On the third floor of the stacked parking garage, I sit hunkered down. Locked in the dirty black Jetta that I’ve squeezed into a sardine can spot, almost touching the concrete wall. It’s what I want. No one can get in from either side. The spate of pounding grey rain outside panders to the mood. I can watch from here. See what passes under the showerhead streetlights. Too much nondescript traffic pulsing, pulsing, all bleached black in the deluge. The time window is long tonight, and I’ve smoked my last half pack. I risk rolling down a window to let out the blue, then think shit, I shoulda left it. It’ll last longer. In my jacket pocket, there’s a cyanide candy for me. A glossy gel cap, in case they come and find a way to bust the armored glass. Quick dissolving. There’s someone I have to find and readjust. Tonight, it’s a She. A needle in a haystack, so I’ve been told. After all, this is Tokyo. But I am secure in my own self, and I know what I can do. The coordinates are true. I know that the one I wait for will be more nondescript than even the rest of the floaters going by. It’s always the way. They think it’s perfect camouflage, but subtlety’s been my study for a while now. I open the glove box, fumble around for more ciggies, no luck. Until I touch a long plastic tube. Yesss, it’s that Kanda Leaf cigar that buddy gave me from off world. Maybe a little stale now, but it’ll do, for more blue. The things that I know about the Runners mean that there’s a big price on my head. I have to stop her, empty her hard drives, and feed in some handy counterpoints. Otherwise, they’re going to be successful in slipping this aberration of time into”Our” continuum. This has been their seventh attempt, and they are here for a reason: to eliminate a bloodline, to prevent what they see as a catastrophic event that will bring their world order down, five thousand years from our “Now”.
Monthly Archives: July 2018
The house of You
Awoke were mine eyes
and tangled was i
in the webs of the house of you.
But a light had arisen
in that windowless prison
and a pathway had come into view.
The storms you collected
their practice perfected
they swarmed and they battered anew
but i busted your cleaving
and as i was leaving
another had sailed with me too.
painting by Jaroslaw Jasnikowski
Cassandra’s dream
Gerald. My Gerald, my boy.
I seem to wake on this snowy night, and, my boy, my little boy, you are deeply asleep, but you float in my room. You are a balloon boy on a string, and, bumbling against the ceiling, you drift toward my open window….why? why? did I leave it so?
I grab onto your string….ah! my little boy!…..but you are taken fast out into the night.
I climb out quickly, something is tugging you away, away. I hold fast onto your lifeline, and run stumbling out into the cold white.
A seething throng, out of the birch forest, all pale, all living death, all grasping with bony hands, all floating, has come to take you.
They pull, they pull, they sighingly say you belong with them.
Gerald, your eyes open and you are in fear, my son.
How comes this visitation? What have I done?
My dear dear boy. My life.
***
Art by Michael MacRae
All in good time
Some days,
the sun seems to stare.
Like the Great Eye of Mordor.
A spotlight finding us out.
(I think, in the stupor of early dawn)
What has it seen? We wonders, yes we wonders.
“Everything under the sun”. So.
In its ever exploding light,
the very beginnings of time.
Eons. Ages. Epochs….ancestral.
Our scuttlings, squabbles, struggles, sorrows, and loves.
Who will witness its neon death?
Will they be gone before the time?
Star children of another realm.
Next stop in the infinite.
Aremyfeetofftheground 