Such pressure

    to write

every moment

    of every day

and make them

    beautiful

even though

    I am afraid.

I link these

    severed chains

and toss the stone

    into your lap.

Drag me

    down the halls;

sweep me

    across the floor.

Two waterfalls,

    and a single flow.

A centered spiral,
    where we converge

into paper

    and into color.

Not Again (a Douglas Adams tribute)

Not Again

An estimated deduction on the thoughts and feelings of a bowl of petunias that was once a heat-seeking missile

Disclaimer: It is a scientific, philosophical, and anthropological fact that nobody in the known universe has yet been able to understand the thoughts of plant life, especially of the soft-colored yet tough-natured petunia flower. This brief hypothesis into the conceivable thought process of the universe’s most famous bowl of flowers is fictitious and merely exists as a possible stream of thought based on available knowledge of the events that have taken place involving a dormant planet, an advanced hyperdrive system, and a sperm whale. Please enjoy.

            And suddenly, there it was.

            A heavy push of wind violently shook the pot of flowers, nearly making it sick from the sudden change of atmosphere. The bowl of petunias was not particularly happy about this new situation, to say the least. What an inconvenience this has become. Immediately, it began to miss the waiting room of pre-existence where it had spent much of its time waiting to be introduced into the cold, hard reality of existence. Sure, it wasn’t the nicest place to hang around. There were plenty of soonborn babies being peddled through, crying and starting up a fuss (even though the human babies, often the noisiest of the bunch, suddenly stopped passing through, which the flowers felt was rather odd at the time.) It had made some nice acquaintances during its stay, such as the time it struck up an interesting conversation with a jet pack fueled entirely out of the mucus of an Alterion Grabble-Thon that was yet to be invented, or the time it chatted with a reanimated species of the previously extinct line of Thorvians. There was even a point where it sat down with a question that seemed to think very highly of itself, but couldn’t seem to find its answer.

            But the thing that it would miss the most were the little cocktails that they served every now and again. Always on a nice, thin platter, delicately placed and ready to be eaten, sitting next to the magazines that were always a month too old.  The bowl of petunias didn’t realize how strange it is for flowers to be eating anything, particularly cocktails, but this seemed to be the least of its concerns at the moment.

            A few yards away, it spotted what appeared to be a large sperm whale falling much faster, hurtling at a shocking pace towards the snow-covered mountains. Upon seeing this whale, the bowl of petunias realized what was happening and couldn’t help but sigh a disappointed breath of oxygen. Oh no, it thought, not again.

            This was actually not the first time that the Improbability Drive had brought into existence this particular bowl of petunias. In fact, this had happened several times before in very similar circumstances. The scientists who developed the Improbability Drive noticed this odd reoccurrence and were convinced that it was a bug in the system. Surely a hyperdrive based on an immensely vast quantity of improbable happenings shouldn’t contain any detectable patterns, especially for a seemingly useless thing like a bowl of petunias. What these scientists failed to consider was how improbable it was that the Improbability Drive had any patterns at all, meaning that the probability of the Improbability Drive having any probable outcomes becomes more improbable than the Improbability Drive failing to have any consistent probabilities.

            The bowl of petunias probably already knew this though, considering that this had happened before, and merely drooped its petals down half of a quarter of a centimeter, which is the floral equivalent to shrugging one’s shoulders in defeat and mild annoyance. These realizations made the petunias very tired.

            The flowers watched the sperm whale flailing its tail around and tried to guess what it was thinking. Perhaps he was trying to fly away? The bowl of petunias considered doing the same and tried to flap its leaves like the small wings of a bird. However, although petunias are able to move autonomously, it would take a single flower weeks (or days, depending on its determination) to even move enough for an organic eye to notice any actual change. The bowl of petunias only had approximately 21 seconds before it smashed into the planet below.

            This fact depressed the part of the bowl of petunias that was still a missile. Though the feeling would pass in time (if time was on their side, which it wasn’t due to a grudge that time has with improbability over an awkward pool party).

            What little was left of the consciousness of the heat-seeking missile began to panic. It wanted nothing more than to exist again, to break away from its destined target and fly away through the open sky. It wished to be home with its wife and three kids, longing for the days before the draft into Magrathea’s security units. And in the midst of the desolate abyss closing around, filling the void with its own brand of forgotten horror and solitude, the missile screamed in silence, cursing God and crying out final goodbyes to the ones that it loved so dearly.

            Then it remembered it was a missile, and it probably shouldn’t be thinking of such petty, emotional things.

            Thus the consciousness of the heat-seeking missile faded away, leaving the bowl of petunias finally alone with its thoughts. What is often missed by researchers and historians who show an academic interest in the life and times of this bowl of petunias were the actual final thoughts of the flowers mere nanoseconds before their immediate destruction: Ah, that’s better.

tangle of arrows

In the time of a thoughtful, bearded lecture,

for a moment I saw the clarity

     of chaos

behind the pacing of the speaker,

and the small crowd of souls

unrestrained, and I wondered about
     mining carts.

Would we suffocate? Could we

handle the tangle of arrows?

       A blue fuzz

powdered and consumed his head

and spread over my vision.

I had to look away, flinching,

to hang desperately onto this sight.  

     Clustered cosmos

all sitting in a classroom

listening politely, quietly,

     violently shaking,

and the blue consumes the room,

then settles into a quiet hum,

then dissipates into the words that once again

fill the air and take away my attention.

Postcard

Boiling excretion
from the glowing walls, organic,
pulsating fungus, pooling to the cavern floors.
The smell of acid and rotted flesh.
Fingernails torn at the scraping
horror, through iron barred freedoms.
Lights above smothered, and now a growling
heard from the tunnels below. It hears us,
crying, bathing in tears not our own.
Wish you were here.

Introproduction

I am a liar of my craft.

Here is the world, and there I see

hung vertically down the empty walls

long black hair, shining and

knotted every few feet down

pooling on the floor like tar.

Oil never meant to burn, now

staining the rug.

And now I hear the orchestra

from far down below, echoing

across a valley outside somewhere.

And I want to be religion,

and these are my myths.

Islam

Mumbling from the doorway,
reaching forward with a dusty broom
towards the floating men and
hidden women of
the old library. She
refuses to step onto the floor
of unhatched eggs,
empty and void of life.

Little Shadow: A Prosian Tale - Chapter 3

Ingwyn the Imp

Eventually, as the night moved on, the walking spirits began to thin, and the forest once again became quiet of any other sounds besides that of the nocturnal wildlife hidden away in the darkness. Once the last of the spirits seemed to pass, the little shadow nestled himself at the base of a large tree. He placed some leaves over himself and the orb, bathing the small space in warm light. Despite his situation, the little shadow felt comfortable in his little makeshift fort. Laying down, his body immediately relaxed and he fell into a deep sleep, resting his head against the smooth crystal.

            The next morning, when the sun rose and the new light softened the color of the leaves over his head, he arose from his shelter and stretched his arms. During the night, he had a dream, which he could barely recall was a rarity among shadows. In the dream, he found himself in the middle of a large, white space with other shadows wandering around him. There was nothing more to see or do, but the little shadow felt comfortable amongst others of his kind. Yet he had noticed that they all had their own details that made them distinct- a certain hair style, or the width of their arms, the length of their fingers, even the small outline of clothes on their bodies. They all belonged to someone, and with each passing hour he noticed that the little detail he had was diminishing.

            Standing up and stretching his legs, he forced these thoughts out of his mind, hopeful that wherever he was traveling towards would have some sort of answer. He took a few seconds to tear down his fort, then picked up his crystal orb and once again began to walk through the forest. Everything around him, from the ground to the leaves far above, was covered in a layer of morning dew, which caused the ground to give in to the weight of his steps. Droplets of water occasionally rained down around him, a few hitting the top of his head.

            “Where are you off to, Shadow-boy?”

            The voice was sharp and sounded agitated. He turned slowly to see a small blue creature standing upright on a branch far above him. The creature jump down and glided down to a branch closer to him. It was a small being, but its wings seemed almost too large for its torso. It had no shirt, but wore a tight pair of brown shorts. Its feet clung to the branch like a bird’s, but its hands rested at his side. “Everyone else ran the other way, as far as I’ve noticed. I wouldn’t go back that way if I were you.”

            The little shadow cocked his head. Were there others around? Or did he mean the spirits fom last night? Maybe this creature knew something about his identity? He took a few steps forward and looked up at the creature expectantly.

            “What do you want? Can’t you understand me?” The little shadow nodded his head. “Well then, heed my warning and turn around. There is nothing but ruins ahead. Bah! All you shadows are so empty. No independence, unlike us imps. You don’t seem particularly bright. I’m surprised you haven’t drifted yet, assuming you’ve been wandering for very long. There aren’t many little shadow boys around, none at all in the temples.” The imp paused and observed the shadow, who was still staring at him, listening contently. “You seem absolutely clueless to what I’m saying.”

            Again, the little shadow had his head cocked. The small creature waited for a different response, but after a few seconds he sighed. “Ah, forget it. Not even the shadow of a nord can listen to the words of an imp. The sorcerers have called me Ingwyn, and I’ve given you my words, but it’ll be your own fault if you can’t grasp what I’m telling you now. You’re from a temple, undoubtedly, you must know some language at least.” The imp pulled his shorts further up his waist, then looked down at the orb. “Well wait a second, what do you have there?”

            Ingwyn leaned forward, observing the orb. The little shadow defensively drew his arms away, and the imp backed off. “Ah, a little treasure then? On my honor, I have no interest in taking it, worry not. I’ll have all I need once I can get home. But hell, I’m so far behind the crowd I haven’t even seen a spirit.” The imp began to turn away, but the little shadow turned back around and looked at him with interest. “Ah, have you seen the spirits then? Quite the sight at night, I’d imagine. They’re from the temples, or they used to be anyway. But perhaps you should know this yourself. You really have no memory, do you?”

            The little shadow shook his head, and Ingwyn chuckled and began flying upwards. The shadow took a few steps forward, but he cried, “Do not follow me! I refuse to look after anyone else, ‘specially a daft shadow of a child, until I find my own safety.” He flew up to the top branches of the forest and disappeared in the distant greenery. 
           With a heavy sigh, the little shadow turned away from where the imp had run off towards and began walking once again. The imp seemed to have some of the answers he was looking for, but was in too much of a hurry to explain further. Much of what he said made little sense. Questions began to crowd his mind. He brought his foot down hard on a small pile of leaves, making them crack loudly under his weight. The distraction was nice, and he brought his foot down again, this time on a stick, making a loud and satisfying crack. For the rest of the journey, the little shadow found small piles of leaves or bundles of sticks and jumped onto them, filling the quiet of the forest with noises of his own.