The Revivar's Last Moment Awake
The planet was dead, and Dionysus must revive it.
Black clouds had suffocated the sky. As the wind howled, the sand swept across the dry, barren earth. It was a dead land, nothing but sand and rocks, stretching all the way to the now blurred horizon. Smog. The air is so polluted. Dionysus knew. He’d been travelling across the planet for days. Or was it weeks? He was so old he’d lost the sense of time. Indeed, under his green cloak was the soft, pale skin of a boy. Even deeper inside, it was an ancient soul that’d existed for billions of year. One which has spent most of these billions of years asleep. He mused bitterly.
Dionysus stood here, every fiber of him filled with foreboding. He raised his hands, both of them. “Grow!” he commanded. Then a green light exploded around him. The grasses were the first to erupt from the dry sand. Right after them, seedlings sprouted from beneath the soil as the grass spawned across the earth around Dionysus. The seedlings twitched first, and then grew taller, taller until they were at his waist. The wind was bleak. But amidst its growls, he could hear whispers:
“What’s going on?” one of the seedlings asked, directing her question at the cloaked boy now surrounded by grass and young trees.
Vanity: Rage against Nature
As we enter the seaport guided by shadows and lights used by boats and ships to enter and leave the harbor, we pass a series of boats tied to their docks, the sounds of ship horns and the clanking of channel markers fill the night air. Leaving the seaport’s harbor, we visit the ever populated city of New York, where tall buildings and crowds of civilians move through the streets like waves in an ocean.
In this city lives a man named Jay, a 28 year old student who attended Queensborough Community College with a slim build, dark hair and metal frame glasses. He has a friend named Alexis , who he met when Jay was visiting the American Museum of Natural History to write a research paper on the Paleo- ecology of the Green River Formation. She’s a 33 year old woman who volunteers as an exhibit explainer, working at the fossil halls. Jay’s mother was staying with her friend Carl, while he was at home with his girlfriend, working on publishing his paper to a scientific magazine.
Hail to the Chief
The inaugural ball of 2028 was the first I had ever attended. Initially, I had wanted to side-step the entire affair, leave off going. By this time everyone had come to the conclusion that I, Mr. Reynaldo Steed, was little more than a modern day Joseph Goebbels. Of course no one had ever said such a thing to me or the President personally. Freedom of speech was a right still allowed by the powers that be, that power being the President of the United States, my employer. Editorials in some of the nation’s leading newspapers and news magazines had expressed what so many Americans had come to fearfully suspect. The United States of America was being led not just by a strange, new dynamic leader who had the power to withstand not only a sniper’s bullet, but also the power to influence the world in ways that had never been considered before.
His fire was a bluff of life in the withering carcass of his company. Walton stood staring at the sands around him. The dunes rose and fell with the hypnotic rhythm of ocean waves, gusts of wind scattering the nighttime sand through the air like a silver whip. Above him the sky opened in a vast display of constellations he had forgotten the names of, each star pulsing a small but vibrant light.
He had led them out here. Three hundred men wrapped in crimson robes with a sword and spear in each hand. There had been complaints of bandits in the Middling Pass; robbing, killing, raping. The Legion had been sent to quell the bandits, Walton had been placed in charge.
The Curious Case of White Chapel Alley
Whitechapel District, London ─ 1888
“Murder or no, I’m not going down that alley in the dark,” Constable Barnes insisted. “And you shouldn’t either.”
Inspector Cranford glared up at the man. “In-sub-ordin-ation,” he said, drawing out the word, rain running off the brim of his bowler. Having just returned from her Majesty’s service he’d been newly assigned to this latest in a series of brutal murders in White Chapel Alley.
“Begging your pardon, Inspector, no one who goes into that alley after dark has come out alive. You’ll not be getting anyone to go in there tonight. Best wait for daybreak.”
“I’ll have your pension, man!” He turned to Constable McBurn, who shrank back toward the street lamp.
“Inspector, I have four children,” McBurn begged. “We can go when it’s light and no harm done.”
“No harm done,” the inspector thundered. “Why, the rats will have been at the remains by then. This downpour will wash away evidence.”
God in Stereo
With half an eye on the road, Rick shuffled through the CDs in the centre console of his HSV Commodore.
‘Offspring? No. Silverchair? No. Metallica? That’s the one!’
Eagerly anticipating the throbbing surge of distorted guitars and pounding drums, he tapped the volume up button on the steering wheel a couple of times.
‘Talking to myself? That’s okay,’ said Rick. ‘No one’s listening.’
The ever increasing beat of the music slowly caused Rick to increase his pressure on the accelerator.
Ballads, Beer and a Bus Driver
Nina always wanted to be a poet, but she was a bus driver’s daughter.
The sensible thing would be to earn a living as a civil servant, regular hours and a guaranteed pension.
She boarded the bus at the beginning of the B-9 bus route her father drove every day in Brooklyn. It was her super-stretch limousine that smelled of peanuts and sweat.
Her dad wore a light-blue uniform. His ironed-on transit worker patch was positioned above his cuffed and starched right sleeve.
“Watch your step, sir.”
Taken Between The Jaws
There in that very epicenter of the wild, Samuel Fletcher found what he had been looking for. The fact that he hadn’t been looking for anything to begin with made the discovery that much more amazing. He likened it to eating when you don’t feel hunger in your stomach: you are finally able to get that fulfillment which you hadn’t even known you needed. The body is hungry without knowing. And some unconscious signal informs you that it’s time to eat, and you contradict the will (or lack thereof) of your stomach, so you go to get some grub—and you find that that was the very cure you had been, without even knowing it, long searching for. This reservoir of hunger is The Metaphor, and to fill the subconscious needs of The Metaphor was exactly what Samuel Fletcher had been looking for.