When people ask me what I want to do with my life, I tell them I want to live on a spaceship.

A cargo freighter, hurtling through the "empty" space between star systems, alone for years at a time while the galaxy grows stranger all around me. I'd grow out my beard and spend my days walking upside-down through empty maintenance tunnels, boxing shadows and singing at the top of my lungs.

I'd invent meaningless rules that I'd eventually take with deadly seriousness-- "Today is blue day. Do not operate buttons with your tongue." There'd be thousands I'd write and re-write them on a giant pane of glass, with a bar of soap. When not in use, I'd let it drift free through the cargo hold. It could shatter at any moment. This would mean absolutely nothing if it happened, and yet for some reason it would be extremely heartbreaking.

Without a sun or moon of my own I'd decide which hours to sleep, or maybe I'd alternate between states of consciousness until I couldn't tell the difference anymore.

I'd have a room full of plants with automated watering routines because I'm horrible with green things but I love them nonetheless. I'd sleep in here sometimes, or maybe all the time. Maybe I'd only ever be truly awake in there.

I'd have a dog, nothing too small or too big, maybe a Labrador, maybe a robot. Maybe a cyborg, so that it could talk but I wouldn't have to worry about it ever murdering me and taking command of the ship as long as I kept up a constant supply of doggie treats and occasionally threw a rubber ball around.

It'd be cool enough to wear a light jacket but never cold.

I'd set up an old projector and watch eighties movies every day.

It would be perfect.

It's a cover for having no idea what I'm actually doing. And it quiets the tiny voice in the back of my mind that suggests I'm not going to survive the next decade, let alone long enough to see a spaceship.

escape

About a year old, but I don't want to lose it so I'm throwing it up here. One of my few attempts at stream-of-consciousness that I actually kind of like. Brinley was "my" solemn-eyed pit bull, and Keara and ShayLee my lovely roommates at the time.

_______________________________________________


I am struck with a consuming need to understand that which is what I call myself.
What am "i"? What am "I"? What am I?
I grasp my neck and feel my pulse, sweaty fingers clutching at my face as I try to feel everything at once, process every sensation in one expanding moment. It's almost there for a second, as I crawl across my skull. It's a golden ripple of understanding, a wave of nirvana as I interpret what screams under my skin when I slap my jaw. But it passes over me like the edge of a blade. Any lower and it would probably sever the head from my shoulders.
I'm gripped with desperation as I recall these feelings. The wake is fading and the waters are settling. I'm afraid that the moment of clarity will never return. Every second that passes I settle more into the questionless concept of Me, the fright of suddenly not knowing who calls itself I is being paved over.
I close my eyes and try to recreate it but the realization is instant: "I am simply pinching myself."
The knowledge is there again. And the emptiness at the core of that. For a moment I thought I could recreate that shell, for five seconds I was outside the sculpture that is my body and I was afraid and excited.
I wonder if that was what being crazy is like.



I turn to Brinley and say, "I almost had it, Brinley."
And then I realize that there is no Brinley. Brinley is the face I put on the striped dog at my feet. Brinley is a bundle of emotions and unspoken concepts. It isn't the animal there, sleeping on the tile. There it is again, laughing at me-- that thing I almost understood.
Is Brinley me? Is part of what I call myself Brinley?
That thing in my head called "Brinley" isn't the same floating jumble as the one in Keara's head, or ShayLee's (whoever they are). We force ourselves to share pieces of them, maybe so we don't kill each other. But they're not the same.

The same concept applies to people. What is the other? Who are "you"? You're certainly not me (right?). But in a way, you are. You're not all that I make you. And yet, so much of you is, just like you make me.

This is degrading into something. I'm moving away from the simpleness of the thought. Or maybe I'm moving towards it and I can't process it without making it more complex.


That's scary.

dream

I dreamt that we were together in an old house filled with windows. The storm clouds outside pattered the glass with rain, and an undulating field of grass stretched into the horizon.

We sat on a musty old bed and you painted a heart consumed with fire on the canvas in front of you. When your brush left them, the flames suddenly twitched and curled and gave off heat, and we were bathed in red-orange light.

I pressed my lips to where your shoulders met your neck and took a deep breath, trying to take in your scent.

And then I woke up.

Fuck.

eggs

I've spun an eggshell around me
made of time and alienation
And curled in its heart
I watch people slide down the curve
like rainwater off glass.

My fingertips bend as I
press from inwards out and
satisfied with the fortifications
I retreat.

The yolk is
written words and voices
relayed over wire and
as the years skitter by it's
proving thin subsistence.

I'd break out but I
doubt
the quality of my
egg tooth.

Another teaser, this one still something of a work in progress and the prologue for a short story.

---

Very faintly, the implant in his temple buzzed twice, like the brush of a gnat's wing.

Good, the agent thought, and moved in a crouch from the doorway out into the sand storm.

Red dust billowed around him, scouring his armor and faceplate with the steady hiss of billions of micro-impacts, but he ignored the noise and then, after re-routing a few neoneural circuits, lost awareness of it altogether; his world became a sea of red and silence. The implant buzzed once more and his thin lips stretched tight into a predatory grin.

His hand dropped to the bulky armor of his thigh, and a panel slid open long enough for him to retrieve the enormous pistol-- almost as long as his forearm and nearly fifteen pounds of licensed destruction-- a model affectionately known as a "'borg-buster" or "hand cannon" among his fellow agents. He waited patiently until his nanos invaded the control chip and chirped an affirmative at him, and then hefted the pistol into a firing position and inched forward into the storm until the ragged silhouette of a car loomed out of the darkness; he braced himself against it, peered over the eroding, sand-blasted hood...and waited.

Finally, the sand storm's fury howled its last and died, leaving only a thin red dust in the air which drifted down like snow to settle over the abandoned urban decay of the street-- and the target moved into the open.

"Now, Jeeves!" The agent barked.

Something huge exploded from one of the upper-story windows of the crumbling skyscraper to his right in a shower of glass-- twice the size of a man, a fleshless steel gorilla with floodlights for eyes-- Jeeves, hurtling towards the fleeing target like a rocket, massive arms outstretched. In that instant, the agent stood and fired, the 'borg-buster's muzzle exploding with a retort that shattered the remains of the car's windshield. But something was wrong.

The target-- an unfinished cyborg, naked and hairless and unreal, like a store mannequin-- spun, a glass rod clutched in its skeletal right hand...and time slowed to the consistency of porridge, strands like spider-webs spraying from the tip of the rod faster than the agent could track to snatch the bullet-- moving as if through the universe's thickest jello-- from the air.

Oh shit! He's got an Artifact! wormed through the agent's mind, limbs frozen, and then the target was spinning the trapped bullet like a rock in a sling and letting loose.
Right at him.

Time returned to normal, and the agent's head exploded.

Teaser

A short teaser I wrote, experimenting with style and format. It's not very original and it wasn't meant to be; it was somewhat written in homage to White Wolf's new Werewolf games, the literature of which I've always enjoyed.

---

Once, when he was very young, maybe eight or nine, his father had forgotten to lock the door to the garage and Jim had snuck inside. His heart had felt like fists beating at his chest. His tongue was too thick, and he could feel the drumbeat pulse of all the big, icky veins in his neck. He'd lifted the biggest piece of scrap wood he could carry over to the monstrous table saw in the corner, and turned the machine on like he'd seen his dad do so many times. The blade bit into the wood with a ferocity Jim hadn't expected and he let go. A jagged piece of shrapnel flew into his left eye, and his world exploded with pain.

It was the only pain he had felt that could possibly compare. The memory flitted through his mind like a piece of paper caught in the wind, and for a moment Jim was a child again, screaming like a child, the moonlight in his eyes feeling like that bit of wood-- the kind of pain that sent all your severed nerves screaming, fire running up the pathways to your brain so fast you'd think it would blow the back of your head out, and there was nothing around you anymore but that red, bleeding supernova of sensation.

In the midst of unbearable agony, Jim's body stretched and stretched and stretched. His jaw snapped and blood gushed from his mouth as spiny new teeth erupted from his gums.
He thought of a shark.
Thick black hair tore through his skin, and it was like watching an elapsed-time reel of grass growing.
He thought of a wolf.
He thought, Oh god. I'm insane.

She stiffened, looked to her left. A wolf was there.
She glanced away, down towards the street, and then back to her left. A man was there.

"The leeches are out in force tonight."

He didn't say hello. He never said hello. It wasn't his way. She smiled.

"They're out in force every night. They feel us moving in. They already feel our jaws at their throats."

In the street below, four figures in hooded sweatshirts moved in ragged formation, heads whipping back and forth in nervous frenzy. From here, she could here the hissing and spitting that passed for their language. And she could smell their alien fear; a stagnant and meaty cloud, like the body odor of a corpse in a crawlspace.

"Hawke's at the end of the street. Bobby's tailing them. They've got nowhere to go but through us."

He didn't say goodbye. Jim never said goodbye. He simply rose into a crouch, put his hand on the ledge, and flung himself down into the alley beside them. Elle smiled, and grabbed the ledge, and threw herself into the darkness after him.

The four hissing figures paused at the mouth of the alley. They became stiff, alert. The one on the far right hissed to the one on the far left, and that was all the time they had. Two hulking nightmares erupted from the shadows and smashed them into the pavement.

The walls bent and rippled like water under a stiff breeze, and his nose was suddenly filled with the conflicting smells of apple cider and burning plastic. But the spirit world was like that, and the unnervingly surreal qualities of this place (dream? Dimension? Reality?) only rarely phased him. He drew the bone knife across his open palm and then gripped the bleeding hand into a fist, scattering huge crimson droplets across the seemingly-random collection of roots, animal bones, and feathers at his feet.

The walls quivered again, and in the depths of the spirit-reflection of the alley, something shifted into focus. An impossibly enormous tree, defying his perception of scale, with a man's face emerging from the bark and withered hands instead of leaves sprouting from the infinite branches.

"I like it here. I stay here. I stay. You go."

The voice was the suggestion of a whisper, the product of hundreds of hostile fingers rubbing together in pale and disturbing imitation of green oak leaves in the wind.

"You've already defied the order of things enough. You are the Shunned. Do not make me and mine end you. Return to the forest. Release the foreign essences. Become a respectable spirit once more."

"I stay here. I stay. You go."

The branches bent cruelly forward, countless hands grabbing and swiping at the empty air as they reached for him.

Hawke sighed.
It was never as easy as asking.

The crowbar hit much harder than he had expected. The snap of his jaw fracturing in three places was like a gunshot in his ears, and he tumbled backwards, planting an elbow through the driver's side window of the car behind him. In a flash, the crowbar impacted inches from his face, doing further damage to the unfortunate vehicle. He crouched and leapt, rolling backwards over the hood and rapidly back-pedaling away from his opponent, putting several more cars between them. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the pavement, and wiped his chin with his shirtsleeve; the bone and muscles of his jaw were already knitting themselves back together with a harsh grinding noise he could feel at the base of his skull.

His antagonist was circling wide, wary. Bobby could smell and hear the guy's packmates, lingering at the edges of the parking lot. Waiting for the signal to move in for the kill.

"Shouldn't have come back here, Bob. Blood feud's not over. Your alpha took one of ours. We're gonna smash your pretty-boy skull to make up for it."

The bigger man took a running jump, bounding from car to car like a rubber ball and landing light on his feet, right into Bobby's waiting fist. Bobby hadn't wasted any time; the other guy hadn't noticed him Shifting into his second form, and now he matched his hirsute opponent mass-for-mass. His eyes gleamed golden in the streetlight, and it glittered off teeth now closer to fangs.

In the distance, and closing rapidly, his own packmates howled. Bobby grinned.

"We'll see about that."