Poem fragment

Twirling through inky soundless expanse of space,
listening to sizzling Saturnian lightning,
like frying eggs, underwater
I feel my bones
packed red sea-sand,
wrapped by a clear, thin vellum.

As I listen to screeching and wailing of
Saturn's rotation,
I feel the presence of gods.

Atheists claim gods do not exist
Theists insist their version must,
But I, agnostic, merely drift in space,
listening to the song of the universe.
To the drum and thrum of Vela Pulsar,
a frenetic tribal code,
The lilting birdsong
(or squeaking subway car brakes)
of Jupiter's magnetosphere.

And it is in the soundless dust rings
Of Saturn, that for the first time,
I hear the voice of Creation.

Fiction written as a reply to a blog post

Joshua Palmatier, author extraordinaire posted an entry on his live journal asking us how we would react to the end of the world. Rather than being sensible about it I wrote the following snippet below. It may live on, it may not.

Ten minutes ago the President went off line for the last time. The City power's been out for weeks, we knew that when we set up the generators. Our bigger problem is the three basics, fuel, food, ammo. Guns we have, everyone has those. Maybe one in thirty people know how to safely use a gun. But only so much ammo.

Last week was the worst. Downtown's gone. Most of the useful parts of the City are, burned up by the fire bugs. But life's going to get real tough for them too. There's only so much drugs, and they tend to make themselves prey to the Eaters.

Most Eaters are not that smart, and if you take a second to think, you can usually use the environment against them. Basic physics knowledge helps. We're walking out of the City, the fifty of us. No leader, no alpha males yet. Everyone with an ego, a chip on their shoulder, they went down in the beginning days.

The fires are making our decision for us. We have to get away from the winds, cause the fires do a better job than the Eaters or other crazies at taking people out. We have maybe a few hours. Me and Kara are moving out first, then the rest will follow a mile off the road. (1-25) In packs of ten. Rifle and ammo with every group, water carriers for all.

Lots of people drove on the road in the first weeks After, trying to get away. Some made it farther than others. No more gas stations though, so. The road is littered with cars, and further down, the bodies of the drivers. Somewhere out on that road is Joanna, and Deeg.

I've cried enough for them.

I retie my pack. Most of the stuff I got from the Mall south of here after looters took the most obvious stuff. It was an easy if harrowing trip, just take the elevated train line straight down, stay a hundred yards away from anything that moves bigger than a dog.

Socks, twenty pair of those.long sleeved shirts, pants. Extra boots, slightly big. Water bottles, boiling pot. Metal coffee thermos of rubbing alcohol. All the jerky I could find. Fire sparkers. Hand crank walkies. Bullets for the Beretta PX4. Bandages. Super glue packets, a roll of duct tape and scissors. 5 packs of needles and 4 spools white thread. Hand mirrors. Machetes, 3. Walking stick, which is really just a heavy, metal tube. That's all I have.

Realistically, I'm not going to make it farther than two hundred miles. But I'd rather die out there from sun sickness than be burned alive and eaten. Besides, rabbit looks to taste better than cat, anyway.

So, I'm leaving this note here. If things get back... if things ever become re-civilized, look for me near the dam where Vegas used to be.

NAME: ______________

_______

Accidental blog

Whoops? How'd that happen? I just wanted to follow a few blogs. My real blog resides here. Oh well, from guilt springs forth the accidental blog post:


Silly me. Here, have a snippet of prose from a story that died in the ER. all work is © 2005-2009 mari kurisato. Fiction posted here cannot be reposted elsewhere without credit and reciprocal link.

The universe is so fucked up

This is the thought that seeps into my mind like water pouring across dusty cobblestones while I wake up. The sheets feel like a gigantic butterfly wing smashed against my body as I crawl from the bed, and from my dreams. Dust everywhere. I'm so thirsty. They say that thirst is the sign that you might be catching (developing? Developing is what you do to photos, not diseases) developing diabetes. There's too much of that strange harmless sounding illness in my family already. Blindness, and terribly pain in the feet, from what I recall reading some newspaper here and there. Even though my Uncle Gavin has it, and they almost had to amputate one of his feet, it's not something I know about. Poor guy.

You don't have an Uncle Gavin.

See? I told you the universe was fucked. Buggered.

That little voice is right though. I don't have an Uncle Gavin. I don't have any Uncles, not that I know of. But I do have a lying problem.

Obviously.

It didn't used to be like this, not before the fires and the bullets and the bleeding, and the darkness.

Seriously. I used to know the taste of truth then. It was sweet but homey, comfortable, like bananas.

I miss bananas.

If I had a story to tell, any story worth telling, if I was the one telling it, I would be called an unreliable narrator, because you wouldn't know what to think of whatever it was I was telling you. Or something.

The universe is so very buggered up.

I tell myself this as I slump to the floor in a tangle of sheets, dusty limbs, and unique British curses.

"Cod swallop."

Telling myself that I'm just the unreliable narrator of some fictional bullshit horror novel makes it easier to get through the days. It's a mantra that goes hand in hand with the idea that the universe is buggered. It's a game of ping pong between the two, a game that plays ceaselessly on my tongue as I shuffle to the bathroom.

That game of universally buggered unreliable narrators gets to a furious pitch when I stare at my face in the mirror. The mantras slip from my lips like turbo fired chants, a tennis match between Serena and Venus Williams over a boy they both like. But I've already covered the mirror. Gah, how many poems have I published about the mirror? I crank out mirror poems like some sex starved hacks crank out "please marry me" letters to Cameron Diaz.

(note to self, scratch letter to Diaz, she is quite married.)

The universe is an unreliable narrator, and I am utterly buggered.

There's no dramatic pause as I look at the mirror, at the all too familiar yet horribly disfigured face staring back at me. It's a quick, harsh glance to note that sadly, nothing's changed, I'm still the same ugly woman I've always been, my bones mashed, flesh warped like melted putty, skin stretched and oily with the tell tale sign of pock marks. Framed by soft hazelnut brown hair that falls neatly cut and layered past my shoulders. The treatments, and the prayers just aren't working.

At least nothing seems to be getting worse.

I leave the mirror with one last sideways eye contact blink. Blue eyes, soft, and possibly the most beautiful eyes anyone's ever had. Long brilliant lashes, and oriental epicanthic folds that would look stunning if not set deep in the face of Quasimodo's twin sister.

I shower quickly to get the dust off my body. Only, there's no dust really there. It's all in my head. I scrub twice anyway, just to reassure myself. Dress quickly in a muted salmon and gray silk cotton work suit with a tastefully mid length skirt. Hey, just because I have a frightening visage doesn't mean I have to dress bad. Right. Off to work then.

My commute into work consists of me walking the length of the hallway from my bedroom to my small kitchen, grabbing a bottle of flavored ice tea, then walking down the other hall to my office, formerly a guestroom, or maybe a children's room (Please lets not dwell on that idea), pressing the translucent button on my computer while searching her CD case for the morning's sound track. Checking my email while Dido thanks whoever for being a great friend or some such thing. 20 messages. Herbal Viagra (yeah, like I have so many opportunities in that department) the bank letter guy from Zimbabwe who promises (no, really!) to give me 1.5 million dollars if I will just give him my account number so he can get his money out of Europe, penis enlargement pills (have utterly noo use for that) and three messages from living human beings.

"Hey Kaney,

Its your sister in the cause, writing to ask why the hell haven't you emailed me yet? Dear, the whole vanishing off the message boards and not returning emails gig is way over done! Honey, look, I know you're bummed out over things in your life now, but you have to let go of the things you cannot change, and join the rest of us in the human race!

Ok, I'm shutting my yap now. But please Kaney, send us an email or something so that we know you haven't died or anyting.

Love

Deanna"

"k.

please read the newest draft. I think we have something we can deploy there, hopefully before the client's deadline.

t.y.

c.g."

"Dear Miss Retterson

I came across your web page the other day, and I started reading your blog. You are such a beautiful soul. I can tell by your words. They really struck a chord with me. Why don't you update anymore? Also, I know this might be an imposing question, but can you email me a photograph? I'm sure you are beautiful, but I don't really know what the author of all those stunning words looks like. I'm sure your face is as pretty as-"

I delete that last message without reading further.

"The universe is buggered," I say to no one in particular. My skin feels dry, dusty. I put some Nuetrogeena lotion on my hands and take few dozen small sips of iced tea. Sunlight bounces off the oak trees outside my office window creating a wild geometric tangle of warm almost neon light against soft blue shadows. The air seems like it's changing. Fall feels right around the corner, which will be a relief from the hot summer.

I'm sure you are beautiful.

Ignore that. I may be an unreliable narrator, but the mirror doesn't lie. Speaking of lies, I reread Cheryl's email about the first "acceptable" draft. I open the attachment that comes with the email. It's copy for an client's new line of soy based products. We've been digging through it for so long it's become a sore toe for our company. Strike that. Since I'm the project director on this account, it's become a sore thumb for me. But, if I pull it off, and the client is happy, then I get a chance at a Partnership.

Naturally being a good liar, I work for an advertising agency, writing copy for ads, and directing branding campaigns. Does that sound cynical? Try coming up with a concept for soy milk that makes the consumer think of orgasmic bliss when they think of our product. Or a hair growth pill that ensures social acceptance. Or a car that promises family stability.

Honestly, in this business, lying is a religion.

But the work is steady. People will always want slick packaged streamlined dreams, in clever shiny soundbytes that offer hope in a bottle, or on a slice of bread, or in an eyeliner that promises the future, affordably priced and as sexy as hell. The pay is good if you can do what I can, and the treatments for what I have are expensive. Health insurance is a joke for what I deal with, and the only way to stave off the dark madness in the mirror is to pay for it out of pocket.

So, you see, I lie for a living. Under the auspices of "truth in advertising" I write copy for products that speaks plainly about the product, with a no nonsense "insider's confidence" spinning lies that are as thin as gossamer, but look like the steel of truth. I suppose I should be disgusted by my ability to make any product appear to be exactly what it promises.

I gave up my ethics when I first started the treatments.

What I have isn't terminal, well, not openly noted as such, even though one in three people who deal with it commit suicide. It's more like a chronic condition. There's a long terminology laden name for it, but when you boil past the diagnostic labels it amounts to this:

the universe is an unreliable narrator, and because of that I'm utterly buggered.

I am sure you are beautiful.

Ugh. The copy for the soy butter and milk, " Oh Oh, Soy, oh boy oh oh boy," just doesn't work. It's chintzy, and cute in that Japanese-cell-phone-school-girl, sex worker at a Sanrio Hello Kitty convention way, but it's gonna flunk the client's sensibilities. A good liar knows her audience.

"Soy so good, you won't know that it's not the real thing. Just don't accuse us of faking it for your pleasure," is all I can tap out in my reply email. That's no good either, but I've already started having a bad day. And my bad days are excruciating migraines of the soul to cut through.

My hands itch with phantom dust. And I'm still thirsty.

--------------------------------

In my dreams, in the beginning, I am always beautiful. I wake up inside those dreams, in my dream house somewhere on the diamond glittering Mediterranean in my dream house/ sailing boat, lift up the satin sheets and look at my body and face in the overhead mirror. Dark brown hair, soft curving slight Asian features, big lips, Angelina Jolie lips, wide cheekbones, and a tiny button nose. Normal shoulders, the outline of my collarbones resting under my skin curving and soft. Normal, unscarred breasts, perhaps on the bantam weight side of things. That's not so much the important thing as that they are normal, you know? Not disfigured. Arms, strong and lithe across my stomach, with small hands and slightly too long fingers.

Sometimes this dream of my other world self seems so real, I think it's a real memory of what I used to be in some Twilight Zone episode, where things are weird but everything turns out ok in the end.

Unfortunately, I'm not in that particular Twilight Zone episode. No, I'm in one of the episodes where everyone has normal faces except me, but unlike in that one episode where the sad heroine is revealed to have the human face, the one that looks like ours, and not the "normal pig-like face" this Twilight Zone has a reversed scenario. I have the hideous face. The massive bones, hard oily skin. The misshapen features. Or maybe my scenario isn't so reversed, but the masks are different. It doesn't matter. Eventually I reach that part in the dream where the deep blue water outside dries up, and the dust comes. My sailing boat shatters on the rocks and sand and collapses to dust, and I'm sinking, only the quick sand isn't wet. It's dry coarse soil, the kind you might find in the Alpine forests of the Sierra Nevada Mountain range.

That's when I wake up every time.