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DARK WINDOWS #26 - Sep 15, 2008 ===== ===== ===================> INTRO Time is an illusion. I had this issue ready two days early, just forgot to post it. Since this issue is already over my 2,000 word target, I can just leave it there, briefest intro of the year. On to the goodies! ;-) = scott ===================> POEM NERVES --- Hand asleep by choice a pinched nerve NUMB Release feel nerves awaken they run out to vote The elections end soon comes to an answer "okay." Back to normal, but I wonder what if one day they all vote against me? --- = 4/88, unpublished ===================> ODD CLIPS: (clips from old "factual" sources) Cieran 'fasted against' Dima. This was a practice among the Irish sanctioned by law. When one who was aggrieved was unable by force to obtain redress, he went to the door of the aggressor and remained there exposed to the inclemency of the weather, and refused all food, till he died. As this would entail a blood feud, the wrongdoer generally yielded. [1] Whilst Cadoc studied at Llanspyddid, famine raged in the land, and the master and his pupils were put to straits for food. However, Cadoc observed a mouse carrying a grain of wheat. he succeded in catching it, and borrowing a thread from a widow, tied it to the foot of the little creature and let it run; whereupon it darted into a hole. Cadoc dug on the spot, and discovered an underground chamber stored with grain. Such secret granaries were by no means uncommon, and are found in many ancient Welsk, Irish, and Scottish forts. [2] 1. Sabine Baring-Gould & John Fisher, Lives of the British Saints (4 vols) (Cymmrodorian Society, London, 1907), p. I.341 2. same, p.II.18 ===================> STORY ELIXIR (part 2 of 3) ----- He blanked the dilemma from his mind and slowed his heart to a more casual, unfrustrated pace with a few deep breaths. Then he began the ritual of merging, a thing which was not physically necessary, but mentally satisfying; a way of celebrating his achievement and honoring the elixir before consuming it. He knew that he need only drink the fluid to be relieved of his aching age, yet he spent hours reviewing his project, his life, his plans for the future. Then he sat in the dark and watched the liquid tumble about within itself, thinking only of its beauty. It was mesmerically calm, confident, and it seemed to react to his thoughts with subtle shifts in current. It was the part of Darius that was missing. It was perfection. With the ritual, he built himself into an overwhelming revelry, and when he could stand his mortality no longer, he touched the cool glass to his wrinkled lips. Colors rolled pas his eyes, within his closed eyelids; scenes of pasts and futures and distances which no man had ever seen. It touched his tongue and was gone, twisting ecstatically through his awareness. With a single great, momentary itch, the alchemist's skin tightened and flaked away into dust as fresh, dethless skin took over from beneath. His bones shivered themselves back into straightness The dangerous cholesterol in his blood turned into a league of sentient cells, which coarsed through his systems, purging and protecting. His eyes cleared, his muscles remembered the chemicals of youth, his mind reeled with the tapping of forgotten memories. Those initial visions became tales, snd the tales weaved themselves into universal proportions as the elixir shared its memories. It had seen all, and now it was glad to share its knowledge. Darius saw the distant past as a recent memory, back beyond the realm of mankind, when there had been alien things upon the earth. He saw the future as a fuzz of likelihoods, for that is how the elixir perceived it. Such imagery hurt his senses, so he turned instead to other galsxies. The elixir had always been travelling, and it had travelled far, promising Darius thst he, too, would travel. It sifted through the glories and horrors of other worlds -- internal, external, dead and unborn. Then it showed him the gods. It would take him to those places when the time was right: to Olympus, to Gladsheim, to Pandemonium if he so desired, to further reaches which have never bothered to contact humanity, and further still. For days, Darius sat back and saw these things. The elixir was overjoyed to have a listener, honored to again have a physical form. So days passed of storyseeing, until Darius was so overwhelmed by fatigue that he felt he could stsy awake no longer. He thought this to the elixir, and it agreed, claiming that he would never again need to sleep. Darius rested with a satisfied grin on his young face ... until the nightmares came. What started ss a mundane dream soon became a maddening timelapse vision of the future. A grey horror was creeping across the face of the earth, and the pain it caused was like a new layer of the atmosphere. He moved in closer, and everything snapped into focus, for that greyness was composed of buildings. Cities grew outwards, over hills, across rivers, always outwards. They grew up into the air, monolithic spires miles high and pyramids just as wide; they grew deep into the ground, cramped and ugly tunnel roads; they grew out under the sea, picturesque domes in total darkness; they grew in orbit, clusters of vast satellite stations; they hovered over the ground; they wove themselves together to the exclusion of all else. Nobody was dying, and births went unabated. As the problem came into focus, governments staggered and erred and collapsed under its weight. There were Child Limit Laws which met with harsh revolts, then the Neuter Act for which capitols were burned follwed by the National Sterility Foundation and a hundred others. Every attempt failed to curb this most human thing. The population doubled, then tripled, again and again. Cities met at the centers of continents and could only grow higher. The entire surface became a vista of metals and fiberglasses and new materials, all natural things having long since been choked off. Between the destruction of plant life and the continued industrial pollution, climates changed for the worse. A global heating of several percent melted the ice caps and rendered the rest of the surface entirely uninhabitable. The fate of the species was insured. gurface people fled to other realms, each already grossly overpopulated. Darius stood on the scorched plain, and the wind tore at him with the strength of a diety enraged. It set his clothes aflame, his hair, his eyes; as if everything had been his fault. Even in utter ruin, the progression went on. Below him, a hundred billion cries hummed through the ground, haunting, filling the air with the lunacy of a near-beautiful harmony. Above him, the space stations failed. Some turned away to die in interstellar abyss, others burned away in decaying orbits: reddish arcs of fire dashing through sweltering skies. (to be continued ...) ===================> NOW AVAILABLE: http://scott.virtes.com ===================> DARKVISION: (captured dreams) A Waterfall of Cars a dream from 8/08 --- Carmen & I were walking around a new neighborhood, when we saw a small gray terrier trapped between two layers of white picket fences. It barked, sounding lost even so close to home. We found a gate, but when we stepped through, we found ourselves in the kitchen. Behind us the door closed, and a skinny man covered in toolbelts rushed up to study the door. At the top corner of the door jamb there was a tiny block of balsa wood with little words written on it. The handyman demanded to know where we were from. "About two blocks away," I said. "That will never do. Tell me the name of the town." "Duh. San Diego." He flipped a magnifying lens down from his visor and studied the tiny writing. "No, no. San Diego is not on the block. You can't be here." I shrugged. "Like I care. We were just trying to be nice to that little dog." "No dogs here," said the handyman. "No, sir. Not now, not ever." He shuffled off. After a few moments alone, we heard the sound of cars pulling into the driveway from every direction. A crowd of people came rushing up toward the door, shouting the names of various cities around the world. We ducked out the sliding glass door into the back yard. Down a short hill, through some thistles, we found a dirt road. A solid line of traffic bumped and squished along the rutted soggy road. There were no roads like this near our house. We lived in a near desert, and this road looked like it hadn't seen a dry day in years. I had been walking to the left, but when I looked back, Carmen was about a half mile behind me in the other direction, headed for a hill. I rushed to catch up to her. Cars poured down over this insanely steep hill like water over a waterfall. Silently. One drop after another. We followed an old stone staircase along one edge of the waterfall road, and when we made it to the top we were on the inside of a car repair shop. Just a big glass window and six black plastic chairs. We looked back: no waterfall, or carfall, just a wall covered with diagrams of pistons and shock absorbers, and a barred window blocking a desk. A sign on the desk said, "Sorry, Never Open." There was a commotion behind us. Cars pulling into the parking lot from every direction. That damned crowd again, shouting the names of cities. We locked the glass doors and looked for a place to hide. ===================> MY NEWS: The dry spell continues. I've scribbled some new poems in my notebook, but haven't sent out much lately. ===================> POEM Reading the Soup --- The misguided notion Of separable fortune, misfortune, Each travelling in clusters, So that anything good implies more good; These ideas are the babble of children, From start to finish, my day speaks how: There was an extra flavor packet In my 23 cent soup today ... Does this mean I'll meet The "girl of my dreams", Or that I will suddenly begin Having such dreams, Will all goodness fall at my door, So I need never worry, need never fear, Will people give up their fighting And find quieter songs, Or does it mean nothing more Than a strong bowl of soup? --- = 4/88, published on Unfuture Chronicle blog (2/1/06) ===================> STORY BITES: (clips from old fictional sources) My blood shall mingle with the dashing waves, And bring a curse upon this barbarous shore! [1] Through clouds and smoke I see the feeble gleam Of the death-stream which lights me down to hell. [2] Let not my only brother, found so late, Rave in the darkness of insanity! [3] 1,2,3: Johann Wolfgang Goethe, "Iphigenia in Tauris", in Kuno Francke (ed), The German Classic of the 19th and 20th Centuries (20 vols) (J.B.Lyon, Albany, 1913), vol 1. #1 and 2 are Orestes speaking, #3 is Iphigenia speaking. ===================> POEM An air of mistakes --- Particles of shame build no castles, take no part in glory, speak no reason, hum no hymns, a pride of moments has been taken away, much too sensitive for human good, they drift while we make errors; We step on feet, over bodies moving all that can not stand aside of its own free will, then we argue about free will over a campfire of elements tamed. A warning comes from the thunder wind: Hold back this vengeance, wanting is natural, a thing of life like breathing the calmest air, but the air, too, is full of mistakes ... Burning whiffs of factory dust, hairs of the starving, last breaths every second, drifting bits of battlefield decay, useless mummy dust, birds mulched in jet engines, the evaporated cries of spoiled milk, more and more ... deeper : Fainter and further removed from left over timelines, scents of futures here and there but neither, do I dare breathe this toxic stew? How will I filter out the madness, and what will I add to the mix? This blended sky is held together with a trillion stray thoughts the shame and joy of history and the dying gasp of gods fearing people. Hold back the thunder wind the vengeance that fills and overflows, keep in the anger until the Earth is blue in the face and fertile again, Mother remembered. --- = 4/88, unpublished ===================> ABOUT THE AUTHOR Scott Virtes has had over 400 stories & poems published since 1986. Look for them in Analog, Space & Time, Ideomancer, Dreams & Nightmares, Cafe Irreal, Planet, and more ... My Home page: http://tales.scvs.com?inw=dkw Notice: Odd Clips and Story Bites all come from original sources in the public domain, or are brief clips in the spirit of fair use (a.k.a. free advertising for the source). All other sections of this newsletter are copyright (c)2008 Scott Virtes. All rights reserved. Please don't grab chunks of my work and post them all over the place. If you ask permission, you'll find that I'm pretty easygoing. ;-) ===== this issue: 2,100 words cumulative: 54,500 words |
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