Week 15: The Big Project

 For Our Fathers:

 Social revolution is never easy.  Most times change is printed in the blood of the revolutionary as it is in blue or black ink and as we well know, history is written by the victor in both mediums.

  When the wars had first started I had been but a child barely past my third birthday.  Too young to comprehend why the world had gone mad but old enough to remember the three men who had taken my father away:  Two hard eyed young men in the muted greens and grays of the guard, the third in a mud stained great coat and peeked officer's cap of a commissar.  Now that I think back on it I think it was the look on the Commissar’s face, the expression I can only describe as cold, inhuman, determination that frightened me most.  Frightened me more than the impossibly large hellguns that his companions carried.

  My father had turned to us then, my older brother Darwin and I, knelt then gathered us up in his arms.  I can still hear his voice, gruff with emotion, as he whispered words of comfort I can't quite remember.  My mother joined us in the embrace, I can still remember the sensation of warm tears dampening my hair and the back of my neck; and then with a bark from the man of stone, the Commissar, my father was gone, disappeared into the glow of the outside world through the hab door.

*******

This is a short story I've been working on for a while, obviously science fiction and admittedly (unrepentantly I might add) a fan fiction.  It's actually something I started writing for a creative writing class here at school through a random prompt given by the teacher and it just took off and I grew really, really fond of the idea and the concept.  Thus I decided once I was done with the class I'd just keep writing, just keep going and see where the character's story would lead her.  However on the last portion of the short story tragedy struck: My pen drive became corrupted and I had to scrap everything I was doing and start again, this time around with a heavy time constraint.

I finished the assignment and made it to the jumping off point for the rest of the story but it wasn't nearly as flushed out or in depth as it's previous incarnation.  I had vowed that I would start again, revamp that last section and grant it the detailed look it deserved but that was almost a year ago now.

I'm not entirely sure I can pick the story up again, not because I want too, but because I fear I really don't have time or can't give the piece the depth I want to give it.  When I write, I'm my own worst critic when I reread something I've completed.  Maybe it's a flaw?  I'm not sure, but every now and then I look at this little bit of work and think "maybe in a few days...I'll be able to hammer out the kinks."

Ultimately I hope that I'll be able to finish it to a point where I'm satisfied with how things turned out.

Week 14: Painted

Pieces on the game table move six to twelve inches at a time and dice clatter across the green felted surface, determining which of the painstakingly crafted soldiers lives or dies.  It's a futuristic setting; armies clash in an imagined fire storm of lasers, plasma and solid shot that rips away at each players army, leaving the ruined crater of a make believe landscape in its wake.  Marines hold the line against legions of traitors and on a two or better on a six sided die, victory can be measured in how many ones fate decides to throw at you. 

Just as in life, this pretend war has it's champions.  Each figure meticulously chosen, sculpted, and painted to fit the players image of greatness.  They weather the storm of incoming fire as they take the field, the (un)fortunate members of the squad they are attached too soaking up incoming fire and dropping away like flies as each side's champion draws nearer to the other.  It's a contest of chance as much as skill as a fist full of six siders tumbles across the table again, each bounce of the die holds the fate of a model, the game itself, within its outcome.

The final moment arrives and the chosen figure's finally meet.  Their honor guard depleted yet their own painted finish remains unscathed.  Close quarter weapons of enormous power flash in the minds eye as each player rolls the dice around in the palm of their hands. 

The dice strike the table and spin as each player eagerly awaits the outcome.

Week 14: Worn to Imperfection..

There's a desk at the end of the hall in a room that's been left open, but rarely has anyone ever entered for very long.  The blue paint that covers the floor paneling is chipped, covered with the dirt of passing feet and the window that sits in the center of the largest wall is clouded with the dietaries of passing seasons.  But it isn't the window, or the floors, or even the book shelf lined with novels and photo albums that catches the eye in this little room.  It is the desk pressed against the far wall in this room at the end of the hall.

The wood is certainly aged, though at first glance its hard to tell just how much.  Sun from the weather beaten window has cast a yellow luster to the varnish that has made a valiant attempt to keep it's armored sheen in tact and thus leave the wood beneath unharmed.  And yet there are nicks, scraps, and chips in the wood work.  The once smooth surface is marred by the wear of age, lines crisscross the desk top and there is more than one water mark from a glass or a beverage can that has left a ring to mark its passing.  There is some regularity to the damage in parts, perhaps a name or two have been etched into the surface?  A memento of those that have come and gone; and here!  Drops of green and orange paint smeared across the trim as idle fingers brushed away the offending pigments.  One might try to check the drawers, for certainly when an attempt is made to open them something rattles inside, but they are stuck.  The rollers having long fallen off the track and jammed. eliminating any hope of opening them short of the destruction of the desk itself.

Though despite these flaws, or perhaps because of them, the desk holds a certain charm.  Its solid, whole, and fairly level. The lined grains of the wood show brilliantly through the faded finish and speaks of a time where it was once a respectable, functional piece if not a beautiful one.

Week 13: Everything Can Be Condensed...

The stadium's massive size is only contested by the wall of sound the emanates from the crowd bellow. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people raise their hands as one as the band steps onto the stage. Bodies surge forward in a irresistibly press that compacts the once spacious floor to the first two hundred feet noise made manifest just before the scaffolding of the stage. It's a primal sound, one of excitement and anticipation that only rises to new heights as the lead singer takes up the mic. A partial hush falls over the crowd as he speaks, expressing thanks to those who have come and asks for a moment of silence for those who could not join in this moment. The crowd obliges and for a moment, just a moment, the silence is so complete it downs out the echos of the last words uttered before the request.

Then, with a chest thundering base, the music begins.

When you're in a crowd like that it's like you're part of a collective, every one's moving in their own way but it's all to the same beat. Everyone knows the words to the song and everyone, or at least most of the fans, sing along. You'd be hard pressed to find another group that shares the same mind in a single moment as those that are watching their favorite band live.

As I belt out the last lines of one of my favorite songs in the relative safety of my car I can't help but smile a little. I may not be right there, in that moment, but at least I have the CD to keep reminding me what it was like.

Week 13: IN a Drawr, In a Box

As I'm sifting through my things after the move I find, tucked away amidst the odds and ends of my life thus far, a small oak box stained dark and etched with Celtic knot work on the lid. I pause for a moment and settle down on my new bed and simply hold it, my thumbs trace every nick and imperfection on the otherwise smooth surface. After a moment I open the box and study the contents within. Afternoon light catches the dull edge of a collection of sea glass. The various scuffed colors of blue, green, and the occasional reds have been scuffed to an odd smoothness by years of being tossed about amidst the sands and ties of the ocean. I pick one up and think back on where we found them, walking along the beach in Bar Harbor, how excited she was when she'd turned over a few rocks and found this catch of gem-like glass. I smile and sift my fingers through the small catch. I have to wonder if the men and women at sea had even thought how popular their cast offs would become? Or was it simply a ocean going party that had dropped a few bottles of brew and swept them over the side without a thought? I'm pretty sure the company that had produced theis bits of glass I now hold in my hand hadn't given it much thought.

Week 13: For Want of A Nail

The sun's rays were beating down on my back through the quickly diminishing layer of sun screen like a consistent stream of hammer blows. I winced as I bent down to pick up the last piece of wood for the scaffolding and hauled it into place. We've been working on this little shack for hours and, finally, the end was just with our reach. With a grunt I turned and braced the frame against my shoulder and cast about for the last name I'd need to get this sucker in place. I fished through the pockets of my jeans and produced a whole assortment of odds and ends: Screws, receipts, a laser pointer and some lint...but no nail. My eyes scan the ground quickly from left to right. There's an gaggle of things strewn about the green grass,much like the contents of my pockets there screws, bits of wood and saw dust as well as other odds and ends litter the area about my feet but no nails....but wait! Amidst the jumble of stuff a small box catches my eye and, with a groan, I lean down and pluck. They aren't the length I'd like to use but they'll reach through the wood, if just barely. I consider the box as I turn it over in my hands then shrug. It should be alright if I pound enough of the little suckers in there.... Later that week we're putting the siding up on the shed, the weather is thankfully overcast yet warm enough not to be uncomfortable. We're working over time to get this thing done before the rain that's predicted to hit later this week comes. The sound of our hammers echoes through the woods and I pause to look over the work as Stephan walks over to me. His glance first at me then at the shed is through squinted eyes and he's looking at the section of wall I'd put up the other day. "That looks a bit off, you get everything together alright?" I nod as I squint at the section in turn. I can't find what he's looking for but if he says it's off... "It was secure when I put it up." He nods and heads back over to finish on his section of the siding. Two weeks later as I'm loading a small bucket of mulch into the shed I hear a large crack from the back corner of the shed and the entire section of the structure starts to lean dangerously to one side. With a cry of alarm I rush over to brace the section with my shoulders and keep it upright. As I do so I catch a glimpse of five or six short nails sticking out of the wood work right where the section had let go. They weren't long enough to hold the thing together after all.

Week 12: I am an English Teacher. All English Teachers like, but I'm telling you the truth.

It's the usual sort of day in my morning English class: The student collective is sluggish, hunched over their books or nursing half warm cups of coffee in an attempt to maintain a state of wakefulness. In contrast our proff is her usual self, bright eyed and energetic, she's trying to get us to engage in a conversation. Usually we're pretty reluctant, or just not awake enough, to really be up to the task but today we're on the subject of Young Goodman Brown; a story that seems to have energised our usually dreary minds. The question that has been posed is thus: What do you think happened in the woods? Is it real or imagined? The conversation moves about the room and is actually starting to pick up as more of my classmates warm to the subjects: Good vs Evil, Reality vs Perception. Was it a dream? Some of them think so, others don't. I have something of a different opinion which I eagerly voice as I'm called on. "Well..I really don't see how it matters if it was real or a dream." there's a moment of silence and I feel the sudden surprising weight of eyes on me as I take a quick glance about the room. I thought it somewhat obvious...in a philosophical sort of way at least. If what Goodman Brown had seen, real or imagined had impacted his life in such an extreme way it matters very little of the demonic visions he saw in the woods were imaginary; they were real to him. The Prof seems almost to be in shock, but finds her voice. "Of course it matters! If it wasn't real then why did he distance himself from his wife and the members of his community?" I'm not sure if she's upset over my opinion or not so I simply smile and nod. I thought it was a pretty keen observation anyways.