Do you
Ache?
Do you dream of
Breaking
souls like
bones of men?
Do you dream of
kings and gold?
Things you sold like
chattel
were small price
to pay for
one single sour
hold on me.
There we are, swirling
like soup, like
a dust bowl
in rotting sterling silver
and you
hurling
Power in
milliseconds
per hour.
Do you
Break?
Do you dream of
Chaining
your aching soul to
History,
and wake
to shake stained
shackles on your wrist,
wake to wish
it was a dream,
wake to find yourself
explaining
in words no one believes
that you made a mistake
and it won’t happen again.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
New Short Story!
I lie beside my wife. It is always the same. She is going to have a baby and she is going to have a bad dream, a prophecy she says, that I will dismiss as her vivid imagination.
We live in a world with no imagination, which is not to say we are not creative. Science is science, a worthy exploit – the Noble Calling - that answers all questions, given proper time. Poetry and ghost stories are for the historians. We do not have Gods. We have learned from our mistakes, and the historians record them, a brief and filthy stain turned inside-out for shame on the sheer white fabric of our recent successes.
I am on the brink of a breakthrough. The theory is simple. Even our forebears knew of it, to a rudimentary extent. Time has a lesser hold on objects moving faster than light. What if we could free ourselves from time? Imagine what can be done when time is slowed, when one has an infinite amount of time to complete any number of tasks. I am close. It is simple. A vaccine, to rid like a disease the grudge of mortality.
My wife sleeps beside me to the tune of the soft humming of our station and the peace of the wide, empty plains. She hasn’t yet woken me with her terrible dream.
Ghost stories don’t exist. There’s no such thing as ghosts.
Junior woke with a beating, aching heart. He knew, before he woke. It wasn’t one of those things you forgot. He knew his wife was not beside him without even reaching to see if her side of the bed was warm.
Lysea.
That one word, the name, came as a silent prayer meant only for her every morning, the first thing he thought before he stretched and straightened out of bed. And then, for the day, he would forget her. It was as though he had never been married, and there was a kind of pleasant solitude in this life, the life of a bachelor.
It was healthier and more satisfying to eat real vacuum packed apples and freeze dried meats and yogurt cultures for breakfast. But it was faster and simpler to get the required nutrients from a syringe.
His holographic-reflected image told him he looked appropriate for work, although sometimes he suspected high conspiracy to tell him he looked better than he did, to tell him he did not have tired circles under his eyes or a receding, gray hairline.
Back to work.
“Hi, Junior.”
“What’s up, Jake?”
“I’ve got a big proposal to give today.” The broad man crossed his fingers, made a face. That man’s facial muscles could move in the most astonishing ways, like he had his own personal makeup designer for each moment of the year. Junior smiled appreciatively. “Wish me luck.”
“You won’t need it. But good luck.”
He nodded to his secretary, quite humorously named Ask, outside, earned only through years of work and research grants. The secretary smiled back, though it was a strained smile. He reached toward his computer and grabbed the page, scanning through it briefly before handing it to Junior. “Your schedule today. There’s a woman waiting inside who wants to talk to you.”
Junior raised a thick eyebrow. “In my lab? Who is she?”
“Patricia Skelling.”
“ID?”
“Clean. Looks to be. She knows your work well in any case.” The secretary shrugged. “I thought you had an appointment with you.”
Junior quelled words he was about to spit at the secretary before it was too late. He couldn’t afford to fire another one. He wouldn’t get a replacement next time.
“Thanks.” He couldn’t, however, hide the sarcasm in his voice. He stuffed the schedule copy in his pocket. “Lock.” The doors locked behind him as he studied the woman. Her back was too him, red hair locked in a lackluster bun. His heart gave an excited leap – but no. Foolish, how the mind plays tricks on you. It wasn’t her. Upon further examination her shoulder blades stuck out a little in her dark blue jacket coat. Fingers tufted with the dominant hair trait almost delicately held in one hand a computer and in the other hand a vial. One of his vials. His work.
“Can I help you?”
She turned to him, eyebrows raised as she set down the vial. She wasn’t ugly by any means, but otherwise was quite unremarkable. “Junior.” Her voice was inappropriately fond.
He shifted, unused to being dressed so informally. “Dr. Korsev.”
The woman hesitated, and glanced down again at the handheld. “Of course. Excuse me. I’m… Dr. Skelling.” There was too much hesitation, as though she had briefly forgot her own name. Junior gestured to a desk and chairs in the corner.
“Sit down, since you’re already inside.” She didn’t seem deterred by his passive aggressive tone, but held out her hand to shake. Junior politely pretended he hadn’t seen it – who knows what world of disease she’d just come from – and turned to his desk, brushing fingertips over the carefully kept and polished presswood.
She sat. She stared at him.
“Is there a reason you’re here?” He had work to do. He could not sit around to entertain unannounced strangers.
Patricia Skelling met his gaze, but not exactly. It met all the standards for gaze-meeting technically, but with the certainty that she was actually trying to look at him. “I’ve read much of your work,” she said, and the room absolutely did not echo that hollow voice. “But I noticed, for all your work on immortality, you have only briefly, and quite without credit, touched on soul regeneration.”
Junior repeated her words in his head and knew already it was going to be a long day.
“That’s because it’s not scientifically viable,” he answered with as much calm as he could muster. “There is no evidence to support that any life exists outside the brain, or body at all for that matter.”
“There’s no evidence against it, either.”
Junior pressed his fingertips to his temple, but still did not want to seem rude. This woman had a doctorate, a professed doctor of science, and yet she came to him asking the simplest questions freshmen in college found it simple to grasp. “There is quite a bit of evidence, if we take all the research done on it to have been conducted in good faith.” He need not mention Gratz’s famous work on transplant lobotomies or Yen’s historical ‘Death Experiment.’ “And if there was no evidence against it, Dr. Skelling, there would still be no reason to believe in its possibility. Just because something could possibly exist is no reason to believe it does.”
Skelling pursed her lips, her fingertips turning white against each other. “There is no need to patronize me, Dr. Korsev. I know the theories as well as you.”
“Then there is no need to waste my valuable time with these questions when a high school professor could answer them.” His voice was pleasant as he could make it, as usual. He tried. As much as he preferred solitude, he tried.
It was a dismissal, plain and clear. But Skelling did not move to get up. She clutched the computer in her hand, glanced down at it, and then met his gaze again in that carefully technical way. “I’m your new assistant.”
Junior stared. “What?”
“Your new assistant. Kilgan Companies transferred me here.” Her tongue ran over her pale lips, angry or nervous he did not know.
He narrowed his eyes. Kilgan Companies often worked hand-in-hand with Transec Corp., but he should have known about any employee transfer to his division, let along his own lab. Ask should have told him. Somebody should have damn well told him.
“I trust you have papers of recommendation?” He kept his voice cool, like ice just waiting to break.
Skelling reached into her handheld and pulled the papers from it, handing them over. She crossed one leg over the other, and he was a man of logic so he didn’t know what that meant.
We live in a world with no imagination, which is not to say we are not creative. Science is science, a worthy exploit – the Noble Calling - that answers all questions, given proper time. Poetry and ghost stories are for the historians. We do not have Gods. We have learned from our mistakes, and the historians record them, a brief and filthy stain turned inside-out for shame on the sheer white fabric of our recent successes.
I am on the brink of a breakthrough. The theory is simple. Even our forebears knew of it, to a rudimentary extent. Time has a lesser hold on objects moving faster than light. What if we could free ourselves from time? Imagine what can be done when time is slowed, when one has an infinite amount of time to complete any number of tasks. I am close. It is simple. A vaccine, to rid like a disease the grudge of mortality.
My wife sleeps beside me to the tune of the soft humming of our station and the peace of the wide, empty plains. She hasn’t yet woken me with her terrible dream.
Ghost stories don’t exist. There’s no such thing as ghosts.
Junior woke with a beating, aching heart. He knew, before he woke. It wasn’t one of those things you forgot. He knew his wife was not beside him without even reaching to see if her side of the bed was warm.
Lysea.
That one word, the name, came as a silent prayer meant only for her every morning, the first thing he thought before he stretched and straightened out of bed. And then, for the day, he would forget her. It was as though he had never been married, and there was a kind of pleasant solitude in this life, the life of a bachelor.
It was healthier and more satisfying to eat real vacuum packed apples and freeze dried meats and yogurt cultures for breakfast. But it was faster and simpler to get the required nutrients from a syringe.
His holographic-reflected image told him he looked appropriate for work, although sometimes he suspected high conspiracy to tell him he looked better than he did, to tell him he did not have tired circles under his eyes or a receding, gray hairline.
Back to work.
“Hi, Junior.”
“What’s up, Jake?”
“I’ve got a big proposal to give today.” The broad man crossed his fingers, made a face. That man’s facial muscles could move in the most astonishing ways, like he had his own personal makeup designer for each moment of the year. Junior smiled appreciatively. “Wish me luck.”
“You won’t need it. But good luck.”
He nodded to his secretary, quite humorously named Ask, outside, earned only through years of work and research grants. The secretary smiled back, though it was a strained smile. He reached toward his computer and grabbed the page, scanning through it briefly before handing it to Junior. “Your schedule today. There’s a woman waiting inside who wants to talk to you.”
Junior raised a thick eyebrow. “In my lab? Who is she?”
“Patricia Skelling.”
“ID?”
“Clean. Looks to be. She knows your work well in any case.” The secretary shrugged. “I thought you had an appointment with you.”
Junior quelled words he was about to spit at the secretary before it was too late. He couldn’t afford to fire another one. He wouldn’t get a replacement next time.
“Thanks.” He couldn’t, however, hide the sarcasm in his voice. He stuffed the schedule copy in his pocket. “Lock.” The doors locked behind him as he studied the woman. Her back was too him, red hair locked in a lackluster bun. His heart gave an excited leap – but no. Foolish, how the mind plays tricks on you. It wasn’t her. Upon further examination her shoulder blades stuck out a little in her dark blue jacket coat. Fingers tufted with the dominant hair trait almost delicately held in one hand a computer and in the other hand a vial. One of his vials. His work.
“Can I help you?”
She turned to him, eyebrows raised as she set down the vial. She wasn’t ugly by any means, but otherwise was quite unremarkable. “Junior.” Her voice was inappropriately fond.
He shifted, unused to being dressed so informally. “Dr. Korsev.”
The woman hesitated, and glanced down again at the handheld. “Of course. Excuse me. I’m… Dr. Skelling.” There was too much hesitation, as though she had briefly forgot her own name. Junior gestured to a desk and chairs in the corner.
“Sit down, since you’re already inside.” She didn’t seem deterred by his passive aggressive tone, but held out her hand to shake. Junior politely pretended he hadn’t seen it – who knows what world of disease she’d just come from – and turned to his desk, brushing fingertips over the carefully kept and polished presswood.
She sat. She stared at him.
“Is there a reason you’re here?” He had work to do. He could not sit around to entertain unannounced strangers.
Patricia Skelling met his gaze, but not exactly. It met all the standards for gaze-meeting technically, but with the certainty that she was actually trying to look at him. “I’ve read much of your work,” she said, and the room absolutely did not echo that hollow voice. “But I noticed, for all your work on immortality, you have only briefly, and quite without credit, touched on soul regeneration.”
Junior repeated her words in his head and knew already it was going to be a long day.
“That’s because it’s not scientifically viable,” he answered with as much calm as he could muster. “There is no evidence to support that any life exists outside the brain, or body at all for that matter.”
“There’s no evidence against it, either.”
Junior pressed his fingertips to his temple, but still did not want to seem rude. This woman had a doctorate, a professed doctor of science, and yet she came to him asking the simplest questions freshmen in college found it simple to grasp. “There is quite a bit of evidence, if we take all the research done on it to have been conducted in good faith.” He need not mention Gratz’s famous work on transplant lobotomies or Yen’s historical ‘Death Experiment.’ “And if there was no evidence against it, Dr. Skelling, there would still be no reason to believe in its possibility. Just because something could possibly exist is no reason to believe it does.”
Skelling pursed her lips, her fingertips turning white against each other. “There is no need to patronize me, Dr. Korsev. I know the theories as well as you.”
“Then there is no need to waste my valuable time with these questions when a high school professor could answer them.” His voice was pleasant as he could make it, as usual. He tried. As much as he preferred solitude, he tried.
It was a dismissal, plain and clear. But Skelling did not move to get up. She clutched the computer in her hand, glanced down at it, and then met his gaze again in that carefully technical way. “I’m your new assistant.”
Junior stared. “What?”
“Your new assistant. Kilgan Companies transferred me here.” Her tongue ran over her pale lips, angry or nervous he did not know.
He narrowed his eyes. Kilgan Companies often worked hand-in-hand with Transec Corp., but he should have known about any employee transfer to his division, let along his own lab. Ask should have told him. Somebody should have damn well told him.
“I trust you have papers of recommendation?” He kept his voice cool, like ice just waiting to break.
Skelling reached into her handheld and pulled the papers from it, handing them over. She crossed one leg over the other, and he was a man of logic so he didn’t know what that meant.
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