Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Fragment from novel.

      “Angels are not demons. We have no issue with killing, or bodies, or gore. But it is hard to tempt with virtues as angel do when people are scared and terrified. So they shunt people, as you called it. No mess, no fuss, no body to find ... at least not in their lifetime.”
      “But Nicole was murdered. And Daniel. So whoever is doing this told the angel to kill, and it put both Tammi-Anne and Jennifer somewhen else. But they’re after some kind of revenge, enough to have demanded it leave bodies.”
      Mr. Peterson nodded. “The angels do not pay attention to this world as we do. They just toss people through time, finish what they were present for, and leave. We often find uses for those put out of time.”
      “So they’re both dead, then?”
      “Quite likely. Or famous, rich, reviled. It would depend on the kind of skills they had, what they could truly bring of the the present to the past.”
      “Cellphones?” I said dryly.
      “How cute. No. They have many uses that do not involve the destruction of this world. Ringtones, on the other hand.” Mr. Peterson smiled. “We convinced one person put out of time to invent them.”
      “Okay, now I know you’re just trying to pull my leg.”
      “1993,” the demon said calmly. “We also caused the actual Noika Tune to be invented in 1903 to ensure ringtones would exist. Tárrega ran away three times during his childhood, and no one truly knows why. Even with impaired vision he saw what his father really was, though never what was planned for his music.”
      “This is, seriously, how demons try and destroy the world?”
      “We use the angels cast-offs for other methods as well. The black death was caused by nanotech from a boy in 2112.”

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Two Ficlets

Bigfoot is Evil

"Do you have to video everything?"
"Think Blair Witch, Karen!"
"Think: We're lost, and you're using a VHS camcorder. Why didn't you just lug along a slide projector?"
"We're both on edge but this video will make us Famous!"
"Dave, everyone knows there's no such thing as Bigfoot!"
"You saw the tracks!
"And I've seen people fake crop circles, Dave."
"Think outside the box, Karen. Has anyone told Bigfoot it didn't exist?"
"No, but this is a giant bear-person you are talking about. What if it was real?"
"Wouldn't it eat people?"
"That's just silly. Bigfoot would just be an animal, Karen. You can't expect me to believe Bigfoot is evil! Karen? Screaming won't get you out of carrying the equipment. Karen? This isn't funny, Kar ...."

Trapping the Bigfoot

"I don't believe it. The first Bigfoot captured, Henderson. They said it couldn't be done -- I even said it, but you captured it!"
"I just set a trap that can capture anyone."
"You must explain this to me. What kind of food can trap any creature? I've never heard of such a thing."
"Did you ever read comics?"
"See? I used this."
"You captured the Bigfoot with a Hostess Fruit Pie?"
"It worked, didn't it? Ah, waving it around might be unwise."
"Henderson, this is science! Your joke is not -- dear god, it broke the cage!"
"I told you not to wave Hostess at it! Throw the fruit pie or lose your hand!"
"She just ate it. Whole. Did you see those teeth?"
"She's choking! The wrapper. You never took off the wrapper!"
"She was coming right at me, Henderson. I didn't think. I didn't ... how do you Heimlich the Bigfoot? Christ, she's dying. You know what this means?"
"You murdered the greatest advance in cryptozoology ever?"
"No. Well, yes, but we can't tell anyone. Ever. They'd never believe about the Hostess Fruit Pies."

Wednesday, May 06, 2009

Two poems

Just two poems written on break today.


"My god!" he said, and words
I did not know,
face stained with longing,
skin-toned skin blemished
with failed dreams

and we stood out by the ocean
looking for nothing, his tears
adding a few drops -- less
ripples than a pebble

and I said the worn stones must
believe in spite of evidence
they would not erode away

"The tide comes in. Always,"
he said, rough, almost harsh
(so much depends on almost)

I imagine, I said, the stones hope
it won't come tomorrow --
few things are certain
beside sunsets being beautiful

and we waited watching the tide
transform the beach, washing away,
and he almost smiled.

"Maybe tomorrow," to the tide,
the ocean, the stars, me,
and you.


I held the poem for
an hour, supper
calling, feeling
it die to potatoes
& gravy & a mash of stuff.

The few that remain
(barely a turn of phrase)
surrender to desert
never to be known.

Stomach growls, sated;
heartburn later coming
from sorrow, soothed
by late night snacks.