harry nods, eyes wide. Ok. Hold my hand. Let’s open the door.
And Harry and Isabel walk up to the door as the daylight dances through the curtains draping the window. Isabel looks at Harry. Remember what I’ve said today. That’s all real. And Harry? So is this. They open the door. There is a moment of music spiraling around them and a flash of light. Isabel hears a voice calling her name. Then she is somewhere else. And she feels Harry’s hand in hers. We made it.
Laresnova
She’s dreaming of lighthouses again.
Still and silent in her bed she lies yet her mind rages in beauty as images of seas crashing on rocky shores flash vividly in black and white. There is a cliff that reaches higher than the rest of the surrounding land and sea and on that cliff points a lighthouse up to the heavens. At the base of the lighthouse is a little path that winds to the edge of the cliff. On this edge stands two figures silhouetted against the grey sky. These figures, one taller and one smaller, are slightly angled towards one other, as if to protect each other from the winds swooping down on them from above. Down at the base of the cliff the sea pounds relentlessly in rhythm that the spray echoes back in delight. Back on the top of the cliff the two figures huddle closer together. Wrapped in long and bulky outerwear, these figures still seek to conserve warmth in a hug that lingers in its intimacy. Dark clouds move closer to the island yet there is no rain. The sea spray calls louder in sweeter harmony with the low percussion of far off thunder. One of the figures raises a hand pointing to the heavens. The other figure moves closer still to the first. Symmetry of sea below and sky above as both reach to meet the other in stormy union. The two figures break apart and pull up their hoods. They stay a moment longer as the rain washes down upon them in sheets, the pure water washing down upon the rocks and lighthouse and figures alike. One figure laughs out loud, her laugh joining the song of skies and rocks and seas. The other figure pulls her close and together they walk up the path back towards the lighthouse. The light next to the door burns cheerily. The figures pull open the door and enter in. The lighthouse now stands alone on a cliff. The lightning flashes once, twice. Again it flashes. The seas below roar in delight and dance towards the cliffside in chaotic beauty. There is light behind her eyes as she opens them wide. Still and silent in her bed she lies thinking on these things she’s dreamed and wondering what they mean.
She doesn’t mind these lighthouse dreams that call back memories so aching sweet. And she sighs in harmony with the song of that sea spray.
Teatime
I have been trying to write winter poetry and failing miserably. Alas it is not to be this night. Hence I switch to prose, the last resort of the poet who refuses to believe his muse is dead. Or temporarily incapacitated. One hopes only temporarily. But sometimes the fire burns within and one simply must write or else he feels as if his soul will crumple in on itself like a big ball of wadded up notebook paper that is scrunched so tight that it may yet yield to the tendency to become a black hole. Yes, that is the correct feeling, finally put in words to burn in their very temporal state. But where was I? Ah yes, talking of poetry and poets and their unsurprising failures. As for me, switching to prose often feels like a defeat, yet I long to snatch victory from its jaws yet. I too am a shepherd boy – or at least I attempt to model myself after one such – and so I too can fiercely extricate this prized lamb from the lion’s jaws. Scratch that last. Dreadful metaphor, quite mixed in theme and usage. To continue. Sometimes prose pieces are fun, sometimes they turn out dreadful too. This one feels whimsical and experimental enough, I am actually somewhat pleased. It amuses me, I will allow it to live. Oh how merciful am I. Now for the piece at hand.
I really did mean to write some winter poetry as I just returned from a lovely walk on this January evening. Finally my humble southern state has been blessed with weather that feels like winter. Temperature in the mid-40s and a nice dry air and a stunning sunset to boot? What have I done to be blessed with such beauty? Well, nothing of course. It’s not all about me. Instead, the glory belongs to another. Musings such as this rolled around in my head as I walked down the sidewalk in my little neighborhood. I thought of the interplay of the small neighborhood with the sky above. The small old houses seem so feeble when compared with the majesty of a winter sunset sky. The clouds stretch up and up, set on fire by the last triumphal notes of the setting sun. The trees contribute a chorus, their branches finally shed of their overly ragged autumnal garments. The branches stretch up and out and contrast nicely against the blues and purples and oranges. But the houses? They seem a bit timid and bashful, their structures not at all suited to be seen in company with the artistry of heaven. An outlier though? The power lines. The power lines start on poles which masquerade nicely as slender wintry trees…and then the lines swoop gracefully, firm and delicate and subtle all at the same time as they highlight the brilliant colours of the twilight. Seeing the power lines hug the sky just as I hug my own arms to myself – well, it brings me a cosy satisfaction. I find delight in the way the mundane creations of this world complement the creations of the one who existed before this world began. It is a thrill to think on such and imagine that just as the power lines point to something greater, so too am I privileged to rest my eyes on the fires of heaven and sing praises to the one on high. Am I also allowed to compliment this moment as my figure somehow complements this scene in which I walk? What does it look like, this frail and faded creation walking on the sidewalk this winter night? Am I too allowed to be thought of as the mundane that points to the beautiful a bit beyond my mortal sight? My temporal hand stretches forth to the eternal. The power lines continue to vibrate in holy tension and I sigh. The sliver of dusk shivers in anticipation of resurrection glories and the waxing starlight sings of a story not yet done. The book is written and the ending sure. But for now, turn one page at a time. Faithfully I read on, now a candle lit beside me as I let my mind slip back to the present. Yet still I remember the stark beauty of that cold and perfect winter sunset sky.
Shoreline
The room was full of paper, reams of it, heaps of it! And he waded through the paper as one trudges through the midwinter snow, grimly stepping through it as he knew he must. He feared he was damaging beyond the point of no return hours of scribbling. And he knew better than most the pains that these writings had inflicted upon her heart. But there was nothing for it now if he was going to reach where she now lived beyond world’s end. Fascinating, was it not, how quickly treasured mementos become waste paper. But this room that had harbored so many midnight hours of fevered creation now felt a bit hollow and empty. Almost it felt as if this room knew at its core that she was gone, gone forever. He reached the table next to the bed and saw the candle still flickering an inch above the little chipped porcelain saucer. She had not been gone long, as this world counts time. But why had she emptied her trunks of writing, why had she torn out the pages of years of journaling, why were her poems scattered far and wide throughout this room that had heard so many years of song and tears? Had she taken any poems with her? That was the question. He reached down a hand into the gently swirling depths of paper at his feet and pulled out a piece at random. It was a sheet he recognized, unsurprisingly. An ode to summertime. He smiled – it was one of her quirky silly ones, lilting in meter and light in tone. At the bottom she’d sketched a quick daisy. That had been a good day, one of hiking through lush green meadows and laughing at the play of waterfalls. There had even been a picnic, as is proper on a full summer day such as that had been. And she’d written that right on the bank of the stream after their stomachs had been filled with sandwiches and chips and carrots. He’d been half-asleep across the stream, gazing up at the way the light fluttered amongst the canopy of green above.
He smiled now, and wiped away the tear that threatened to fall. Oh Isabel, where are you? And why have you left me now amidst the detritus of your most treasured writings? Harry shook his head in fear, wondering what his next step was to be. He stood in the middle of an ocean of paper and felt as if he was a rock shivering underneath the midwinter rain off the coast of southern England. Oddly specific to be sure, but that was the last place he had seen Isabel and so the thought came natural. Here were the remnants of all Isabel’s dreamy musings. Harry fumbled through his pocket and pulled out his phone. No texts. There had not been any these many months but hope is oddly unrealistic at times. He looked around him at the paper swamping what had once been Isabel’s room and he sank to his knees. There was no time to waste. And so he gazed at the sheets of paper all around and looked up at the weathered ceiling and finally finally began to pray.
A Situation
The loss of oxygen was actually not that alarming, considering the circumstances. Multiple alarms warbled in imperfect harmony and far too many lights flashed persistently on the status boards. Irritated at her ship’s newfound desire to self-destruct, Juliet jerked her control cord to a new setting and hissed quietly in frustration. It was going to be close. Groaning in arrhythmic stutters, the chamber around Juliet’s pilot pod began to heat up. This was not entirely unexpected, but a bit too soon for comfort. Juliet glanced at the altitude indicator again and bit her lip. She needlessly tightened the strap on her rebreather and flipped the final switch. In one last protest, the structure surrounding her began to crumble into nothingness. Outside lay blackness and flame. Juliet leaned her head back and sighed. An explosion of soundless beauty. And then, the lights came on.
Closing her eyes, Juliet asked in barely concealed anger, “So how’d I do?”
“You died,” came the disembodied voice in her earbuds. “Again.”
“Really?” scoffed Juliet. “Well then, let’s run it one last time.” Her eyes flashed purple fire. “Again.”
Closer Creeps the Night
Beth sighed as she sat in weary anticipation on the front stoop. Hearing a car approaching, she looked up warily, only to see a little black ’88 Volvo approaching. Not her ride. Actually, she had no idea who the driver was, and she knew most people in the neighborhood(naturally, as she’d lived in that same neighborhood for most of her 19 years). After the Volvo drove past, she put her head down again and watched the late autumn leaves tumble down the sidewalk in front of her. The leaves seemed to be dancing with gleeful abandon as they darted by, rejoicing in the winter-tinged air. Beth shivered. She didn’t share the sentiment. Pulling her orange coat closer around herself, she sighed once again. Where was Rich at? He had promised to pick her up at the crack of dawn, but as the early morning light spilled over the sleepy neighborhood sprawled out in front of her, Beth started to worry. She tended to do that a lot, particularly when things didn’t go according to plan. And in her life, things had a tendency to not go according to plan. Unfortunately. Beth rubbed her arms again. She was cold and irritated and still not quite awake. A squeal of tires skidding around the nearest corner shook Beth out of her brown study. In a flash, she hopped to her feet, grabbed her small knapsack and started walking towards the street. Rich’s lime green monstrosity jumped up next to her and she tugged on the door handle violently. Time to go save the world.
To Boldly Go
I haven’t written anything proper in a while…so I hope you don’t mind this extremely random and most weird short story.
Her eyes rested longingly on that last lonely crepe. It was sitting oh so daintily on the faux silver platter, it was adorned with the perfect amount of powdered sugar and it called her name. True, it had been sitting there for a few hours, so it surely would taste of stale flour and dried out berries, but she didn’t care. Her breakfast had been a sad half of a grapefruit. Not even the better half. She almost felt tempted to just grab the crepe and stuff it in her mouth, but then…then she’d get yelled at by the makeup artist and the director and Tom and…it just wouldn’t be worth it. Anna sighed. Sometimes being a movie star just wasn’t worth it. This was one of those times.
Of course, being a star had its perks. She didn’t have to do her own makeup, for one thing. Her outer face sat pristine, carefully plastered onto what she thought of as her “Saturday night” face. Saturday night, of course – being the only night she ever had to herself anymore. This latest shoot was a brutal, six days a week, fourteen hours a day. Saturdays were nominally off-days, but they’d been working those lately too. She still made sure to excuse herself early and make her way to her condo.
And then, for at least a few hours, she curled up in bed with a cup of cocoa, read her current fantasy novel and pretended she was a normal person. Her condo was her last remaining stronghold against the outside world. Her agent wasn’t even allowed in. Her condo was small by her peers’ standards, but it was hers. It protected her from the schemes of the paparazzi and the bloids. It sat in Los Angeles, polluted and tarnished by the city air. Yet it was hers. Sometimes she would look at her face in the mirror and wonder what others saw in her. She saw a woman that looked increasingly dirty and stretched. She’d wash her face again and again, trying to uncover the small girl that used to peer at her out of the mirror’s depths. Where did she go?
When Anna was five, she had wanted to be an astronaut, traveling to the farthest reaches of space. Her life goal was to be the first person on Mars. This was back in the days when mankind still explored space and sent out probes every few months. Nowadays, no country bothered spending money on space exploration, deeming it an “extravagant and wasteful proposition”, as the prime minister of Scotland had said in his latest rant on the floor of the UN.
Once though, Anna had dreamed of traveling in space. She had imagined braving the silent void, traveling through the vast reaches of space. And now she sat on a set in Los Angeles, filming yet another ponderous period piece. Surrounded by loud-mouthed executives and frantic cameramen and causing a mild panic every time she smiled. She was sick of it. It paid the bills.
Anna’s eyes darted toward the crepe again. She seriously wanted it. Anna sighed loudly and ran her fingers through her carefully arranged hair. Shoot would be starting soon though – once Tom got out of makeup. How it took him an hour longer to get through makeup, she had no idea…unless it had something to do with his preponderance of wrinkles.
And as her mind thought of the wrinkles on her co-star’s face, she thought back to simpler times, back before she knew what paparazzi and co-concentrators and restraining orders were. Back before she had to stare into a co-star’s face and pretend she had chemistry with him. Back when wrinkles signified wormholes in time and space….
She floated through a rusty starship corridor, her suit nearly catching on a protruding gauge. This mission was a simple one, but it would end quickly enough if she tore her suit. As Anna made her way through to the far control pod, she looked back for a second, satisfied she’d not been followed by any…unwanted presence. The silence stretched loud in her ears and she smiled as she thought of what her father would say if he could see her now. He had always told her that she’d amount to nothing more than a shiny broompusher and yet here she was, a rogue starpilot exploring a derelict freighter a hundred light years from Earth. Not too bad for a farm girl from Iowa.
Anna pushed open the last door that sat between her and the cockpit. It swung heavily, hindered by the rust that had accumulated over the centuries. And then…she forgot about the door and the rust and she forgot to think much of anything at all. The ship’s control lights were ominously lit, not dull and dead as they should have been. And there were words swift scrolling across the main console in a far-ancient language. She was not alone on this ship after all. There was an intelligence with her. A machine intelligence. She was not alone. The lights blinked at her in a mildly threatening fashion, and then her eyes glanced more closely at the computer screen. The script had changed to a more familiar one.
WHO ARE YOU TO DISTURB?
Anna reluctantly touched her fingers to the dust stained keyboard and tapped in almost-forgotten patterns.
I COME IN PEACE. I COME TO EXPLORE. I COME TO LEARN. I COME TO SEE.
YOU ARE HUMAN. YOU ARE NOT WELCOME.
I COME ALONE. I MEAN NO HARM. I COME TO SEE.
The lights of the console whirred in an almost hesitant fashion, as if the machine mind was thinking, its mind tracing long unused pathways in its circuits. New words finally flashed upon the console, slowly.
THEN SEE.
The ship began a gentle yaw to her left, showing her another portion of star studded space through the cockpit view screen. And there was a flash. Anna blinked. The sky was still full of stars. Yet, she had never seen such patterns. Before her mind could comprehend the fact that she’d traveled a thousand thousand light years in a millisecond, before it became clear that she was now stranded in deep space with a likely hostile machine intelligence as her only companion…before all that, she brought her hand up to her mouth and gasped. Stars wheeled across the sky in front of her, galaxies pinwheeling in front of her eyes. Stardust filled the void. Space was not empty here, it was heaving, full of life and beauty. Anna struggled to understand. Stars painted the canopy of space as if strewn there by a master painter. Nebulas arrayed themselves in elegant rows and began dancing to the song of the stars of heaven. Anna did not understand. There was so much beauty. Why? Anna put her hand down on the rusty computer console and sighed in longing and awe.
And then the sky crackled, softly.
“Let’s go, people!”
Anna jerked upright. Had she been…dreaming? Tom was striding toward the columned area they were scheduled to shoot their first scene, a flirty rendezvous of some sort, Anna remembered. Anna sighed. What had been in her dream? It had been…beautiful.
“We’re on a schedule,” that annoying voice barked. Carefully, Anna rose from her chair and walked towards the camera strewn pavement.
Anna set her face in the same mask that had graced a thousand magazine covers and smiled a gorgeous pink-lipped smile, casting one more look at the lonesome crepe.
New Autumn
The last thing she wanted to do was flip that switch.
The warning siren warbled at an even higher intensity and the cockpit lights dimmed ominously.
Jasmine raked her hands through her hair and glared daggers at the navigation panel and refused to believe it would all end like this. No more time for hesitation though. She reached over to the awkwardly positioned and boldly lettered ejection lever and caressed it for a brief second before giving it a firm flick. The restraining belts snapped into place as her head was slammed backwards. There was a song of screeching metal and gasping wind and flashes of lights across the sky in purest symphony of calamitous fate. And then her eyes rolled back in her head and she only had the time for briefest thought. Home sweet home. Blackness.
******
Why was it so light outside? Had she missed her alarm? And why was there a giant tree root jabbing her insistently? Wait, tree roots were in her bed?
Hazy waking up thoughts fled as Jasmine bolted upright. Coughing violently, she looked around wildly. Grass stains on her jumpsuit and the taste of blood in her mouth. Yet, it was beautiful. The sun – the sun! – shone down on her like a mother’s smile. The trees swayed magnanimously around the meadow she had apparently ended up in. Leaves of red and orange and yellow fluttered down as the wind sighed around her. Jasmine supposed she could have landed somewhere worse. And it appeared all her limbs were functional. Mostly. She pushed up against the soft grass and lurched to her feet. Wavering, she looked up. Blue sky. Never, never had sky looked so beautiful. She took a few steps across the meadow, limping as she went. Everything hurt. She didn’t even want to see the bruises she’d ended up with. But she was alive. Alive.
Her ejection pod was still slightly smoking a few meters away. It had done its job and delivered her safely down. She should probably retrieve her survival gear and weapons, but for now…
Jasmine wobbled around the grass like a toddler learning to walk and marveled in the feel of the sun upon her skin. It was so warm. So real. Her pale skin soaked in the heat and Jasmine sighed in joy. What a wonderful planet. What a wonderful world. She should probably scout out the area and set up camp, but…
A piercing cry echoed across the sky. Jasmine’s head jerked up. They were here. No more time to rest. She walked towards the pod, determination in her limp. There was work to do. Her destiny was at hand. There were enemies to slay.
