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Late to the PartyAt quarter-past one AM, dispatch sent me a noise complaint in Somerton Tower, a ritzy place four blocks south of Granville Street. Every so often I'd receive this sort of call, and head up to some obnoxious cocktail party attended by thirty or forty upper class men and women listening to pounding electronic music. This one was different though; there was some suspicion of domestic violence.
I pulled up to the sidewalk out front and hopped out of my cruiser. It was Friday night--little packs of young people stumbled along on their way to the bars and nightclubs of Granville, or to underground shows to see some of the hundreds of death metal bands. Most of them became instantly nervous around the sight of white and blue, and even more so when the red stripes on my pants told them I was RCMP.
They weren't in any danger. A cop in Vancouver who wants to bust everyone with more than an ounce of weed in their pocket or a couple ecstasy tablets is a very, very busy fool. I craned my head to lo
The Day of the Falling SkySand fell through the earth, invisible and intangible. In every corner of the world, confused and uneasy people listened to its strange sound, like white noise on a television cranked up just a little too loud. Very few of us understood what this heralded: the vanguard of our new masters was near, and humanity was soon to suffer the agony of enslavement under crazed despots. I had to spare my wife and son the misery.
When I first heard the Sand, my team was in Hawaii, scouring a beach covered in a strange sort of mass suicide: thousands of dolphins and sharks had washed up on the shore days earlier. Voluntarily, in a mass migration we had surveyed from above as it happened, without concern for the prey they passed up, the creatures of the deep sea threw themselves onto dry land and died. I was walking alongside an associate, Dr. Ehlers, both of us clad in MOPP suits, carrying cases of tissue samples.
For a little over a year, we had known what was coming. They spoke to us, They spoke t
Neither Death Nor Reincarnation Can Destroy LoveWith morning comes dread. Once again, I open my eyes and find I am still trapped in this small body, my hearth and home a mere black pit at the heart of an oak tree. I unfurl from my own bushy tail and clamber out of my nest of twigs and refuse, and creep to the opening through which the sun pours its taunting light.
I must go on. This I tell myself every day when I scan the skies in fear of a bird of prey. I must go on, for Clara and the boys. They have no idea, of course. It would be an absurd tale even if I could vocalize it for them: their husband and father, reincarnated in the body of a rodent with all memories of his past life intact. I must go on, so that I may help them in some small way, but I can never again know Clara's warm embrace or the joy one of my jokes gives to the kids.
I zip down the tree and onto open ground. Look left and right; nothing has spotted me, but the neighborhood tomcat always lurks through these parts before noon. Clara is getting the boys ready for an
Duel on Tsymenadae-7Yuri locked his eyes to the creature's sensory bulbs. It couldn't make any facial expressions he could truly comprehend, but the second it scuttled out from behind the chipped shale and into brilliant purple daylight, he knew there was only one way this first contact was going to end. He darted his eyes to the neon map in the corner of his helmet visor: everyone else was backing slowly toward the ship.
This monstrous little alien shimmied its weight a little closer, a little further into the open, and it slid one of its pseudo-pseudopods into the sleeve of what could only be a disintegrator. Yuri's hand hovered over his own, strapped to his leg. What he wouldn't give for a personalized spatial distortion field! If only the new equipment had actually arrived before they were sent to this godforsaken chasm of savage space!
Gradually, the human slowed his breathing. He needed a steady hand; if he drew too quickly he'd miss by a mile, and there was no way of knowing how accurate a bolt fro
Pants Down and Red HandedGrandpa built an owl, with analog clocks for eyes, that smoked a real pipe and hooted when spoken to, and spun its head around entirely to amuse myself and the other grandchildren. At night it would guard the chickens from weasels and the cats from coyotes. A trained owl wouldn't have been as good because real owls don't smoke pipes or tell the time or fire little plastic rockets from under their feathers.
One night, when I was on grandpa's farm and all the adults were asleep, I snuck out to meet a girl. I was fifteen at the time, which I suppose meant the owl had been around for about four years, and something of a trouble maker. For the life of me I can't remember the name of the girl I for whom I risked the next month's privileges. I do recall that she was stunningly beautiful, a short redhead with steel gray eyes and larger breasts than anyone else in our grade--a vital part of the body for the uninitiated sophomore.
Grandpa's owl followed me, though I didn't know it at first. It m
Cashbox-Part OneOn a hot and muggy, gray day, the brutish kings of the docks dragged Murray Fisk from his cell and into the square where all trials and executions took place. Weeks spent in a cellar, flogged periodically by the monstrous mountain of a man who presently shoved him forward, rendered him a gaunt and grimy, bearded figure. His hair was matted, greasy and tangled with dried blood, a far cry from his well-fed, Mohawked guard.
A boot to the back of one knee told him where to kneel and so he did, collapsing onto his knees before a small crowd of raggedy dock-dwellers. Most of them were hardly any better looking than he; only the rich fishermen, who had the few boats seaworthy enough to leave the bay, lived in anything better than squalor. He'd been deafened in the left ear from a heavy blow, but Murray recognized quickly the voice of Luis Dominguez, ruler of the docks, as he approached from behind.
"What you see before you is a dead criminal." He stepped past Murray and turned on his heel to
Unconventional Love StoryA ring of men, women, and children stood around the crater, police officers struggling to keep the order while others could barely push back against the crowd enough to keep themselves from falling in the pit. Burrowed ten feet into the earth beneath Times Square, the softly pulsing blue pod hummed and split, and the folds were pushed back by turquoise hands with four digits each--two fingers, two thumbs.
The creature that emerged stifled all the chatter throughout the square. Thousands of people, from those who stood looking down to those blocks away watching the video feed on their phones and the electronic billboards, all fell absolutely silent. For the thing that emerged was only a few steps removed from a human being: it was a tall, muscular creature, clothed in a loose-fitting white uniform, seemingly made of wool. It, or rather he, gazed up at the open-mouthed civilians above, and rose to his full height of eight feet, six inches.
A police officer drew his pistol but was quickly
First Grave on TerratuWhen he came to Terratu (named after a fictional planet in an old Ted Sturgeon story, meaning "Terra Two" as well as "Terra, Too"), Clancy Konrad was not a young man. He was forty-three, a lean fellow who had only recently swapped his potbelly for some true muscle mass for the mission. His job was chronicler, the modern version of a bard, for he was a writer of science fiction on earth and it seemed fitting that he get a place on the first interstellar voyage.
He was in the first wave of people to populate that primordial world, with its vast, empty oceans and landmasses bereft of life. He lived in Prefab One, which today sits at the center of a small city of prefabricated homes, surrounded on all sides by fields of grass and flowers that took happily to the nitrogen-rich soil and carbon dioxide atmosphere. While now the gilded domes are the norm for the populace, Prefab One was a small trailer he shared with five other men and women.
When the first rotation was switched out, Clancy de
Blessed 454Cold winds blew in from the northwest, stirring up walls of sand across the shrubby foothills. Repentant worshipers carried on, down the fractured and disappearing interstate, forty of them in four rows. Over their shoulders were four thick ropes of hemp, pulled taut and wrapped at the rear terminus to heavy brass rings on a carriage.
The carriage was immense. It was nearly the entire road wide and it traveled on six wheels, the steel hubs torn from an earth-mover that sat derelict near their tribe's settlement. Inside, clinking and thumping about, were the ten offerings to be sacrificed.
Weary, the worshipers concealed their elation upon sighting, at the base of a small valley past a rusting billboard, their settlement and the sacrificial vat around which it was erected. They had to take a long, winding route into the valley, off the road and over a rough trail, for a direct descent would send the carriage tumbling over them. Even the youngest of the forty could recall the day a hasty
Addicted to Messy Kisses (Visual) I want to sit on the
roof top in your boxers and kiss
you while listening to you telling me about
the stars that made the constellations on my
face. I want to kiss you when you photograph me,
because that's what I want to remember: loving you
endlessly and boundlessly. I want to kiss you when you
are too tired and too drunk, and watch you slobbering all
over me, while I laugh in your breath on my lips. I want to
kiss you in libraries, when you'll blush and tell me to sto
organized chaosHis brain's like
reflecting muted light.
His brain is architecturally sound,
with perfect corners
organized into neat sections,
metal cutting the spectrum
into cautious pieces.
He tells me he's nothing.
He tells me that he's grown up
from the cracks in the sidewalk
like a dandelion,
and he's been waiting his whole life
for someone to come along
and blow his fucking head off.
He tells me he comes from a bad place,
and I nod
when all I want to do is shake him
and remind him
that everything beautiful
must grow up out of the dirt.
I wanted to write you a lovesong.i.
Summer rain has nothing
on the sound of your laugh,
little pinpricks of sunshine
lounging across the cobbled
streets of midnight,
cooled grey eyes, shining
tears of nightlights
glowing like stars in your cheeks;
in darkened archways,
hollow stone walls
reverberating through my skull --
back to earth, loving
taking root under the city floor,
breathing across cool hands
in warmer songs, notes
bundled under my sheets
thoughts that last all night
and drift between the rafters
of my chest
wanting at last;
pure, starry sky and
dawn rolls down the mountainside,
turrets and towers
crinkle-eyed smile batters
falling -- falling --
more delicate than down
softly into the clouds.
one life into another
the moon has sunk
into my soul; I am losing
but the bloodl
BloodlustIn our private heaven
We satisfy our bloodlust
By breaking each other's skin
With a shinny blade
And tasting the crimson flow
The flow of life
A life of lust and love
The love we feel
For each other
A bloody and guilty love
Of voluntary wounds
And beautiful scars
Our reason to live
Our dirty secret
A secret we both carry
With great pleasure
The only way
We can feel happiness
Two LilliesI found my soul,
in a white lily atop a hill,
a red wine sunset
splashed against the sky.
My heart felt her before
I could see,
the flower strongly rooted
petals blowing with a battle cry
against the wind.
The gusts overtime,
testing and strengthening
the precious growth
roots sewn deep.
I sat beside,
your petals open wide
nothing left to hide,
shades of white
despite the soil you came from.
Yet alone you sit
a secret scent,
for me to enjoy
as I read a book,
and talk to you about everything and nothing.
Late into the night.
dew like tear drops,
and I couldn't take you home with me
but I would return again,
Until the day I join you.
How the waves tasted your anklesSince you are the only sailor
of the sea that my moon-
child eyes so easily bleed,
I crumble to shoreline pieces
every time I press my lips
to half-neglected sea glass,
haunted by visions of the way
you rolled cherries on your tongue.
StarsYou fill me up with bubbles,
dreams and futures floating for me.
Using a line of chalk to draw my life plans on me,
outlining where we can go together.
Stars scribbled across my forehead,
highway across my belly.
Breathing in the cars, making a map of our love.
ways I have failedscarling I believe
I knew our stars were faulted
The same way I knew that I couldn't stand them disarrayed
I wove you slowly
into my tendons
and I refuse any dimension that finds us ceasing
just pretend I am a man
and not a knot in your chest
I will pretend that I'm not gasping for breath
you are my barbed catalyst
that I refuse to release
I will proudly dress my wounds in the mirror
knowing that everything will be better than I was
there is no part of me undoctored
no words ungreened
and no fiber untorn
you were never just a prompt
but you were always more than my thin hands could manage
I always knew you would outgrow me
five hour energyi suppose
last week was only an aftershock
of the earthquake you were before.
this place used to vibrate
with metal strings and melodic,
testimonies to life,
emitting coffee-scented moods
and the burn of it too.
i had memorized the
sounds of silence,
i couldn't help but relish it.
no longer had i known
the sounds of folk
and scent of mocha-
you became nothing more
than an echo of the laughter
i so desperately needed to hear again.
then the echoes got louder,
bouncing ferociously off the walls
to be made manifest
i walked into your room
expecting exactly what i found-
an unmade bed,
and an empty beer
(the one that you insisted you needed
just days ago).
i pressed my nose
into the pillow
for incense and cologne and starbucks
to penetrate my mind
and thinking fervently
i already know
what a clean sheet smells like."
how strong an aftershock can be,
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More