Time after Time. (2)

I’m inside the capsule. I have only two controls. A Jump button which allows me to exit any given situation, and a signal button that requests a return to home base. They wish me well. There’s no need to be strapped in, but I fasten the belt anyway. Taking a breath, I hit JUMP. Within two seconds, a low frequency electric thrum is felt, and blackness descends over me like a hood.

This is unexpected, and I’m alarmed. But so is everything on this excursion. The thrumming grows louder, gains in frequency, then stops. Complete silence, then almost blinding light. The light of day. What I see are the dreary remains of a forest, all beige and grey deadwood leaning this way and that. Central to the scene is a narrow stream, over which a teenage girl is squatting to pee. Her long nightgown is soiled, stained, soaked. She has her head down, and pees through the gown. The stream, in the full sunlight, is multicoloured, as if fed from a fluorescent paint factory. She straightens up, stands oddly. She is missing a foot. I am disturbed by her face. She has a maniacal grin, and blue eyes without whites. She spreads her arms, upturns her face, and lets out a howl of utter misery and desolation. I cannot help. She cannot see me…..JUMP.

I am on a green plateau far above a wide lowland.  It is twilight.  The scene has an aspect of ancientness.  In the land below me, I see many many small fires being lit (campfires of an army?)  As I watch, there are more and more, in the hundreds or thousands.  Twilight deepens.  Along the faint line of the horizon, I see black shapes approaching in the sky.  From my point of view, they are triangles flying in formation, each with faint dotted lights on its underside.  They are closer now, almost over the encampment below me, and they move more slowly.  They begin to tumble, but do not lose their position relative to one another.  I think of dice being rolled in very slow motion, and I see that they are not triangles, but pyramids.  They have ceased their forward progress over the valley, and I now hear a growing swell of adulation or celebration from the throngs around the fires.  This scene has held me enthralled, but I grow anxious about this first trial of our theories.  JUMP….

Twilight once again.  I am on the edge of a dusty dirt road.  Dozens of people (prisoners?) are being led naked by black robed figures with electric prods.  The road ends abruptly in a drop off to a large pit, from which smoke or fumes is rising.  There are cries and moans from the people.  One of them breaks ranks with the group.  He makes a run for it, coming in my direction.  Several of the black figures are still standing in the roadway, and, with one stroke, one of them cuts him in half with a beam from the prod.  I hear and feel the thumps as the body lands.  I think perhaps he was the lucky one.

I CALL FOR HOME.

The thrum begins anew, and the hood of darkness descends.  In no time, I am back in the brightness of our shop.  Tom and Jerry approach me with looks of anticipation, but I am quite dazed and cannot answer questions right away.  Tom walks over to the monkey’s cage, and brings him out.  I am still sitting in the machine, but preparing to stand up.  Tom says “Rod, you said there was something a little different about our little guy here.  Can you tell what it is?”  I think back, and recall that Mickey the Monkey, whom we had rescued from a bad environment,  had been missing part of a paw and also had an injury to one of his eyes.  Mickey now had the same injuries, but they were reversed, left to right.

They do not ask me about my trip, but glance covertly at one another.  I notice the sun coming through the small curtained window is a shade of blue, as if shone through a lens filter.  They move toward me, and Jerry says You’re not Rod……….JUMP.


 

Time after Time

Einstein and Tesla were on its trail.  Many more speculated.  H. G. Wells brought it to the public imagination.  I’m asking you to suspend disbelief in favour of entertainment, and to go along with my story about  a trio of garage engineers who think they are one of the first to have accomplished it.  The unraveling of time.  The capability to view, but not influence, short scenes from the past and from the future.

My name is Rod, and my partners are two nerdy guys named Thomas and Jerry (yes, Tom & Jerry).  We are bachelors, and probably with good reason.  From a secluded underground room in the Hydro plant where Jerry works as an engineer, we have built a machine that made a monkey disappear, and, within minutes, come back to us in an altered state.  The room was part of a network of storage vaults for tools, equipment and the like.  We had access to it because Jerry had some pretty damaging life-changing information about one of the security guards.

Three years it has taken us to come to this point.  What we really wanted was to have control over where and when the machine would go, but so far it is random and without control.  The traveler has no way of knowing the time or place of his visions, and, as mentioned, cannot influence things in any way.  We nicknamed it Galadriel’s Mirror.
The only thing we can do from this end is to bring it back.  The unfortunate monkey could not have known he was making history.

I am certainly not going to tell you how this works, or regale you with imaginative stories of golden levers with glass handles, flashing lights, and the world going by at fast forward as the stupefied traveler sits in his comfy seat.
Our simplified concept sees time as if it were contained in the grooves on a long-playing record of infinite size.  These grooves hold the information of what has been since the beginning, and what will be in the Ever.  The record is there to be seen.  Jumping the grooves is what no one (as far as we know) has been able to do.  To send the machine on its way requires a great amount of energy that must be sustained until its return.  Hence, our life saving deal with the security guard.

After the first shock of seeing our little passenger leave and return, we observed him closely before removing him from his plastic cage.  He was breathing rapidly and looked a little nervous and pale as his glance darted from place to place.  He was unwilling at first, but we coaxed him out.  I picked him up and checked his vitals which were alright aside from the pulse and respiration.  These were calming down quickly.  We let him loose.  He was still a little agitated, jumping from place to place and peering nervously in all directions.  But, there was something a little different about him that I could not put my finger on.

The others noted nothing, and declared our work a success.

And now, it was time for me to go.


To be continued…

Time after Time. (2)

My little Miss

The thing was, I couldn’t take her with me any more. Please understand. That frozen November morning, the ground was too hard for a burial, and after I had cried a while I searched through an old storage shed for a spade. Having tried the hard earth, and despairing of a proper grave, I wrapped her thin body in many layers of plastic from a roll that I had found there. The broken house next to the shed once had a rock garden, and its members were put to good use in building her cairn.

In late September we had met, she the first living creature of my kind fortunate enough to be here still, in this outpost of desolation. I had been aimlessly following the railway tracks, and had spotted a far off station.  I quickened my pace, thinking to find food and shelter there.  On the platform she sat, all dirty, with dangling legs ending in two different shoes.  Maybe nine or ten years old.   She was trying to crack acorns collected in a shopping bag, then saw me, dropped it, and began to run down the tracks.  One shoe came off and she fell, crying and picking pebbles from her wounded knees.

Approaching slowly, I held out a bottle of juice and a can of sardines from my pack.  She allowed me to pick her up and set her once more on the platform’s edge.  The crying had subsided to a hiccup-like sob.  She said nothing as I got our meal ready, but ate and drank readily.  I tried her with questions, but no.  She would not, or could not, speak.  I never knew her name, I am sad to say, and so I just called her “Miss”.  I think, now, that she was not a mute, but had been forced by the horrors to travel deeply into herself.

The station platform did, in its way, offer food and shelter.  The food was from a vending machine full of chocolate bars and chips.  I smashed it open by pushing it off the platform.  We enjoyed our unhealthy meals for a time, then had to move on.  Little Miss, with renewed energy, ran ahead of me many times.  Other days, in the weary cold, I carried her piggyback.

Just four days ago, I think, after a long and fruitless journey, we had come to the last of the food, a bit of roasted rabbit I had saved “for the end”.  Missy had become very lethargic of late because of the short rations and the creeping cold.  I had made a fire to help warm us up, and we had our best meal in a long while.  When dawn came, I awakened to find that we had come in a circle.  In the foggy morning, I could make out the decrepit station and its violated vending machine.  I confess that in my weakness, I hung my head and cried.

That night, I made a fire on the tracks, and contrived to build it around one of the railway ties,  so our blaze was very warm and merry.  Later, the snow started in earnest, and we had to shelter in a small maintenance room whose door I had forced.  Gone was the warmth.  We each had a blanket roll with us, but it was poor comfort from the cold floor and icy walls.  Through the night, I awoke to a strange silence.  The storm had abated, but so had something else.  My little Miss breathed no more.  I prayed stupidly to the lord of the starfields.

I am beaten now, I think.   That silent soul, that Someone I needed, and who needed me, gone without a hope of a loving word.

How can I…..
How can I….

My God.

An angry fall

Sleet on the windshield
The road’s first glaze of ice
A Van Gogh vortex of winds
Vacuums up colour
Spews greyness

The Maple Leaf flag whips, rips, then sails
Hold onto your hat!

Do that windy pantomime
As you grope the door handle
Hah! Inside at last!
(As it slams behind you in a fit of pique)

Just get me in bed
Plug in that blanket
Bring me a tea
And, in the morning,
Pretty Please
Would you just
Warm up those long johns
And fill up that travel mug with something nice and hot.

Vedge Bad

I do not like asparagus
That rooty shooty plant
And you won’t really care, I guess,
About this silly rant
Its stems are pulpy, woody-like.
Its tips have tiny spades.
That look for all the world, to me,
Like mini hand grenades.

I’ve tried to cook it many ways
And give it proper lovin’.
I’ve boiled and steamed and creamed and braised
And shrunk it in the oven.
My daddy used to buy it canned
And put it on his toast.
I fancied him a true gourmand
And to my friends I’d boast.

But, now that I’m a very cook
(I’ve tried each recipe)
I’ve tasted all, and by the book,
But it gives me smelly pee.

Something isn’t right here – Candice Louisa Daquin

TheFeatheredSleep's avatarWhisper and the Roar

As a woman, you’re taught

To speak frankly, but not too loud

Consequences for girls are worse

So I learned

To whisper in a roar

And when I cried, I showed nobody

Using the tears as fertilizer

For my wild garden

I am not a person who believes cruel answers anything

why ruin someone just because you can? As a punchline?

once I was called ‘too nice’ and I am often referred to as ‘sweet’

which are probably both gentle character assassinations

I admit it is not so great being a gentle soul, because people admire

bitches, sarcasm, sass, verve (is that still a word?), spite, caustic(ism) and other

signs someone is strong, because if you are cruel

you are seen as hip in this society

even my neighbor likes it when we shoot the shit and she gets that

glassy-eyed affection for tearing people down and asks me all…

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The mechanics of falling

the knee bone’s connected to the thigh bone
but neither’s connected to the eye bone.

what once the sinews did remember
without resort to math
is now in doubt, in life’s December
we walk a crooked path

trusting not our gyroscopes
that used to keep us balanced
trying to keep our highest hopes,
but vertically challenged

at the stairs on weakened knees
we grip the wooden railing
we used to take them by the threes
but confidence is failing

crocs and socks and velcro shoes
are all the rage these days
be careful of the path you choose
and watch your wending ways!

Twenty… this dream of anxiousness.

I turn around to an unfamiliar sound.
My strange neighbor stands in my yard.
He has a hose, and sprays casually,
glancing furtively in my direction.
The water is warm.
He turns his back to me, then quickly comes around.
Spraying now a fan of fine white sand.
I run for a broom, a shovel, a hope.
i return to backyard dunes,
as over the fence he floats, gone.
I slide open my back door,
admitting encroaching sands,
and run through my house to the front room.
Someone has laid a dead rodent on the white pile carpet.
It smells as i pick it up, and leaves a stain.
A face appears behind my front curtains, then flees.
An image of a long dead niece.
From behind the sofa, a giggle.
I bolt through the front door.
The street is dunes of white.
There is a plant pot placed in my driveway.
A single stick, bereft of foliage, sprouts from it.
And, hanging from a branch, a furniture tag.
It bears the word ICARUS.