Woe Betide

Jumbled menace mires my Mind.

A horrid, humid howl rings out,

Born away on the wind of the darkened day.

The dismal dream of night's embrace is all I have to cling to

In a whirlwind world that wears the strength of man and beast.

And life and light are fleeting fey,

Or fears of what may come should I risk to stay.

No winter here can bear the gray stain

That glowers, cold and cruel, in the harrowed Heart.

But perseverance holds the hand of those who reach,

Grasping as if to save the drowning soul.

And once again, the world turns,

Eyes shine bright,

Breath is drawn,

And I am alive to speak of things of great import,

And of none at all.

The Company We Keep

Storm Clouds Gather

I see the storm clouds gather on the edge of my sight.
The gray pall and rainfall comes to steal the light.
Dark days have ways to make you riddled with fright.
But if you're gonna live your life you gotta get in the fight.

Towers of the Heart and Mind

    The world spins so fast, and yet I find myself standing always in the same place. Observing the rash and hectic motion from a state of isolation, and pondering…always pondering…the method behind the multitudes of madness. The rush of souls before my eyes portrays a dim and misted scene where each person, captured within their own mired Mind, stares at the ground before them as they barrel headlong into their futures. Such is the meaning of our twisted and mangled semblance of life; a crude and dismal farce of the grand creature we can become.

    My own Mind, mired as it is, struggles to grasp the subtleties of these clouds of thought and shadow; a task far beyond the ken of my own mortal coil. And yet, I continue in my attempts, and, through failure, I learn. But the price of knowledge is truly steep, and, as I gather what information is to be gleaned, I find that my place of isolation grows.

    Isolation is a terrible woe to the wisps that pass before me. And yet, it is the birth-right of all mortal beings. To be trapped within the flesh, and offered only what sparse sensations are availed upon our meager meat, is both boon and bane to the living. Unprepared, the lonely solitude devours hope and cheer, eradicating the true demeanor that we, the living, are provided. Rather than glory in the brief moment in which we live, many draw themselves up and die within their corporeal casket. Grueling and lifeless, the fortress of their isolated Minds becomes a prison. But this too is a mirage, and one can find great revelry within the isolation imposed on our fragile frames. To stand stalwart amidst the crushing throngs of ego and emotion requires a sense of security in ones self. This is a trait of survival for such a social beast as we. But walls, once built, are difficult to dismantle, and, in our haste to guard ourselves, many forget to install a door.

    From my vantage, I scour the horizon for those who, rather than constructing hardened bulwarks to hide beneath, or invoking illusion and subterfuge to mislead, have erected towers from which to see all the broad earth beneath them and lift their faces to the wind as it shares the scent of the world around us. But towers built by the Heart and Mind are uncommon. It is far easier to hide beneath a berm of earth and wait for Ragnarok. And so, my questing often leads to grief. Don Quixote was never so dismayed.

    But still I search the distant misty mountains for the shining spires of those who seek to see. One fails only when one chooses to cease trying. Behind, I see the erect dwellings of those closest to me marking the land. Stony needles rising from the torn and tortured earth, I am soothed at their sight and know I am never, and always, alone. But still I look ahead. There are more hearths on which to sit and tell the tales of life and love and loneliness. I cannot dwell in the past. Neither can I race to the future. It is now that we are offered a glimpse of what it is to be. It is now that we draw breath. It is now that we are given the glowing gift of opening our Hearts to the vastness that is existence, and, while the nature of this state of being is scalding to the touch, and inevitably fatal, it is well worth the embrace.

All Gummed Up

     The Dark Star Bar, haven to an array of grubby miners, greedy merchants, and the cold-hearted mercenaries that patrol these outskirt belts and trade lanes, a place where the opportunistic prey on the idealistic in a gritty parody of those same ancient terrestrial struggles. Therax tried to disregard the painfully wide grin growing on Nuri's face as the two of them approached the broad main entrance of the busy establishment.

     The Dark Star was not Therax's favorite place to spend his time or ISK. The clientèle was rough and boisterous, and the prices were inflated to compensate for the damage caused by the occasional brawl or unruly patron. Despite this, Therax came here often. The owner had made some spectacular contacts and regularly stocked some of the best synth-foods in the region. This combination of quality and grit brought in a lot of folks who were the "real deal", like Therax, but it also lured a constant swarm of groupies, posers, and hangers-on. Social parasites who leeched a sense of style and belonging from the raw spacers who frequented the bar, these sycophantic kids were usually too scared or too stupid to sign on with real a crew. The gaggle of dyed, inked, and pierced girls that Nuri immediately gravitated towards certainly fell into this category.

     A momentary look of disapproval twisting Therax's face as Nuri tickled one of the vibrant vixens and was slapped in return, the scruffy miner turned towards the back-lit bar, choosing a stool at one end. The synth-wood laminate surface of the bar was marred with ring-shaped stains and blackened scars made with pocket fission blades.

     "Evenin' Therax," boomed the tall bartender, "What can I get'cha?"

     "Bell peppers and beef," grunted Therax, looking up at the athletic man, offering a polite nod of acknowledgment.

     "Hmm, we're all out of beef," stated the bartender simply, waiting patiently for another order.

     Therax curled his upper lip in annoyance and scratched the stubble on his cheek. He had already been driven to surliness by Nuri's ceaseless banter as they unloaded their cargo of compressed gas. He had kept his mind on task by focusing on the dinner he was about to have, and this denial did nothing to improve his mood.

     "Just bring me a pork ramen," said Therax, dejectedly, "And a bottle of that black cider."

     The local planet was home to a strange, swarthy tree that bore a fruit the size and shape of an apple. But the similarities ended there. The hard, near-black fruit were waxy, with a harsh, bitter taste and smell. However, if one allowed the fruit to ripen in brine for a score of solar cycles before juicing, bottling, and shelving, it made for a heady, flavorful beverage that sparkled on the tongue. Therax occupied himself with the frothy, black drink while he waited for his noodle bowl.

*   *   *

     Despite his disappointment at the Dark Star, Therax was feeling much better. The hot bowl of noodles had filled him up and calmed his nerves. Even the goofy laugh of Nuri as he blathered on about the girls he had dumped his pay into wasn't enough to bother Therax as they slowly walked back to the ship hangar.

     Therax planned on heading out to their last location to clean up the few clouds of gas that remained, and the prospect of more income had been all that Nuri needed to drag him away from his harem. One could never be sure of a strike remaining for more than a standard solar cycle. If the gas didn't dissipate or move away, it was only a matter of time for other miners to find it and pull it into their own hungry cargo holds. The two miners were wasting no time.

     Entering the ship hangar, Therax and Nuri walked down the wide lane towards the berth where the Gandalf was docked. As the gray hull came into view, Therax noticed a man in the jumpsuit of a station repair technician standing beneath the cockpit, an assortment of starship components organized into rows on the floor a few meters away. As the two miners approached, the technician, equipped with a tool akin to long scissors, probed inside a hole where the left gas harvester used to be.

     "What's this?" announced Therax, his sated demeanor melting away at the sight of his dismantled ship.

     Spinning around, a few spindly metal rods clenched in his fist, the repair tech seemed startled. "Oh, hey! I had to take your harvesters appart."

     "You did what?!" spat Therax, "I asked for a routine maintenance checkup before we headed back out."

     "Sure," replied the tech, nodding as he moved to set the rods down in a pile of similar items. He shooed away a pair of genegineered Siamese kittens that had run over from beneath one of the neighboring vessels. Genetically modified cats were a common sight in hangar bays, doing a better job of keeping the vermin population down than any poisons or automated devices ever did.

     "I was checking over your systems, as you requested, and was looking for scars in the teflon sockets on your harvester pivots," he wiped grease from his hand on a rag tucked into the pocket of his stained jumpsuit. "I don't know what you guys got into out there, but it looked like someone had been throwing marshmallows into your intake manifolds. It's going to take at least a solar cycle to clean up."

     Therax stared stunned, then stammered, "Wha...wha....a whole cycle? You can't be serious." But he knew it was true as he looked around at the bits and pieces of his ship strewn about the hangar floor. He growled a quiet obscenity, shoving a thumb under his belt.

     "So...were not going out?" Nuri asked sheepishly. The glare Therax shot his way curtailed any further dumb questions.

     "Alright then," Therax addressed the repair technician, "But you better not find any more things to tear apart on my ship."

     Therax turned to leave, Nuri following close behind. Frustrated, Therax found himself walking towards the station's coffin hotel. A good rest would clear his head and put him in the mood for scouring out a new gas site once his ship was reassembled.

     Upon reaching the hotel, Nuri stuck his hands on his hips, "I don't really feel like sawing logs." He shot a hinting glance at Therax.

     "Eh, don't worry about it," Therax waved dismissively, "I know where to find you, go have your fun."

     Nuri bolted off towards the Dark Star, Therax watching after him for only a moment before heading into the front office of the coffin hotel.

---

This is a combined entry for the Eve Friday Flash Fiction hosted at Eclyptic Rift and the Wordzzle hosted at Views from Raven's Nest.

I used all the words in the Wordzzle list, making this entry a Mega. The list of words and phrases is:
Main
   beef
   idealistic
   kittens
   marshmallow
   opportunistic
   sawing logs
   scissors
   slapped
   teflon
   tickled
Mini
   goofy
   laminate
   ripen
   shelve
   Siamese

Gray Home

     Drip...drip...drip...

     The gentle rain falls around me, wispy mist of tears falling from the sky's eyes. The drops drift lightly, wishing to linger aloft, but destined to douse the thirsty earth. Mountains, dark and distant, tower over the edges of perception, the jagged black teeth of the pine forest gnashing defiantly at the slate sky. And beyond the rolling coastal range, the ocean, cold and murky, whispers whimsy to the shore, relaying tales of the depths, both delightful and dire. This is Oregon, home to those who revel in the rhythm of the rain. This is no place for the easily dismayed.

     Though the land is cowled in the brazen gray of the Oregon sky, and summer is but a brief reprieve from this pale pall, there is verdant life here, flourishing in the forests as well as the desolate desert wastes. Dualities of light and dark are displayed in the mingling of argent egrets and dusky herons as they wade in the fallow fields which bank the river that lost its name. The ancient forests, looming over the land from their mountain abodes, pass lore from old to new of matters beyond the ken of we fleeting beings. The lone coyote calls across the outstretched desert plain, his hollow haunting wail the knell of all small creatures who fail to heed. Amidst all, the rain continues, pitter-pat, setting the rhythm for all who wish to dance.

     And, indeed, the dance is joined by all, with revelry and levity in the cloud-damped grass. A fete of feeling, function, and form where by these sweet denizens offer up the accolades of heart and hearth so deserved by this cloistered land. Oregon, where umbrella is a word reserved for tourists and the uninitiated. Where the darkened skies hold close their earthly wards, shrouding all in the security of the Earth's own blanket. And, while we dance, we raise our faces, sky-clad, to greet the fragrant falling rain with that same warmth it fosters within us.

     It is in this land at the edge of the sea, when the crimson spears of the fading sun pierce through the iron sky, that essential magic meets reality, the gods of all mankind standing fast amidst the fusion of such a variegated landscape. And, as we wave farewell to each gray day, our praises flowing out over the Great Pacific, we carry upon our shoulders that constant companion of rain.

– Aldritek Arkadius

An Old Fisherman's Warning

Beware the slippery squid, my son.
For, though you are a man,
The devious reach of this unfathomable beast
Will break you if it can.

Since first we sailed upon the sea
To reap it's bounteous treasure,
The ghostly squid has made its bid,
To take our catch with pleasure.

And, "How?" you ask, from such small beasts
Could such a problem be?
The little one is but the young
Of monsters in the sea.