As the revelations of old were borne on the wings of angels
The prophecies of now come on swift digital wings
We can only hope
They are not so fickle
As the messengers of old
July 15, 2013
From “Digitangels” by Andryw D. Gint
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July 14, 2013
From “The Eternal Cycle” by Ogden Hardeman
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1970 – The Home Renovation Show, 11:30am Tuesdays on NBS
“Ugh, look at this hardwood floor! It’s so ugly and dated. What were they thinking?”
“I know, I know. Don’t worry, they’re coming tomorrow to put down fresh and contemporary shag carpet tomorrow.”
2000 – Home Renovation, 2:00pm Saturdays on the Repair Network
“Blech, look at this shag carpet! If there’s an uglier and more dated floor covering, I’ve yet to see it.”
“We’re tearing it up tomorrow. There’s nice hardwood underneath, and the guys are coming to stain it tomorrow.”
2030 – HomeRen, 5:00am Fridays on Repair.com Livefeed by Holo
“Man, look at this hardwood! Yuck. 2000 called, they want their outdated crap back.”
“Yeah, it’s painful. But there’s a guy coming tomorrow to carpet it over.”
July 13, 2013
From “A Murder of Crows’ Reuptations” by Brys-Hych Cohran
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: animals, crows, fiction, story |Leave a Comment
“I’m sorry, I was expecting a-”
“Let me guess,” said the crow, its voice raspy and harsh. “You were expecting an eagle.”
“Well…”
“A hawk, then. Or an owl. Maybe a pretty flitting little songbird.”
Corrie bristled. “I said I was sorry. Among my kind that’s usually enough.”
“And among my kind, one doesn’t interrupt until the other has finished speaking!” snapped the crow. “Humans! All so alike, thinking that your perceptions are right and correct. Ooh, hawks and eagles are so honorable. Ooh, owls are so wise. Ooh, songbirds are so pretty. You know what? They’re not. That’s ignorance, the same things we crows are always accused of when we eat the crops you are trying to hoard for yourself.”
Tactfully, Corrie thought about her reply for a moment. “So what is the truth, then?”
“The truth is that hawks are sharp-eyed bullies that pick on things that are tiny or dying and are so proud they don’t deign to speak to anyone but their own kind. Owls are dullards who compare the size and consistency of their vomited pellets as casual conversation. And songbirds? If they spoke your language or you theirs you’d see that their songs are all ribald ballads about females with big eggs. None of them so intelligent as crows to be able to learn human tongues, all of them living by brute force and luck instead of their wits.”
“I had no idea.”
“Of course not,” said the crow. “The others are too dull to take advantage of humans’ warped ideas of them, and only we crows are intelligent enough to know we’re being insulted.”
July 12, 2013
From “The Last Desk” by Altos Wexan
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I saw a man flirting with a girl behind a desk
Leaned over to suggest the casual amid a careful pose
I wanted to hate him for it, lips curled silently
For I envied him that pose, that desk, that woman
(For she seemed lovely and intelligent, in as much
As observation suffices for such qualities)
But I could not
For I have too often been leaned over that desk
A thousand, ten thousand of its sister desks
Striking the same too-obvious pose
Fumbling for the same words
Listening without listening
Smiling without smiling
A mirror’s brutal truth
The same hollow act, the same hallowed act
I saw myself in him, and my ideal in her
I left them be without a word, a sound, a gesture
Not with hate, but with hope
I hope he has better fortune than I
I hope this desk will be his last leaning
Lean no more, my brother; lean no more
July 11, 2013
From “Book of Summer Scents” by Nekar Weiss
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: beach, books, fiction, literature, story |[2] Comments
There was very little in the room–all the clothes were neatly packed away, suitcases in the closet. Not so much as a wrinkle in the cover. But then, that was Jane for you…fastidious to a point.
The only thing askance in the entire room was a brightly-colored paperback on the nightstand. The Popular Tree. It was a sentimental story about a big-city girl finding herself by returning to her home town for a funeral, and a New York Times bestseller. It was easy to see why the title had appealed to Jane; she had been back in town from far-off Hopewell for only about a month. Her small home, with its lakeside view and sliver of golden sand beach, was more like a hotel room, with all the major items still in storage.
But that book…touching it, fanning the pages, one couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the sense of it, before reading a single word. The cheap paperback pages had sponged up every scent of Jane’s month-long beachside stay. The aroma of sunblock, of water, of fish…shampoo, clean cotton, even a hint of nail polish. The Popular Tree had absorbed them all, and to be near it was to have those sweet memories of blissful afternoons unlocked.
It was a bauble too bright and too intoxicating for the house as it now stood. All the warmth and memory in the world couldn’t wash away the bitter truth behind Jane’s book.
It had been the last thing she ever read.
July 10, 2013
From “Scandal at the 2013 PTA Book Sale” by Em Njcole Mayers
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“Wow, so generous of Mr. Hanna to donate all these books for the PTA book sale! What’s that one there called?”
“It’s, um…Sex: An Owner’s Manual.”
“Yeah, let’s put that in the reject pile. Next one?”
“Let’s see…Smut: The Misunderstood Art.”
“Next box. What have you got?”
“It’s Pornographers: The Fourth Estate.”
“…how many boxes did you say Hanna gave us?”
“Fifty-three. Give or take.”
July 9, 2013
From “A Tropical Simmering” by Adam Younis Tursi
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A little later than usual, maybe, but the thick, wet blanket of summer has finally been rolled over the landscape by summer’s heavy hand. Stained by the sweat and juice of a day in the field followed by a hearty repast like a well-worn old tablecloth, it clings to you even when you retreat inside, into the meatlocker sanctuary of recirculated and cooled air.
The heat gets rubbed into you deep, like the spices of a Memphis barbecue, all spice and fog, all raw and dripping. It takes time, especially if you’re not used to its all-consuming humid embrace. People from up north stand it a little better each year until their blood thins out, just like swapping winter oil for summer in an old Ford.
You see them, the people who were born into the heat or grown used to it. They move with a weary and sparkling deliberateness, each step, each motion held against the cost in sweat and toil paid up front or in the laundromat. People have said that this is laziness, but it’s more introspection than anything. Thoughts don’t cost so much as a sweat-bead in a heat where waving hello might as well be dipping a hand in an ocean.
Empires have been forged and lost on those hot days, on porches, beneath shaded boughs, fanned by hand or machine. Empires of the world, sometimes, though not nearly so much as in the old days. Empires of the mind, of the soul, with all the grandeur and suffering that come loaded like bullets in that word.
July 8, 2013
From “Hobb’s Dream” by Komo Yoshimura
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: emotion, fiction, fiefdom, flares, helion, moon rise, right arm, robot, steel arms, story |Leave a Comment
In time, the few who knew how to operate the ancient machines of old became pariahs. Their skills, once so useful to the builders of empires, now shunned by those who lived in their weed-choked ruins.
Some tried to use their machines, their great engines of war, to carve new empires for themselves. But they could never extend their authority beyond the reach of their vehicles’ steel arms, and there was no more fuel to replace that which they burned, and no stores of missiles and bullets to reload their emptying racks and magazines. Such petty hedge-empires fell as quickly as they arose; even working in concert, the pilots who had been behind the ruin of their world needed just what they had destroyed too much.
Then there was Hobb.
Hobb’s machine was still functional, if battle-scarred. Its legs had been shot off at the Tombs, and it had lost its right arm holding back the 83rd from the gates of Helion. All but two of its external missiles had been fired, and its countermeasure flares were limited to a single fresh magazine of six–all the techs at Ouroboros had been able to load before the city fell. The pilot’s station was unarmored and exposed, its composite and multiplex stripped off to keep other units running during the Long Retreat.
Still, Hobb might have carved himself out a minor fiefdom with his machine and a little skill, and brought him something greater than his rude shack on the outskirts of what had once been Helion. If only for a bit.
Not Hobb.
He used his machine’s repulsordrive sparingly, to carry him on clear nights to heights undreamt-of by the people below. There, he’d watch the moon rise and the city slumber.
July 7, 2013
From “The Five Kay Runns” by Jake V. Dimartino
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: 5k run, dirk, fiction, humor, mitzy, runn, sports, story |Leave a Comment
“Who is Kaye Runn?” Mitzy demanded.
“What? Who?” Dirk cried into his handset.
“Don’t lie,” Mitzy yelped, anguished. “I overheard you talking about ‘that fine Kay Runn’ you’re going to be ‘doing’ tomorrow!”
“5K Run…I said I was doing a 5k Run! You know, running 5 kilometers? Those communist miles that they use in Canada?”
A pause on Mitzy’s end of the line. “Oh, okay. I’m sorry. How embarrassing.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dirk said smoothly. “I’ll see you tomorrow night for dinner like we planned, okay?”
“Who was that, lover?” Kay’s voice floated in from the bedroom.
“Oh, nobody…nobody,” Dirk said. “Now, let’s see about setting a new record, Ms. Runn…!”
July 6, 2013
From “Song of the Old Cell” by B. Berri Bowled
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, poetry, story |Leave a Comment
We are the castoffs
The forgotten
The passé
Useful still
But no longer new
Scars of hard days
Long days of use
Worn heavy on us
Your former partners
Left to molder
Drawers our pockets
We see the new
And wait for it
To be beside us
Looking out
With envy
On a world passed by
