The fires are dyingly low. Few watch in the darkness, the embers glowing their last lives. They watch the horizon, the skies, they can't see anything in the darkness. But it's out there, watching... waiting. There is nothing they can do. They are helpless in the darkness. It's out there, formulating in its own way. It's out there, peering at them with dead eyes. The few around the fires pray to their gods and godesses, some finding answers, others resigning to their fate. A call fills the air, the women and children scream, the men steel their hearts and minds, their hands falling to their swords. Another call and their hearts quicken. Minds run rampant with the last thoughts of the dead. There is no turning back. Luck, War, Fortune; a few of the gods that still remain with them in their hearts. Another call and swords are drawn. A few grunts roam through the silent crowd. Nothing could ever prepare them. Yet they remain, the last hold of humanity making its last stand. A few warriors have fled; in the wilds or the encampment, they cannot escape what their fates have decreed. Another call, an eerie glow in the distance. It comes for them. Another call, the frontline guards scream, some running back into the lines, their bodies afire, skin melting, the smell of human flesh, and the smell of the dead wafting in all distorted reality further. Another glow, orangish-red, the distant mountains aflame with devastating fury. They seem to melt before the warriors eyes. Some run away, others drop their swords. Few stay, those that do are statues of flesh against the raging flame. Another glow, the heat of the flame above their heads. Some go flat to the ground, others prostrate themselves to the unseen and unknown. Others look above, finding rivers of fire gorging through the sky. These that stand laugh, they've lost their minds. They still laugh when the flame becomes vertical. They laugh and laugh until what remains of their bodies disintegrate. The last shards of humanity are out there, and only it knows when the end will come.
Tim Munn
Copyright 6.3.2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The Odd Little Writing Blog...
From:
Oh, The Places You Will Go by Dr. Seuss
'You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly, they're darked.
A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?
And if you go in, should you turn left or right...
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.
You can get so confused
that you'll start to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place'
**************
Of all that I've both written and read-- when in the course of conjuring up this blog-- this I feel, is the most accurate description of my writng and its effects on you, the readers. The effect of having read and contemplated something... not completely odd or fanciful, yet something that is still within the grasp of an even mild reader. That, too, is a common theme on this blog and these writings-- grasping at a knowledge that, long hidden, reveals itself through story and in ones own life.
These three stanzas of the larger poem are a part of the journey on this road. A map; a guidepost if you will, along the road of the real and surreal. Really, there is no wrong turn on this road; no need to become 'lost' along the way, there's a rest stop or two or three; and perhaps the only things needed are drinks and snacks depending on how far along you'll be travelling. In a few minutes, we'll find out together how well the journey went, or if worse comes to worst, how badly it went.
A little piece of mind goes a long way. This road is an experimental one; an artistic one; a wide open road that, as we've discovered already, leads every where. It's the road you've decided to navigate, and as that chief navigator, you become challenged to discover what the stories mean to you. Hours, days, weeks, months or years-- this is your road to travel on, taking in all that information. The little bits and pieces of information coming in will make your mind thank you.
For a writer-- or any other artist for that matter-- it's better in some ways to have an impact now than importance later. What use was the writing if it didn't immediately change one's thoughts and feelings towards some subject matter or another? Impact first, hopefully without totally jarring ones senses entirely, maybe just a strong tremor in that 'weirdish wild space'. The goal ultimately is not to cause a confusion, but an understanding of the world we live in and the world deep inside the imagination. So very far away, though, from that most far and useless place, wouldn't you say?
Oh, The Places You Will Go by Dr. Seuss
'You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly, they're darked.
A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?
And if you go in, should you turn left or right...
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.
You can get so confused
that you'll start to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place'
**************
Of all that I've both written and read-- when in the course of conjuring up this blog-- this I feel, is the most accurate description of my writng and its effects on you, the readers. The effect of having read and contemplated something... not completely odd or fanciful, yet something that is still within the grasp of an even mild reader. That, too, is a common theme on this blog and these writings-- grasping at a knowledge that, long hidden, reveals itself through story and in ones own life.
These three stanzas of the larger poem are a part of the journey on this road. A map; a guidepost if you will, along the road of the real and surreal. Really, there is no wrong turn on this road; no need to become 'lost' along the way, there's a rest stop or two or three; and perhaps the only things needed are drinks and snacks depending on how far along you'll be travelling. In a few minutes, we'll find out together how well the journey went, or if worse comes to worst, how badly it went.
A little piece of mind goes a long way. This road is an experimental one; an artistic one; a wide open road that, as we've discovered already, leads every where. It's the road you've decided to navigate, and as that chief navigator, you become challenged to discover what the stories mean to you. Hours, days, weeks, months or years-- this is your road to travel on, taking in all that information. The little bits and pieces of information coming in will make your mind thank you.
For a writer-- or any other artist for that matter-- it's better in some ways to have an impact now than importance later. What use was the writing if it didn't immediately change one's thoughts and feelings towards some subject matter or another? Impact first, hopefully without totally jarring ones senses entirely, maybe just a strong tremor in that 'weirdish wild space'. The goal ultimately is not to cause a confusion, but an understanding of the world we live in and the world deep inside the imagination. So very far away, though, from that most far and useless place, wouldn't you say?
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
The Afternoon Man
"Hello," said the Afternoon Man. He said this rather abesent mindedly. He was more involved in the Afternoon Ritual. Walking up Jane Street at quarter to four in the afternoon; walking back down at the middle of the five o'clock hour. A Ritual he never let pass by him. There was no real meaning behind it; no need for items; no sad event ever transpired (but for a slip and fall one wintry afternoon, resulting in a bruised ego); no happy events either. The Afternoon Ritual just was. These people he passed didn't know the ways of the Ritual.
"Hello," the Afternoon Man said to an attarctive woman passing him. She carried a bag of groceries in her left arm, overflowing with various goods. Several items slipped out, falling in front of him. He stopped, bending to retrieve the items. He stopped again when the items turned out to be certain feminine products. She waited there a moment, bending herself to grab them up.
"I'm sorry," she said, quickly snatching up her items. "I told the bagger-"
"Do you have any perishables?"
"Um, no."
"Would you by any chance like to walk with me?" She looked hesitantly down Jane Street. She turned her head as far as it would go up Jane Street. Then, back to the Afternoon Man.
"I'm not so sure about-"
"Ma'am. I assure you, I'm not a murderer or a rapist. Just up Jane Street is all I ask. A companion for my trip up the street," he smiled. He extended his hand. "Let me help you up."
"Thank you," the woman half-smiled back. "I have somewhere I have to be." "Everyone has somewhere they have to be, everywhere but where they are," the Afternoon Man philosophised. "Just up the hill."
"I'm going to yell 'rape' if you try anything," she pointed her free finger at him. "I have pepper spray." The Afternoon Man smiled. "Let me take your bag, as the Jane Street hill is treacherous. I would not want to have you injured."
She reluctantly gave her bag over with a sigh. She did place her hand by her coat pocket, the pocket which couldn't have the pepper spray. They started forward as a commotion started at the bottom of the hill.
The Ritual has been changed. The Afternoon Woman has joined the Afternoon Man. He smiles at her. She returns with a peculiar look. "I've been taking this route many years. You're the first to adventure with me. I like that," he said, taking a look back over his shoulder.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"That you're the first who had pepper spray, or at least threatened it, never to use it on me."
A sudden terror filled her, the Afternoon Man could sense it. He angled the conversation in a different direction. "Do you have a significant other?"
"I think that's a little too personal for just a trip up the street."
"But the ring on your hand-?" She quickly covered her hand. "It's been a rough six months for us. Bills, wedding plans, late hours at work. It piled up," her emotions creeping in. She lowered her head, collecting herself. "Fights; we couldn't go on without splitting apart. We decided to take time off."
The Afternoon Man nodded, as sirens and an ambulance blared down the hill. "Sometimes that's the best thing." There was silence until the Afternoon Man and the Afternoon Woman reached the top of the Jane Street hill. She turned to face the Afternoon Man. She looked back to the bottom of the hill. The look was one of a longing sort. Likely wondering where she would end up in life. To the Afternoon Man, the direction was obvious.
"You have to come with me now," he said in a comforting voice. "Come with me now, Laura. You've reached the end."
She laughed as tears rolled down her face. "I'm dead aren't I?"
The Afternoon Man only nodded.
"How?" Laura asked. She had a certain way she wanted to go.
"Not that way. You had a seizure. Your heart stopped and couldn't be revived," the Afternoon Man replied. He put his free arm around Laura. "It was painless."
Laura nodded. "Are you God?"
The Afternoon Man laughed. "No, no! But I do work for him."
"So, when are we going to Heaven?"
"Laura, this is a Ritual, an Afternoon Ritual. You know how many people are killed on Jane Street each year; each month; each day. I'm assigned to this section of the city. You've been assigned here as well."
Laura looked confused, but didn't resist the idea. She looked to her ring. This morning she found it lying on the floor of her bathroom. She missed what it meant, not as a reminder of her love, but of her humanity. Laura cried one last time. "I didn't want to die."
"Everything dies, Laura. This is a Second Life; without pain, death or suffering. Take my hand."
She took his hand into hers.
"Now Laura, we have to go back down the hill."
"Please, sir. Don't let me go back down."
"We must. It's our Ritual."
The bag of groceries was gone. The second half of the Afternoon Ritual had begun. The Afternoon Man and Woman walked to the bottom of the hill. There was none there to marvel at the events that had taken place there, only a fading memory of what once was. There was a point of light to their right.
"There," said the Afternoon Man. "Your new route." The opposite side of Jane Street.
"Please! Come with me!" Laura said, being magnetically drawn to her route.
"Goodbye," said the Afternoon Man. He said this with as much feeling as he could muster.
--John E. Lansing
"Hello," the Afternoon Man said to an attarctive woman passing him. She carried a bag of groceries in her left arm, overflowing with various goods. Several items slipped out, falling in front of him. He stopped, bending to retrieve the items. He stopped again when the items turned out to be certain feminine products. She waited there a moment, bending herself to grab them up.
"I'm sorry," she said, quickly snatching up her items. "I told the bagger-"
"Do you have any perishables?"
"Um, no."
"Would you by any chance like to walk with me?" She looked hesitantly down Jane Street. She turned her head as far as it would go up Jane Street. Then, back to the Afternoon Man.
"I'm not so sure about-"
"Ma'am. I assure you, I'm not a murderer or a rapist. Just up Jane Street is all I ask. A companion for my trip up the street," he smiled. He extended his hand. "Let me help you up."
"Thank you," the woman half-smiled back. "I have somewhere I have to be." "Everyone has somewhere they have to be, everywhere but where they are," the Afternoon Man philosophised. "Just up the hill."
"I'm going to yell 'rape' if you try anything," she pointed her free finger at him. "I have pepper spray." The Afternoon Man smiled. "Let me take your bag, as the Jane Street hill is treacherous. I would not want to have you injured."
She reluctantly gave her bag over with a sigh. She did place her hand by her coat pocket, the pocket which couldn't have the pepper spray. They started forward as a commotion started at the bottom of the hill.
The Ritual has been changed. The Afternoon Woman has joined the Afternoon Man. He smiles at her. She returns with a peculiar look. "I've been taking this route many years. You're the first to adventure with me. I like that," he said, taking a look back over his shoulder.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"That you're the first who had pepper spray, or at least threatened it, never to use it on me."
A sudden terror filled her, the Afternoon Man could sense it. He angled the conversation in a different direction. "Do you have a significant other?"
"I think that's a little too personal for just a trip up the street."
"But the ring on your hand-?" She quickly covered her hand. "It's been a rough six months for us. Bills, wedding plans, late hours at work. It piled up," her emotions creeping in. She lowered her head, collecting herself. "Fights; we couldn't go on without splitting apart. We decided to take time off."
The Afternoon Man nodded, as sirens and an ambulance blared down the hill. "Sometimes that's the best thing." There was silence until the Afternoon Man and the Afternoon Woman reached the top of the Jane Street hill. She turned to face the Afternoon Man. She looked back to the bottom of the hill. The look was one of a longing sort. Likely wondering where she would end up in life. To the Afternoon Man, the direction was obvious.
"You have to come with me now," he said in a comforting voice. "Come with me now, Laura. You've reached the end."
She laughed as tears rolled down her face. "I'm dead aren't I?"
The Afternoon Man only nodded.
"How?" Laura asked. She had a certain way she wanted to go.
"Not that way. You had a seizure. Your heart stopped and couldn't be revived," the Afternoon Man replied. He put his free arm around Laura. "It was painless."
Laura nodded. "Are you God?"
The Afternoon Man laughed. "No, no! But I do work for him."
"So, when are we going to Heaven?"
"Laura, this is a Ritual, an Afternoon Ritual. You know how many people are killed on Jane Street each year; each month; each day. I'm assigned to this section of the city. You've been assigned here as well."
Laura looked confused, but didn't resist the idea. She looked to her ring. This morning she found it lying on the floor of her bathroom. She missed what it meant, not as a reminder of her love, but of her humanity. Laura cried one last time. "I didn't want to die."
"Everything dies, Laura. This is a Second Life; without pain, death or suffering. Take my hand."
She took his hand into hers.
"Now Laura, we have to go back down the hill."
"Please, sir. Don't let me go back down."
"We must. It's our Ritual."
The bag of groceries was gone. The second half of the Afternoon Ritual had begun. The Afternoon Man and Woman walked to the bottom of the hill. There was none there to marvel at the events that had taken place there, only a fading memory of what once was. There was a point of light to their right.
"There," said the Afternoon Man. "Your new route." The opposite side of Jane Street.
"Please! Come with me!" Laura said, being magnetically drawn to her route.
"Goodbye," said the Afternoon Man. He said this with as much feeling as he could muster.
--John E. Lansing
Lumberjacks
Old Nehemiah was a Lumberjack. He chopped down trees all his life. He kept a sharp axe, never letting it go dull. He knew he'd be called to the Canadian Wilderness again. To the Trees. They were so incredibly tall, and with his axe, made them mere stumps in the ground. The hilt of his axe was made from one of those great trees. Woody was its name; chopping down trees day and night many, many moons ago. He's old now, arthritis wreaking havoc on his body; his prostate on life support; his bowels a horrific mess. Old Nehemiah and Woody have seen better days from the woodshed. The Woodshed has been their home for ages. In the middle of the forest, Nehemiah and Woody practiced their craft, honing their skills to become the best Lumberjacks the world had ever seen. The Woodshed has grown fond on their mind. As Old Nehemiah and Woody age, it becomes more their permanent home. Nehemiah is Old and Weak. He barely goes outside anymore. Only to take a squat if he didn't go in his pants first.
The Woodshed has kept Nehemiah's life as he has to Woody. The space is tight; a salvaged stove at least a hundred years old; a table and chairs made from some of Woody's earliest exploits; a straw bed, smelling like a barn. When Nehemiah finds the strength, he changes out the straw and other remnants. Nehemiah is a remnant of the Old Age. The Age of Ruggedness; the Age of Exploration and Self-Exploration; the Age of Prosperity; the Age of Youth. The Old Age has come and gone for Nehemiah; the New age never came for him. The Canadian Wilderness never called. The Trees never sang their lamenting ballads. The Old Age is Dead, leaving Old Nehemiah to fend for himself. No worries. Nehemiah was a Master of that Age, building all he's had up from scratch. He's survived snow storms, hail, wind, rain and the odd weather event to boot. He'll survive. He has too.
Nehemiah hears the Call to Survive loudly. There have been times in ages past that the Call was a Call of Destruction. A Tree that might have wanted to take Nehemiah with it. That terrible Call echoes around. It has gotten louder with each passing day. Nehemiah pays it no attention. He lives in an Age of No Age. He is immortal. In another Age, he might worry in either case. But this is that Age of No Age, where there are No Worries. It will all pass eventually.
But Nehemiah is old and weak. There was a time when he thought he was immortal, that nothing could harm him: trees, age, fire or even Woody. But Nehemiah has been harmed. Several trees have collapsed into the Woodshed. He is abysmally old. A Great Fire raged through the area, allowing Nehemiah and Woody to stake their claim. He wasn't old or weak then, putting Woody to his blisteringly fast and deadly art. Woody is silent in his place now. He may never know what it means to be alive again. Nehemiah hears Woody's last few calls but cannot answer, the pain in his jaw immense.
Nehemiah lays in his own place now. Thinking of the Ages Past and Present and Future. The Call of Destruction screams at Nehemiah, ringing in his ears. There is no Call to Survive now, absent since those Ages ago. Woody, the Trees, the Wilderness, Survival-- none call for him but the Call of Eternity.
Nehemiah closes his eyes and says a prayer. He was once immortal, but now mortailty beckons with its bony hand. Old Nehemiah was a Lumberjack. No one will ever know this. None except for God Himself. There is a new call now. God calls Nehemiah. He can't quite hear what God has to say, but He's Calling to Nehemiah. No. It isn't God. It's human. Crying.
Nehemiah groans, praying whoever is out there to hear him. He doesn't want to die alone, as long as there is someone there that would be with him in his final moments. The person-- people, quite a few from the way it sounds-- Call out to Nehemiah.
--John E. Lansing
The Woodshed has kept Nehemiah's life as he has to Woody. The space is tight; a salvaged stove at least a hundred years old; a table and chairs made from some of Woody's earliest exploits; a straw bed, smelling like a barn. When Nehemiah finds the strength, he changes out the straw and other remnants. Nehemiah is a remnant of the Old Age. The Age of Ruggedness; the Age of Exploration and Self-Exploration; the Age of Prosperity; the Age of Youth. The Old Age has come and gone for Nehemiah; the New age never came for him. The Canadian Wilderness never called. The Trees never sang their lamenting ballads. The Old Age is Dead, leaving Old Nehemiah to fend for himself. No worries. Nehemiah was a Master of that Age, building all he's had up from scratch. He's survived snow storms, hail, wind, rain and the odd weather event to boot. He'll survive. He has too.
Nehemiah hears the Call to Survive loudly. There have been times in ages past that the Call was a Call of Destruction. A Tree that might have wanted to take Nehemiah with it. That terrible Call echoes around. It has gotten louder with each passing day. Nehemiah pays it no attention. He lives in an Age of No Age. He is immortal. In another Age, he might worry in either case. But this is that Age of No Age, where there are No Worries. It will all pass eventually.
But Nehemiah is old and weak. There was a time when he thought he was immortal, that nothing could harm him: trees, age, fire or even Woody. But Nehemiah has been harmed. Several trees have collapsed into the Woodshed. He is abysmally old. A Great Fire raged through the area, allowing Nehemiah and Woody to stake their claim. He wasn't old or weak then, putting Woody to his blisteringly fast and deadly art. Woody is silent in his place now. He may never know what it means to be alive again. Nehemiah hears Woody's last few calls but cannot answer, the pain in his jaw immense.
Nehemiah lays in his own place now. Thinking of the Ages Past and Present and Future. The Call of Destruction screams at Nehemiah, ringing in his ears. There is no Call to Survive now, absent since those Ages ago. Woody, the Trees, the Wilderness, Survival-- none call for him but the Call of Eternity.
Nehemiah closes his eyes and says a prayer. He was once immortal, but now mortailty beckons with its bony hand. Old Nehemiah was a Lumberjack. No one will ever know this. None except for God Himself. There is a new call now. God calls Nehemiah. He can't quite hear what God has to say, but He's Calling to Nehemiah. No. It isn't God. It's human. Crying.
Nehemiah groans, praying whoever is out there to hear him. He doesn't want to die alone, as long as there is someone there that would be with him in his final moments. The person-- people, quite a few from the way it sounds-- Call out to Nehemiah.
--John E. Lansing
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