Monday, November 06, 2006
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Crimson
by Ryan M. Parr
Pennsylvania was 50 miles down the road, with nothing in between the lengthy excursion through a wooded interstate. I was a traveling salesman making another trip to shake the hands of clientele, a path of regret for skipping Graduate School. It was just another day, and another venture through life, to expect the unexpected; another look -- another stare across an executives table -- only to relive the excitement of expecting it to end.
The sky was beginning to darken, shrouded in an overcast of rain, pelting the ground as it proliferates through the oily surface of the roads. A jeep pulls out from my side, revving its engine as it escapes along with a screech against the pavement. The tarp was pulled back, with bungee cords suspending moving boxes and a nightstand. Wooden boards, with nails protruding from their sides, dangle off the edge with the suspended load. The wheels pummel the ground, vibrating a nail from its sockets as the jeep hits against a bump in the road. The nail spins in confusion, lifting its point into the air, as I pull my car inexplicably with a resounding pop.
I swat the steering wheel in anger and pull the car to the side of the road. Stepping out of the car, I check the trunk for a clutch and a spare tire, unknowing that the rain was starting to soften the soil. I attempt to pull up onto the pavement, only that the car wouldn't start up again.
I look up towards my right where a dark-foreboding house appears, standing before me out of familiar reality. With gables on each corner, and a stone chimney, several drapes conceal the mysterious contents of this house, seemingly of listless age. A life-like image propels itself onto the curtains of a window, defined by what must have been a lit candle in the back of the room for it became difficult to make out the figure with there being such a shortage of light. The grim shade of the figure gave it an eerie appearance against the sun-bleached curtains. The thin frail image reminded of the appearance of death -- depraved of the blood that gave it life -- and the thinning of the body. The hair seemed easily visible along a shrunken head outline, and the time froze as the study continued onward into the night.
For why was it so grim that night? For it was difficult to understand why it was raining and for why the car had suddenly stopped. Being as I had no other choice but to seek shelter, I figured the night might only be an illusion when confronted with such odd an incidence as this. I walk up several stairs, sounding a cacophonous creak, as I slide my hand along the wooden railings. A sharp pain penetrates my hand as though an ominous warning not to continue onward. The blood refrained from seeping through the skin, so I subsided from worry, and still I make way towards a door to the house, only a few steps away. I hit the doorknocker a single knock at a time, for every second that my heart pounded up until the door opened. A frail woman glared straight into my soul as though to intimidate my welcome to the old home. I look back at her un-intimidated to deflect the sturdy glare so I could bring up the courage to ask as kindly as possible, "May I please take refuge?"
She softened her eyes and smiled like she hadn't since she was born, appearing as if all of life's burdens had been uplifted from her. She opened the door much wider and stepped back to let me into the dusty abode. Life was set back as I entered the house, with furnishings as old as the 19th century and nothing the least from the 20th. It amazed me to think how could it be? The women didn't appear more then 60 years old and I would figure that she might have bought at least one type of furniture in her lifetime. It dawned on me that the house could have been willed to her, though why would she give all her life's possessions away in her other home that she would have spent her earlier years in? I glance back towards the door where she was still standing and I wanted to ask, but instead simply said, "Where are your pillows?"
As though all my signs of appreciation seemed to be overcome by the weary night, I couldn't help but feel sorry for not adding signs of appreciation. She then strides over to a trunk layered with thick dust that she opens, pulling out a pillow along with a blanket, and closes it down to watch a swirl of dust like a working automaton wander endlessly in the room. She moves back to me and hands me a pillow with what appeared to be red stains and moth holes all over it.
"Is this blood?" I ask.
Not replying, she walked over to a lamp with a flickering of a flame deceived as an actual light bulb. She places a metal, somewhat of a coffee measurer that I've seen before, and sets it over the flame to let the smoke fly up and die out. Just as I thought that it was pitch black in the room, an oil lamp hinged to the wall along the stairs had been remaining, and so the old women walks up to the creaking stairs and up to the oil lamp. She turns slightly towards me, waiting for me to get ready for bed as though she had all the time in the world to see her last remaining company seeming to end for an eternity. The oil lamp had went out just as I lay down on the bare floor leaving me starring towards the ceiling, watching the darkness above me tunnel inward, as I decipher meaning to the cryptic images throughout the darkness.
I awaken to an empty room with tanned walls and nothing but bare curtains on the windows. I had still been lying on the ground with the bloodied pillow, along with the moth eaten blanket, as I realized that the house seemed different. It appeared older and less structured at that time. I noticed a black shaded spot against the curtain. Pulling the curtain aside; I realize that the house was boarded up. With a gust of air coming through the shattered glass, the house appeared vacant with no one living in it.
What had occurred last night could not have been a dream, but rather a real experience, suspended in time from another world that dwelt in the un-living. I pause for a while staring back up towards the mansion from the outside, deciding whether to turn around and slowly walk back towards my car were it reluctantly started up, so that I could move on.
Pennsylvania was 50 miles down the road, with nothing in between the lengthy excursion through a wooded interstate. I was a traveling salesman making another trip to shake the hands of clientele, a path of regret for skipping Graduate School. It was just another day, and another venture through life, to expect the unexpected; another look -- another stare across an executives table -- only to relive the excitement of expecting it to end.
The sky was beginning to darken, shrouded in an overcast of rain, pelting the ground as it proliferates through the oily surface of the roads. A jeep pulls out from my side, revving its engine as it escapes along with a screech against the pavement. The tarp was pulled back, with bungee cords suspending moving boxes and a nightstand. Wooden boards, with nails protruding from their sides, dangle off the edge with the suspended load. The wheels pummel the ground, vibrating a nail from its sockets as the jeep hits against a bump in the road. The nail spins in confusion, lifting its point into the air, as I pull my car inexplicably with a resounding pop.
I swat the steering wheel in anger and pull the car to the side of the road. Stepping out of the car, I check the trunk for a clutch and a spare tire, unknowing that the rain was starting to soften the soil. I attempt to pull up onto the pavement, only that the car wouldn't start up again.
I look up towards my right where a dark-foreboding house appears, standing before me out of familiar reality. With gables on each corner, and a stone chimney, several drapes conceal the mysterious contents of this house, seemingly of listless age. A life-like image propels itself onto the curtains of a window, defined by what must have been a lit candle in the back of the room for it became difficult to make out the figure with there being such a shortage of light. The grim shade of the figure gave it an eerie appearance against the sun-bleached curtains. The thin frail image reminded of the appearance of death -- depraved of the blood that gave it life -- and the thinning of the body. The hair seemed easily visible along a shrunken head outline, and the time froze as the study continued onward into the night.
For why was it so grim that night? For it was difficult to understand why it was raining and for why the car had suddenly stopped. Being as I had no other choice but to seek shelter, I figured the night might only be an illusion when confronted with such odd an incidence as this. I walk up several stairs, sounding a cacophonous creak, as I slide my hand along the wooden railings. A sharp pain penetrates my hand as though an ominous warning not to continue onward. The blood refrained from seeping through the skin, so I subsided from worry, and still I make way towards a door to the house, only a few steps away. I hit the doorknocker a single knock at a time, for every second that my heart pounded up until the door opened. A frail woman glared straight into my soul as though to intimidate my welcome to the old home. I look back at her un-intimidated to deflect the sturdy glare so I could bring up the courage to ask as kindly as possible, "May I please take refuge?"
She softened her eyes and smiled like she hadn't since she was born, appearing as if all of life's burdens had been uplifted from her. She opened the door much wider and stepped back to let me into the dusty abode. Life was set back as I entered the house, with furnishings as old as the 19th century and nothing the least from the 20th. It amazed me to think how could it be? The women didn't appear more then 60 years old and I would figure that she might have bought at least one type of furniture in her lifetime. It dawned on me that the house could have been willed to her, though why would she give all her life's possessions away in her other home that she would have spent her earlier years in? I glance back towards the door where she was still standing and I wanted to ask, but instead simply said, "Where are your pillows?"
As though all my signs of appreciation seemed to be overcome by the weary night, I couldn't help but feel sorry for not adding signs of appreciation. She then strides over to a trunk layered with thick dust that she opens, pulling out a pillow along with a blanket, and closes it down to watch a swirl of dust like a working automaton wander endlessly in the room. She moves back to me and hands me a pillow with what appeared to be red stains and moth holes all over it.
"Is this blood?" I ask.
Not replying, she walked over to a lamp with a flickering of a flame deceived as an actual light bulb. She places a metal, somewhat of a coffee measurer that I've seen before, and sets it over the flame to let the smoke fly up and die out. Just as I thought that it was pitch black in the room, an oil lamp hinged to the wall along the stairs had been remaining, and so the old women walks up to the creaking stairs and up to the oil lamp. She turns slightly towards me, waiting for me to get ready for bed as though she had all the time in the world to see her last remaining company seeming to end for an eternity. The oil lamp had went out just as I lay down on the bare floor leaving me starring towards the ceiling, watching the darkness above me tunnel inward, as I decipher meaning to the cryptic images throughout the darkness.
I awaken to an empty room with tanned walls and nothing but bare curtains on the windows. I had still been lying on the ground with the bloodied pillow, along with the moth eaten blanket, as I realized that the house seemed different. It appeared older and less structured at that time. I noticed a black shaded spot against the curtain. Pulling the curtain aside; I realize that the house was boarded up. With a gust of air coming through the shattered glass, the house appeared vacant with no one living in it.
What had occurred last night could not have been a dream, but rather a real experience, suspended in time from another world that dwelt in the un-living. I pause for a while staring back up towards the mansion from the outside, deciding whether to turn around and slowly walk back towards my car were it reluctantly started up, so that I could move on.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Friday, November 03, 2006
Human (for the lovers among)
by Nathan Hays
graphics by Michael Corrado
Arryn paced the floor, wringing her hands. She didn't have much time to act, but what she contemplated was always either lethal or led to insanity and the ethicists had long decided it despicable. The green that ate away at Hanson's frozen body was spreading so fast she could almost see it grow. How long before it reached his cortex was anyone's guess, but he was certain to be unrecoverable before the week's end. His clone would have been ready for the transjection, but it too was showing signs of space rot.
"Damn it, Hanson!", she pounded on the suspension chamber that would soon be his coffin. "All those lives of waiting and you have to blow the biocide protocols."
Her own clone was only just pubescent a few months ago, but it had excellent bio-stats and could take the transjection. The problem was, her own bio-stats showed pre-tumors forming too rapidly to be stemmed. She would need the clone long before another could be grown. Often the price of one's immortality is the death of another's, but she'd come too far with Hanson to give up now.
For over two hundred years since their first cyberlink Arryn and Hanson had forged a deep bond even though the parsecs between them had made it an anachronistic intimacy. Hanson had lain in suspension for nearly ten years as his transport crossed the void. They had wanted to run the transjections at the same time, side by side, but that was no longer possible. Two dying bodies, one clone.
------------------------------
The fog slowly lifted from Hanson's mind. He noticed something strange almost immediately. He remembered the numbing cold that he went to sleep with and knew he should feel violently hypothermic now, but instead he felt quite warm and cozy. Instinctually, he tried to take a deep breath, but found it awkward.
A voice came through, "Easy, my love. It's Arryn. You're going to be all right. I had to start the transjection while you were still hibernating."
Something must have gone wrong, he thought. Well, he was beginning to be conscious so it couldn't have been all that bad. He started the litany to orient himself to his clone, but again something was not right. He should be feeling a powerful erection as the clone responded to activation, but there was nothing. In fact, it felt more like he was strangely naked and yet potent in a way unfamiliar to him. A sudden realization poured over him as he put together the signs: the nakedness, the softness of his flesh, the inner potency, the pervading sense of love.
That's when he noticed he wasn't alone in there.
------------------------------
Arryn's mind was darting everywhere. "Hanson, I know how you feel. We share glands after all. It's just that, well, I like being female. I'm not sure I'll be able to inhabit a man's body. It seems so icky."
Hanson was slipping again, "My love, I can barely stay aware these days, you know that." He shook their head to stay awake. Arryn let him, though she could have easily overpowered him. "I feel so dependent on you and I'm fearful your love is turning maternal."
He sure had a way of hitting the nail on the head. "Yes, you're right of course," she thought. "I often confuse my instincts. I know that we must do this, I'm just putting up some resistance so I'll have no regrets. I do love you for who you are, not as a child."
She stared at the masculine figure in the clone chamber, her eyes tracing the powerful build and naked manhood they were about to inhabit. He was like a Greek statue in his alabaster skin. An old feeling stirred in Arryn that she'd almost forgotten.
"Hanson my love, when I rewired the transjection machine to merge our minds, I knew we were inextricably linked and we would never share a lover's carnal pleasures. But this next clone is exciting me."
He of course could feel the adrenaline. "Yes. Perhaps I understand a bit of what it means to be taken," but he had never experienced it. For all their years in their female body, Arryn had remained celibate out of respect for Hanson. This was the first time he got an inkling of what female submission really means.
As their female body got even more aroused, Hanson felt a new invigoration. Though the clone's body was behind a glass wall from him, he felt in control. "Arryn, I love you as no other. I cherish you and will not let you fade. I am your rock and you are mine."
"Yes, I know that now," she replied, her mind giving in to his. He stepped into the transjection machine, its probes and sensors lighting up as it began the scan. She wrapped her love around him and he beamed with joy. Their minds held each other in a way no other human had ever known. Love eternal, a race made whole.
graphics by Michael Corrado
Arryn paced the floor, wringing her hands. She didn't have much time to act, but what she contemplated was always either lethal or led to insanity and the ethicists had long decided it despicable. The green that ate away at Hanson's frozen body was spreading so fast she could almost see it grow. How long before it reached his cortex was anyone's guess, but he was certain to be unrecoverable before the week's end. His clone would have been ready for the transjection, but it too was showing signs of space rot.
"Damn it, Hanson!", she pounded on the suspension chamber that would soon be his coffin. "All those lives of waiting and you have to blow the biocide protocols."
Her own clone was only just pubescent a few months ago, but it had excellent bio-stats and could take the transjection. The problem was, her own bio-stats showed pre-tumors forming too rapidly to be stemmed. She would need the clone long before another could be grown. Often the price of one's immortality is the death of another's, but she'd come too far with Hanson to give up now.
For over two hundred years since their first cyberlink Arryn and Hanson had forged a deep bond even though the parsecs between them had made it an anachronistic intimacy. Hanson had lain in suspension for nearly ten years as his transport crossed the void. They had wanted to run the transjections at the same time, side by side, but that was no longer possible. Two dying bodies, one clone.
------------------------------
The fog slowly lifted from Hanson's mind. He noticed something strange almost immediately. He remembered the numbing cold that he went to sleep with and knew he should feel violently hypothermic now, but instead he felt quite warm and cozy. Instinctually, he tried to take a deep breath, but found it awkward.
A voice came through, "Easy, my love. It's Arryn. You're going to be all right. I had to start the transjection while you were still hibernating."
Something must have gone wrong, he thought. Well, he was beginning to be conscious so it couldn't have been all that bad. He started the litany to orient himself to his clone, but again something was not right. He should be feeling a powerful erection as the clone responded to activation, but there was nothing. In fact, it felt more like he was strangely naked and yet potent in a way unfamiliar to him. A sudden realization poured over him as he put together the signs: the nakedness, the softness of his flesh, the inner potency, the pervading sense of love.
That's when he noticed he wasn't alone in there.
------------------------------
Arryn's mind was darting everywhere. "Hanson, I know how you feel. We share glands after all. It's just that, well, I like being female. I'm not sure I'll be able to inhabit a man's body. It seems so icky."
Hanson was slipping again, "My love, I can barely stay aware these days, you know that." He shook their head to stay awake. Arryn let him, though she could have easily overpowered him. "I feel so dependent on you and I'm fearful your love is turning maternal."
He sure had a way of hitting the nail on the head. "Yes, you're right of course," she thought. "I often confuse my instincts. I know that we must do this, I'm just putting up some resistance so I'll have no regrets. I do love you for who you are, not as a child."
She stared at the masculine figure in the clone chamber, her eyes tracing the powerful build and naked manhood they were about to inhabit. He was like a Greek statue in his alabaster skin. An old feeling stirred in Arryn that she'd almost forgotten.
"Hanson my love, when I rewired the transjection machine to merge our minds, I knew we were inextricably linked and we would never share a lover's carnal pleasures. But this next clone is exciting me."
He of course could feel the adrenaline. "Yes. Perhaps I understand a bit of what it means to be taken," but he had never experienced it. For all their years in their female body, Arryn had remained celibate out of respect for Hanson. This was the first time he got an inkling of what female submission really means.
As their female body got even more aroused, Hanson felt a new invigoration. Though the clone's body was behind a glass wall from him, he felt in control. "Arryn, I love you as no other. I cherish you and will not let you fade. I am your rock and you are mine."
"Yes, I know that now," she replied, her mind giving in to his. He stepped into the transjection machine, its probes and sensors lighting up as it began the scan. She wrapped her love around him and he beamed with joy. Their minds held each other in a way no other human had ever known. Love eternal, a race made whole.
day’s mask
by Karyn Huntting Peters
night again.
the common and staid mask of day
slips off my face to rest beside me as
i stare into the nothingness of my tears.
it is only here, beneath the tiny, thin layer
of film that floats on the waters of my mind,
that the aching soul resides in silent anguish.
it holds its thespian face up, ever-stoic, hand
steady even as it is lanced by the piercing
bite of fine steel. encore! encore!
there is a chill in the air, and i am
cold as the curtain falls.
night again.
the common and staid mask of day
slips off my face to rest beside me as
i stare into the nothingness of my tears.
it is only here, beneath the tiny, thin layer
of film that floats on the waters of my mind,
that the aching soul resides in silent anguish.
it holds its thespian face up, ever-stoic, hand
steady even as it is lanced by the piercing
bite of fine steel. encore! encore!
there is a chill in the air, and i am
cold as the curtain falls.
castaneda
by Karyn Huntting Peters
castaneda spoke once though a surrogate
revelation. it was written. the napkin upon which
it was inscribed in blue ballpoint was carefully lain
to rest in the corner of my lost place,
just where I cannot recall.
but napkins don’t hold up well in the rain,
especially when curious would-be wisemen pluck
at them, trying to decipher their treasures in
haste, lest the rain’s tears cry all their blues
away before dawn’s first cameo.
castaneda spoke once though a surrogate
revelation. it was written. the napkin upon which
it was inscribed in blue ballpoint was carefully lain
to rest in the corner of my lost place,
just where I cannot recall.
but napkins don’t hold up well in the rain,
especially when curious would-be wisemen pluck
at them, trying to decipher their treasures in
haste, lest the rain’s tears cry all their blues
away before dawn’s first cameo.
lying stars
by Karyn Huntting Peters
from this vantage point,
in my thoughts alone i venture out,
walking silently along the parapet wall,
running my hand along its wet roughness
in the beginning twilight.
beyond, lights glow and flicker in reds and blues,
and music rises and climbs to meet me on the hillside,
a strained, haunting version of its harmonious city self.
nothing passes the barrier of this aging stone wall
that is not but a shell of itself, a copy of life,
a haunting of time gone by though still in view,
as a long-dead star shining hollow in the night.
as twilight ebbs and dies,
i venture now from my thoughts
and still in them rise, self joining my contemplations
on the thief of time, and on this barrier stay as stone
as lying stars appear in time in black skies.
lying as staid stars, i stay and steal time
over that which has stolen so much from me.
from this vantage point,
in my thoughts alone i venture out,
walking silently along the parapet wall,
running my hand along its wet roughness
in the beginning twilight.
beyond, lights glow and flicker in reds and blues,
and music rises and climbs to meet me on the hillside,
a strained, haunting version of its harmonious city self.
nothing passes the barrier of this aging stone wall
that is not but a shell of itself, a copy of life,
a haunting of time gone by though still in view,
as a long-dead star shining hollow in the night.
as twilight ebbs and dies,
i venture now from my thoughts
and still in them rise, self joining my contemplations
on the thief of time, and on this barrier stay as stone
as lying stars appear in time in black skies.
lying as staid stars, i stay and steal time
over that which has stolen so much from me.
baroque
by Karyn Huntting Peters
baroque men once
sat
composing in spring.
baroque trees now
stand
decomposing in fall.
stand
decomposing in fall.
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