High on stage the newly elected president smiled at the cheering crowd with tears in his eyes. All those months of hard campaigning, of late night meetings and careful palm greasing had paid off. Not bad for a small town kid who first arrived at the Big Apple with nothing but a straw hat on his head. Not bad for an open homosexual.
As Derick West, the country's first gay president, took the mic among the flashes of dozens of cameras to begin his speech, a small part of him recalled that single quiet night when his old pa had sat next to his bed, still partly in shock at the revealation, repeating over and over that they would always love him, no matter what he did with his life. Because he was their son.
Because he was special.
Half a street and ten stories away, Gerald Nicole downed another glass of 1910, glaring through the tinted windows at the parade below as his rival achieved everything he had dreamed of. Since childhood he had aced every test, excelled through every sport, had specialized tutors and expensive courses, all to groom him for the inevitable day when he would lead his nation to glory. But now? All the fund raisers, expert panels, midnight consultations, all for naught. He had a tested IQ of 250 and an equally strong EQ. Nothing could have gone wrong.
Except now here he stood watching some under-qualified country boy bag the presidency. Gerald finished the bottle and slammed it onto the rosewood desk. It just wasnt fair. He deserved that position more than anybody. Because all the tests told him he did. Because he did not have to rely on some cheap campaigning trick to win.
Because he was special.
Patterson watched from within the throngs of the media ad the new president walked on stage. The cheers of the ignorant masses around him were sickening, but Patterson endured as he always did. In his childhood he had watched as these perfect machine-line boys and girls walked on stage to receive thier prizes. He had endured the beatings and scoldings for refusing to follow the flock. Even as an adult his employers were biased against him, his projects were shut down without reason, his voice censored over the web. He was doomed by society to remain forever mediocre for not being one of the sheep. The irony was not lost on him. For years he thought himself alone. But someone had spoke to him, found in him a kindred spirit, showed what he had to do to break the chains of his fellow man.
The president began his speech. Patterson smiled and opened his coat, revealing a single detonator. He laughed as his body blazed in simultaneous detonation, his heart without a single regret. In a single instant, the entire parade was consumed in a destructive, bright light. Patterson now knew why he had endured all that pressure, all that humiliation, all that pain. Because someone had recognized him for his worth. Because he had fulfilled a purpose far above that of his fellow sheep.
Because he was special.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Empty
Bit by bit the life seeps out
Despite the lies and marching shouts
My hand is empty, my heart in doubt
Have I laid the cards right or thrown each bout?
Despite the lies and marching shouts
My hand is empty, my heart in doubt
Have I laid the cards right or thrown each bout?
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Hello World...?
Imagine how a baby feels when its first born. When all its senses, cushioned for nine months in the warmth of the mother's womb, the only sounds the beat of her heart and the gentle mumur's drifting in from outside. No light, no taste, no smells. And then, birth;
The harsh glares of an operating room, the sterilized smells of the tools and beds, the beeps and flashes of the various machines, the taste of blood and the chill of the air...
All at once.
So it is for each stage of life, being born anew, from a different womb into a different theatre, sometimes with surgeons all a-clamor, sometimes with barely a soul around.
And with it, new rules, new feelings, new thoughts, new horomones, new processes, new information, new journeys and new mountains to climb...
I think know now why a baby cries.
------------------------------------------------------------
Blessed I am, for the friends I've made,
Blessed I am, for the parents I have
Blessed I am, for this body and mind;
Alas Lord, my soul is Weak,
Undeserving,
Naive.
And yet...
Blessed I am;
But why?
The harsh glares of an operating room, the sterilized smells of the tools and beds, the beeps and flashes of the various machines, the taste of blood and the chill of the air...
All at once.
So it is for each stage of life, being born anew, from a different womb into a different theatre, sometimes with surgeons all a-clamor, sometimes with barely a soul around.
And with it, new rules, new feelings, new thoughts, new horomones, new processes, new information, new journeys and new mountains to climb...
I think know now why a baby cries.
------------------------------------------------------------
Blessed I am, for the friends I've made,
Blessed I am, for the parents I have
Blessed I am, for this body and mind;
Alas Lord, my soul is Weak,
Undeserving,
Naive.
And yet...
Blessed I am;
But why?
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Background Noise
In the darkness of the room, Jean fingered a tiny remote.
He had been careful, so careful with his project. Months and months of preperation, hundreds of dollars in equipment, survillence, bribes to make sure that no information was leaked out, that no one took offense at his work.
The city wasn't large, and thankfully, not that developed. Not enough for the latest in anti-bugging technology, or sweeping tools.
Around him loomed the chromed metal frames of half a dozen instruments. Black wires snaked from each of them, connecting the essential bits of hardware and software together. Above his house sat a massive satellite dish, one he had installed just under an hour ago. It would take a while for the privacy agents to notice. Until then, he would enjoy the fruits of his labor.
He pressed the remote.
Control panels lit up, blinking like stars in the clear night sky. The whirling of a thousand processors and their respective cooling units filled the room, but thankfully, was unable to penetrate the soundproof padding of the massive headphones he wore around his head. The dish hummed and beeped, as the first of the many, many signals came it.
Patter. Patter.
It was the sound of rain.
Somewhere in the city, a storm had formed.
This was joined in by the rustling of leaves in the park, the tap tap of footsteps down the tiled office floors, the whisper of sheets in a clothes maker's shop, the gurgling of coffee at the cafe next door...
The cries of babies in the hospital wards. The sweeping of brooms down the dusty allyways. The screeching of cars, the honking of a band, the slamming of classroom doors and the thunk-thud of falling cans.
They all joined together, melded together, the computers calculating and adjusting, blending the noises and melodies of the city into a single, perfect symphony.
In the background, the chatter rose. Voices of office workers, of artists in their homes, of students in their canteen, of sweepers down the streets. Of shoppers at the mall, of sportsmen in their gyms...all of the chatter rose and fell, their meaning and exact words lost and screened as the formed one crowd, the heartbeat of civilization.
Months of work. Months spent placing those tiny recievers on every broom. On the odd door, office corner, water-cooler, toilet. On plates and tyres, on flowers even. Just for this.
This was the music of the city. Of people, of their creations, of the things they did. Yet no one paid attention, trapped in their tiny bubbles of music, pumped into their ears from an even tinier music player.
Jean sighed a sigh of contentment, and heard it echoed back to him a hundredfold, mixed with the sighs of a hundred people. And then he smiled, listening to the symphony of the world.
He had been careful, so careful with his project. Months and months of preperation, hundreds of dollars in equipment, survillence, bribes to make sure that no information was leaked out, that no one took offense at his work.
The city wasn't large, and thankfully, not that developed. Not enough for the latest in anti-bugging technology, or sweeping tools.
Around him loomed the chromed metal frames of half a dozen instruments. Black wires snaked from each of them, connecting the essential bits of hardware and software together. Above his house sat a massive satellite dish, one he had installed just under an hour ago. It would take a while for the privacy agents to notice. Until then, he would enjoy the fruits of his labor.
He pressed the remote.
Control panels lit up, blinking like stars in the clear night sky. The whirling of a thousand processors and their respective cooling units filled the room, but thankfully, was unable to penetrate the soundproof padding of the massive headphones he wore around his head. The dish hummed and beeped, as the first of the many, many signals came it.
Patter. Patter.
It was the sound of rain.
Somewhere in the city, a storm had formed.
This was joined in by the rustling of leaves in the park, the tap tap of footsteps down the tiled office floors, the whisper of sheets in a clothes maker's shop, the gurgling of coffee at the cafe next door...
The cries of babies in the hospital wards. The sweeping of brooms down the dusty allyways. The screeching of cars, the honking of a band, the slamming of classroom doors and the thunk-thud of falling cans.
They all joined together, melded together, the computers calculating and adjusting, blending the noises and melodies of the city into a single, perfect symphony.
In the background, the chatter rose. Voices of office workers, of artists in their homes, of students in their canteen, of sweepers down the streets. Of shoppers at the mall, of sportsmen in their gyms...all of the chatter rose and fell, their meaning and exact words lost and screened as the formed one crowd, the heartbeat of civilization.
Months of work. Months spent placing those tiny recievers on every broom. On the odd door, office corner, water-cooler, toilet. On plates and tyres, on flowers even. Just for this.
This was the music of the city. Of people, of their creations, of the things they did. Yet no one paid attention, trapped in their tiny bubbles of music, pumped into their ears from an even tinier music player.
Jean sighed a sigh of contentment, and heard it echoed back to him a hundredfold, mixed with the sighs of a hundred people. And then he smiled, listening to the symphony of the world.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Not Much
As an average person, my life and call
is said to be well, not much at all
Not much the pleasure of one's first kiss
Not much small moments of simple bliss
Not much the regret of saying goodbye
Not much a mother's tears
Or a father's sigh.
Not much the goals, big or small
Not much the struggle to achieve them all
Not much the stress in moments of strife
Not much the friends you make through life
Not much the nerves on a wedding day
Not much the secrets we never say
Not much the shouting and bills not paid
Not much the sickness or words last said
An average person, from rise to fall
a life well lived- not much at all
is said to be well, not much at all
Not much the pleasure of one's first kiss
Not much small moments of simple bliss
Not much the regret of saying goodbye
Not much a mother's tears
Or a father's sigh.
Not much the goals, big or small
Not much the struggle to achieve them all
Not much the stress in moments of strife
Not much the friends you make through life
Not much the nerves on a wedding day
Not much the secrets we never say
Not much the shouting and bills not paid
Not much the sickness or words last said
An average person, from rise to fall
a life well lived- not much at all
Sunday, February 21, 2010
The Hunter's Recruit
I began my journey by writing how it all began:
Uncle Lee had these magic forms which he passed to me; neither were yellow or green, mostly red and white. The moment I touched them I knew what fate had in store for me. Within weeks I was transported into this strange place, filled with many poo- companies. Some were dying, some were still full, while others seemed to be small, but deep with possibilities.
We explored the strange worlds, looked upon the halls of old, and spoke the Pledgeful Words. With that, our fate was sealed, and we were brought before by the great Lion Officer to the new company, where he roared life into the recruits gathered there. And from the trucks and loading bays erupted a multitude of equipment and field packs, enough for everyone.
And between the recruits he divided them into platoons, and each platoon he divided into sections. And some of the recruits he appointed as ICs, that they may govern over the other recruits.
Many days later the recruits were taken upon to the sacred garden, where a mighty apple was presented to them. Powerful was this apple, and only with the right words and training could one possess it so, for the guardians of the garden were vigilant in their watching, and nary an unsqueezed apple would bring doom upon the entire platoon. Tempting it was, to sleep or simply steal the apple, but the recruits knew their Officer would not be pleased, and bore it weight all the way back to their company, rightfully and honorably.
And the recruits took back the apples and buried them in their lockers, to keep them safe from the prying hands of the sergeants. And though the recruits did return amidst a shower of fireworks and red packets, they knew that in four days they would return once more to the company. And though the apple was returned to the garden, in the times to come they would pick it up and march through the jungles with them.
And the leaves of the apple, which were green like the greenest grass, splotched with pixels of black and brown, were worn by the recruits both forward and back, that they may journey to each adventure in the days ahead.
Still in my possession do I have a green card, and the leaves of the apple tree made into a shirt. Today I return to Orien to chronicle my adventures there once more.
Uncle Lee had these magic forms which he passed to me; neither were yellow or green, mostly red and white. The moment I touched them I knew what fate had in store for me. Within weeks I was transported into this strange place, filled with many poo- companies. Some were dying, some were still full, while others seemed to be small, but deep with possibilities.
We explored the strange worlds, looked upon the halls of old, and spoke the Pledgeful Words. With that, our fate was sealed, and we were brought before by the great Lion Officer to the new company, where he roared life into the recruits gathered there. And from the trucks and loading bays erupted a multitude of equipment and field packs, enough for everyone.
And between the recruits he divided them into platoons, and each platoon he divided into sections. And some of the recruits he appointed as ICs, that they may govern over the other recruits.
Many days later the recruits were taken upon to the sacred garden, where a mighty apple was presented to them. Powerful was this apple, and only with the right words and training could one possess it so, for the guardians of the garden were vigilant in their watching, and nary an unsqueezed apple would bring doom upon the entire platoon. Tempting it was, to sleep or simply steal the apple, but the recruits knew their Officer would not be pleased, and bore it weight all the way back to their company, rightfully and honorably.
And the recruits took back the apples and buried them in their lockers, to keep them safe from the prying hands of the sergeants. And though the recruits did return amidst a shower of fireworks and red packets, they knew that in four days they would return once more to the company. And though the apple was returned to the garden, in the times to come they would pick it up and march through the jungles with them.
And the leaves of the apple, which were green like the greenest grass, splotched with pixels of black and brown, were worn by the recruits both forward and back, that they may journey to each adventure in the days ahead.
Still in my possession do I have a green card, and the leaves of the apple tree made into a shirt. Today I return to Orien to chronicle my adventures there once more.