Z, alive, looked up into a grey sky, heard the searing sound of warplanes. His face felt like it had been carpeted, his right leg was in stinging pain from cuts and gashes. He sat up and saw wreckage around him, a gridlock sculpture, burning husks of cars and armored vehicles, metal debris everywhere. The air was full of smoke. Fires burned, the sounds of flame like rustling flags. Tornado-like plumes of smoke spun in place off in the distance. Dead figures slumped over in car seats and lying prone on the ground, their skins baked brown or black in color.
In the smoke a figure walked toward him. A silhouette shaded in fuzzy black, arms at sides. Z stood, waiting for the figure to emerge.
It’s all dead bodies and dust, the figure said. He stopped, the smoke lifting from him, revealing a man caked in black, small lakes of blood scattered on his head and face. He stumbled. Z wanted to grab him, prop him up. But he was afraid, looking at a ghost.
Did we win? This was all Z could say. He knew it was absurd. They were leaving Kuwait. The bombing was constant, like breathing. But victory--it was what had been beaten into him. Ever since he had been conscripted.
Of course. The man laughed. Look around you. Don’t we always win?
A series of planes swooshed overhead. It was like an alien invasion in the movies. His wife H left at home in Baghdad. A life interrupted. He hadn’t seen her in months. Was she still alive?
How do we get out of here, is what Z wanted to ask next. Or, why are we still alive. But these were impossible questions.
The man pulled a pistol from his coat, held it to his head.
For Allah, he said. For Saddam. For our eternal glory.
He pulled the trigger. The man’s head exploded. His body fell to the ground.
Z winced. The gunshot rang in his head for several seconds then abandoned him. He dropped to the ground, felt inside his jacket for the picture of H. It was slightly wrinkled, but the image was pristine. She was frozen in smile. A clear glass ball dangled at the base of her throat, the silver strand of necklace an orbit tracing her neck.
He knew he had to return home. He stood, saw tanks and vehicles approaching from the south.
He kissed H’s face, returned the picture to his jacket interior. He searched for something white amid the debris he could use as a flag. But there was nothing that wasn’t metal or fried.
Z fell to his knees, repeated his wife’s name over and over, his voice drowned out by the buzzing of invisible helicopters.
Showing posts with label tinfoil. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tinfoil. Show all posts
Monday, March 7, 2011
Friday, August 20, 2010
McMurdo Station, Antarctica
It was late May--the harshest dead of winter down on the ice--when Jon and Aria brought unity to the United States and New Zealand. Not that there was a divide: the winter residents of neighboring stations often mingled when there was a weather break: chess tournaments, dining, talking, bringing the world above to its very bottom. In late April, there was a lull in the wind and snow. Other than the darkness, it was almost like summer. This is when Jon and Aria caught each other’s eyes in the common room, never noticing each other before. Each would think, where were you all this time? Then, the fury came. Winds, snow drifts, whiteout. Everybody was frozen in place. They talked, gazed, became the nearby volcanoes Erebus and Terror. Ice, nowhere, space--there was nothing but them.
***
Scott sat in his dorm, wrote letters to his wife. Over and over and over. His first winter in Antarctica. The darkness, the wind. He imagined the world around him shrinking and shrinking until he too shrunk and he could fit on the postage stamp that he put on the envelopes. The envelopes piled up. Nowhere for them to go until there was a weather break. He loved his wife. She was a universe away. Her face faded from his memory. He would stare at her picture and, after awhile, his eyes tricked him into seeing her face disappearing. He was scared. He slept with the lights on.
***
Tess fell asleep on the common room sofa one night. She awoke, everyone gone, the place silent except for outside wind and sprinkling of blown snow against windows. She walked back to her room, as she did countless times, socked feet sliding across the floor, but her room wasn't there. She swiveled, looked every direction, turned corners, walked other hallways. But it was gone. Science told her that solid structures like this don't change without intervention. But either it changed or her mind did. She went back to the sofa, slept until morning, and everything was right again.
***
Ray, when not studying the resident whales, played sleuth to discover a practical joker. One year running and no luck. The joke played on him was every now and then, he'd be walking down a hallway, alone, when he'd hear something rolling. He'd turn to find a billiard ball sized crystal ball moving his way. He collected them in a shoe box--nine total so far. All identical. He asked around, showed them to people, who shrugged, gave him puzzled looks. One day, he whispered to himself, I'll figure it out.
***
Jan found herself bouncing, a ball in an endless pinball machine game. Rebuffed by her boyfriend in Iowa, through email no less. Then by Scott. Well, he was married--he had principles, an admirable trait. Then Blair. The resident hotshot surfer dude—okay, maybe not. There was Jon, but now he was attached to this New Zealander. Jan danced around other eligible men. She talked. She played cool. She moved closer. She got nowhere. She grew frustrated. Her work suffered. The ice was cold and lonely, more so everyday; were others magically impervious? If she had a mirror, she would make advances at herself, take the bait, fall in love all over again.
***
Sam walked away from his radio monitoring station for coffee and blueberry pastry. Scratched his head, spooned powdered creamer into Styrofoam cup, talked to Blair about football, and flights home. What he missed was a transmission from space. Scratching, hissing voice filled with consonants--it was brief, almost a hiccup. Unrecorded—the McMurdo Station crew wasn't looking for extraterrestrial life. You walk away, you miss everything. He shuffled back, blueberry on his chin, sipping coffee, looking forward to another long boring day of nothing on the ice.
***
Out beyond Erebus and Terror, in the frozen fields where nobody traveled, there was a man frozen face up in the ice. The sound of his name cast into space, a weak radio signal, floating in the void, never to be heard. His ice cube eyes stare out the bottom of the world. If he were to be found, people would theorize about what brought him here: conquest, a woman, insanity. Running to, running from, running. The mind's eye would trick someone into seeing him twitch, his eye blink, a tear stream down his cheek, and think briefly, somehow, he was alive, trapped in ice, nowhere, space.
***
Scott sat in his dorm, wrote letters to his wife. Over and over and over. His first winter in Antarctica. The darkness, the wind. He imagined the world around him shrinking and shrinking until he too shrunk and he could fit on the postage stamp that he put on the envelopes. The envelopes piled up. Nowhere for them to go until there was a weather break. He loved his wife. She was a universe away. Her face faded from his memory. He would stare at her picture and, after awhile, his eyes tricked him into seeing her face disappearing. He was scared. He slept with the lights on.
***
Tess fell asleep on the common room sofa one night. She awoke, everyone gone, the place silent except for outside wind and sprinkling of blown snow against windows. She walked back to her room, as she did countless times, socked feet sliding across the floor, but her room wasn't there. She swiveled, looked every direction, turned corners, walked other hallways. But it was gone. Science told her that solid structures like this don't change without intervention. But either it changed or her mind did. She went back to the sofa, slept until morning, and everything was right again.
***
Ray, when not studying the resident whales, played sleuth to discover a practical joker. One year running and no luck. The joke played on him was every now and then, he'd be walking down a hallway, alone, when he'd hear something rolling. He'd turn to find a billiard ball sized crystal ball moving his way. He collected them in a shoe box--nine total so far. All identical. He asked around, showed them to people, who shrugged, gave him puzzled looks. One day, he whispered to himself, I'll figure it out.
***
Jan found herself bouncing, a ball in an endless pinball machine game. Rebuffed by her boyfriend in Iowa, through email no less. Then by Scott. Well, he was married--he had principles, an admirable trait. Then Blair. The resident hotshot surfer dude—okay, maybe not. There was Jon, but now he was attached to this New Zealander. Jan danced around other eligible men. She talked. She played cool. She moved closer. She got nowhere. She grew frustrated. Her work suffered. The ice was cold and lonely, more so everyday; were others magically impervious? If she had a mirror, she would make advances at herself, take the bait, fall in love all over again.
***
Sam walked away from his radio monitoring station for coffee and blueberry pastry. Scratched his head, spooned powdered creamer into Styrofoam cup, talked to Blair about football, and flights home. What he missed was a transmission from space. Scratching, hissing voice filled with consonants--it was brief, almost a hiccup. Unrecorded—the McMurdo Station crew wasn't looking for extraterrestrial life. You walk away, you miss everything. He shuffled back, blueberry on his chin, sipping coffee, looking forward to another long boring day of nothing on the ice.
***
Out beyond Erebus and Terror, in the frozen fields where nobody traveled, there was a man frozen face up in the ice. The sound of his name cast into space, a weak radio signal, floating in the void, never to be heard. His ice cube eyes stare out the bottom of the world. If he were to be found, people would theorize about what brought him here: conquest, a woman, insanity. Running to, running from, running. The mind's eye would trick someone into seeing him twitch, his eye blink, a tear stream down his cheek, and think briefly, somehow, he was alive, trapped in ice, nowhere, space.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Rama's Bridge
Sirima awoke to air heavy with pending rain, calling birds, the clatter of passing people. She looked outside and saw a procession of people moving through the streets. Inside she could not find her husband. Off to cricket or tea, perhaps. Or just off. Crossing Rama’s Bridge, the ancient sandbank chain that once connected Sri Lanka to India, to be absorbed by the ocean, disappear and reemerge in a different life. Whenever he disappeared, her mind wandered.
In the center of the procession, she saw a coffin floating at the top of hands and heads. It was intricate, colored with gold and bright pinks and greens, mad cartoon-like faces, shiny green and red jewels. Outside, her neighbors were gathered in a small crowd. She walked to them, asked what was happening, who had died. They didn’t know. A religious leader, one said. No, perhaps a rebel warlord, said another. Maybe a great cricket player, a person truly worth such a display of mourning. Perhaps it’s empty, said another—a fake funeral staged by the government, to demoralize its enemies. Everyone grew quiet, pondering this possibility.
The coffin moved northwest, drifting clumsily toward India. The crowd moved with it, buzzing and swelling. Would they all fall in the sea, she thought.
Sirima stepped back, turned in a circle glancing for her husband. She did not see him. When she was a child, her father disappeared for long stretches of time. Ramesha, her oldest sister, would tell her, it’s all your fault, now you won’t see him again. Eventually, he’d return, covered in dirt, like he’d crawled from a hole in the ground, eyes and smiles older than before.
A body dead in a coffin, rotting in the humidity, skin and muscle consumed by worms. Or an empty coffin, a funeral of air, the world outside more ominous than the empty space within.
The wind gusted from the west. A monsoon was coming. The passing crowd was out of sight, followed by calm empty road. To her right, her husband emerged on the street, tossing and catching a blue cricket ball.
In the center of the procession, she saw a coffin floating at the top of hands and heads. It was intricate, colored with gold and bright pinks and greens, mad cartoon-like faces, shiny green and red jewels. Outside, her neighbors were gathered in a small crowd. She walked to them, asked what was happening, who had died. They didn’t know. A religious leader, one said. No, perhaps a rebel warlord, said another. Maybe a great cricket player, a person truly worth such a display of mourning. Perhaps it’s empty, said another—a fake funeral staged by the government, to demoralize its enemies. Everyone grew quiet, pondering this possibility.
The coffin moved northwest, drifting clumsily toward India. The crowd moved with it, buzzing and swelling. Would they all fall in the sea, she thought.
Sirima stepped back, turned in a circle glancing for her husband. She did not see him. When she was a child, her father disappeared for long stretches of time. Ramesha, her oldest sister, would tell her, it’s all your fault, now you won’t see him again. Eventually, he’d return, covered in dirt, like he’d crawled from a hole in the ground, eyes and smiles older than before.
A body dead in a coffin, rotting in the humidity, skin and muscle consumed by worms. Or an empty coffin, a funeral of air, the world outside more ominous than the empty space within.
The wind gusted from the west. A monsoon was coming. The passing crowd was out of sight, followed by calm empty road. To her right, her husband emerged on the street, tossing and catching a blue cricket ball.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Christmas in Latvia
Argo Kingsland didn’t count on being stuck in traffic in the Baltics on Christmas Eve. The cab driver told him, traffic in Riga was always bad but on Christmas Eve, everyone plays then prays. The cab smelled like cheeseburgers. The driver spoke Latvian, his head bouncing up and down, into a squawking radio. The car's stereo played a throbbing techno version of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," sung in Russian.
He was trying to return to his hotel to call his brother Tim in Baltimore, where it was close to 5:00 in the afternoon. The sun just setting, Tim, his wife and two girls were probably just finishing dinner, readying to have dessert and hot chocolate, watch a Christmas movie. All decked out in red and green, sweaters with tree and reindeer patterns, posing for a Norman Rockwell painting entitled simply, "Family Christmas." Firm-footed Tim waiting for world-wandering Argo to call was not part of this picture. The phone call would be a disruption, jarring the scene and its participants loose. Argo's Christmas scene would have a name too long, be painted by Picasso in a "Guernica" state of mind, colored in browns and grays, installed in a circular gallery where its end would just fall short of meeting its start.
He told the driver he could just walk. The driver said, no, you don't want to walk. Pickpockets, even on Christmas. The car would roll a few feet to a squeaky stop then roll again.
Riga was domes and spires. Barren trees, snow-covered parks. New skyscrapers competing with churches in touching heaven.
Last year it was Paris. Previous years were Portland, Berlin, Tokyo. This year, he thought he’d go some place completely off the mark, so he went with Latvia. The dream of world traveling—he had fulfilled it. But with each passing year, he felt more and more that he was just spinning—going everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Revellers dancing between stopped cars, singing Christmas carols. They weaved through traffic, disappeared into churches and apartments. Church bells rang in the distance.
The song in the cab, just as it seemed to end, started again. The perpetual carol, with a dance beat. The cab seemed to have become stationary. Maybe, Argo thought, he had died and gone to hell.
"Somehow," Argo said. "Christmas ends up like this. A traffic jam. In a foreign country."
"Never where you want to be," the driver said, turning his head. His eyes were wide whites, beard patchy, skin doughy—Argo figured he was probably in his mid-forties. "Yes, I know this feeling. My brother watches my little girl while I drive. Dead mama—God rest her soul—gone papa, yet she still believes in Santa Claus. When I get home I will kiss her on the cheek, move her hair off her face while she sleeps. Tomorrow we will have Christmas for a few hours."
"Sounds familiar," Argo said. He had no children but only his nieces. Right now, they were probably counting the minutes until Christmas, bouncing up and down at the thought of the bounty that would await them under the tree. "You, me—we seem to be everywhere but home, hanging stockings and sitting by the fire. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?"
"I don’t know,” the driver said, his right hand in the air as his left clutched the steering wheel. “I don't have a fireplace anyway."
Argo smiled, felt his pockets for a cigarette. Nothing. He smoked his last one an hour ago. The driver reached back, handed him one.
"Eggnog?" The driver held up a metal thermos with a thick-fingered hand. "Strong and bold, fuel for a Baltic winter!"
“Sounds good. I could use a stiff drink.”
He poured Argo some in a paper cup. It was harsh with vodka, had mere hints of cinnamon and nutmeg. The driver appeared to be drinking an innocuous soda out of a can.
"Just look around you." The driver turned around and faced Argo. "Snow on the ground, red brake lights, Christmas songs. I'm here, my family is there, but Christmas--it's all around us. Wherever you are, I say."
The driver answered a radio call, his voice re-descending into Latvian.
Argo looked ahead. A stick-like clock advertising chocolates indicated it was past midnight. He'd crawled into Christmas.
The song morphed into a slow, ethereal version of "Joy to the World." His cigarette and drink vanished. The traffic, though, was the same song.
He thought about Tim and his family, their Rockwell painting life. He closed his eyes and saw himself slipping into the picture. Wrapped and ribboned gifts surrounding him. Kids climbing on Uncle Argo’s lap. Tim handing him a glass of eggnog, a plate of snowflake cookies. Christmas songs playing on the stereo.
Maybe next year.
But now, here was Christmas. Imperfect as it was. He opened his eyes. All around. Wherever you are.
He was trying to return to his hotel to call his brother Tim in Baltimore, where it was close to 5:00 in the afternoon. The sun just setting, Tim, his wife and two girls were probably just finishing dinner, readying to have dessert and hot chocolate, watch a Christmas movie. All decked out in red and green, sweaters with tree and reindeer patterns, posing for a Norman Rockwell painting entitled simply, "Family Christmas." Firm-footed Tim waiting for world-wandering Argo to call was not part of this picture. The phone call would be a disruption, jarring the scene and its participants loose. Argo's Christmas scene would have a name too long, be painted by Picasso in a "Guernica" state of mind, colored in browns and grays, installed in a circular gallery where its end would just fall short of meeting its start.
He told the driver he could just walk. The driver said, no, you don't want to walk. Pickpockets, even on Christmas. The car would roll a few feet to a squeaky stop then roll again.
Riga was domes and spires. Barren trees, snow-covered parks. New skyscrapers competing with churches in touching heaven.
Last year it was Paris. Previous years were Portland, Berlin, Tokyo. This year, he thought he’d go some place completely off the mark, so he went with Latvia. The dream of world traveling—he had fulfilled it. But with each passing year, he felt more and more that he was just spinning—going everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Revellers dancing between stopped cars, singing Christmas carols. They weaved through traffic, disappeared into churches and apartments. Church bells rang in the distance.
The song in the cab, just as it seemed to end, started again. The perpetual carol, with a dance beat. The cab seemed to have become stationary. Maybe, Argo thought, he had died and gone to hell.
"Somehow," Argo said. "Christmas ends up like this. A traffic jam. In a foreign country."
"Never where you want to be," the driver said, turning his head. His eyes were wide whites, beard patchy, skin doughy—Argo figured he was probably in his mid-forties. "Yes, I know this feeling. My brother watches my little girl while I drive. Dead mama—God rest her soul—gone papa, yet she still believes in Santa Claus. When I get home I will kiss her on the cheek, move her hair off her face while she sleeps. Tomorrow we will have Christmas for a few hours."
"Sounds familiar," Argo said. He had no children but only his nieces. Right now, they were probably counting the minutes until Christmas, bouncing up and down at the thought of the bounty that would await them under the tree. "You, me—we seem to be everywhere but home, hanging stockings and sitting by the fire. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?"
"I don’t know,” the driver said, his right hand in the air as his left clutched the steering wheel. “I don't have a fireplace anyway."
Argo smiled, felt his pockets for a cigarette. Nothing. He smoked his last one an hour ago. The driver reached back, handed him one.
"Eggnog?" The driver held up a metal thermos with a thick-fingered hand. "Strong and bold, fuel for a Baltic winter!"
“Sounds good. I could use a stiff drink.”
He poured Argo some in a paper cup. It was harsh with vodka, had mere hints of cinnamon and nutmeg. The driver appeared to be drinking an innocuous soda out of a can.
"Just look around you." The driver turned around and faced Argo. "Snow on the ground, red brake lights, Christmas songs. I'm here, my family is there, but Christmas--it's all around us. Wherever you are, I say."
The driver answered a radio call, his voice re-descending into Latvian.
Argo looked ahead. A stick-like clock advertising chocolates indicated it was past midnight. He'd crawled into Christmas.
The song morphed into a slow, ethereal version of "Joy to the World." His cigarette and drink vanished. The traffic, though, was the same song.
He thought about Tim and his family, their Rockwell painting life. He closed his eyes and saw himself slipping into the picture. Wrapped and ribboned gifts surrounding him. Kids climbing on Uncle Argo’s lap. Tim handing him a glass of eggnog, a plate of snowflake cookies. Christmas songs playing on the stereo.
Maybe next year.
But now, here was Christmas. Imperfect as it was. He opened his eyes. All around. Wherever you are.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Bedrock
Fred awakens from a dream of bowling with Garry Granite and Ann-Margrock, in mid-twinkletoes approach. Stomach growling, already hungry for Brontosaurus burgers. But there's a silence he's never experienced before. He calls out, Wilmaaaaaaaa!, but no answer. He jumps up, looks out the window toward Barney's house. Baaaaarney!, he calls. Nothing. Dino, old boy? Nothing.
Gazoo?, he whispers. The green imp pops before him. He floats in the air, tossing a glass orb.
They're all gone, dum-dum. And they're not coming back.
Now, Gazoo, quit playing around. I haven't had breakfast yet and Mr. Slate'll fire me if I'm late again.
You don't get it, do you, dum-dum? Getting your simple Stone Age brain to evolve is going to be burdensome. This charade--all of this, is over. It's just you now.
Does this mean I don't have to go work, Fred asks.
Gazoo nods. Fred grows a tyranosaurus-sized smile, thinks of unlimited bowling, burgers, and cactus cola.
I know what you're thinking, dum-dum, yes, it's all there for you to have, but you're leaving too. And what good would it all be by your lonesome?
Thanks for ruining my fun, Fred shouts.
Fred looks back and forth, up and down, then back at Gazoo, who now has the orb floating before him.
Now, Gazoo, when you say it's over, and I'm going too, just what do you mean?
It means that everyone else is dead.
Dead? What do you mean?
Finito.
I don't get it.
Sayonara, hasta la vista, dum-dum. Let's just say the Water Buffalo Lodge is down to just one brother...
Fred looks at his three-toed feet and then back at Gazoo, a pensive look on his face.
When's Wilma coming back? Pebbles? Barney?
They're not. No one is, ever.
But why? Why now?
Why not now? Any day is as good as the next, and, here in Bedrock, today is yesterday is tomorrow, so it's all the same day. Have you ever noticed, you never get older? Neither does Wilma? That everyone here wears the same clothes everyday? That everything is always the same?
Fred sits on the bed's edge, looks at his clothes, feels his face.
I don't get what you're saying, Gazoo.
Of course you don't. But I'm here to help. You're the center of this little universe, so you must figure it out so we can close and move on. Once you do, you'll be dead too. And you'll see Wilma again. And everyone else. They're waiting for you, champ.
Fred puts his head between his hands.
I feel as thick as a stegosaurus.
Gazoo floats to him, pats him on the head and smiles.
Don't worry, my sweet, sweet dum-dum. I have faith in you. You will figure it out.
They sat quiet for a few minutes, Fred thinking, Gazoo tossing his orb.
Gazoo, can we go bowling? One last time? It'll help me think.
Gazoo looks into his black eyes. Sad and dense, unaware.
Sure we can, Fred. Sure we can.
Gazoo?, he whispers. The green imp pops before him. He floats in the air, tossing a glass orb.
They're all gone, dum-dum. And they're not coming back.
Now, Gazoo, quit playing around. I haven't had breakfast yet and Mr. Slate'll fire me if I'm late again.
You don't get it, do you, dum-dum? Getting your simple Stone Age brain to evolve is going to be burdensome. This charade--all of this, is over. It's just you now.
Does this mean I don't have to go work, Fred asks.
Gazoo nods. Fred grows a tyranosaurus-sized smile, thinks of unlimited bowling, burgers, and cactus cola.
I know what you're thinking, dum-dum, yes, it's all there for you to have, but you're leaving too. And what good would it all be by your lonesome?
Thanks for ruining my fun, Fred shouts.
Fred looks back and forth, up and down, then back at Gazoo, who now has the orb floating before him.
Now, Gazoo, when you say it's over, and I'm going too, just what do you mean?
It means that everyone else is dead.
Dead? What do you mean?
Finito.
I don't get it.
Sayonara, hasta la vista, dum-dum. Let's just say the Water Buffalo Lodge is down to just one brother...
Fred looks at his three-toed feet and then back at Gazoo, a pensive look on his face.
When's Wilma coming back? Pebbles? Barney?
They're not. No one is, ever.
But why? Why now?
Why not now? Any day is as good as the next, and, here in Bedrock, today is yesterday is tomorrow, so it's all the same day. Have you ever noticed, you never get older? Neither does Wilma? That everyone here wears the same clothes everyday? That everything is always the same?
Fred sits on the bed's edge, looks at his clothes, feels his face.
I don't get what you're saying, Gazoo.
Of course you don't. But I'm here to help. You're the center of this little universe, so you must figure it out so we can close and move on. Once you do, you'll be dead too. And you'll see Wilma again. And everyone else. They're waiting for you, champ.
Fred puts his head between his hands.
I feel as thick as a stegosaurus.
Gazoo floats to him, pats him on the head and smiles.
Don't worry, my sweet, sweet dum-dum. I have faith in you. You will figure it out.
They sat quiet for a few minutes, Fred thinking, Gazoo tossing his orb.
Gazoo, can we go bowling? One last time? It'll help me think.
Gazoo looks into his black eyes. Sad and dense, unaware.
Sure we can, Fred. Sure we can.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Chernobyl
V’s mind runs a short film loop: her father being lowered into a dark hole in the ground. She’s 8 again. She watches. She can’t cry. The coffin lowered into the earth, deeper than where the dead usually go. She thinks she sees a halo around the coffin, an intense sun that will still shine even after being covered by concrete and dirt. She hears the crisp crackling of a Geiger counter, the static of a lost radio station, her dead father searching for a broadcast frequency.
He was gone, her mother said, before the coughing, the vomiting, before anyone said, Chernobyl. The reactor dressed in white sarcophagus—always in the distance, an afterimage that can’t be erased. Like her old house that still sits, far away, abandoned like the rest of the town. Slumping porch, white paint peeling, broken windows. She can still see her father sitting on the porch. Vodka in hand, looking to the sky, his face forcing a smile through exponential decay.
Now, she has a husband. They have no children nor will they. She wonders if he looks at her, sees her body becoming transparent, fading away.
He was gone, her mother said, before the coughing, the vomiting, before anyone said, Chernobyl. The reactor dressed in white sarcophagus—always in the distance, an afterimage that can’t be erased. Like her old house that still sits, far away, abandoned like the rest of the town. Slumping porch, white paint peeling, broken windows. She can still see her father sitting on the porch. Vodka in hand, looking to the sky, his face forcing a smile through exponential decay.
Now, she has a husband. They have no children nor will they. She wonders if he looks at her, sees her body becoming transparent, fading away.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Seattle
Not the hip Northwest but instead the world ending, us locked inside. Words like the long-dead Seattle icons. The unshaven, raspy voiced. Their ends more personal, mainlining verse-chorus-verse. Now here’s the world’s feedback, knocking you on your rear, sound equipment igniting in fireballs. We sit inside: shadows, shades drawn, half-awake string of Christmas lights. Desperate to hold on. The world’s end comes but we don’t know how. You pass me a list of all the things you never got to do. Poetic, I say, if there were a tomorrow. You take it back, clutch it to your chest. I remember item 47—surf the eye of a hurricane. I don’t cry. Those tears dried long ago.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Space, Arlington, Pentagon, Kandor
Space
The General orbited earth. He got the shuttle call, became a momentary celebrity. Gravity’s push then weightlessness. Of the shuttle crew, he was the one with no authority, no expertise—a new role. When the cameras were on, he and the crew posed together with smiles. When no one was looking, they ignored him. He sailed through space, looked into the void beyond, contemplated other worlds. New earths, new roles. Then, he came home.
Arlington
The General is caught in traffic. The Capital Beltway has him snared in. His egg and cheese sandwich is grumbling in his stomach. He can imagine it swirling, a hurricane spinning, swelling with moisture, working to unleash fury. The traffic inches along. The smells of asphalt and exhaust. His coffee grows cold, turns into swamp water. Before he leaves every morning, his wife tells him, give ‘em hell. He hits a stretch where he can see forever ahead. Hell is traffic, hell is war, hell is life. Life is traffic is war. Every single morning, his wife hands him a brown paper bag containing lunch, the flap folded precisely four times. This predictability--this over-rehearsed stage production--is the worst thing he can imagine.
Pentagon
The General finally arrives, has to pee like a racehorse. Through metal detectors, a briefcase search, a retina scan. Folgers inside him is flood waters forming the continents. Salutes all the way. Swarms of people—tourists, contractors, military. Grand friggin’ Central Station. Life is searches is coffee-turned-to-urine is Grand Central Station.
Pop the lid off this place and you'll see phones ringing, men and women playing infidelity minesweeper behind closed doors, suits and soldiers and pasty-faced geeks planning the world's end. The General knows the score. The five sides go deep into the ground. Hiding big secrets. Aliens. Other dimensions. The Truth. The General knows it all.
Kandor
When the General saw the bottled city, he knew he had to get in there. An entire city tucked into a perfume-bottle-sized container. Big voyeur eyes peered into it, glassy orbs like monster suns popping into its skies. Electron microscope revealed that it was indeed an active city, with an estimated two hundred thousand atom-sized humanoid people wearing tiny clothes, driving tiny cars, working in tiny skyscrapers, living tiny lives.
No one is sure where the city came from, but it was now located in the Pentagon, 4th sublevel, third door on the right. They called it Kandor, after the bottled city in Superman comics. There were many questions about oxygen, food and water supplies, exhaust and combustible by-products, the seemingly normal cork stopper. Big people, wearing big lab coats and taking notes on big pads with big pencils, were trying to figure it all out but there was a big missing link.
The General had family, a big house, big cars, big stars and bars over his big pumping heart. He liked to sail his boat on the Potomac, smoke hand-wrapped Cuban cigars while watching the sunset a fiery orange. But he was always one for the big plan. The big little plan. Shrink me down, inject me through the cork.
This was done, and through a needle, he was injected into the bottle. In his backpack he had an amoebic parachute and an exit plan. He lands inside, on what appears to be a normal street, but soon finds out that everyone there is a General.
He was arrested. There’s been a war, on hiatus for years as the enemy has regrouped, they tell him, and was he one of their agents?
You don’t understand, he huffed. You’re a bottled city. I’m from Earth, shrunk myself down, I’m an ambassador.
They laughed, dragged him away to an institution. He had a window view. For countless days he looked to the sky, looked for the glass beyond but couldn’t see it, contemplated the big world that was now just a void. He wanted to go home.
The General orbited earth. He got the shuttle call, became a momentary celebrity. Gravity’s push then weightlessness. Of the shuttle crew, he was the one with no authority, no expertise—a new role. When the cameras were on, he and the crew posed together with smiles. When no one was looking, they ignored him. He sailed through space, looked into the void beyond, contemplated other worlds. New earths, new roles. Then, he came home.
Arlington
The General is caught in traffic. The Capital Beltway has him snared in. His egg and cheese sandwich is grumbling in his stomach. He can imagine it swirling, a hurricane spinning, swelling with moisture, working to unleash fury. The traffic inches along. The smells of asphalt and exhaust. His coffee grows cold, turns into swamp water. Before he leaves every morning, his wife tells him, give ‘em hell. He hits a stretch where he can see forever ahead. Hell is traffic, hell is war, hell is life. Life is traffic is war. Every single morning, his wife hands him a brown paper bag containing lunch, the flap folded precisely four times. This predictability--this over-rehearsed stage production--is the worst thing he can imagine.
Pentagon
The General finally arrives, has to pee like a racehorse. Through metal detectors, a briefcase search, a retina scan. Folgers inside him is flood waters forming the continents. Salutes all the way. Swarms of people—tourists, contractors, military. Grand friggin’ Central Station. Life is searches is coffee-turned-to-urine is Grand Central Station.
Pop the lid off this place and you'll see phones ringing, men and women playing infidelity minesweeper behind closed doors, suits and soldiers and pasty-faced geeks planning the world's end. The General knows the score. The five sides go deep into the ground. Hiding big secrets. Aliens. Other dimensions. The Truth. The General knows it all.
Kandor
When the General saw the bottled city, he knew he had to get in there. An entire city tucked into a perfume-bottle-sized container. Big voyeur eyes peered into it, glassy orbs like monster suns popping into its skies. Electron microscope revealed that it was indeed an active city, with an estimated two hundred thousand atom-sized humanoid people wearing tiny clothes, driving tiny cars, working in tiny skyscrapers, living tiny lives.
No one is sure where the city came from, but it was now located in the Pentagon, 4th sublevel, third door on the right. They called it Kandor, after the bottled city in Superman comics. There were many questions about oxygen, food and water supplies, exhaust and combustible by-products, the seemingly normal cork stopper. Big people, wearing big lab coats and taking notes on big pads with big pencils, were trying to figure it all out but there was a big missing link.
The General had family, a big house, big cars, big stars and bars over his big pumping heart. He liked to sail his boat on the Potomac, smoke hand-wrapped Cuban cigars while watching the sunset a fiery orange. But he was always one for the big plan. The big little plan. Shrink me down, inject me through the cork.
This was done, and through a needle, he was injected into the bottle. In his backpack he had an amoebic parachute and an exit plan. He lands inside, on what appears to be a normal street, but soon finds out that everyone there is a General.
He was arrested. There’s been a war, on hiatus for years as the enemy has regrouped, they tell him, and was he one of their agents?
You don’t understand, he huffed. You’re a bottled city. I’m from Earth, shrunk myself down, I’m an ambassador.
They laughed, dragged him away to an institution. He had a window view. For countless days he looked to the sky, looked for the glass beyond but couldn’t see it, contemplated the big world that was now just a void. He wanted to go home.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Highway of Death
Z, alive, looked up into a grey sky, heard the searing sound of warplanes. His face felt like it had been carpeted, his right leg was in stinging pain from cuts and gashes. He sat up and saw wreckage around him, a gridlock sculpture, burning husks of cars and armored vehicles, metal debris everywhere. The air was full of smoke. Fires burned, the sounds of flame like rustling flags. Tornado-like plumes of smoke spun in place off in the distance. Dead figures slumped over in car seats and lying prone on the ground, their skins baked brown or black in color.
In the smoke a figure walked toward him. A silhouette shaded in fuzzy black, arms at sides. Z stood, waiting for the figure to emerge.
It’s all dead bodies and dust, the figure said. He stopped, the smoke lifting from him, revealing a man caked in black, small lakes of blood scattered on his head and face. He stumbled. Z wanted to grab him, prop him up. But he was afraid, looking at a ghost.
Did we win? This was all Z could say. He knew it was absurd. They were leaving Kuwait. The bombing was constant, like breathing. But victory--it was what had been beaten into him. Ever since he had been conscripted.
Of course. The man laughed. Look around you. Don’t we always win?
A series of planes swooshed overhead. It was like an alien invasion in the movies. His wife H left at home in Baghdad. A life interrupted. He hadn’t seen her in months. Was she still alive?
How do we get out of here, is what Z wanted to ask next. Or, why are we still alive. But these were impossible questions.
The man pulled a pistol from his coat, held it to his head.
For Allah, he said. For Saddam. For our eternal glory.
He pulled the trigger. The man’s head exploded. His body fell to the ground.
Z winced. The gunshot rang in his head for several seconds then abandoned him. He dropped to the ground, felt inside his jacket for the picture of H. It was slightly wrinkled, but the image was pristine. She was frozen in smile. A clear glass ball dangled at the base of her throat, the silver strand of necklace an orbit tracing her neck.
He knew he had to return home. He stood, saw tanks and vehicles approaching from the south.
He kissed H’s face, returned the picture to his jacket interior. He searched for something white amid the debris he could use as a flag. But there was nothing that wasn’t metal or fried.
Z fell to his knees, repeated his wife’s name over and over, his voice drowned out by the buzzing of invisible helicopters.
In the smoke a figure walked toward him. A silhouette shaded in fuzzy black, arms at sides. Z stood, waiting for the figure to emerge.
It’s all dead bodies and dust, the figure said. He stopped, the smoke lifting from him, revealing a man caked in black, small lakes of blood scattered on his head and face. He stumbled. Z wanted to grab him, prop him up. But he was afraid, looking at a ghost.
Did we win? This was all Z could say. He knew it was absurd. They were leaving Kuwait. The bombing was constant, like breathing. But victory--it was what had been beaten into him. Ever since he had been conscripted.
Of course. The man laughed. Look around you. Don’t we always win?
A series of planes swooshed overhead. It was like an alien invasion in the movies. His wife H left at home in Baghdad. A life interrupted. He hadn’t seen her in months. Was she still alive?
How do we get out of here, is what Z wanted to ask next. Or, why are we still alive. But these were impossible questions.
The man pulled a pistol from his coat, held it to his head.
For Allah, he said. For Saddam. For our eternal glory.
He pulled the trigger. The man’s head exploded. His body fell to the ground.
Z winced. The gunshot rang in his head for several seconds then abandoned him. He dropped to the ground, felt inside his jacket for the picture of H. It was slightly wrinkled, but the image was pristine. She was frozen in smile. A clear glass ball dangled at the base of her throat, the silver strand of necklace an orbit tracing her neck.
He knew he had to return home. He stood, saw tanks and vehicles approaching from the south.
He kissed H’s face, returned the picture to his jacket interior. He searched for something white amid the debris he could use as a flag. But there was nothing that wasn’t metal or fried.
Z fell to his knees, repeated his wife’s name over and over, his voice drowned out by the buzzing of invisible helicopters.
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