I remember when you were born. I wished to comfort your mother, but I could not. The ones who were helping her would not let me see her, to be there for her. I heard her invoke Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth, for bringing this pain upon her. I was nervous, I knew women could die in childbirth, and I did not want to lose her, and then have the risk of losing you as well. Once done, your mother was tired, they let me see you both. I held you, my son, for the first time. The name we had thought of come to my lips. Little Astyanax you are, when you grow it will just be Astyanax. So tiny, new to the world and a new feeling came over me. Before you were born, my allegiance was just to my country, Troy. To my family, yes, always, but Troy had always come first. I married your mother, and loved her, I still do love her. Then you came, and the first time I held you, for the first time in my life, my family, you and your mother, had my allegiance first. My allegiance, to my family and my country. To you and your mother. I would die for you both. To protect you, to be sure you had a good life. For you both to live, I would die. The next day, after you were born, you were presented to your country. In your mother's arms, you were seen by your country. They announced you as Astyanax, son of Prince Hector and Princess Andromache. The people cheered, knowing the gods had blessed us with you. I felt it as a greater blessing, that the gods had given me a family. A family of my own, you and your mother. With you in my arms, it made it all the better. You start to fuss, wanting food or some other thing. I have yet to know which of your cries means what. I hand you back to your mother, putting my arm around her. She knows your cries, know what hidden meaning they have. She moves away and picks up a wooden horse I made for you. Your tiny fingers curve around it, never wanting to let go. You shake it in your hand for a little, and then it goes into your mouth. So innocent you look, how much I feel the need to protect you and keep you safe. You know not the perils of the world yet; know not why I must go to Sparta. Why we are to negotiate peace. But I do it for you, for your mother, for Troy. So that days of peace will follow. So that, even though you will train for it, you will never have to go to war, never die in it. Though it maybe valiant, I wish not to see it happen, or even think that it would. Your mother is called away for a little; she places you back in my arms. You fuss for a little, being away from your mother does not please you. Nor does it please myself. You then recognize me; the horse is back in your hands. You raise it, as if to offer it, or to show that you own it. Your little mind does not know what you are really doing; all it tells you is to do it. I take you to the window, from which you can see, the archers practicing. Like Apollo, who protects us, they use the bow. Yet all pray not to be struck down by his arrows. They pray that their women are not struck by his sister's, Artemis, arrows. I pray that you are not struck, so early in your life, that Andromache is not struck, that the hounds of war, that are so common now, are not unleashed upon the city. To know you will learn all this is a frightening thought. To know that your will still know of war, of all this. I protect my family and my county. You will learn the same thing. I feel the need to tell you this, even though you are still a babe in arms, still holding tight to that horse. "Astyanax, you will, one day, be in my position. You will be with your son, telling him of what you wish for him. For you, my son, I wish you not to know the turmoil of this time. For you to still be brave, and have a warriors heart, just not hardened by war. To never have to prove it in battle. I wish for you to live by the code that I do: honor the Gods, love your woman, and fight for your country." "That is a good code to live by, Hector." Your mother says, breaking my thoughts. She came in with out alerting me, a great feet for some one to do. She looks at you in my arms, and smiles. "You are a good father, and I think you have lulled him to sleep." I look down and see you sleeping in my arms. Your little horse has been rested on my chest, fallen out of your hand. Off into dreams you go, to still know not of what is happening. You are still so young and I wish to see you grow. I wish to see you training, to see whom Eros deems fit for you to love. For you to join me in council, to be the great Prince you were born to be. But for now, sleep. Sleep and wait to know of what the gods have in store for you. I must go. Sleep well, my son, and stay safe until I return. "Yeah. So?" Carissa sprang to her feet, livid. "How can you be this way?" she cried. "How can you be so selfish?" to be cont'd... (you're awake?) she asks I look and nod at something with a smile and if I remember right, this is what happened Tons of her relatives under a massive aging wooden table, rolling around on smaller more proportioned chairs, wooden and old alike, drinking and laughing, talking nonsense to each other. They rolled and rolled like a carnival on these chairs with flat bottomed legs that rolled like office chairs. Where the table ends is where a green field opens up, and then a hill just ahead, more of a ramp I would say, a dirt ramp with small resting areas with small wooden doors behind them where people gathered. The doors were surrounded by shadows that had been hand drawn around each door, whoever drew them used thick ink, you could feel the shadows dripping on your shoulder and all around. I walk through a door behind people of whom I knew their names but wouldn't say (hello) to, which made them feel like strangers. and probably should be. I join them and watch, we watched like viewers of old gladiators, sipping brew and waiting to cheer in this dream-rendered coliseum. As I watch I see my bride and her relatives and then I move down the hill and underneath the table, my presence seems unacknowledged, the relatives ride around me like bumper cars. I follow much slower. Through and into a large warehouse like room painted white with no furniture, nothing but scrap paper fallen from bulletin boards hung scarcely along the walls. Her speed had created a distance between us, I had to look far with my eyes to notice she was gone, I ran fast, and reached the doors as they were slowly closing. A high school hallway was next. A high school hallway on the last day of school or so it seemed. Thousands of boys, only boys running violently past the locker lined hall. I stould in the door, and wasn't touched, when I looked ahead and saw my bride at the head, they were all after her. I tried to jump in, but I couldn't, and I don't know why. Finally after they had all passed all but two stragglers, I accessed the hall. I ran alongside the two slowest chasers until we hit the turn, and I followed one of them into the wall with my shoulder. He looked at me and began to cry. He was saying he was sorry, and his friend was tired and sweating, looking at me like he was confused, but in a hurry. The boy in tears had a small note attached to his chest. He grabbed it when I went to read it. To get it out of his hands, I placed my two hands on the wall and kicked him in the side. He threw the note to the floor, I walked over to get it and read somewhat to myself, somewhat in a whisper, somewhat in a panter of anxiety, somewhat in my own tears now: "I love you for all the nights we could have, for all of the love in this physical world, I love you for your body pressed against mine." And in this rarest occasion. I saw two men. I cried to myself solemn for them, for what they were. And in the same solemn and conciliative form, without anger, I placed both my hands on the wall for a second time. The other man watched me paint the wall red. He watched it dry. He watched it become old. (church starts in 10 minutes, were leaving.) she says I sit up and stare at the empty doorway.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
September is Knocking on My Door - Liana Campanella
September is knocking on my door
But you are holding me so tightly
In the memories of August
That although I know I must answer
I cannot bring myself to move
Your warm summer breath descends upon my neck
And I feel the quiet passion under your skin
That sustained through wintry months
Propelled through the showers of spring
And deposited two weary souls
In the humid days before departure
Autumn is rattling the big brass lock
I have fastened twice for security
Against the uncertainty of my future
Of which I am sure only of continuous tearful streams
Without your shoulder to catch them
As it is doing now
Your lips remain closed as you open your eyes
Showing me an indescribable color
I know is you soul appearing to beg from me
A lifetime of lingering for the comfort of your arms,
For the pleasure of all things familiar
A stormy wind screams against the glass
Causing every window in my home to plead for a decision
I feel my spirit separate from you and my heartbeat pause
As if it is thinking, accepting the eternal change
Before you ever release me, our union has been shattered
My life changing in a moment
Knowing that a part of me has died and never
Will there be a reason to send living blood
To that beloved unseen grave
There is still no need for your lips to part
A kiss is binding, a symbol of current love
And the hope for its continuation
Mine remain closed as well, brushing against your unshaven cheek
As I turn to go, waiting for the electricity
In our extended fingertips to fade,
Knowing that it never will,
Accepting the questions I will demand of myself in the future,
I free myself of your perfection
Liberate myself from my first love
September is knocking on my door
She laughs, mocking me for my ideals
Knowing that the plans I’ve made are built
Upon nothing but easily shifted sand
I watch the last of the August suns set
She knocks once more
I have no choice but to let her take you.
submitted at 11:00 AM
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Riding the Wind - by Jennifer Hyman
She looked out over what she could see of the world and thought.
So small, so alone she felt.
She wanted to ride the wind,
run form the life that surrounded her.
She looked and saw the wind, saw her escape
In that moment she felt free.
She jumped from the height and was caught by the wind.
She did not fall or look back, only to the places this ride would take her.
When they found her, she laughed.
No one cared that she was free, and could be what she wanted.
All they saw was the life she left behind, full of broken promises and sorrow.
Why would she do that, they all thought.
She laughed, she knew that what they found was not her, only a shell,
a facade that she showed the world.
And time passed.
They forgot her while she forgot them and danced in the wind.
submitted at 11:35 PM
You're so small. So little in my arms. You're no longer new; you have been here for sometime, now. You're little arms moving, trying to grab at anything and everything in their path.
submitted at 11:27 PM
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
The Pendant (p. II) - By Abigail Coover
Chapter 2
An Old Man and His Gift
The following day passed in a dreary squall of soaking, rainy weather. Not being overly anxious to go home, Carissa spent most of her after-school hours at her friend Renee's house. She wasn't in the mood to be shut up alone at her desk while the rain beat the windows. It was much cozier to curl up on a bean bag chair in Renee's room while the two of them shared a bowl of popcorn and dawdled over their homework.
Six years ago Carissa's family had moved to their current home, and since then Renee had been Carissa's one lasting friend. Occasionally the two of them met with a difference of opinion, but for the most part it was a workable friendship.
Carissa lost patience with her math book and slammed it shut. "I don't have the stomach for any more graphing," she muttered, dropping the book to the carpet and taking a handful from the popcorn bowl on the floor. She leaned back and began munching, then swallowed and said, "I can't wait for Saturday."
Renee glanced at her, nervously tapping her pencil's eraser against the cover of her history book, and asked, "What's Saturday?"
"Well, you know!" Carissa replied. "The trip to Hyde's Park, remember?"
Renee nodded with a forced show of sudden remembrance and shifted uncomfortably. "Right, Hyde's Park - actually, I wanted to talk to you about that."
Carissa looked up from her popcorn, suddenly wary. "What about it?"
"Well, we have five tickets, so I figured we ought to find some more people to go along. It's always more fun if you have a group, right?"
"So, I talked to Tabitha and her people, and they agreed to come."
Carissa's eyebrows flicked up in surprise. "Wait, Tabitha? You mean as in Tabitha and Laura and Rachel? Cami Wheeler's group?"
"Yeah."
"But they're practically inseparable. How did you convince them to leave a person out?" Renee shifted position again and began speaking to the ceiling, which told Carissa there was something coming that she didn't want to hear. "Well, you see, that's just it. See, they, um ... the only way they would agree to come was if they all could come together, and ... you're the only person left to leave out."
Carissa sat up straight. "What?"
"I tried to negotiate another solution, Carissa, I really did, but they wouldn't change their minds. You know how stubborn they can be."
"But ... but..." Carissa's voice struggled for a foothold as she sputtered through her disbelief. "You can't leave me out. It was my father who got us the tickets in the first place."
Renee's apologetic pout turned to impatience and she rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, Carissa, what else was I supposed to do? It would be way too boring going by ourselves."
Carissa glowered at her, appalled and bruised by her lack of loyalty. "You're supposed to be a friend and tell them there's only three openings," she said darkly.
Renee scrunched herself into a supercilious huff. "Well, look, it didn't work out that way, so this is just how it'll have to be. If you want to bawl about it, go do it somewhere else."
Renee stood up face-to-face with Carissa and stared her down, taking advantage of the fact that she was two inches taller. "I think you should leave," she said coldly.
"You don't have to tell me twice." Carissa grabbed her jacket and thundered out of the room in an angry fit. Renee hurried after her down the stairs to the front door.
On the stoop Carissa halted and spun around. "You know what? Maybe I'll just keep the tickets and find some new friends to go with me."
Renee raised a haughty eyebrow. "Yeah? Well, happy hunting." She slammed the door with a mighty bang that rattled the windows. The dull thumping of her footsteps could be heard as she stomped up the stairs inside.
Carissa remained on the stoop, staring furiously at the door. The blank wood returned her gaze without expression or sympathy. Bitterly shoving her hands deep into her pockets, she stepped heavily off the stoop and started for home.
The night was stained black, and storm clouds still hung low and heavy in the sky. They had already expelled their stores of rain, wind and thunder, and now lingered above the town like warlords hovering over a recent conquest. The sidewalk was vacant in the post-storm calm and the road devoid of traffic. Her footsteps echoed slightly off the slick pavement, while leftover rainwater quietly gurgled into a gutter on the curb. Tall, brick buildings held dominion over the sidewalk to Carissa's right, giving way on the opposite side of the street to rows of small, one-story houses behind bushy front lawns. The street lamps had awakened, casting their personal halos on the ground and tinting the air a slight orangey glow.
Carissa walked absently past the storefronts of numerous first-floor businesses, already closed for the night. Blackened doorways and yawning display shop windows leered at her spookily, making her shiver. She slowed and stopped in front of one window to study her reflection. In the dim light, she could just make out her deep brown eyes, blonde hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, and blue jacket collar. Suddenly becoming aware of the lack of weight on her back, she realized with dismay that she had left her backpack and schoolbooks at Renee's house. Oh well, she sighed. There was no way she was going back for them now.
She turned away from the window and walked on, immersed in a cloud of discontent. Why did Renee have to be so awful? It seemed that no matter what she did or where she went, she could never escape the feeling of being thoroughly insignificant.
A chilly wind swept off the wet street, and Carissa pulled her jacket tighter around her body. She walked more quickly, eager to get out of the dreary night, and soon approached the corner half a block from her house. As she stepped into the street to cross to the next block, a dark figure emerged and obstructed her path. It was an elderly gentleman, slightly stooped and covered with a long black overcoat. He appeared so suddenly that Carissa barely avoided running into him.
"Excuse me," she mumbled, and quickly moved past him to the opposite curb.
"Don't go, Carissa," the voice from the coat said in a slow, odd tone, bringing her to an abrupt halt. The man turned and fixed her with a steady eye. "I must speak with you." Carissa stared at him in bewilderment as he moved to join her on the sidewalk. He was hardly threatening, just barely as tall as she, and Carissa's curiosity held her still.
The man came into the lamplight and lifted his chin, revealing an old wrinkled face with an elastic grin and a cucumber nose. His eyes twinkled like a little boy's, and several wisps of white hair crowned his elderly head. Aside from his apparent age, there was something additionally weathered about his appearance, as if he had withstood many colorful experiences, both pleasant and difficult. His body was full of years, but his eyes were clear and displayed vigor.
"Headed for home?" he asked liltingly. His voice crinkled like the corners of his eyes when he smiled, and contained a peculiarly soothing quality. Carissa could not force a response, but only stared at him in puzzlement. "She told me I would find you here, but I didn't believe it." He chuckled quietly, as if laughing at his own ignorance, and then noticed Carissa still watching him as she waited for an explanation. "Forgive me," he said, "I must get to the point. I have been sent, eh, to give you this."
As he spoke, he reached inside his coat with a bony hand and brought out a glimmering object. He raised it to the lamplight and Carissa saw that it was a deep blue stone, a pendant, cut into the shape of a teardrop, that hung from a silver chain. The light reflected dazzlingly off each polished surface, so that it glittered like the finest gem. Yet, there was something gloriously eerie about it that set it apart from any ordinary stone. From the moment Carissa set her eyes on it, she felt her breath stick in her throat and a peculiar feeling spread over her. Chills and burning sparks shivered through her body and something deep within her flared to life, something that had been dormant and was now awakened. What that something was, Carissa could not guess.
The stone was so enrapturing, so singular in quality that the silver chain and backing, though exquisite, seemed an inadequate decoration to surround it. It was as if it contained the depths of the ocean in its core, and the more Carissa looked, the more she felt she could not tear her eyes from it.
"This," the old man said, a kindled expressiveness entering his voice, "this is a transporter. It is a doorway. It is a connector of worlds and galaxies. This tiny crystal contains the power to take you across time, through the systems of a million suns, and far beyond anything you could hope to imagine, just by using your will."
He spoke with such passion and energy that Carissa found herself clinging to every word, forgetting how impossible each sounded. "Take it," he told her then, holding the pendant out to her in his fist. "You must now be its keeper. Take it."
Very confused, but in no state of mind to object, Carissa uncertainly reached a hand out to receive the object. Its presence in her palm was cool and heavy.
"You must guard it as you guard your own life," the man continued, taking Carissa by surprise with the seriousness of his words. "And be warned! There are others who would-"
Suddenly he stopped and appeared startled, as if something unexpected had happened. His face went ashen and his voice held a tremor as he mumbled quietly to himself. "They can't have ... no.... They've found me again!" His eyes lost their childlike twinkle and now burned only with deep concern. He looked down and addressed Carissa frantically. "I'm sorry, child, I've led them to you!"
"Who?" Carissa cried, alarmed. "What are you talking about?"
"There isn't time now. You must go!"
"What? But-" At that moment she stopped talking, because a strange and terrible sound had reached her ears. It was blood-chilling in its tone, a howl so cold and raking that it seemed to clash with the air, an intruder and a sacrilege to every native sound. She squinted and peered down the length of the street, to the furthest end, where she saw at least a dozen swift creatures come racing around the corner. At first they appeared to be a pack of large dogs, but it was difficult to tell because of the distance and darkness.
The old man repeated, "You must go!" He started to leave.
"Wait!" Carissa yelled. "What are those?"
He turned back and, gripping her arm, said fervently, "Run, child, run!" Then he vanished into the shadows from which he had come.
Carissa looked down the street again. The creatures streaked over the pavement, gaining ground so quickly that they soon became more clearly visible in the lamplight. If any sight could be repugnant enough to fit with the alien sound she had heard, it would be the things she now saw racing towards her. They were abhorrent to her eyes, like the embodiment of every intangible nightmare that had ever disrupted her dreams. She gasped the moment she glimpsed them, and felt an acid, steely taste in her throat.
They ran on four powerfully built legs, unkempt, brown-furred backs arching and falling with every stride. Their bodies were hard and lean, deep-chested with ribs that distended sharply as they breathed. Their snouts rippled in an eternal snarl, and each had an obscene number of teeth which their jaws struggled to contain. They had long tails and horrid, curved claws, but it was the eyes that were the worst. Wide, round, and protruding, they had stone-grey pupils that seemed to hold within them a precarious mix of intelligence and madness.
Carissa didn't believe in werewolves, but that was the first word that came to her mind to describe the creatures. Her knees weakened, and she pressed herself into the wall, wishing to let it absorb her. She couldn't move and couldn't run. Breathing seemed a strenuous task.
Then one of the beasts at the group's head locked its gaze on hers. She saw a horrible flicker of recognition cross its eyes, and the trembling spread to her whole body as she realized: the creatures knew exactly what they were looking for, and they had found it. This realization came on her with devastating dreadfulness, and she was, in that instant, more terrified than she had ever been.
With a vicious, command-like snarl, the lead creature lunged forward with renewed energy, coming straight for her. Carissa's stomach leapt into her throat and she nearly burst into tears. She broke and ran down the sidewalk, but her legs felt useless with drunken fear.
She stumbled across the street into a darkened construction site, where she zigzagged between dirt mounds and monolithic earthmoving machinery, sliding on loose stones and mud. Carissa knew she could never outrun these beings, and looked wildly about as she ran, searching in frantic desperation for a hiding place. Her heart was racing with an unaccustomed speed and fervency, thrust suddenly from the temporal security of a comfortable, civilized life and forced to rely upon its most primal instinct. Only a few times in childhood play had Carissa ever come close to this sensation, of needing to escape, of being the hunted, of having her whole body awash with a sense of urgency and impending danger. Finally, she spied a sizable stack of two-by fours, with a steep embankment rising behind and several feet of space in between. With no time remaining to find a better shelter, she threw herself into that narrow crevice.
All around her the loathsome creatures tore into the site, hunting their quarry, snarling and snorting as they raked bare every hidden space. Carissa stood with her back tight against the pile, pressing into its shadow. Her breath heaved within her, her blood throbbing hotly through her veins. Alert to the inadequacy of her one-walled refuge, she knew she could not hide for long.
Her body tensed with adrenalin as she anticipated her inevitable fate, and suddenly she felt a strange warmth in her palm. With a start, Carissa looked down and realized that she was still clutching the pendant. More startling by far, it had begun to glow.
As she stared in astonishment, the stone filled with a radiant blue light, becoming brighter and brighter until it seemed it might explode from all the brilliance it contained. Then, with tremendous energy, the light burst from the stone's center. Carissa quickly turned away, shielding her eyes. Surging from the stone, the light banished all shadow and wrapped around her in an engulfing wave. A furious, electrifying energy pulsated through her body, tingling past her fingertips. With one last, heart-quickening flash, she and the pendant disappeared.
submitted at 10:57 AM
at 9:00 a.m. my mother wakes me
when suddenly almost everyone files out, leaving me, my bride, her aunt, and a distant cousin. Now my presence is known, they all look into my eyes. They were about to leave and so I gave my bride a forceful kiss that was accepted but not recognized as anything familiar nor anything of any romantic value, it didn't mean anything, it seemed as common as taking aspirin or paying a bill. She stepped back because I pressed so hard. then she gathered herself and watched as her aunt pulled an exact replica of her body from the ground. The body was a costume, another layer that she was to wear. Her aunt spoke of how well prepared everything was and how beautiful the costume looked. I tried it on. They all watched me, and again I did something that was easily accepted, completely unworthy of notice. I asked her (is this ok?) her cousin and aunt left immediately and then she turned from me, picked up her dress, her dress that she was to marry me in, smiled and said (two of us is better than one). She veiled herself and rushed out through one of the doors, faster than anything I'd seen.
At 9:50 a.m. my mother wakes me.
submitted at 10:24 AM
Your friends with their best regards
giving hugs for your grand departure
your dad and those heavy bags,
I tried so hard not to laugh, on
the drive
and a stop at home
collecting everything I needed:
the songs I always sing for guidance
came up again,
when you flew away
and darkness wouldn't leave for morning
my car, with an empty seat
I couldn't see
I drove aside from sobbing
and now, I'm all alone
on a stepping stone
the tight rope stretched across my next
biggest move
where I'm sure to lose
"Where the fuck is destiny?"
submitted at 10:19 AM
I write to this address,
where my letters might pile up,
far remote from where you are now, up the hill, even walking distance
my old pen pal, (we met for two weeks)
unstable laughter, wild travelers, we slept together-
until you flew away, and the time changed
it caught up with me and brought me down
I could see you if I wanted
but this
is the last place you loved me
this address
submitted at 10:11 AM
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Jimmy Olsen - By Ozog
I know what your thinking. Someone around here must have screwed up. I'm just some geeky redhead with a camera. I couldn't possibly have done this. Well screw you, all right; I'm not a coward. So turn that recorder on because I'm Jimmy Olsen, Pulitzer Prize wining photographer for the Daily Planet and I'm ready to make a full confession.
Yeah I hated him. No matter how many times he saved my life, no matter how many of my pictures of him were on the front page, no matter how much press I got or how well my books sold, I still hated him every minute of every day. I hated him for every girlfriend I had that only wanted to know what he was like and I hated him every time someone called me his little buddy. I just couldn't take it anymore. So that is why I tried to kill superman.
I just don't understand how you people took him seriously, for god's sake he wears red spandex underwear on the out side of his cloths. And that cape, who does he think he is Elvis? I've seen less flamboyant drag queens; Betsy Ross must be turning in her grave with this big goon walking around. With his perfect hair, his stock Arnold Schwarzenegger body, and his What-Would-Jesus-Do attitude.
You know he's an alien right? Not even born on this planet, and have you seen him with a green card? But does the department of immigration care? No, of course not. "We're willing to overlook it, considering how many times he's saved the planet." The rat bastards. At least he can never be president, you know that right, I looked it up. Article II section one of the Constitution, "Only a natural born citizen can be president." He might be able to leap over building and out run trains, but at least we wont have to listen to his campaign speeches. He's probably a socialist too, like Sweden in spandex.
I can't believe he's as popular has he is. Sure he can knock away asteroids that threaten us with extinction, or single handedly fight off an army of alien, mutant starfish but that just makes the rest of us look bad. Like that guy who surprises his girlfriend with flowers at the office. Sure he'll see some action but what about the rest of us? What do we get? Nagging. "Why aren't you romantic, why don't you do anything special for me, why didn't you go fight off the ten story fire breathing dragon?" You try to be a normal Joe with that always flying around over your shoulder. That's why I did it, for the little guy. For every Jimmy Olsen and every Clark Kent out there who will never have Lois because of him. For every small town nerd who would have the nerve to ask out the cheerleaders if only there weren't quarterbacks. For every working stiff that can't be Hugh Grant, Superman has to go.
It's not even like he fits the Nietzschen profile or anything, the name is just pure egotism. Nietzsche's real superman is transcendent guy, no longer affected by pity, suffering or moral corruption, and what do we have? Some wannabe flying Gandhi on steroids, hyping his fight for truth, justice and the American way, whatever the hell that means and telling us just what we want to hear so that people will always point to the sky and shout whenever they see a blur in the sky. I bet Freud would have a field day with anyone that wears something that tight.
But seriously, the guy has x-ray vision, now what would you be doing if you had x-ray vision? And people think video games are morally degrading, this guy has to be a perv. X-ray vision. Larry Flint has to be trying to option that. Do you really want your daughters saved by a guy who can make his own NC-17 film whenever he wants?
I don't know, I guess people just love the idealism and the illusion of safety he projects. I mean, if some guys says, don't worry I'll catch the plane before it hits the ground and then he does, you feel safe. It's like those flotation devises, sure they might actually help you float but what does it matter when the place crashes. Even the man of steel can't be everywhere at once. I think he's just building complacency. Metropolitans start thinking that Superman will always be there to save them, like three-year-olds with implicit trust in their parents before they realize that mom and dad are human. Not that Superman is human, but that's beside the point. He does have 'man' in his name, so he is at least trying to pretend. Maybe he should come down to our level, I mean the guy can't even stub his to right, and he think he knows what's right and wrong?
I think that's why everyone is so mad at me. No one likes to have their illusions shattered, like when you find out your favorite super model is a product of good lighting and an airbrush. It's not as if I killed the guy or anything. I just tried. Not that my plan wasn't brilliant. I got a hunk of Kryptonite from Lex, and just stuck it in my pocket. I knew he would never expect that kind of thing from me. But, in the end, he is superman, so he caught me. I just want everyone to know that I'm not insane, or being controlled by some hostile alien bent on revenge. I knew what I was doing every second. I was doing everyone a favor. Besides all the sexual frustration stuff, everyone is just to dependent on the guy, they need to look out for themselves, have a little pride in something other then a weirdo dressed in a painted-on flag prying into everyone's business. Just think of all the tax money we could save by stopping all those people who show up just to try and get a piece of the man of steel and end up wreaking half the city. And that's just the bottom line. That's why I did it. For those of us trapped on the ground, for Lois so she remembers what a real man is like, for the tax payer and the property owner, for the complacent slob to get a wake up call, for all the brain fried utopians to remember the real world, for me so I could have my own life and for all of you so maybe, just maybe, you can get noticed too.
So slap some cuffs on me and throw away the key, because I'm not sorry and I'd do it again. You'll see someday that I'm right. If history can forgive Nixon it will forgive me too. But I'm sure you'll go on with your lives, content to point and laugh with your friends at the kid who just "had a nervous break down or something." Someday you'll see, and then they'll be chanting my name at the walls. Call me crazy if you want, but when I need a hero I'm calling Batman.
submitted at 11:52 AM
Thursday, October 20, 2005
The Pendant - By Abigail Coover
Prologue
".....And so it shall be, that a representative will be chosen, one of admirable quality and rare spirit, selected out of anywhere in space and time, and on whom shall rest the fate of this world...."
Chapter 1
The Minister of Krackenbarry
The town of Krackenbarry was well suited to its unusual name. It was a small, tranquil community two hours from anywhere, a storybook place nestled among woodsy foothills and fields with meandering fences. Those who came upon it usually did so by accident. Its residents were retired folk, elderly but cheerful people who had become weathered by time and were now perfectly content to tuck themselves away into the back drawer of society. The homes were built in a dignified New England style, aproned grandmothers of houses with sprawling front porches and temperamental floorboards. The placidity of the place was untouchable, so that even a funeral was unable to achieve an entirely melancholy atmosphere.
For Carissa Wallen, Krackenbarry had always been synonymous with "grandma's house," and it was the weekend destination for holiday vacations and summer visits. This time, however, she was there for what everyone in the town oddly referred to as "the final parting".In her opinion, her grandmother had already left. The body that lay in the casket had no essence of her grandmother in it, only the lifeless appearance of a once soul-bearing vessel that was now empty. Even her grandma's hands, clasped neatly atop her stomach, seemed more made of wax than anything real.
Carissa felt conspicuous. At fourteen, she was at least half the age of anyone else in the room, and being of the deceased's immediate family, was seated in the very front row. Directly behind her were two rows of curly white and gray heads, some with tiny hats and some without, and knee-length wool skirts with stockings and a variety of low-heeled shoes. She understood that they were her grandmother's closest friends. Beyond them were seated more town locals, most of whom were younger than that gray-haired bunch, but all still upwards of fifty years. The one exception to this was the man who stood before them, at the speaker's stand beside the casket. He was minister of Krackenbarry's only church, and was certainly no older than twenty-eight. He was Italian and with his curly black hair and eyebrows, his coal eyes, his dark suit and sun-kissed skin, he was a splash of intrigue amidst a sea of seemingly ordinary people. He attracted Carissa's attention simply because he was the one individual who was more conspicuous than she. He had an enjoyably peculiar manner, which may or may not have been a result of his foreign background.
The minister solemnly began the ceremony, expressing his deep respect for "Ms. Mabel Wallen" and adding his personal condolences before yielding the floor to others. Carissa's mother spoke, and several of her grandmother’s friends followed with their own tributes. Carissa listened distractedly while trying to keep her gaze away from the lifeless body, which seemed to hold an eerie presence in the room. By the end of the proceedings she had firmly decided that her own funeral would not have an open casket. Once the ceremony was over, the entire gathering reconvened at the town banquet hall for dinner. There, the funeral attendees sat and ate and rehashed their favorite stories of Grandmother Wallen. The gloomy cloud that had hovered over them earlier dissipated now that they had moved out of the funeral parlor. Thanks to the townspeople's cheery attitudes, and the fact that the woman's death had not been painful or untimely, a light atmosphere was easy to achieve.Carissa still felt out of place surrounded by the adult chitchat. She gradually migrated over to the punch bowl and lingered there, gingerly sipping a cup of fizzy red juice. She felt lonely, and it wasn't simply because she was standing in an empty corner of the room with only a punch bowl for company. Her grandmother had been the only relative, aside from her parents, with whom she had any familiar acquaintance. None of their other relatives lived even remotely close by, and of those, the relations were distant and vague. In essence, her mother and father were now her only family. It left her feeling bleak, like the last stone on a seashore with all the other stones swept away, and only a matter of time before the waves overcame her as well.She had been standing there several minutes thinking these things when the curly-haired minister appeared and helped himself to the punch. With one hand resting in his pocket and the other holding the cup while he sipped casually, he looked out at the cheerful gathering and regarded them with an appreciative smile."They are very content, eh?" he remarked at length, his words rolling together like a tumbling handful of marbles.Carissa glanced at him warily. "Yes. They do."
"It is a good thing," he went on. "That is how your grandmother would have wanted it. She was a remarkable woman, you know. We'll miss her, of course, but it's the mentality of these people to laugh over the good memories rather than be made gloomy with their end. That is what I love about them."Carissa looked at him wordlessly, wondering why he was sharing all of this with her. Perhaps he thought she needed consolation."Mabel... she was a person who was sure of her purpose," the minister continued, as his voice took on a mysterious tone. He absently swirled the punch in his cup and gazed at the rows of tables, directing his words to the air and seeming to speak to no one in particular. "She knew. She was certain that everyone had some kind of purpose or another. She always had her mind open to each day's possibilities. Always made me think. Who knows, after all. Who knows what type of purpose we may find ourselves able to serve. Who truly knows..."Carissa stared at him curiously, watching him get lost in his thoughts, and concluded that he was a strange young man indeed.
* * *
It was a long drive home, and Carissa said little for the duration. She listened halfheartedly to her parents' conversation concerning the funeral and Grandma Wallen, while her own thoughts kept returning to her unusual exchange with the minister. His words disturbed her somehow, perhaps because she felt that she was one individual to whom they did not apply. She was as average as a school day, and sometimes felt like little more than a shadow, a puff of wind that came unseen, was barely felt, and passed away without so much as an imprint or echo. Many times she felt hollow - entirely hollow. Night had settled by the time they pulled up to their home, a white townhouse with black shutters and brick-colored window boxes. It stood hemmed in by larger brick buildings, law offices grouped on the left, an old apartment building behind, and a noisy boarding house on the right. An alleyway ran between their home and the boarding house, and circled around to their back door. Once, Carissa had been sitting on her back stoop when a fat, potato-faced man had opened the boarding house side door and tossed a scrawny Siamese kitten into the alley, while a small boy in the background wailed protests. Evidently the kitten was a stray and had done something to aggravate the potato-faced man. Despite the boy's pleas, he slammed the door and left the kitten there mewing. Carissa had wanted to take it, but her mother had a contempt for household animals, especially strays, and so Carissa had only sat and watched it stagger down the alley. Two days later she had seen it lying in the street down the block, and now she was never able to cross the back steps without the episode coming to mind.
After she and her parents entered the house, her father, Kenneth Wallen, retreated to his desk in the living room’s far corner. A few years ago he had helped to start a new company, and it had flourished rapidly. Carissa wasn't sure exactly what he did, but she knew it had something to do with researching alternative energy sources, and making current ones more efficient. At any rate, tonight was the final evening of a long weekend, there would be last-minute work to do. Her mother, Celia Wallen, took two thick binders filled with notes concerning the biology class which she taught, and became occupied in the kitchen. Carissa lingered at the bottom of the staircase, watching them, and felt - hollow. Even more exhilarating, she thought dismally, tomorrow was another day of school. She breathed a heavy sigh, trying to brush away her agitation, and tromped up the stairs to her bedroom.
submitted at 12:45 PM
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Angel - By Richie Dusett
The rain trickles on the window pane outside
The dark room, the musty smell inside
Pen in hand, he doesn't know where to start
How to put in words, something so perfect
He scratches something down, but has no place to begin.
Crosses out, starts again; nothing seems to convey what he wants to say.
There are no words to explain how he feels
He looks at her, she smiles back,
The faint I love you's becoming clearer.
At this moment he is happy, the whole world around him stops
He picks up his pen, he knows what to write
"To my dear angel, you are forever mine tonight."- Richie Dusett
submitted at 4:12 PM
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