creative

extinction burst

the fish swims backwards into d̵̨͔͕̎̇̄̚ẹ̶̅̑͌͋̒̐͜͝c̷̢̞̳͈̠͖̽͗̍̾̊̀̉a̵͕͍̩̝͕̹̼͐̄̈́̓y̵̦̬̓
through the last of the stars
into the deep night

so

into the deep night we run,

over the fire we feast and we sing
and we speak and we form, yet

the night is long, the night is long
the night is long, the night is

long,

dark—

the night is


d̶̢̛̛̯̱̬̤̦̼͛̎̄̓̊̿̈́͊͘͝è̵̛̛̺̥̺͈̤͉̠̬̺̹̲̣͈͆̀̅̌̎͛̾̈̃͠͝e̴̢̞̗̥̫͔͔̘̰̣̲͐͆́̊͋̅͊̓͗̿̂͋͒͠p̶͕̯̫̬͍͚̫̓͊́͐̽͜

now eat

the fire
now eat

the eye
now eat

the grass
now eat

death and

build me an idol of trees and skins
and one of rock and stone
and one of bronze and silver
and one of gold and gold
and one of silicon and lightning;

to learn to
fear
—
to fear to
learn

OH PAINTER USE BLOOD

for the canvas is dry
and pale as the sand

use blood, more b̶̡̰̼̟̰̀̅l̸̨̪͎͓̰̉̏o̴̤̤̦̳̖͊͘͝ơ̴̩̺͓̦̂̕͜d̵̡̲͇̮͐

more blood

more,

for a crisp and lonely standard
that will snap high in the wind

tied to the stern of the ship
that sails the fathomless seas
and seeks the entropics;

for when we arrive
we shall drink down the neon
and noble gases
will be needled into our ş̷̖̱͕͐̈́̓̀k̶̨̗̤̈́͒͐̄͠ͅi̴͇̞͚̓͛n̴̘̟̝̦̓̒

as the choir sings free, free to

̶̷̴̷̤͉͖͎̙̙̣̹̭̖̀̿͗̀̍̀̀̀͊̀̕̚͜͠_̶̲̔͋̎ *

They are here. Run.


* ̶̷̶̸̡̢̛̺̺̙̫̞͇̦̮̟̬̲̦̻͍͇͉̘̖͇͉̪̠͇͕͚̪̦͚͍̙͑̓͗̽̒͋̃̓̃̅̄̾͐̃̈́͗͘̕͝


caldera, volcano, ocean, storm
smoked and smoked again the air so thick
to stop and think
let us study at the salt water,
all of it

and the highest tides that fill our flesh…

but how fortunate, this thread

how eyes, wide open to look upwards
into the deep of the deep of

the deep n̴̮̯̉͐̏i̷̩̿̒g̵̜͕͖͗̿͝h̷̞̀ṫ̸̞̅,

there—scintillation

as the fish turns, travails
over and across the rot
into liminal light

as the painter slowly packs to move
and pass this way
with a wink and a nod

are you watching?

one by one by one by one

the very last of the roaring



ș̵̡̺͉̟̲̹̜̤̘̤͙̻̬̪̙͙̃͐͆̋̋͒͂̎̈́͑͜͝t̶̡̛͍͍͎̠̰͍̖͉̝͕̗̜͍̱͖͚̖̱̻͈̟͙͈͔̑̽̓̊̽̈́̏̔̐̈́̐̾̔͘ͅẳ̴̢̢̧̨̛͚̬̠͖͓̝͈̳̫̖̘͈̞̞̻͔̗̙̻̜͙̓̔̃̐̌͛̆̍̈́̓̊̀̏̉̏́̑͑̚͘̚͜ͅŗ̴͍̙̫̺̥̮̹͖̘͙̾͐͂͋̽͋̈̋̈́͘͘͜͜ś̴̡͖̻̣̳̺͔̬̣̞̆̆̎͛̇̐͐̉̑̆̉͊̆̈́̆̽̍̅̿̽̕̕




off

click

,

The Truth

I speak to all people. I speak to you.

Your worth as a member of the human species and a resident of Earth is not defined by how much money you make, what possessions you own, your looks, your social media, or even by what you achieve.

It is defined by the shape you leave behind in the world. It is defined by what you were able to contribute to the sphere of experience in your life.

Some people earn monuments and accolades.

Some people add to the pool of harmless joy in the world.

Some people create a fire of goodness and courage that burns away the darkness.

Some people leave an irreplaceable void, sometimes within nothing more than a single other person.

And some people toil under the light of the sun or the light of the moon, nothing but nature bearing silent witness to their work.

Ultimately, whatever we do is meaningless. That is the way of the universe. Yet we must do it nonetheless. You matter here and now.

You did not choose to exist, but you must choose what shape you leave behind in the world. You must. And in deciding not to choose, you still make a choice.

For every human that has ever existed or will ever exist, this is everyone’s same charge, same vocation, same calling. This is the one thing we all share.

Reject it at your own peril, because in doing so you reject not only your fellow people, but your own humanity as well. You reject life itself.

We are islands to each other, yet unceasingly bound together.

What fires are kindled in your mind? What waters flow in the deep and secret places of your heart? What shape will you create?

As a human, you have within you the gift of conscious creation. It is what you live and what you pass down and what you leave behind.

I speak to all people. I speak to you. The power of this calling is in your own hands. Choose.

Evergreen

I have bought
so many books
across the span of the years,
and so sold,
and so gifted,
and acquired yet more,
that from time to time
I catch myself
staring at one spine or another,
as you would your lover’s profile
wondering:
Have I seen you before?
Did I know you
when the pine on the rock outside,
bathed in mist and light,
was still young?
Or…
Even before the rock was old—
perhaps that’s when we first met.

Sylvan Lake | Black Hills, South Dakota

Western Window

I wanted to tell you
that I just watched the sunset.

The last 10 degrees sunk below the mountains
in real-time.

We say “I watched the sun set,”
when really we mean
“I watched the world turn.”

Our feet are rooted to the ground;
our eyes live on the horizon.

A lingering blossom of auburn
and dripping red
and yellow and pink
and pillowed blood golden sky now fades
up
into the coming blue hour.

Only in these slices of time
do I feel allowed
to “just be”.

Perhaps because
I’m watching
the sun set
and not the world turn.

The earth revolves in constance;
the sun sets in a moment.

Yes, this also means
I should remember
to
hold on
to such a feeling.

Yes.

So we persist in the knowledge
of the fact
that we call it “life”,
and not “death”.

Life revolves in constance;
death arrives in a moment.

We inhale and exhale,
rooted to the revolution,
trees of bone and dead stars,
veins of ocean water,
skin of salt and the electric,
eyes open
/
only
/
in slices
/
of time
/
that permit us
/
to break with gravity,
or find a safe orbit
in one another.

Twilight fades into the blue,
deep now in the coming dark.

No.

Not darkness. Look.

Worlds
upon worlds
upon worlds,

dancing.

Southeast Arizona Desert, Dragoon Mountains

Creative Challenge | Destiny Universe

“What’s that called again?” She makes a looping motion with her fist.

“After you catch one? When you wrap your end around the saddlehorn?”

“Yeah, that.” Her horse swishes his tail at flies stubborn enough to stand the hot midday breeze.

“It’s called a ‘dally’, Amanda.”

“Right, right, I knew that. Think I could try it yet?”

Her father shifts in his saddle, glancing towards the house beyond the corral. “Ehh. I dunno, kiddo. I don’t think your momma would much be a fan.”

She sighs, pursing her lips sideways. “I’m good enough. You know I am.”

“I know. I also know cattle look funny enough, but they’ll stomp your guts into the ground if you don’t got your eyes and ears on. You keep practicing on that dummy I welded for you, and we’ll think about it for next season.”

She tilts her head back and lets out the kind of exasperated sigh only an 11-year-old can pull off. 

Her father pushes his hat back and grins, wrinkles forking across the laugh-lines in his weathered face.

She can still remember that grin. Papa had a shit-eating grin for days.

She can still remember Mama singing in the kitchen.

She can still remember…

…how easy it is to lose concentration as the rogue Fallen Captain’s blade descends in a sweeping arc towards her midsection, as she pivots just in time to avoid worse than a nick on the arm. Small a wound though it may be, her arm threatens to go limp as a jolt of arc energy jumps through the contact point.

Being surprised on a routine sweep for spare parts (and hopefully, a forgotten cache) hadn’t helped. Some “day off” this is turning out to be.

Amanda shrugs the weakened shoulder, twists her body to boost the momentum of her shotgun, whipping it under her arm and into her hands.

She sidesteps and fires low as the Captain swings his second blade down, rewarded with a blast of cartilage and blood-spattered armor that sends him down to one knee. He roars something in Eliksni – Amanda assumes a curse or swear-word – as she turns, running for the Sparrow, shotgun slung back on her shoulder. 

Most of the feeling has returned. Lucky.

She fires up the thruster, foot paused and hovering over the accelerator. The coiled rope snapped to the Sparrow’s saddlebags catches her eye.

She looks back.

The Captain limps her way, blood and fire in his eyes.

Her eyes narrow in return. 

“Aw, hell with this.”

She accelerates only by half, leaning into the turn, sweeping the Captain wide as she reaches back and unsnaps the rope.

Doubting his freshly-reduced ability to dodge, the Captain sticks his blades in the earth before unslinging his own Fallen shotgun.

Amanda presses the Sparrow, closing the distance, swinging the rope once… twice… thrice…

The Captain stops in confusion and annoyance as the little human barrels right past him. Cowardice? He turns to draw once more on the Sparrow. Not likely. Stupidity, probably. Lack of tactical knowledge. 

He feels good, despite the wounded leg joint. He will keep the Sparrow as loot. 

He will feed the human female to the Dregs.

The pull of his finger on the trigger is interrupted by an insistent tugging at his heels.

The Captain looks down just in time to see the loop of a rope, standing impossibly on its side, his undamaged leg already within the trap.

He jumps to the side, frantically, just as she boosts the Sparrow and pulls her slack.

The memory of her father grins – his eyes black as deep space, his face obscured by shadow, his body in the lands of Death.

It’s called a ‘dally’, Amanda.

The Captain has enough time to scream out another Eliksni curse – this one tinted by fear. Amanda tightens the coil around the Sparrow’s front utility bar as she completes her sweep, aiming for the edge of the canyon.

She grabs her pack, jams the booster switch in place, and tumbles off – safely, if not gracefully.

She watches the Fallen Captain’s descent to the reddish hardpan dust, notes the little punctuation of an explosion.

The hot midday breeze moves small eddies of dust in between sparse patches of tall grass. She catches her breath.

“Holy-shit-it-worked.”

No big loss, as far as the Sparrow’s concerned. Perks of being the Tower’s crack mechanic.

She can feel it rising within, and does nothing to stop it. Her laughter echoes across the canyon.

“Heh. Can’t wait to tell Cayde about this one.” He’ll think it’s funny. What’s more, he’ll be proud. He’ll actually get it.

Except… no. Wait. 

She can’t tell Cayde.

Cayde’s gone. Cayde’s gone gone.

Her laughter becomes the ghost of a dead thing, vanishing into the shadows where it belongs.

Her hand reaches into her duster pocket, feels the stiff paper of the ticket. One Free Ramen. It will remain there, unredeemed.

She reaches into her other pocket and feels the cylindrical and heavy reassurance of the shotgun slug – the old one. It will remain there, unfired.

She lets out a sigh – the kind only a grownup can produce.

Dammit.

As Amanda begins the trek home, she thinks of Banshee. Banshee – a crafter and tradesperson, like her. An expert. Banshee, with his countless reincarnations. Banshee, with his neural backup deficiencies, his half-stories, his quiet exasperation at his own memory gaps and general forgetfulness.

The light of midday stretches thin, tumbling into blood-red painted haze. The sun has begun to sink on the western horizon, casting mountain shadows on the back of the Traveler. The breeze is losing its heat. She shifts her pack to the other shoulder, balancing out the weight of her mother’s shotgun.

Sometimes, Amanda wishes she had Banshee’s problem.

Distance

Sometimes, there’s a place where the grass and the sage, pine and cottonwood, rocks and scrub and a cactus or two — maybe piñon and mesquite and yucca and so forth — they all get together and make up a kind of existence that’s mildly intoxicating.

Places like this are important if you’re extra-sober to begin with.
Say if, for example, you happen to be born that way.

Little breezes ruffle and shift the scents around.
Sometimes the wind really kicks up and does its best to rearrange your day.

Mostly, these areas aren’t burdened with an overabundance of trees or houses.
You can see the horizon. You can breathe in deep and feel your mind flatten out.
Memory and time stop fighting each other. Your worst enemy might be a fence or two.

I don’t generally have anything against concentrations of trees or houses — or people, for that matter — but I need to be out in the wide angle, out in the open kind of wild.

You can see the storms coming in of an evening.
Hear the wind searching. Feel the thunder unroll, look at the lightning crack.
You can see the sun breaking in yellow through the mist or dying down red in the clouds, and you can watch it all coming in and get yourself together.

You can give yourself to it. It’s like getting ready for church or mass.
Like a wedding or a funeral.

Folks tend to be fearful of a skeleton.
Something about bone laid out bare to the weather, I’d wager.
Out there, you get reminded you’ve got one inside you. You were born with it.

Things in the land and things within us consummate and live and die all the time.
Out there you can feel it, know it for what it is — a sort of honesty uncontrived.

You can see it all coming, and see it all going.

Coyote

You know how headlights,
when you’re near a desert highway,
pan across material like a searchlight,
casting incoherent shadows
past whatever they happen to catch –

sage, cactus green and praying to the rain,
hitchhiker’s drugstore cowpuncher boots,
corrugated lean-to slumped up against the wire?

Well that isn’t happening just yet.

Coyote isn’t on the wander right now.

The sun is still walking, heading west,
knowing exactly where to go.

Daylight melts over dust and hardpan,
yellow, umber, ochre, neon hot pink.

Memory melts like daylight.

Those clouds, see. That’s what I mean.
Cirro… cumulo… cirronimbulus?

It rises, dark and thick in the gloaming.
It drinks the melted daylight.

A rush of cool air. Scattering of sand.
Silent stab of arced lightning.
One million volts in a terawatt cycle.

Thunderstorms drink memory like daylight.
They amplify.
They make ready for the night.

You should come tell me what you think.

Silence. Rumbling over the distance of the earth.

Silence.

Cumulonimbus. That’s it.

You’d have gotten that quicker.

Silence.

Scent of the dry before the wet.

Burning gold at the end of the sunwalk
underneath the dark tower.

There. Coyote’s on the wander. Hungry.

The semi-truck moves past
and headlights cast no shadows beyond a ghost.

Thirst.

Thunder.

Hunger.

Arclight.

Silence.

No Land Beyond: Preludes III

New Mexico

2035

Havoc sat next to Cordell on the edge of the high hill. The whisperings of a storm gathered in the distance; one that would miss them this far beyond the mountains. It was a dry season this far south on the plateau; only patches of trees thrived near groundwater in between the bromegrass and prickly pear and scattered chaparral. The stars and the arm of the galaxy were ripe and apparent.

Remy had hunched down a short distance off, building a fire and cursing to herself.

The dog broke the silence.

“Woman angry.”

Cordell chewed on some leaves from his pouch as he checked his ammunition. “Yeah. Wearing these… these things,” he said, nudging his Rig, “hurts. Sometimes.”

“Woman not care pain.”

Cordell chuckled. “Seems like you know what’s up.”

Havoc cocked his head. “Up? No. Sense only.”

“Yeah, well…” Cordell rocked back and sat on the ground. “We just had to deal with a… you say ‘dark thing’? Not easy to… uh, understand. You follow?”

“Many of…” Havoc snorted “… many things not follow.”

“But you sense things better than me.”

Havoc glanced at Remy’s fire. “Anger. Old.”

Cordell plucked a blade of grass. “Might not be wrong about that.”

The wind moved in little eddies over the waves of the field.

“Human-Prime. You all worry. Anger. Why?”

Cordell looked at Havoc. “Huh?”

“Odd. Other dog, sometimes hurting, beaten, have bad. Many times. I see this. But human, bigger thinking. Build. Command. Rule. Try to sense…” he shook his head “…hard to. Take pain, carry around, carry on back. You. Her. Why?”

Cordell sighed. “I don’t know. I really don’t have a good answer, boy.”

“You worry of before? Or later?”

“Maybe both? Jesus, I don’t know. Bigger thinking isn’t all it’s… isn’t good all the time, Havoc.”

“You worry death?”

Cordell’s gaze locked onto Havoc. Havoc continued staring at the distant storm, smelling the air.

“You don’t?”

“Not want to die. Same. But worse for you. Much why.”

Cordell sighed. “This is way too complicated… like… too much to explain. To tell. Too big… thinking? You follow?”

Havoc turned his head to meet Cordell’s. “Cordell, Human-Prime. Think. Me. I have… thing? Inside. Inside-rain? Wind… moving-on?”

Remy swore in triumph as the fire grew.

Cordell’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

Havoc sighed and snorted. “Inside. Inside me. Not-touch. No dying.”

“Are you… what…” Cordell turned towards Havoc “…are you asking if you have a soul?”

“Not sure. I die.” Havoc cocked his head again. “Then what? Humans speak worry. Odd.”

Miles away, the low thunder rumbled on.

“Havoc… there’s… I don’t even know the answer to that. I’m sorry. Look… I…”

“OK. Not sure?”

“Well, no. Does it matter? I think… whatever the case…” Cordell looked back at the storm. “… you’re like me.”

Havoc’s tail started wagging. “Yes?”

“Humans are animals too. Remember that. Just… bigger thinking.”

Havoc grinned and panted. “Too big!”

“Ha! Pretty much.”

“Not worry then?”

“Shit. I wouldn’t.”

“OK good.” Havoc looked towards Remy’s fire. She watched now as the storm skirted the mountains. “Work to do. Die later.”

No Land Beyond: Preludes II

Colorado Plateau

2035

Squaring off with the Flayer, Remy brought up her guns as the creature shook itself, spitting bright green droplets of acid from its pores. It growled low, fuming and expanding its torso in and out, the sensory bulb where its eyes should be locked on to her position.

Carried by the breezes, sand and dust wafted between them.

The Flayer’s growl changed into a hacking, guttural staccato of unnatural noise as its stance shifted, subtly. Its maw opened in a flash of sizzling drool and rows of shifting razor-teeth that seemed to burn in the setting blood-red desert sun.

Remy didn’t need a translator to understand being marked for death.

“Right.”

She released the safeties and emptied both SMGs into the beast, moving forward, concentrating the fire on its upper body. Knowing the bullets wouldn’t make a dent in the Flayer’s exoskeleton, she was merely buying a few seconds in order to gain the upper hand.

The beast hissed defiantly, spraying weak acid in front of it as it stood to absorb the shock of 900 rounds per minute. The acid arced through the air in little streams, splashing on Remy’s forcefield harmlessly.

It was the much stronger acid, inside the thing’s… stomach(?) …that worried her.

Close enough to close in, she dropped her guns right as they spent their clips, gathering forward momentum, hands dipping for the hip-sling that held her wakizashi & tomahawk.

The Flayer had other plans, it seemed.

Forcing the side of its right appendage to split open, the beast disconnected some of its own tendons. Remy’s lip curled to the sound of organic twisting and cracking as the tendons emerged and snaked into the air, weaving together and then apart. It, too, was buying time- trying to find a weakness. If it wrapped one around her tight enough, exo-forcefield or not, it could pull her in and attempt a killing bite, flooding her insides with caustic juices.

The crimson sunset deepened as a coyote’s howl pierced the desert gloaming.

A stuttering snarl escaped the Flayer’s seething maw as the tendons launched out towards her approach, splitting in disparate directions, searching for a hold.

Swiftly, abandoning caution, Remy exposed herself fully to the front, shifting all energy to her feet in a wave of centrifugal propulsion, bursting forward in a rising spin, using the momentum to help her draw her axe. Dust and rock kicked and spun out behind and to the sides in puffs of red.

Its prey having closed in much too quickly for the tendons to be effective, the Flayer shot its head forward to bite, bracing its frame for the fight.

Its head came in to meet the end of Remy’s dance perfectly. The axehead cracked exoskeleton just to the side and rear on the neck, biting through into the strange flesh below as she concentrated all the Rig’s energy into her blades. She could feel the shock- and purpose directed at her -from the Flayer’s sensory bulb as it fought between the opposing objectives of pulling free and sinking its razor-teeth deep into its prey.

The fight paused for a moment. Just long enough.

Redirecting energy to her trailing foot, she slammed it into one of the creature’s lower appendages, throwing its balance forward.

Towards her.

Flowing the energy back to the blades, she pulled down hard with the axe, drawing her shortsword out and up in one fluid motion. Remy snarled in defiance as the blade pierced through the upper maw and straight inside the sensory bulb.

Her face came to within inches of the creature’s.

“F**k off.”

Its life brought to a sudden end, the Flayer stiffened in ancient reflex, falling backwards as Remy’s growl heightened to a piercing cry. She yanked the blades out to a spray of internal liquids, kicking her foe down violently as she did so. It smacked into the dust as the crown of the red sun descended below the distant mountaintops.

Remy stood over the body, watching the desert drink up green acid and dark purple fluid, wondering not for the first time what would happen if these things existed- or came through -in greater numbers.

Sensing eyes on her, she turned to see Cordell standing some distance off, his grip relaxing on his gunsword. He hadn’t figured on testing her patience again by butting in, but just in case…

Havoc came trotting up around a patch of scrub, back from running down a smaller scout-beast, and sat next to Cordell. His eyes darted from Remy to the body of the Flayer and back. Remy watched Cordell radio Hector’s backup perch, confirming a final sweep and cleanup.

Little eddies of dust moved between them in the coming dark, and in the last vestiges of clear light Cordell saw Remy silhouetted in burning crimson, her eyes afire from the kill, her body bathed in battle.

Never taking her eyes from Cordell, she distributed her energy evenly, shunting a light propulsive blast outwards in all directions, cleansing herself of acid and blood in a hellish mist that caught the long and final rays of the setting sun.

Cordell nodded, he and Havoc turning to walk the distance back to the truck.

Night came on quietly, slowly turning to a moonish twilight as Remy followed them. She stopped only to mark another small notch near the base of her axe handle.