June 19, 2007
Cygnus Clausen (a postmodern poem) by Maria Law
applique cruickshank,
allotted compose crone, cygnus clausen.
coco anhydrite camden compound
chris astrophysical alfalfa.
c
hoosy benchmark
balk australia chisel aflame
coney daytona
ado aviv affectionate
choreography.
booky bare belly
dichloride dilemma
candace cockatoo
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May 15, 2007
HL Hunley by Jeff Crouch
Tim wanted to be the first in line for the new submarine ride at Our Texas Galveston, but he couldn’t let on to his friends that he still had a seasons pass.
Captain Nemo , even Nautilus—that name was probably still under copyright—, would have been a better name for a submarine ride, Tim thought.
Tim sighed out loud.
The Confederate theme had been downplayed at the Our Texas Cleburne, but Our Texas had obviously revisited it for the H.L. Hunley. Tim wondered why. He wondered about the politics involved, the need to raise questions about the course of events, however abstract those questions might be.
But for all his mathematical savvy, the best Tim could do was a senior essay on Profiles in Courage, a book supposedly ghost written for John F. Kennedy, a book concerning, of all people and places, Sam Houston and the State of Texas.
Tim wondered if a movie theme was in the making: he obviously couldn’t dress as a Storm Trooper to go to this event. How would ride enthusiasts dress? His sister was into Gone With the Wind; he wasn’t.
“This question might be a good one for Bruce Sterling,” thought Tim. “Perhaps I should email him.”
Had he not had work, Tim would have gladly camped out to be the first in line, but his notion of firstness was deflated by Susie Cluck, one of the sales ladies at his office, who had already been to one of the private openings for the H.L. Hunley
Tim decided to hang out in the computer room the rest of the day.
Dejected, Tim didn’t have his mom drop him off that night so he could camp out in line. And the next day she dropped him off in the parking lot of Super Boxes, across the street, and Tim could see that the line would be long.
Tim finally got his Later pass for the H.L. Hunley. His ride time wouldn’t be until 9:30 that night. Tim rode a few rides, but spent most of his day in the Raphael Semmes Pizzeria on the internet.
Unlike the picture of the H.L. Hunley on the internet, there wasn’t a place to sit.
Tim heard a whistle. He then felt the boat bubble up, and as he peered through the portals, he realized he wasn’t in a glass bottom boat. He was under water.
Bright lights lit the underwater scenery for a while. Tim had wondered why a submarine ride in the dark would be interesting.
And Tim began to doubt himself.
“Was that a fake lamprey?” he asked aloud.
A submarine ride with nothing to do or see would be stupid, and Tim began to wonder where the submarine was going. He listened intently and occasionally clamored for a spot at the portals, but the aquarium that constituted the scenery for the in-park ride was long gone.
Though he had not forgotten who he was, Tim now answered to the name Alfredo and spoke fluent Spanish.
Tim was part of a clone crew set to replace the Ecuadorian government at a social gala. He had no idea how long he had been under water waiting to go ashore. His handlers told him he was not the only clone Alfredo; other submarines had similar parties.
Someone began to sing, “These Are Your Confederates”—in Spanish.
Tim thought to check his cell phone to see if he had coverage, but it emitted a strange tune. When he flipped it open to catch a glimpse of the familiar, the screen read: “No Regrese.”
For a second, Tim began to sob. He almost felt as though he were in middle school again, and someone had stolen his lunch money. But perhaps now his life was entirely gone.
Tim rubbed his nose. Some scent was acting as an irritant and his eyes welled for an instant.
Tim thought for a second that the perfume the clone President’s wife was wearing was going to make him sneeze, but then he noticed that she had a warm musk about her. That stinky powder had come from elsewhere.
Tim felt his face: the smooth but slightly oily texture of hair. Tim had yet to experience stubble; he now had a well-groomed beard.
Tim gave an eye to the President’s wife’s backside, and he lost himself tracing the angle of her rib cage into her hip. When she almost backed into him, he didn’t flinch. His gaze fell to her calf, into the heel of her shoe.
Her legs were shapely.
Tim looked around for his partner, knowing he should have one, but he didn’t spot her, not that he knew what she looked like.
Tim remembered that he had left his sinus medicine in his Storm Trooper mask, and as usual, he had no tissue.
The curve of the woman’s back had made Tim think of astronomy and of the philosophical problem known as abduction.
Near the exit hatch of the submarine, Tim saw a spittoon. Perhaps it was there only as a kind of joke, as something meant to give the submarine an 1860s look and feel.
Tim stretched his arms above his head, hawked a loogie, and spit it heartily into the spittoon.
Tim thought he heard a female voice, slightly in disgust, slightly in surprise, say, “Alfredo,” and he looked around, an internal sunburn radiating from the bottom of his neck and out his ears, but found no one.
More than ever, he suddenly felt dignified, invigorated—his mother, could she have known it—would have believed him cured.
Outside, one of the handlers shouted, “Vamalos!”
Tim wondered why he had taken Spanish, yet Alfredo felt good about that decision, his boots hitting the gangplank with a clop.
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May 2, 2007
Reading the Papers of Borges: Some Interesting Discoveries by Abraham Burickson
RECENTLY I reread the Jorge Luis Borges' story Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius in preparation for a lecture to be given in celebration of a great acquisition—the papers of the great Latin American writers. Borges covers everything, hides nothing. His is a mind at a level of complexity so uncommon that he is not satisfied until he alters reality, recreates it, gets his pen inside it and tinkers with it until it comes out right. This piece he took even further, creating an entire other universe and fusing it with his – all in under six thousand words. Damn.
And that’s really all I could think about it when I was done: damn. I tried to come up with something but drew a blank: no insightful analyses, no deep resonance with the postmodern condition, nothing. Borges shows you and tells you—and he shows and tells everything, leaving nothing to tease out. I thought I might delve into the historical symbolism – to see how the war and the politics of his day may have influenced things, to talk about how that might resonate with the modern day and the contemporary writer. Dull, I thought, middlemind.
So I headed to the library to look at these much ballyhooed papers.
The special collections library was somewhat thrilling, actually. Its massive glass façade, its sandblasted faces and autographs glowed with an aura of wonder and privilege. It was an institution dedicated to the antiquated idea that the original manuscript would hold some mystical sway over all its offspring.
“I’m looking for Jorge Luis Borges – Ficciones.”
It was Sunday morning, the librarian typed something into the computer and frowned. “All I have is a collection of statements from his bank in Geneva.” That was odd. Was all the talk of acquisitions just talk? Had they suspected that no one would ever check?
“You don’t have a file with his checkbook, bar napkins he might have written on, that kind of stuff?”
“We might. Check the cardfile.” She pointed me over to the file, picking up the phone which had been quietly but furiously blinking throughout our conversation. What I found there was one little card, typed out in that shaky 1960s way:
Borges, Jorge Luis
Var. errata 1935-1945
Aq. 1967, MacFarlane Auction House, London, England
I wrote down the call numbers and brought them to the other librarian who impassively disappeared behind the wooden doors at the back of the room, returning a few minutes later with a large cardboard file box and a pair of white gloves.
The contents looked like they hadn’t been touched in ages, as if they had been thrown together in a rush. There was an old notebook with some drawings and a lot of blank pages, a typed letter from some government official inviting Borges to dinner, a ration book, a whole pile of letters from various people I’d never heard from. I dug further down and found one from Borges himself – in an envelope, but unsealed and never sent. It was addressed to Adolfo Bioy Casares in Rio Plata, and dated 12 September, 1936. Although Borges’ penmanship was excellent, reading was slow as it was in Spanish and he is, as you know, not a simple man. When I was finished I took out my cell phone and snapped a few pictures of it so I could translate it later. It read as follows:
My Dear Esteemed Adolfo,
It has been too many months since we last spoke. The Irish toasts you recited over all my meals in June have shown themselves to be the most ideal nutrient…all summer I have been writing, and writing well. I have finished two new stories, both of them, I believe, now reared and ready to survive in the Jaguar Forest, as you so eloquently put it. The first, which I think you know of, is the Garden of Paths that Divide, the second is the Library of Babel. Both, I think, are of a single nature and I believe that both are stories in which you will find some brotherhood.
It is the story I am currently composing which has caused me to raise both eyebrows in consternation. I am thinking I will call it Orbis Tertius, and have enclosed a draft for your surgeon’s eye to examine. The story is a little dry at the moment, but this is not why I am sending it to you. It was born out of a discussion we had in the Hotel Dos Rios. You said that many authors claim their work is not created consciously by them, that it passes through them from some other spring. They do not, however, disclaim the prizes and royalty payments which arrive at their doorstep. Like spoiled children in the family of mind, you said. I laughed, but the following weeks would find me thinking about the conversation more and more frequently.
Whether it began then or I simply began to notice it then I could not say, but my ability to say that I wrote what I wrote became increasingly frail. I began with the idea of two new languages – one composed entirely of verbs and one of adjectives. I have long wished to compose such a language as these and enjoyed my mornings very much. Such pleasure! As the languages developed, my hand developed a preference for their rhythms. Simple Spanish became strange and undignified – crass. I soon recalled that no one knew my new language and it was in Spanish that I should write, and so I returned, but I was not the same. Though my understanding of the rules and the sense of the language had not changed, the language itself was now no longer my first language. The act of writing was difficult, onerous, and dragged out longer and longer until I stopped in the middle of a rainy Tuesday morning. I spent the day in the park, thinking that I had made some mistake, that this would most certainly be trouble. To my surprise I awoke the next morning to find that several pages of the story had been written, and the words were most certainly mine. What a strange occurrence! That day I sat down to continue the story and, after three fruitful hours, discovered that I had been writing in Ursprache, the language I had invented only a week earlier. In that time the language had developed from a stilted pidgin German to a full-fledged language with sensible grammar and a diverse vocabulary. I stopped writing and went immediately to the park to scratch my head and walk. The next morning, again, I found the story written in Spanish, but to my further astonishment it proceeded further than the Ursprache draft had. Elements of plot existed which I had not previously conceived, and all in Spanish, that increasingly strange language. Even now, the language is getting harder and harder to use. Over the next few days I continued writing in the day and waking up to find several pages of my own unmistakable handwriting on the table by the bed.
Adolfo, I do not wish to give up authorship of my work, but I think I have no choice. When I write in Spanish what was my own subjective thought seems to enter into the realm of the universal. What I am writing now bears little relation to my mind, except for the fact that it and I occupy the same space here in my study. The only thing which remains in the realm of my unique psychological experience is Ursprache, and that, sadly, is a language which does not exist. I fear for my life. Over the length of this letter it has become entirely clear that your help is needed, as you are the most important character in the story; now I understand that this is why I am writing to you. Please look the story over and tell me if my fears are warranted.
Yours ever in friendship,
JLB
I poked through the envelope again but there was no manuscript Why hadn’t he mailed the letter? Does anybody know about this? I thought, Should I tell someone? I dug deeper into the box: more government letters, a newspaper article showing a young Borges frowning at an elephant, a list of words in English. Then I discovered a small, yellowed clipping from the New York Times. It showed an older Borges extending a hand full of coins toward the members of the UN General Assembly. THESE COINS ARE REAL AND UNIQUE! read the caption, then, Jorge Luis Borges, self-proclaimed author, objected today to the conclusions of the General Assembly I noted that the name-plates of the various countries represented were conspicuously absent.
Beneath this lay a handful of black and white photos – two of Borges at the ocean, one of him sitting at a computer typing, and one photo of him on the steps of the University of Texas plaza looking up at the clock tower and pointing towards the camera with his cane. Next to him a bearded, pony-tailed graduate student was smoking a cigarette. In the student’s free hand was a large black book. Stuck to the back of the photograph was a square of paper cut out from an encyclopedia. It was beautifully typeset in deep, black letters, and was written entirely in Ursprache. Between the lines somebody had hand-written a translation. Xprnn, it said, any erroneous idea derived from an artificially objective perspective such as: fatherhood, any relationship between creator and created, and the idea of a flowing, linear time. These can easily be disproved by experimenting with…Here the entry was cut off.
Then I found a folded pile of papers on the same stock as the letter and discovered that they were, in fact, the incomplete manuscript he had planned to send to Casares. It began in part two with Borges’ discussion of the doctrine of materialism. Reading the original in his longhand was indeed a lyrical pleasure, and I spent a good hour plowing through his draft and trying to remember the translation I had read (the librarians do not allow you to bring books into the reading room. For what reason, I can’t say. It seemed to be that the magical nature of the collection was tenuous at best, that it relied upon an unspoken code rigid enough to keep the temperature and humidity at reasonable levels. That nearly perfect little room began to seem oppressive to me after so many hours. It began to take on the overly still nature of so many institutions. I could feel my toes twitching but stayed nonetheless). I continued reading until discovering that the last few pages had been written entirely in Ursprache. Here the writing and the narrative changed considerably. The story remained essentially the same but the telling was stilted, troubled, amateurish. People talk of looking at early drafts of great works to discover the humility and hard work of the author, and this was the experience I had hoped to encounter. But these pages were covered with drivel of the worst possible kind! If not for the paper and the handwriting, I would not have believed them written by the same man, and though the translation into Spanish was slow and painstaking, I felt that I had to read the entire draft.
By the end it was simply too much. Whether the Ursprache had ruined his Latinate mind or he had just gone old and his blindness had progressed to the point where he didn’t know what he was writing, I couldn’t say. I began to wonder whether he really had authored any of his works and suddenly my responsibility became clear. I took out my pen and began to translate and rewrite the last several pages Soon I tossed his pages entirely and rewrote them blind – vaguely remembering the original text I had read. I filled my pipe many times that night and when the sun began to rise outside the story was nearly complete.
Then, I wrote, English, French, and mere Spanish will disappear from this planet. The world will be Tlön. I take no notice. I go on revising, in the quiet days in the hotel Dos Rios, a tentative translation into English, in the style of Burickson, which I do not intend to see published, of Jorge Luis Borges’ Ficciones.
I walked out of the library to find the wind off the river more than brisk. It was still early in the morning and on the corner I could see the newspaperman unpacking the morning paper. I bought one and sat down at a nearby café. The university students were just beginning to walk the streets, stopping in small packs to smoke at the foot of the statue of Simon Bolivar. I feared one of them might recognize me, interrupt this quiet morning. Instead it was Adolfo who approached me, tapping my cane with his foot to get my attention. Bioy, I said, I have an idea for a story that I would like to discuss with you.
See the full text here
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April 17, 2007
untitled by Ilya *revised*
with every step I take. I wonder how old it is, and imagine it being poured some twenty or thirty years ago.
“Excuse me; do you know where Liberty Street is?” The voice is light and sharp. I am brought back into reality and give my attention to this disturbance.
She looks like her voice, with a fine nose, smiling eyes, and light, untamed hair. I’m not sure what she was looking for that day, and I never remembered to ask. Sometimes you know right away… I have found my muse! I think about how I felt twelve years ago, when life seemed full of promise and
potential. Writing wasn’t even on my radar back then. I just knew that I had to share my inner world, my perception of our reality, with others. They didn’t see it the way I did, but they could! If only I could show them! I struggled through college until I settled on writing – I can’t draw, and I don’t have the patience needed to play or write music. All the arts are too imprecise anyway. Every painting can be interpreted in many different ways, and the only way to get across the right idea is to write a good title, or even an
explanation.
But throughout it all, I felt that I was only learning, practicing, and improving. I was preparing myself for the real thing. But after years of practiceruns, I could bear it no longer. I decided that I’ve had enough practice, and that I needed a fresh start to do some real writing. So I topped. I let my relationships lapse through inaction. And I moved to Virginia, where nobody knew me. Pretty standard “finding yourself” stuff.
I point her to Liberty Street, but keep the conversation going, and we go out for coffee, and then back to my house.
Making love to her is like being in the mountains; She is pure and sensual, and unafraid. She is eternal. She is sure of her own substance. She knows that this is one brief moment when it is insane to worry or hold yourself back.
The rest of the universe stops in its tracks to watch in awe.
We continue to see each other. We exchange life resumes. I tell her about my short-lived writing career. She tells me about temp jobs, renting month-to-month, and moving often – by choice; She has lived in more places than I have visited.
I note that she is clean for a gypsy. In fact, she is strangely clean in general. I ask her if hygeine is a passion of hers, and she laughs this off, as if it's nothing.
She seems to respect the idea of writing for a living.
This Thursday, it will have been exactly three months since we’ve met. I haven’t written a word. This doesn’t bother me.
I bring her flowers and reservations to a nice restaurant. I think she appreciates the cheesy gesture.
Her temp job at an engineering firm runs out, and she takes one at the town newspaper, and then a company that installs alarms in people’s houses. She tells me anecdotes about people who take their jobs too seriously. The sinuous quality of her skin, the almost plastic gleam, has spread to her hair.
When the alarm company job ends, she takes a break and we drive across the country. We have a destination, but we make many detours. She shows me places she has lived, and others along the way. We sleep in the back of her station wagon.
The gas stations, diners, grocery stores all blend together. My collection of supermarket membership keychains doubles after a year-long standstill.
We sit around in diners and talk for hours. Sometimes just us, but more often whoever we happen to run into that’s also looking to talk. The conversations, the diners, all coated in this mysterious sheen, this glow around the edges of all objects.
When we return – only three weeks later – my house feels foreign and small. Not just my house, but the street, the town. It feels like I have been away for years. I am startled, and I think that I may finally be able to write something that I’m content with. I try for a week straight, until I realize that I no longer want to write at all.I am content with being the only one to see the world through my eyes. I’d ratherjust see it together with her! I am ecstatic with this revelation. I’m in love! Fuck everything else!
I run out of my designated office room. She’s gone, and on my kitchen counter, I notice this mysterious pile of abaster twine…
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April 15, 2007
Liquefaction by Jesse Geno
It all seems so primitive, traveling along the various above-ground tracks and suspended docks, rock jetties—certain Connecticut towns daring to construct their piers a few feet higher than average. Haughty, if you ask me. All the darling little islands are a certain reminder of the impending liquefaction. You know if they put it in the Globe, they must have something planned. I imagine the big dig turning into Nine Eleven Two, anther national scandal turned insidious and mythical through having made an acronym. “The BD” old people will say, and sigh, thinking back to the times when they weren't old but young, and looking forward to the bright future promised them by various gleaming-tooth politicians. A symbol of Boston's progress. Predictably all gone to shit.
The marshes seem easy enough; all the discovery channel programs I’ve watched tell me that fish absolutely love moss. The trees (so valued in fall for their predictable decline—like clockwork) will perhaps provide temporary luxury accomodations. Perhaps killer sharks love living in trees.
The real pathetic thing about all this is the mobile homes sitting squat and frightened under the constant watch of Rich Hill Dwellers. You know the people living in the mobile homes have little to no capacity to actually move the things. I highly doubt any white trash or white trash populist politician is going to suggest pre-emptive floaters for all the low income housing.
The man across the aisle is staring into the abyss and laughing, laughing. Maybe that's Bill Hicks on his itunes but I don't see any headphone cords; I don't see anything but the slabs of land floating at ridiculous angles along the turbulent coast.
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April 4, 2007
High Ground by Lacy Stuart
some books i stole from libraries
and people i don't like
they are spending the summer getting mouldy
and i'd move them
its not like my karma's gettin wet
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March 10, 2007
Authors by their nature... by clone00
Authors by their nature seem to require long and verbose title lines. Granted \nscientists too prefer to create long and explicitally categorized titles which \ntend to contain several colons as well as the word 'on' used in a declaritive \nway, like 'On the subject of Dragon Anatomie'
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March 8, 2007
What will be interesting about people in the future when spaceflight is routine? by analog_mind
"OK Critter, bring her down"
Chaz adjusts his earpiece and shoots a glance
at the large com screen at the front of the room.
The curve marking the craft's descent is smooth,
and right on target.
"Looking good.. Watch the joint.. "
He holds his breath during the tense final seconds.
A roar of applause goes up in the room.
Chaz is relieved.
He mumbles that's a wrap to Critter
and barely remembers to switch the earpiece off
before dropping it next to another receiver.
Executive Commander Leslie is at his side
before he can turn to rush with the crowd to the launch pad.
"Walk and talk?" she inquires in her usual demure
yet commanding tone, and begins walking crisply
to the door before waiting for an answer.
Chaz correctly assumes
she will speak her mind
with or without his permission.
"We have a special job upcoming"
she remarks with a wink to Chaz.
He realizes she must mean
he is the man for the job.
"What's the catch?" He asks
although he knows he'll do it anyway
Knows he'd do anything for Leslie
(and the potential promotion she represents)
"The cargo is .. less than pleasing,"
she begins, with awkward hand motions meant to reveal
what she doesn't wish to say.
"Foreigners?" Chaz demands, peeved
He gets paid so much dough in part to not have to worry about extra
terrestrial jerks
(It's a class thing.)
"There will be a modest bonus."
Chaz hears again the roaring applause
of the crowd.
No matter that the applause,
next time
will pale compared to the green
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March 7, 2007
End Where You Begin by Euler
it's an amazing thing
circuits interfere, intercept with circuits
static in the seasons
the nasa's plans
other things i can't seem to connect to now
>it's all a (recusive (mess(>))
Posted by Overlord at 12:39 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
March 2, 2007
poems by Ilya
Serene, calm, peaceful, puzzled
I could go on forever
Finding words to describe her
I gently kissed her still lips
I thought I saw her cheeks blush
But my vision deceived me
My magic was not enough
To bring her back
******
Eyes are red, and mind is blue
Packets fly across the band
Programs crash without end
And as the sun begins to rise
I sadly start to realize
That you and I just cannot fit
A fact my heart will not admit
Why do I waste my time online
When I could be in bed by nine
I could be having pleasant dreams
Of flashy, happy beauty queens
The sun and I would be best friends
As we woke up we would shake hands
And drink our tea and read the news
And share what we thought of the blues
"Those funny people", we would smile,
"They cannot break out of denial
They cry and sigh and have the blues
When it is up to them to choose"
The sun has gotten out of bed
It looks at me and shakes its head
There is no sense to talk again
I've spent another night in vain
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February 28, 2007
Radioactive Nazi Zombies from Hell - Pt 1 by clone00
“Dare I say I ever believe I would end up in such a place,
end up in such a way.
What remained of our troupe lie scattered; some return. How hard it is, striking down our friends twice, three times.
The Americans do not cope well. For many of them, only their solidarity and nationalism carried them over here, but now they must fight for an altogether different, but equally nebulous reason. Mere survival has already been forgotten.”
Surveying the tracked and muddied rise, First Lieutenant Grieves walked the perimeter of the secured half-acre. A small group of ruined trees stood always over his right shoulder, the only real reminder they were still on the earth of the blasted Father-land.
Hopefully, with luck these may keep the boys grounded, he mused.
What would generously be called a company milled nervously the hill where it had remained a constant twilight for a time they could only measure yet still not believe. Thank heavens for clockwork.
“... it was then that the fog became apparent.”
As the sortie progressed and the day wore on, their shells fell from the now dug in position,
Shells fell all about their entrenchment, his platoon, 18 specialists. The rangers had been chasing artillery pieces through the hills north of the Weiser River, ambushing the limbered guns in transit.
For his seasoned Brits it was easy pickings, standard tactics: teams of riflemen supported by machine-gun cover fire. That is until they came upon their last available target of the day, a stand of hastily erected machine-gun nests within a small hilltop grove clearly engaged in pinning down most of a platoon of American Army boys at its base.
By seventeen hundred Greenwich they were charing the hill – ample supplies of small mortar fire can prove persuasive.
“...by then we had visual contact with the section of light armor, SS charing across the Eastern fields to flank our location. With heavy casualties all around we took up with the Yanks manning the German emplacements against their still walking breatheren. They took position in the drained irrigation canals, preparing to combat us from afar, barrels rising to the sky like skeletal hands, rigored joins and fingertips marking the otherwise dull, oblong silhouettes. Our radioman had be lost along with his transistors some time ago; we had had no new intelligence since eighteen hundred . Blindsided by the mobile guns we frantically set about exhausting a League of Nations of mortar rounds...”
“Grieves!” the American Lieutenant shouted.
“O'Hara! Quite the shit we're in!”
To his left, Brits launched dropped mortars down and out through the treetops – that being what O'Hara was shouting over. To the right, Americans took pot-shots with [German air-cooled mounted MG's] to their great amusement. Occasionally they hit an enemy gunnery commander.
“We've got no radioman, not a working one! There's no support! We need to withdraw! Lose them in the hills.”
The Englishman nodded passively, still barking orders at his remaining rangers.
At nineteen-forty-six hours GMT, March 8th 1945 an American atom bomb achieved areal ignition high above the streets of Berlin. By avoiding Soviet entanglement, Hitler had been able to deeply enforce his capital city – turned it into a massive bunker impervious to conventional fire-bombing, guarded by thousands of fanatics and stocked for, estimatibly, years. With the flash of countless lightning strikes the sky had turned from a brooding, coagulated purple to the pinks and greens of the Borealis. From their vantage, the Allied officers could see the massive plume rise above the northern German foothills. All fighting had ceased, the stunned Germans with their backs now to their enemy, fell silent. The ensuing pulse had destroyed all radios, all German radar, every telephone, guidance computer.
Standing like shadows against the emblazoned sky, extensions of the scorched earth beneath them, O'Hara and Grieves still stared dumbly at each other before savagely pulling on their respective gas masks and field gloves. Debris sailed above and around them, a massive wall of fire roiling and subsiding before the eyes of the brave. Men called out in wild confusion, as the officers began to wrangle their men, charging to the dell to begin organizing and capturing the surrendering and now weaponless Krauts. By Grieves' wristwatch, 65 seconds had passed since detonation, as best he could make out through the thick eyepieces of the English gas-mask that made him look not unlike some manner of insectoid apothecary.
“Over here! Get down over here!” O'Hara gestured with his Thompson as three German tank pilots trotted to the middle of a half-circle of Panzers when the second wave hit. A compression wave that blurred the air and knocked men off their feet. Dust streamed away from Berlin billowing out and around as the soldiers in possession of faster reflexes took cover behind the treads and bezels of the heavy armor. Grieves was amongst the slower and farther from cover, being enveloped in the dust cloud and thrown back several feet.
“...when finally the air settled, we all of us stood back up, and as visibility improved I saw other men already clambering to higher ground. I wiped my goggles and vaulted up upon an overturned half-track to see what they were observing – what else, I thought, could come now from Berlin. Then I saw it. The German dead picking themselves off the ground, re-setting dislocated joints and walking on shredded limbs. They had nuked the Germans, and in proper style they had risen again to take immediate, efficient revenge.
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February 24, 2007
Fecal Exchanger 4000 by Wang Smart
“Look. I don't care.” Strummond glares across the broad desk, pushes the tidy folder in front of him cleanly across to Langer.
“This is your deadline.” Stummond walks severely out of the room. Langer sighs for a moment before sweeping all the materials on his desk to the floor and placing a signature piece of drafting paper in the center.
“Now, gentlemen, be reasonable. This is certainly a difficult enough situation as to require creative solutions.” Langer looks at the members of the board evenly, glances at Strummond who gives him a wink. “The perks of this perfectly”--pause--”efficient”--pause--”method of producing energy are simply enormous!”
One of the Johnson's—Langer was never as good with names as with numbers—clears his throat and launches into a pedantic preamble:
“Now, Mr., ahhh, Langer, I am sure that you know your business. But at the same time—you must realize the essential nature of the business we are in. This is capitalism, Gentlemen.” Johnson clears his throat, more dramatically this time, and certain other elder members of the board glow with obvious smug support. “We are pushing product here. We have a reputation to uphold.” He pauses again and Strummond seizes upon the opportunity to butt in:
“Of course. Of course. And what better way to protect our reputation than to ensure our brand is the first to introduce a viable energy alternative?” Strummond demands of the room.
There is a general air of discomfort and the other Johnson offers his own “creative solution” to the problem at hand in the midst of much grumbling.
“I know a great guy, in PR. He might just have the touch we need.” The twinkle in his eye is commanding and unavoidable.
Strummond is next to Johnson, clapping him on the back. “Perfect! You see! Soon enough it will be back to the days of the old steel Magnates!”
Somehow this seems conclusion enough for everyone—besides Langer, who remains in the conference room with the lingering stink of corporate unease as the others pile into taxis, local bars.
Lately Langer has difficulty with phone calls.
None of his previous positions seemed to involve much personal contact. He wonders why he thought anything higher than Head Researcher would involve much lab time. Before getting too deep in his worries he gets a phone call.
“Larry, it's Jim, from Broadcasting R&D?” Langer grunts. “We need to chat about the Fecal Exchange thing.” Langer sighs into the mouthpiece and searches for the memo about the grand unveiling.
“OK, Sure. What of it.”
“Well, we're having some trouble making this appealing.”
“Look- you know how Strummond feels about this. And I agree. Besides his place in the board we just can't be holding our dicks with no options when the fuel chain drops out on us.” Langer cringes at his own crass usage.
“Yeah, Strummond's on my ass with the vague threats too. But I've got to warn you-- all this new stuff we're going to have to try—well, be careful tomorrow night. Maybe bring some shades.”
Langer frowns, asks “Shades?”
“Sunglasses. Look, I have to run. Don't forget what I said about this thing.” Langer hears a click. He is beginning to feel more has dropped out than just the carbon fuel supply chain.
Silence as the plushy curtains dropped around the stage; some "oohs" and "ahhs" start burbling up among those in the crowd as the gleaming machine was revealed. Langer fingers the pair of sunglasses in his overcoat pocket.
Many eyes travel along the graceful, dome-like shell covering the passenger area. The aging gentleman on stage begins to point out choice details of the automobile:
"While the black sheen of this vehicle affords the passenger the full comfort of privacy, you will see"—and here he flourishes a remote and suddenly the interior is revealed—"that all walls are compromised of hi-tech composite, allowing you to see outside in any direction you wish." He builds on the mounting excitement of the crowd, pointing out the automatic headlights; the touch-free stereo.
"I present to you, ladies and gentlemen, the future of personal travel—the height of scientific achievement and efficiency—the FE4000!" The emcee, some higher-up public relations type, glances expectantly around the gallery at the pleasant if befuddled faces.
"Unlike any other vehicle in the history of the United States and, indeed—mankind—the FE4000 is completely self-sufficient." He pauses, mousily opens his mouth and continues: “That's right, ladies and gentlemen—our new model of engine is 100% self-sufficient. That is, the only power required is that which you yourselves provide!” The PR man then points out the enclosed bathroom area to be featured on each vehicle of the new line, with what Langer feels is a scant amount of tact. PR lets the implications of this set in, and though he smiles as it becomes apparent the life-cycle and carbon-cycle information is becoming useful to the crowd, it is soon clear that the reaction is not quite as positive as he was expecting.
Johnson's PR man appears to be suffering minor intestinal difficulties. Langer would normally smile at the near-irony of this situation but there is a tense feeling he cannot shake tonight.
“Ladies and Gentlemen—please—let's turn our attention to this informative animated presentation we have prepared for you.” The crowd seems appeased for the moment and PR smiles widely. “Occasionally unique—circumstances—arrive; and we must all seek out creative solutions in order to pave the way for progress.” He turns on a screen that is lowering gradually around the back of the stage.
Langer puts on his glasses and puts an index finger in his right ear. He is not sure what to expect but something tells him he can never be too safe. He wonders momentarily what “safe” could be. Images of pastoral scenes begin flooding his senses.
“Is the world ready for the post-petrol era?” a soothing female voice asks, as the imagery switches to bombings, what appear to be radiation victims, Chernobyl footage.
“The future is built on sustainable growth. The future must be centered around what which mankind influences, produces, creates. Only a future centered around the power of the human race can allow the blossoming glory of capitalism and democracy to fully emerge.”
“Here at G.O. Motors,” (already the imagery is positive, the feeling of the room re-energized) “we look to the future in eager anticipation. With our new line of environmentally-friendly, completely human-powered devices, we ensure the story of mankind continues to progress and endure, well past the age of carbon.” The video presentation ends with both technological achievements such as silicon chips and the Hadron Collider and clips from recent legislative meetings about the looming energy crisis.
The crowd applauds energetically—even Langer feels too upbeat to really listen to the conclusion. But during the cocktail reception he feels himself draining.
All the faces in the hall look blank.
When Langer arrives at the office the next day he is rushed by Jim-from-Broadcasting at the elevator.
“Why, hello. Do you usually come..?” Jim cuts Langer off.
“When did you begin feeling good about the presentation last night?”
“During the video..” Langer replies unconfidentally.
“And afterwards..?” Jim looks overeager, rather harried.
“Why, the whole thing was rather trying. If you were so interested to see the reaction, why didn't you attend yourself?” Langer steps into the elevator with a pointed look at Jim.
“Why, scientists should never get involved in...” Jim trails off as the elevator door closes.
When Langer arrives to see his office being dismantled by a group of janitors he realizes that what Jim and Strummond have been saying lately suddenly seems an awful lot like warnings.
“Hello?” Langer awakens with a start and glances at his clock—3:22 AM.
“I told you we'd be back no top one way or another.” The line is quiet and Langer is not yet processing--
“What?”
“Either way, Langer, we're out of this mess. And now it's time for your half of the bargain.”
Langer's mind snaps to a scene weeks before. Strummond is looming around his desk, obviously unnerved by the only viable options for the engine project that Langer has been able to distill from his underlings. He allows himself a smirk and Strummond snaps—the chaotic mood in the room collapses into the kind of silence that would require a comfort tone, were it a product. Strummond said quietly, “The one thing you need to do is get me OUT of this mess.”
“What could I do for you now?” Langer bristles.
“I'm not respected any longer. My career is over.”
Strummond chuckles—not insincerely. “I'm sure you'll find the compensation more than fair for someone who will never work in this field again.”
Langer catches on, gives a name and number for his routing info.
“I'll be in touch.”
Strummond dangles the phone over its base for a second before dropping it with a satisfying click. He has always preferred the old style of telephone; he is sure he would prefer the old, misogyny-driven switching system, were it an option.
He fancies a future in which all calls are put through “Right away—Mr. Strummond” while waiting for the wire transfer to complete.
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